#collab: better than fiction | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wondernus · 1 year

Text

˗ˋˏ a winter interlude ˎˊ˗

synopsis: maybe this is meant to be an interlude – an unforeseen passing moment in each other’s timelines. but with the stroke of a conductor’s baton, the symphony lands on the fermata hovering above the note. do we allow this interlude to become something longer than a short period in our lives, or do we end it after all of it is over?

pairing: wonwoo x coworker!reader

genre: romance, drama, light angst

tags: children's book illustrator wonwoo, publisher reader, enemies to lovers, fake marriage, food/drinks, work husband jeonghan cameo, small town dynamics, snowed in, scene where reader almost gets physically injured

wc: 11.3k

message from nu: waaaa first fic of the year. special special special thank you to my beloved madi (@heartkyeom) for being my beta reader well after midnight. I also wanna thank mars (@onlymingyus) for being mars c: I remember a while ago I answered an ask with a possible wonwoo work husband spinoff. this is it. this is wonwoo's work husband spinoff. this can be read as a standalone fic. happy winter and happy new year to all of you. I hope you all enjoy this svthub snowventeen collab fic - nu ♡

wondernus's masterlist / snowventeen collab 18+

one

“Don’t forget to wear you layers because it’s about to be chillier as the week passes by. For those trekking into the mountains, make sure you look out for weather updates from the signal tower and stay indoors because a large snowstorm is about to paint the mountains white. Stay safe, and have a great day. Now, onto Yoon Jeonghan with the traffic.”

“‘Trekking?’ What are you? A protein bar wrapper? Anyway, thank you Joshu-"

Never really understanding why other people say they often find themselves turning down the music while driving to see better, you find yourself doing the same – driving in silence as if the silence could create such a frictionless surface that would shoot and propel your car to your destination. A couple of hours late to your annual winter work retreat, a clear understatement defined by the speed at which you are driving, what was supposed to be a carpool event turned into you sitting in a pool of cars while stuck in traffic.

The Sun shines lightly, a gentle kiss against your skin, but not enough to hug everything it touches in warmth. With the heater on high, you sit in your front seat sweating and dreading the moment when you have to get out of your car, thighs peeling off the leather seats and leaving a pool of sweat where you were sitting. Perhaps it is not the Sun and the heater’s heat that causes you to sweat, but a psychological factor – an amalgamation of stress and anxiety that stemmed from the moment you realized you were late.

No longer can you allow yourself to forgive him that easily, yet you really did not want t blame him for giving you incorrect meeting minutes. But when the retreat itinerary clearly stated to meet in the morning at seven in front of the publishing house, you should have known better than to wholly trust your ditzy new intern to attend your office meeting while you traveled out of town to hunt down your author for her overdue speculative fiction novel draft. Instead of writing the correct time to meet, he incorrectly noted the arrival time.

This unprecedented-precedented blip is the catalyst for a series of chain reactions that would metaphorically send you pummeling down the steep side of a mountain in a snowy avalanche that you could have avoided. But you do not know it, nor do you know how it, whatever “it” is, ends.

Dark circles under your eyes and a forgotten paper-thin pimple patch a jolt over a speedbump away from falling off your oily skin, you keep telling yourself that everything will be okay once you get to the camping grounds. Hopefully, this sort of denial could make up for the fact that you spent all of last night kicking your feet under your covers while binge-watching the reality show that your favorite boy group filmed rather than packing for your trip. But there is only so much your heater turned on high can do for someone wearing an old flimsy university tee with a couple of cat teeth-made holes who forgot to put their contacts in last night. You are better off skipping the winter retreat, but you are already nearing the mountains. There is no turning back – especially on winding roads.

And the embarrassment. This feeling of creeping anxiety seemingly washed away the moment it stepped foot into your head even though you are utterly unprepared and inappropriate for being late to the paid work retreat. Because this sudden realization hits you mid-drive: the only person who you would be embarrassed to meet in your current situation is excused for the retreat. Reasons unknown. And not that you would let any man define you, but at your core, you are simply a person with an embarrassingly big fat crush on your co-worker (and seemingly everybody else you work with). This crush is so bad that if HR made every team create their own set of photocards, you would put his in a protective cover with tiny holographic hearts, and then in a sturdy toploader decorated with overpriced stickers. One glance at him would put you in a trance, daydreaming about what it would be like to wake up in his arms on a sunny day with birds chirping outside your window, and him with a soft smile on his face.

Except for one thing – he hates your guts, so you decided to hate his too.

They always say “try, try again,” but how many tries would it take before the attempts turn Sisyphean? Sure, Hades enchanted Sisyphus’s boulder so that it would roll away before Sisyphus reached the top, but what about you? Car tires struggling against the icy roads, you drive carefully so your car does not turn into a giant hockey puck or a curling stone on (what is essentially) a giant ice rink. But being careful does not help the fact that you are unprepared. And being unprepared means your car has absolutely no way for you to drive over any sized slopes, no matter how many times you try.

You only realize any further attempt of going over the slope or taking any other route is fruitless when your tires spin in place after digging themselves well enough into the road. And you slump against your steering wheel like an exasperated character in a movie – pounding your head against 12 o’clock a few times for good measure. So much for a fifteen-minute-saving de-tour through a small town you have never seen before. And so much for you trying to drive over a slope you could easily walk over. Trying sucks.

Still, the only thing that keeps you from abandoning your hand-me-down car to trek forty-five minutes to the campsite is the fact that it is freezing outside, and your cellphone Wi-Fi gets especially spotty when you are in areas of high altitudes. With one final sigh, you push yourself away from your steering wheel to sit upright, leaning the back of your head against your headrest. There is not much to do except to put your car in neutral and try to push your car out of the little hole it dug itself in.

The thing is, the texture of real snow is a lot different from the snow that giant portable snow machines shoot out of their gigantic cylindrical nozzles to cover the courtyard in front of the city hall whenever the local city has its annual winter festival. Real snow is also incomparable to the “snow” a child creates along the perimeter of an ice skating rink, hands holding onto the rails for support while they repeatedly scrape the inside of one of their blades towards the inside of their other shoe, creating soft ribbons of shaved ice before the navy blue Zamboni can create a clean slate before private lessons start.

Real snow is relentless toward anybody who does not come prepared to interact with it. So, no matter how much you try to dig and twist your sneaker sole into the snow, that tactile grip that you wish to create that supports your feet while you are pushing against the back of your car can seldom be created. You slump against your car’s bumper in defeat. The Sun still shining on your skin, a little bit stronger now, leaves you with the same warmth you felt against your skin, a bit tingly and upsetting, when you knew your skin would still burn no matter how nice the cordiality of the Sun felt on that one Spring day in the past.

Plus, there is a little more time to observe your surroundings when you have given up completely.

In the grassy median strip that denotes the entrance into the small town is a wooden welcome sign with the name in loopy golden lettering against a beautiful pine green: “Welcome to Interlude.” A few feet ahead of you, the mountainous road marries smooth concrete, and the sidewalks pave in a festival town-esque brick lining. And you conclude you must be on the outskirts of the town. Leftover snow fills the grooves between each brick and covers the dark-colored awnings in front of each shop along the town strip. Where flashy LED shop signs and brightly colored bulbs decorate sidewalk trees drawing visitors in from around the world, is surprisingly a lack of people. And you frown while thinking about how you would be able to push your car to the side of the road if another vehicle wants to enter the town.

Not a few moments later, a navy blue truck slowly climbs up the road, and you feel the littlest bit of hope surge into your body. Forcing yourself to stand up, you move out of the way and wave at the incoming car. But as your day could not have gotten any more unfortunate, your car starts rolling backwards towards the pickup truck. And you cannot help but see your entire life flash in front of you – a person dressed too lightly for the snow and the used car passing by like a celebrity on a parade float, all in a moment.

What is scarier than the fact that your car is now bumper-less and the pickup truck remains unscathed is the man who hops out of his truck. Looking like a snow-stage boss from a video game, the man who is large and menacingly looking enough to make his shiny dark green car look like a minivan next to him stalks over to you with his finger pointed directly at your face. The only thing missing from the scene is the army of ice ogres that are supposed to follow closely behind him.

However, the only thing you can register is the fact that he is yelling at you – face glowing bright red and spit flying out of his mouth. Your body is frozen in fear. There is a lack of capacity for you to be able to stand up for yourself while you are shocked and unable to recognize your surroundings while terrible words spill out of the man's mouth. And you cannot do anything except take in his expletives while teardrops well up, ready to spill out of your tear ducts.

But they do not. A figure puts himself between the man and you, and your view is too obstructed to see the other side.

“I called the insurance company. Give me your information and I’ll handle it,” the mysterious person says.

“And who are you?” You hear from the other side.

“I’m their husband.” He fishes for his wallet in his back pocket and takes out a business card, handing it to the man between two fingers. “Call me. Email me. Your choice. I’ll get it sorted. Sorry about the whole thing, I didn’t have time to drive my partner. Bad husband right?... So, I heard you’re the new fishing shop owner? I’ll drop by sometime.” He tries to switch subjects to lessen the tension while slipping his wallet back into his pocket.

The thing is, it works. The presence of the man who uses his body to shield you calms the angry pickup truck driver almost exponentially. And the man who yelled at you seemed to forget he was yelling at you just because he realized your marital status. The man calms down, and even falters in his speech.

“Ahh…I’m not a fishing shop owner. I guess it’s fine now that you’re here, but you know men. There aren’t bad husbands, only ba-”

“I’ll be at Town Hall if you need more information from me.” The man who calls himself your husband purposely and curtly cuts the other man off, knowing very well that he would be even more upset if he heard the man finish his sentence.

The man does not turn back to address you until he is done taking photos of both cars and waving the other man goodbye. And your piece of junk car stays in the same spot, bumper-less and bruised, while the pickup truck, clearly without any injury, smoothly makes its way into Interlude, disappearing from your sight.

“You’re just going to dumbly let that man say those things to you? About you? Do you have no respect for yourself?” He lectures you, his deep voice muffled by the black wool scarf wrapped around his neck and mouth.

You see him clearly this time, how his black locks fall in front of his face in neat curtain bangs, set in a defined “C” shape. The oversized fleece-lined collar jacket falls to the middle of his thighs, leaving little room for his cream-colored sweater to peep into view. And his stance, focusing his weight on his right heel while his left foot slightly protrudes forward, allows him to tap his foot against the snow while he waits for you to answer him.

But what is shocking to you is not the code-switching he uses when speaking to the driver versus when speaking to you. What is shocking, you realize, are the thin silver-framed glasses that sit on the bridge of the man’s nose and the familiar deep woody scent that clings onto him, touched with a hint of peach.

It couldn’t be.

A cold chill leaves your tongue dry and squeezes your stomach.

“Are you dumb? Did you not hear about the snowstorm coming?” He asks you, a voice without concern, all while pulling out his phone from one of his pockets.

He tugs his manicured thumbs out of his gloves to wake his phone and proceeds to reveal his face from under his scarf to unlock his phone. After a few loud keyboard taps, you hear your phone’s notification sound from your car. But all you can do is stare back at the man, stomach gurgling and queasy.

“Yn,” your co-worker sighs, clearly annoyed by your lack of response. “Why are you here?”

two

A backpack-wearing piglet who happily crosses the street. A fashionably dressed lumpy toad who rows across the pond in a wooden paddle boat. A shrew who picnics with a chipmunk in a grassy city park. Tiny children who sit between each of a stegosaurus’s scutes. An angry and scruffy-looking Siamese cat who wears a cone too big for it to see. The backside of each illustration states:

Jeon Wonwoo ILLUSTRATOR Same Dream Publishing House Work Email | Work Number | Personal Website

Nicely squared recycled textured card stock printed with soy ink, Jeon Wonwoo’s business cards can very well double as collector cards. And the owner of these cards himself, in your eyes, is the most beautiful man you have ever laid your eyes on. No fantasy writer, no Renaissance artist could ever truly depict how you see this man. Yet it makes you feel terrible, so entirely rotten on the inside, knowing that he would rather crawl up several flights of stairs made of tiny plastic building blocks than take a fifteen-second elevator ride with you.

If you could pinpoint the exact day Jeon Wonwoo started hating you, it would be the Monday after coming back from a previous work trip to the vacation home of a poet the two of you were assigned. The two of you were amicable with each other, even more so – close friends. A power couple in the children’s books and short stories field – a force to be reckoned with. And the hotel rooms adjacent to each other where the two of you decided to sit on opposite sides of your shared door and talk to each other with both your backs against the door. You remember the sound of his hair brushing against the wood and his soft chuckle when you accidentally bump your head against the door. The goodbye after the trip lingered for a little too long while the first hello back never came. And you can only watch from the back of the crowd during meet and greets and panels, sometimes only catching the tip of his tiny flyaway from far away.

It would hurt your feelings a lot less if he turned away whenever you walked near him, but he chooses to frown instead. Unfortunately, it doesn’t make you like him any less. But you do not know what you are holding onto (or if there is anything to hold onto at this point).

Even now, there is a blatant emotional and physical distance between the two of you. He briskly walks at least a meter in front of you, never turning his head back to see if he left you behind or if you were following closely behind.

The thick uncomfortable shoulder strap keeps slipping from your shoulder, unable to find any traction against the smooth nylon of the puffer you put on earlier. And it is just a walk, a measly ten-minute walk to the police station where you can report the accident, but it is hard to walk while looking ahead when you are so close to crying. No matter how much you try to adjust your shoulder strap so it doesn’t stop falling, it finds a way to slip from your sore shoulder or frozen grip. Overwhelming emotions usurp any will to continue onwards and leave you feeling so annoyed, so dejected, and so frustrated with everything that happened today. And when your bag’s strap slips again, you let it slip from your shoulder, sending your entire duffle bag crumpling against the wet and icy brick pavement.

And so you crumple with it, sinking to your knees and wallowing in your unhappiness.

The winter boots that clop in front of you never stop. Jeon Wonwoo would never stop for you, never walk backwards to pick up your heavy duffle and offer you a hand. So it wracks your head trying to understand why he would help you out in the first place, leaving you in the snow once everything was settled, and threatening an IOU coupon for the future. Why he would be in this town in the first place.

The shop window lights of the tiny electronics store to the side of you flicker on. On display and pressed flat against the glass are a bunch of old television sets stacked on top of each other, creating a large screen if not separated by the thick plastic television frames. Golden tempera paint in a modern Serif font exhibits the store’s logo across the glass: “Stay For A While,” in a wide downward pointing arc.

Every single television screen livestreams the local news. According to the subtitles, a giant snowstorm is about to hit the local area. Residents are advised to seek shelter and stay home. The sunny weather is only a farce.

But you don’t notice the news. To you, the only thing in front of you is a lachrymose shadow of a blob trapped in a foreign town with nowhere to go. And your heart follows closely behind the man as if dragged by him on a leash – blindly bouncing, cobbling, and getting scratched by the various pebbles and dirt on the pavement.

The man never looks behind to check on the organ. He doesn’t even know it’s there.

“What do you mean you’re cat sitting? Jeonghan, you never volunteer to do things willingly…Oh, for the friends who are high school teachers? Then road trip with their cat and save your cousin who is stranded in the mountains.” You adjust your grip on your phone while mindlessly browsing through the several knickknacks for sale in the souvenir shop in the town’s only lodge.

Passing the wall of graphic tees and sweaters and passing through a shelf of souvenir mugs, you stop at a shelf of tiny woodcarvings. Your eye lands on a figurine of a whittled cat, hand-painted orange with a white belly. On the other end of your phone call, your cousin complains about the weather, but you don’t listen – clearly too entranced by the tiny cat.

“Of course I listened to the radio this morning,” you mutter while running the tip of your pointer finger against the cat’s ear, feeling the smooth sanded wood under your touch. “Okay, you got me. It was for background noise. Look, I’m not asking you to pick me up today. I somehow ended up booking a room after finding out cab services are down today. But if you’re not going to pick me up then I’m going to hang up and solve this myself. But if you don’t hear from me in three days, then call a search party. Okay?”

Except he hangs up before you can say goodbye, grumbling about how you never listen to him. Still, you’re unbothered by his action. The tiny cat, now in the palm of your hand, looks so content with life, unbothered by what goes on around it. Your mind wonders about its artist, how long they must have spent carving the cat from a single block of wood, the hours it must have taken to create something so tiny yet so fulfilling to own. And you wonder about the artist’s emotions, if they ever felt sadness after parting with their cat. If the cat was the artist’s friend, even for the brief moment, that juncture, in their individual timelines.

It would be best if you left the cat on the shelf, you think. Just in case the artist ever changes their mind about selling the cat. And the cat looks happier sitting on the shelf with its other animal friends, happier than what its painted lazy smile suggests.

And for the first time today, you feel a tiny bit of happiness – a halcyon moment surrounded by forest-themed trinkets and flashing keychains with generic names and soft 2010s pop music playing from the store speakers. That is until you see a familiar figure being escorted to the lobby of the lodge. Curiosity causes you to leave your spot in the souvenir store, edging closer to the creation of a new scene.

“I have a room.” You hear him try to reason with the security guard. “It’s not called loitering if I am a guest.”

You can’t hear the security guard, but it seems like Wonwoo’s bluntness is not a strong enough source of logos for the guard. And the guard stands in front of the illustrator, fully unconvinced that the man wearing a suit and holding his work briefcase would be any other out-of-town guest. And one look of pure panic on Jeon Wonwoo’s stupidly handsome-looking face sends you on autopilot, making your way to his side for no good reason.

“Babe.” You lie through your forced smile while looping your arm around his right arm. “Where were you?”

His arm jerks in the tiniest bit before it relaxes as if he hesitated for a moment before making his decision. Of course, another explanation could simply be because he experienced a negative bodily reaction to your mere presence. Flabbergasted, he would mutter. The nadir of today’s excitement. And you would hate him even more for using vocabulary without incorporating any malapropisms. He is as pretentious as the outfit he wears.

“Baby,” he grits through his teeth. “This gentleman seems to think I’m stalking the halls like some animal out to hunt its prey.”

“Sorry, Sir.” You pout at the security guard, hoping your natural pathos could appeal to the man. “My husband has a tendency to walk around whenever he’s bored. It’s been a while since we went on vacation, and he clearly has too many thoughts in his head. You see his outfit? It’s a bad habit.”

The security guard strokes his chin and nods, eying Wonwoo’s ineffable outfit. He wonders why the man in front of him would pack a business suit for a vacation in the mountains, but he doesn’t want to be the one too quick to judge. Rather, he agrees with the fact that the suit actually fits the man very well. If the man wasn’t stalking the hallways just a few moments ago, he would’ve asked him about which tailor he sees. “If he’s so bored, why don’t the two of you join couples night tonight? Winners get a free bedroom upgrade. And between you and me, I heard there’s a famous author who’s staying with us,” he whispers the last portion, a quick cheeky wink.

You don’t realize that you are still grabbing onto his arm until you dragged him into your room. And he shrugs you off, taking the extra step to smooth out his suit fabric while looking through your vanity mirror before turning to you.

“You have the grip of a snapping turtle,” he scoffs while looking around your room.

It is a standard room with a single queen-sized bed at the center of the room. If it were not for the carpeted floors, the entire room would look like a wooden box from its Western Red Cedar planks that make up the four walls to the wooden paneling that covers the ceiling, giant circular wooden beams that keep the ceiling steady by design. The rooms in this lodge are a termite’s dream feast and an art deco enthusiast’s nightmare. Even the bedframe is made of logs, cylindrical in every piece, and the bedsheets are of deep burgundy red bordered with silhouettes of black bears as if it came straight from the video game your cousin was so obsessed with a few Summers ago.

What catches his eye is not the fact that your duffle bag is thrown across your bed, nor the fact that the lamps in your rooms may as well be oil lamps. Rather, he stares at the door to the right of your mounted television, the divider between your room and your neighbor’s. And you can’t help but wonder what is going on in that head of his.

“You are insufferable, you know that?”

“How long did it take for you to think of that comeback?” His attention is drawn away from the door and aimed toward you. “Just because I compared you to a turtle didn’t mean you had to act like one.”

Your jaw drops and becomes your turn to scoff at him, loudly. You cannot believe what you are hearing, and your breathing becomes shallower as you glare at him. “Are you kidding me? Me helping you literally saved you from being pathetically kicked out by the security guard. You should be happy I didn’t record it and post it online.”

“Like you would have enough followers for it to go viral,” he sneers while taking a step toward you. “And I never asked you for help.”

“Loitering in the hallways? Wearing a business suit when you’re supposed to be at the retreat?” Now there is almost no space between the two of you. And you reach over to his chest, grabbing the plastic nametag that dangles from his neck, and holding it up to his face. The item feels as cold as the person who wears it. “Wearing your work badge? Fine, I’ll admit I have no idea why you’re here. But if you thought that walking around and waiting for some author to come out of their room and have some preplanned accidental meet cute could work, then you’re so wrong. And I’m not going to let you defame our company just because you have no social skills whatsoever.” You let go of the item you’re holding, letting it drop against his chest.

“Okay, I’ll be the bigger man and admit that I was waiting for the author my team wants to work with to show up. But talking about defaming the company? You want me to care about what you say when all of that was coming from someone who would rather let some random man verbally degrade their worth than to stand up for themselves? You’re all bite and no tongue. Just like a snapping turtle,” he says, his face entirely without emotion.

“SNAPPING TURTLES HAVE TONGUES. DUMBASS,” you snap at him.

“That’s exactly what a snapping turtle would say,” he challenges you.

The thing is, Jeon Wonwoo likes to keep things short even though he is not as quick-tempered as you are. He prefers to relay everything he wants to say at once, saving anybody from asking for clarification. Yet, you can feel that Wonwoo only seeks to maim you with his words. Even at your most imperturbable composure with your intern, you cannot stand being alone in a room with Wonwoo once he starts opening his mouth to speak. And stupidly and repeatedly you let his elementary quips affect you like rubbing salt on an open wound. The laceration in your heart.

“You’re so rude Jeon Wonwoo. No wonder I hate you more and more every single day. You’re the single-most worst person in the entire world, and I hate how I once considered us friends.”

He looks like he has something to say to you but mentally drops the notion. Instead, he sighs and makes his way to the door beside your television, unlocking the knob and opening the door. He doesn’t make some offhanded comment about being your neighbor and only quietly closes the door behind him, making sure it’s locked with a tiny click.

three

It is a tiny office breakroom, the kind with a beige refrigerator whose motor is a little too loud, a low-watt microwave, and light green walls decorated with random pen marks from the lodge workers signing up for holiday potlucks. The late afternoon sunlight shines in an ethereal orange glow through the window, casting what could be the day’s last warm ray across the round wooden table in the middle of the room. Central heating runs throughout the building, and the lodge manager sits in the hot seat, his hands folded in front of him while he stares at you and your “husband.”

“Darling?” A nice elderly receptionist on break holds up a bag of mini marshmallows, the tri-colored kinds you can only find in baking stores, and points to it with her manicured finger. “Marshmallow?” she asks you from her place near the kitchen cabinets.

“No thank you,” you reply, your hands wrapped around a warm disposable cup filled with generic brand instant hot chocolate. Gratis, courtesy of the elderly receptionist before the manager arrived to talk to the two of you.

You bring the sugary drink to your lips, blowing softly and watching the steam disappear into the air. The drink itself, velvet chocolate that coats your tongue, is a warm invitation to this little town in the middle of nowhere. However, you cannot help but feel the only thing – or person – that unwelcomes you is the man who tries to angle his body away from you and the manager if the two of you ever cause trouble for your neighbors. Again.

“Look, we’re not going to kick you out. It would be inhumane to kick someone out during a snowstorm. And also we’re all kinda snowed in…actually, we’re super snowed in so nobody is coming in or out at this point. Funny how it was sunny earlier, right? Anyway, word has it that the two of you are married. So why don’t you two take some time to work things out, yeah? I’m no relationship counselor, but this is a small lodge in a small town so word gets out fast. So, seeing how far the two of you are sitting apart from each other, maybe channel that pent up anger into some competitive spirit during couple’s night because we can’t have you two being loud and arguing elsewhere. And I hate to be the bad guy here, but no more calls from your neighbors complaining about the two of you arguing or else we will contact authorities. Alright? Just keep it down and work it out, would ya?”

The manager’s lengthy spiel is immediately followed by silence, although not awkward, but one that provokes thought. And when you sense Wonwoo, being the smartass he is, open his mouth to counter his marriage status, and you immediately kick him in the shin with the heel of your tennis shoe. And he folds like his latest pop-up book, glaring at you while trying not to wheeze in pain. A fake smile and a solemn pledge to not bother the other patrons for the rest of the night are enough for the two of you to be excused from the conversation with the manager.

But not from each other.

How you ended up blindfolded and dizzy with a bat in your hands while Wonwoo angrily yells at you from the sidelines is beyond you. For the time being is what the two of you agreed with, albeit this one is far from Ruth Ozeki’s version. It’s a small promise to try to prove the two of you are more than amicable: attend a few games and activities together with the other couples, attempt to act like a married couple, and dip after an hour.

After twelve elephant spins with your forehead against the baseball bat, you and the other blindfolded contestants try to cross to the other side of the banquet hall in order to smash one of the many squashes on the large blue-colored plastic tarp laid across the floor. And Wonwoo, along with the other separated pairs, barks into the open air in the direction he wants you to move.

The funny thing is, you would expect to hear him call your actual name out of all of the pet names being thrown around, but Wonwoo cannot yell for the life of him, so much to shout your name in public. So even though you hear a bunch of people getting confused with the various forms of “honey” and “baby” being called out, you struggle to find his voice amidst the cacophony of shouts. Once the physical dizziness from spinning around evaporated, you feel a new kind of dizziness from being agitated as an aftereffect of trying to find Wonwoo’s voice in the middle of the crowd. By the time you decide on giving up, the shrill sound of a whistle signaling the end of the game fills the air. Shrugging the blindfold off your face, you look around to see the aftermath. While the other pairs are on the other side of the room surrounded by broken pieces of squash, there is only one man standing in front of you alone and separated from the others.

Your breathing hitches when you realize he’s walking towards you – long, even strides like the romantic lead in a movie. By the time he places himself in front of you, your baseball bat is in his hand while your cheek is in his other.

“It was hard, wasn’t it?” he whispers while looking into your eye.

Except you can’t help but train your eyes elsewhere, unable to look him in his eyes while it feels like your heart is beating erratically. And even though you know very well how he is faking everything, you can’t help but regress to the same you, the same you who is so helplessly in love with the man you hate. The same you who spends every day wondering how did the two of you end up that way.

“You only took the bat from me because you’re scared I might whack you with it. And not going to lie, I was contemplating it,” you mumble.

“It’s okay babe.” He tries to cheer you up, a slight undertone of insincerity in his voice. He continues to ignore your statement. “You did your best. Snapping turtles are slow, but they still manage to survive.”

Ignoring the fact that Wonwoo’s hand is warm because he has warm packs in each of his loungewear jacket pockets (and the fact that he refused to share one with you), someone catches your eye in the distance. Where workers are cleaning up the aftermath of the squash game, a familiar-looking man stands to the side where some lodge patrons flock around him with rectangular objects in their hands. Once you see him turn his head your way, your entire body freezes – Wonwoo’s touch suddenly begins to feel cold against your skin. And Wonwoo, who was expecting you to get mad at him for calling you a turtle, can’t help but notice your state of panic. And he not so subtly turns around to see who could be causing you so much fear.

“Oh my,” he mutters, coming to his realization.

“I can’t believe –” you begin before Wonwoo interrupts your train of thought.

“I hope he rots in hell before he can get his next book deal,” he almost spits at the man from several feet away. He drops his hand from your cheek and takes a tiny step back before taking a deep breath as if he is about to ask you something that he would regret, “Do you mind staying a little longer? I want to make sure chauvinists never win book upgrades.”

“Room upgrade,” you correct him while glaring at the other man from afar.

“What?”

“You misspoke.” You guide your attention back to the man who is, for what you think is the first time, looking at you attentively and without malice. And the fact that he is looking at you amicably makes your brain go haywire, but you subdue your thoughts and continue the conversation. “It’s the ‘room’ upgrade that we’re trying to stop him from winning.”

“Book upgrade or room upgrade, it’s the same thing.” He frowns while tapping the end of the bat against the ground. “It turns out your pickup truck man is the author my team is after. But I’d rather be jobless than to work with someone like him.”

So he works with you, absolutely demolishing the competition during the Dinner and Paint section and loudly cheering for you while you stacked plastic cups. And the way he smiles at you, lovingly and with the glimmer reflected from the ceiling lights contrasted against the cocky attitude he surrounds himself with when one of you wins a game – it almost makes you forget that you’re supposed to hate him. How easily he wraps his arms around you, hugging you tightly against his embrace so much that his cologne lingers on your clothes, leaves you feeling hopeless. Because the only time Jeon Wonwoo could ever approach you without visibly withering in repulsion is when he acts like he is in love with you.

Outside the cozy lodge, the Sun sets its rays on the heavy layers of snow. While the Earth turns to face the other way, the rays wash the pillowy white crystals in a warm and deep burgundy orange – a warm embrace, a promise to return, before parting for the night. As you clean Wonwoo’s smudged glasses with the hem of your shirt, he sneaks his right arm around your waist while he leans further into his seat as the Couple’s Night host announces the next game. You feel something warm enter the pocket of your jacket and look down to see Wonwoo’s hand back on your waist. The untouched hand warmer gradually feels hotter in your pocket when you gently place your fake husband’s glasses back on the bridge of his nose. He whispers a small “thank you,” and you can only smile back at him with a heaviness in your heart that only you can carry.

The hand warmer feels like it would burn through your clothes at any second.

four

“Team Snowball, what did your partner answer for the question: ‘What is your partner picky about eating?’” The emcee points at the woman sitting next to you who gladly flips her sketchbook around for the other half of the room to see. She squints her eyes, trying to read the woman’s squiggly writing, and smiles when she realizes it’s a match. “Soft grapes? It’s a match. Point to Team Snowball.”

Despite everything going around you, you can’t help but fidget in your seat, the sketchbook’s pages starting to feel damp in your sweaty palms. Wonwoo sits with the separated pairs across from you. He crosses his legs, and his sketchbook lays comfortably across his lap so he can twirl his black marker in his hand. Even when you know you wrote the correct answer to Wonwoo’s food preferences, the two of you are still several points behind the other teams. Your stomach cannot help but feel queasy every time you embarrassingly flip your sketchbook for others to see. Because every single wrong answer about your “husband” whom you love very much feels like a punch in your gut every time you hear snickers from the others around you.

Seafood is your answer; you’re the last to answer this round’s question. You earn a small cheer from the woman reading your answer and a small smile from Wonwoo. He sneaks you a tiny thumbs up, the tip of his thumb poking out of his sweater.

“Next question,” dictates the emcee. “When did you know they were the one?”

It’s an abstract question – one that doesn’t necessarily need matching answers from both sides. Still, you look across to look at Wonwoo, uncertain whether or not he would put much thought into an answer he would have to pull out of thin air. Uncapping his marker with his mouth, he pulls the sketchbook closer to him to scribble down whatever comes to his mind. The action leaves your mouth feeling dry: one, obviously, because he uncapped the marker with his mouth; and two, he was the first to start writing.

Some answers are simple. Some answers are meaningful. Some answers are like yours – “love at first sight.”

Corny, overused, and unusual, your answer is the safest route you knew you could take. And despite how clichéd your answer is – its timelessness, its Hallmark-ability – still garners a series of awws from everybody around you. Technically, there is some truth to your answer. You developed a tiny crush the first time you saw him at the office. Who wouldn’t? He surrounds himself with illustrations of anthropomorphic animals and has a laugh that bellows and fills any room with joy. He made your days brighter by simply existing.

Now, the brightness struggles to navigate its way through the thick fog. And you’re left alone in the cold, the fog’s misty droplets clinging onto your skin.

It’s weird how in this life, time moves linearly, but moments and experiences with others exist in intervals – interludes that we can relive over and over again through memories. Sometimes we experience interludes of happiness, interludes of pain, and interludes where it only seems like there are only two people in this world. But nobody can determine how long these interludes can last and for how long you can try to hold on to these moments before letting go.

“Let’s see if Team Turtle can earn a point. Please show us your answer.”

“I’m kind of embarrassed,” he softly chuckles, voice more sonorous than ever, while standing his sketchbook on his knee.

9 pm is his answer. You, and the rest of the people sitting beside you, cannot help but gaze at his answer in confusion.

It is only when he sees you staring at him he finally clarifies, “When we were sitting in my car eating donuts while the waves crash on the shores in front of us. You smiled at me with pieces of maple donut glaze stuck to your upper lip.”

You. He speaks in the second person and looks directly at you with a soft gaze. It couldn’t be, you think. But it is true, you recognize his diction as true. He’s speaking to you.

And you remember that shared moment in the front seats of his car, the night of the work trip. The donuts were for the poet, but the two of you had the door slammed in your faces before being able to hold a full conversation with the poet. And after an entire day of confusion and apologies, the two of you were finally able to fulfill your portions for the work trip. Who knew that the tiny suggestion of walking along the pier after dinner would turn out disastrous – frigid ocean winds strong enough to blow people away? The clothes the two of you packed were not meant to sustain harsh winds but harsh sunlight – after all, the work trip’s destination is a beach town. So the two of you sat in his car, eating donuts, people-watching, and sharing anecdotes to get to know each other better. It was the type of conversation that you would do anything to prolong its duration, the type of conversation with the right type of person.

“You were so happy,” he finishes.

You were so happy, it echoes in your head.

Are you happy now?

“How about you?” The emcee turns to you for clarification. “Your partner gave us such a beautiful explanation. So, you have to explain your ‘love at first sight.’ Tell us about it.”

“Ohh,” Wonwoo begins awkwardly while giving an equally awkward chuckle. “You don’t have to if you do-”

“I was having a really bad morning.” You smile into your lap and look up at your supposed husband. You don’t know why or how the full day with unease bubbling inside of you dispersed so quickly after Wonwoo’s particular answer. But you launch into your story, letting the words flow out of your mouth like melted snow on a grassy hill under the bright Sun. “A really bad morning. I ended up working overtime and accidentally missed my morning alarm. I had to chase the bus while my hot coffee poured out of its opening and onto my skin. My entire day at the office was a mess because I kept messing up. I felt awful and exhausted. So I worked overtime for the second day in a row to clean up my errors. Someone places hot green tea in front of me, the free ones at the office. There is a doodle of a stingray with the dumbest-looking smile on its face. It looked so pathetic that it made me feel a little better about myself. He says that he accidentally boiled too much hot water and thought to make a cup for me. And then he holds his own up in front of his face. There’s a picture of a cat wearing glasses. ‘You can do it,’ he tells me in a squeaky voice. And he leaves. We don’t meet again for about a month, but his kind gesture pieced me back together. And I held onto his kindness for days.”

He stares at you, a few strands of his hair out of place and in front of his eyes. He doesn’t care to move them back in place. There’s that smile on his face, the exact one you imagined to be on his face that time he sat on the other side of your shared door. Soft coral lips relaxed, but the cupid’s bow is slightly perked as the corners of the lips turn upward. He tries to hide the fact that he is smiling, keeping his happiness hidden and only to himself.

So you smile at him. An honest, genuine smile where the cheeks kiss the lower lashes. And his lips stretch thinly so that his brilliant white teeth shyly make their way into the open. He smiles back at you.

Musicians know that an interlude, in music, is an interrupting or intervening passage that connects different parts of a song. An interlude can also be a song in an album. In other words, there are different ways for musical interludes as well as temporal interludes to exist. Now, there is a new interlude in your timeline, this shared moment where two timelines from two completely different lives collide and converge. Anybody can tell that this shared moment is filled with happiness and understanding…perhaps, even longing.

But what do you call it when these two timelines have converged in the past? If two timelines that once converged reconverge at a further point on the timeline, did that initial interlude ever truly end? Are interludes simply short periods in our lives if these interludes stay in our timelines forever, even when the moments they denote end?

Nevertheless, at this moment, you know you’re happy. And you can only hope the man who sits across from you, the one who looks at you with a reminiscent expression you once experienced so long ago, is feeling the same way.

“Okay. We’re in third place. If we win this one, then we’ll be a point ahead of them.”

“I tied it pretty tightly. Is the tightness okay with you?” Wonwoo frowns from below you, seemingly exploring a different problem at hand. He inspects the rope he tied around your leg, poking and prodding at different sections. “It’s a three-legged race, but I don’t want you getting hurt from an accidental rope burn because I tied it too tightly.”

“Wonwoo, it’s fine.” You pat his left shoulder, letting him know he doesn’t have to worry.

He grabs your stretched hand, and you help hoist him upwards. But there is an apparent frown on his face.

“Why do you still call me Wonwoo,” he mumbles while wrapping your arm around his back and on his waist. There is a tiny pout on his face pointed downwards as he naturally loops his arm around your shoulders like he had done it a thousand times. “Are you not comfortable with calling me ‘babe?’ Any other name also works.”

Deep down, or not even deep down, you know he is right. You are uncomfortable with the idea of casually calling him by these pet names over and over again. Calling him by fake pet names, not counting the many idealistic scenarios that once played in your head, in this case, feels very wrong. His sudden change in attitude towards you as well as his overall demeanor after the last game left you in shock. A plot twist in a season finale would be less shocking than what you feel at this very moment. Like every other hypothetical person in your situation, you choose to ignore your problems by focusing on your other problems at hand. Because you know very well, allowing yourself to fully play into this fake husband rouse, even in times when you’re truly happy, would only hurt you in the end. And you’ve been hurt by him before, not really sure if you ever fully healed.

But you can’t deny he looks and seems nothing like the literal he-devil he was this morning. In fact, he seems to be the opposite. Even without being physically tied to you, he trails behind you like a lost puppy and clings onto your sleeve like a cat who kneads dough on your arm, nails hooked onto the fabric of your clothing. And you let him hold you close to him so much that he leans his chin on your shoulder while listening to others talk. And you let his hair tickle your scalp and would let him melt into you if he asked.

Getting hurt by the same man twice does not make a right. Succinctly, it only makes you dumb. So, to protect yourself, you use the image of the screaming man from the morning to remind yourself that everything is a rouse no matter how much you enjoy each moment with the illustrator.

The three-legged race’s course starts in the banquet hall, passes through the hallway and into the lobby, takes several twists and turns throughout the sitting area, and finishes in the banquet hall. Wonwoo takes the lead, firmly holding you against him while he chants “in, out, in, out” to direct how the two of you should speed-walk. But the excitement of the games and the promise of the upgraded room must have gone over the heads of several of the teams, causing each team to speed walk into a sprint once they left the banquet hall.

Wonwoo and you are also victims of wanting to win, or at least of wanting to beat the author. But in this incredibly small lodge, there are only so many paces you can take before having to try to squeeze past another team. And Wonwoo practically hoists you onto his foot without notice, penguin-walking you to make it past another team to navigate through the sectioned seating area.

Startled by his sudden lack of communication, you demand he set you down. “Let me go,” you grunt after being jostled against one of the round wooden tables. You are absolutely sure your hip would bruise in the morning if he bumped you into one more object. “It’d be easier if one of us walks ahead of the other.”

Does it look like I care?” His ego slips from his tongue, completely coating the sweet words that came out of his mouth before the game started. His sudden change in tone catches you by surprise. “I’ll buy a sled from the gift shop if it means I get to drag you instead of hauling you around.”

“It’s just a game.” You try to push yourself off of him, annoyed that he’s suddenly being uncooperative with you. In the meantime, the team behind the two of you catches up and pulls ahead. “Let me go before one of us gets hurt.”

Wonwoo’s eyes aren’t trained on you. Instead, he stretches his head to look at the few teams in front of the two of you. Surprisingly, the two of you make it out of the seating area without any trouble. Before the two of you can make a sprint back toward the banquet hall, you pull yourself away from Wonwoo, yanking his arm off of your shoulder.

“Babe, come on.” He holds out his hand for you to grab onto. “We’re going to end up being last.”

But your hand never reaches out to meet his.

“Babe? Are you serious? Are you kidding me? Are you really calling me ‘babe’ right now?” You almost shriek at him if it weren’t for the fact that the two of you are standing in proximity to the reception desk. But you are exasperated, your voice wobbles as you voice what is bothering you. “I’ve had it with you, Wonwoo. I tried communicating with you. I tried voicing my fears. But your head is so far up your ass that you couldn’t even think about the safety of the person right beside you. Am I sad and mad about what happened this morning? Yeah, I still am. Nobody deserves to be treated that way, but nobody deserves to be ignored. I don’t care about winning anymore. I feel humiliated, utterly and devastatingly humiliated by you and by myself. To think I let myself have fun around you. To think I believed for a second that you truly did care about me. At one point, I thought we were friends. At one point, I really did like you for who you were. But I guess I can’t expect people to stay the same, can I?” More words and sentences pour out of your mouth – like a small tornado that grows larger in size after picking up all of the things you left unsaid, the words that threatened to slip from your tongue all picked up and twirled into the tornado, you ended up saying more than what you meant to say.

“Look, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say,” he begins, but he can only hopelessly stare at you squatting in place to untie the rope that binds the two of you.

“There.” You bitterly drop the rope in his free hand. “You’re free from me now. You can go back to hating me all you want.”

“But I don’t hate you.”

“I’m done, Wonwoo. I’m done with being confused so I’m just going to give up and wallow in my room until Jeonghan picks me up once the snow clears.”

five

“No offense, but I would never spend that much time or energy on a guy…especially a guy who treats you like that. He even stopped pounding on your front door so that obviously means that he’s the type to stop trying after a while,” your cousin rants from the other side of your phone screen. He shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose while the cat he is looking after purrs contently on his lap. “So what are you? A masochist? You like men who treat you poorly and then reward you with like an hour of happiness? That’s literally like if professors gave you the hardest final you’ve ever taken in your life and told you to grab a free cookie after you turned in the final. What are you even holding onto at this point?”

“I don’t know,” you wail at the older man, crumpling your used tissue in the palm of your hand. It quickly joins the growing pile of snot-riddled balls of tissue at the edge of your bed. When you recline into your initial position, the shifted blanket knocks Wonwoo’s hand warmer onto the floor.

“Eww stop holding your phone so close to your face,” Jeonghan complains, “Vernon says I kinda look like you, and I can’t help imagining that’s how I look when I cry.”

“I don’t know why I still like him,” you mumble to your cousin. You honestly still don’t understand why you like him despite every single recent negative encounter with him. To be honest, your heart doesn’t flutter as it does with the characters in the novels you read. Nothing cliched happens when you see him, like how the world stops and he is the only one who walks in slow motion. Quite frankly, your days pass by whether you see him or not, but it doesn’t mean that the thought of him crosses your mind every once in a while.

“Maybe you just like the idea of him,” he offers with a sigh. There isn’t much that he could do for you in the middle of a snowstorm except to be on a video call with you and hope that the can solve whatever you have going on before his bedtime.

“I make up scenarios of him in my mind but I still prefer the real him,” you admit with a twinge of embarrassment. You can only sink deeper under your covers, pulling the cabin-themed sheets closer to your chest. Maybe you’re still holding onto the Wonwoo who existed during the work trip, and maybe, you think, he still exists somewhere.

“Hypothetically, do you maybe think that the reason why he’s so bad at everything is because he spends most of his time with children and draws instead of writing so his communication skill is basically hindered? Like how you’re good with feelings and ideas because that’s the bulk of the media you surround yourself with daily so you have more exposure to that area. So you have man-child versus person with skewed expectations on love and relationships. But then you literally have people like me…perfect in every aspect.”

“Shut up. You talk about traffic every morning but you can’t even name the model of your car. You were also tricked by a catfish.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“I’m sorry,” you beg him. “Please don’t.”

“My point is.” He places his phone down on the sleeping cat to use as a temporary phone stand while he gathers his thoughts. “The two of you seem like total opposites. And the only time the two of you seem to work well together is when you meet in the middle. So, have you ever tried communicating with him? Ever pulled him to the side to ask him why he’s such an ass?”

Yoon Jeonghan’s simple solution to your problem causes your brain to briefly short-circuit. Silence fills your lonely cabin room as your mouth slightly hangs open while your cousin silently judges you from the other end of the phone. It took a simple suggestion to make you realize that you have been hanging onto Wonwoo’s personality change to even think to consider the idea of confronting him about it. And Jeonghan’s hypothesis may not be wrong at all – life isn’t a fictional novel where everything can be magically solved in the incoming chapters.

“No?” Your answer is meek. You don’t know what to feel after this revelation. Anger? Despair? Peacefulness?

“And is he still knocking on your door? Trying to talk to you?” His tone is gentle for once.

“Yeah?” You look to the right side of your room where the door stands between his room and yours. Slips of lodge notebook paper often found in the nightstand drawers slowly shove themselves through the tiny crack under the door. “I think he’s pushing slips of paper under our shared door.”

“Then go talk to him. But throw away your snot pile and fix your appearance before you do. Yeah?”

“What would I do without you?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t care. Bye.”

Sitting on the floor with your back leaned against the door, you shuffle the sheets of paper in your hands. There are a couple of sorry notes partnered with sad and apologetic-looking animal doodles. There are a few slips where he asks you to forgive him. Then there are these series of slips – a mini cartoon of his morning, this morning – that somehow cause a small upwards curl to form on your lips.

Blue ballpoint pen ink depicts a series of panels starting with a text he received this morning. This comic is void of cute tiny animals and can only be drawn with the sincerity of a children’s book illustrator. He draws himself staring at his phone screen in confusion – you’re missing, and the rest of the work group chat has no idea where you are. And he’s worried. Everybody is worried, but nobody is worried enough to send search parties for you. Blue-figured Wonwoo rushes out of his room, completely abandoning his presentation for the author, to rush to the entrance of Interlude. Because he knows that your team always passes through Interlude, but you’re known to arrive at the campsite while rubbing your eyes, hair frizzing from the static built from your head rubbing against the headrest while you were sleeping on the way there. But the scene he stumbles upon makes him angry despite how relieved he is to know that you are okay.

The few pages that you hold in your hand are smudged with blue ink, and the ending is unfinished. Wonwoo softly rasps his knuckles against the shared door, calling out your name. When you don’t reply, he sighs and sits down with his back against the door. You feel a tiny jolt with his added pressure against the door. Still, you can’t bring yourself to confront him. At least not yet.

“I’m childish and I let myself get caught up in moments. And you were right, if something happened to you, I would never forgive myself for hurting you. At one point, I really did forget that the reason why we agreed to work together was because we didn’t want him to win. I ended up wanting us to win, or at least for you to win so you could have the upgrade. I’m really sorry for not communicating well with you, and for how I acted.”

The sound of his hair leaving the door lets you know that he probably dropped his head toward his lap.

Taking a shallow breath, he mutters into his hands, “And I wasn’t lying when I talked about us at the beach. I really did like you then. I still like you.”

“Then why ignore me? Why act like you hate me? What did I do to deserve how you treated me?” The questions leave your mouth in a flare of anger.

“I started ignoring you because I was hiding from you. I couldn’t confront you because I knew I would make it obvious that I liked you. But I guess I hid from you for too long because you thought I hated you.” His voice muffled from being on the other side of the door.

“So all of this happened because of some big misunderstanding? Just because we couldn’t confront each other?”

So it really was a simple problem with a simple solution. The revelation feels like a sore punch in the gut, one that’s so surprising that all you can do is laugh.

“I’m sorry, Yn. I really am.”

“I’m also sorry.” You feel really guilty now that you know that you were wrong to believe that he hated you. “I should’ve confronted you about this earlier.”

“Does it still hurt?” His voice sounds clearer as if he shifted his body so he sits facing the door.

“Oh, from the race? Actually nothing happened.”

“From when you fell from heaven,” he finishes with his voice trailing in diminuendo, almost as if he is slightly embarrassed from using the overused pick-up line.

“It actually hurt a lot,” you joke. “But I’m glad it was you who found me in the middle of the road.”

“Then can I stay by your side? Not separated by doors, but by your side?”

So you push yourself away from the door, turning around to unlock the brassy knob. The door slowly swings open to Wonwoo, who is still sitting on the floor, now facing you. And you awkwardly sit in front of him, not really able to meet his eyes.

“I think I have a lot to learn.” He fiddles with the hem of his sweater. “I’ll start by being more communicative about my feelings,” he promises with a soft smile. “Because I really do like you.”

“I like you too.”

There is a magnetic pull that slowly draws the two of you closer together, a comforting sort of sensation that offers a moment of solace created from two extremes. The outside world is dark. The snowstorm has long gone. The surfaces where the sunlight once touched are replaced with the soft yellow glow of several lamps around both of your rooms. Kaleidoscopic remnants of shards of light scatter around every surface. But the two of you, seemingly in the very corners of your shared world exert a different type of glow - one that can only be created in a collision like the break of dawn after a devastating snowstorm.

“I really like you too,” you can’t help but reaffirm.

“It’s actually ‘I also like you.’” He can’t help but playfully correct you. “You’re the publisher. You shouldn’t be making these errors.” He teases.

“And you’re the illustrator, so shouldn’t you stay quiet so I can kiss you?”

one month later

At the base of a computer monitor, a tiny wooden whittled cat naps lazily next to its turtle counterpart. Two people sit side-by-side in the breakroom a few rooms away, the metal seats practically stuck to each other. While their lunches heat up in the microwave, the two happily discuss the upcoming young adult novel they are finally working on together. Under the table, their pinkies naturally interlock. The man who scrolls through art ideas on his tablet can’t help but let his eyes linger on his partner for a little too long while they scroll enthusiastically through the several concept art slides he created. When the microwave sounds, he quickly leaves a soft and brief kiss on the side of his partner’s temple before getting up to remove their heated lunches. And the partner smiles while turning back to look at him, a smile brighter than the soft sunlight that wraps the room in a warm afternoon glow.

There’s a new interlude in their timelines. In this interlude, the two opposites are taking it slow, learning to meet in the middle.

dedicated to ellie (@flowershu/@eliphant). just wanted to thank you for supporting wondernus for all these years. happy new year <33

#svthub #svthub.collab #seventeen imagines #svt imagines #seventeen x reader #seventeen au #seventeen fluff #wonwoo imagines #wonwoo au #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo x yn #wonwoo fluff #wonwoo angst #wonwoo scenarios

1K notes · View notes

gardenofnoah · 7 months

Text

turn me like a beast / hold you to the floor

tags: nanami kento x reader, princess!reader, violence, injuries (minor), non-graphic descriptions of hunting, medium burn, sort of enemies to lovers but mostly scared strangers to unfortunate lovers, the fall of a dynasty, character death (sorry), reincarnation, bittersweet ending. mdni.

wc: 6.5k ish

notes: for @medusashima’s collab—indulging myself (and y’all) in my take on one of my favorite stories. i hope you like it 💘 this is based on the tale of the two fossils found wrapped up in each other in an unlikely pairing (which is made even better by the fact that it is not fiction and it happened!! love is real nerd!!). there’s a really phenomenal webtoon called burrow (by saige9) that makes me cry and that y’all should read immediately. anyway, enjoy. love u

summary: the world is at its end, and an unlikely pair finds solace in each other. to love is an animal thing.

it shocks you, how gentle a tug it takes to unravel everything that you were. only a thing between two others—before: a princess on a hill, the unraveling, and who you’ll be after.

your feet stomp clumsily over dirt and jagged rock—softened soles split open easily with each stride. but, ever your grandmother's frightened little rabbit, not even that searing pain is enough to thwart you in your descent down the hill—away from what is surely certain death. nothing but the animal need to survive pushing you forward—to get to whatever comes next.

it happened too fast—the only way a dynasty can fall to those privileged enough not to notice the slow decline of the society around them until it's too late. your family spoke of pockets of uprisings as if they were fictitious and theoretical—some grandiose, far away prediction of the old crone that haunted the village below your compound, and certainly not the men concealed by shade of trees that had been pruned by your family for centuries, salivating but patient for the perfect moment to strike.

and then they were dead. all of them but you.

a childhood of exploring the grounds of your family home proves useful in knowing without much thought which paths lead farthest from the carnage at your back, but your fright makes you uncoordinated—mechanical in your stride. the price to stop for even a second is far too high, and the hounds that howl after you in the dark serve as a constant reminder of the consequence of hesitation. so, bruised and bleeding, you keep on.

you run until your lungs threaten to collapse and then on farther. your feet carry you through unfamiliar wood, but in your rush, your brain rationalizes that the repercussions of trespassing cannot be much worse than what's behind you. and that seems to be the truth—right up until the real consequence drops out of the tree above you and pins you to the earth below, a blade to your throat.

gritted teeth snap too close to your face. you hear a deep voice—maybe a deeper threat, something to raise the hair on the back of your neck if you could only focus on the words. the world spins and your mind struggles to make sense of the sudden stop in motion, but something far more animal inside you decides that it's had enough. against any remaining survival instinct, you feel all tension bleed from your body—the stranger's face comes into clearer view right as you go limp underneath him. resignation wins out—your limbs wouldn't move if you pleaded with them to.

blond eyebrows meet hairline as your attacker is caught off guard by your forfeiture. "what are you—"

once distant howls growing nearer cut him off. he looks over his shoulder, eyes narrowed at something he cannot yet see. you watch from outside yourself as he turns back toward you. dark eyes meet your own and you see the decision make itself—in one instant you are free of his bodyweight, and in the next you are weightless as he hauls you over his shoulder.

he makes it no more than 10 feet down the path before the last bit of adrenaline leaves you and is replaced by a sudden, blinding pain with no identifiable source. you feel it everywhere—all of the seemingly inconsequential injuries catching up with you now that you've stopped moving. the receding tree line is the last thing you see before the world goes dark.

the warmth that surrounds you is decadent. you curl into it, reluctant to break the spell of sleep. but then you remember.

you shoot upright, sending at least three layers of blankets rolling off of you. you pinch the fabric of the top one between your fingers—alpaca. not native, but farmed here over the last century or so. you know (and had been told) that it was unbecoming of a princess to hold so much commonplace knowledge. but then again, status matters little now, and this blanket is soft. you're grateful to know the beast it was made from.

it hurts, but you coax your head into swiveling around to survey your surroundings, surprised when you find that it's very clearly someone's home. it's old—some of the wooden boards that line the walls have started to bow against the nails that drove them into the framework of the house, and daylight peaks through the cracks. the bed you rest in can barely be called that—an old futon cushion atop bundles of straw. but it's warm, and you slept. someone has been taking care of you. the thought is sobering; the anxiety that comes with it is enough to hold you to the bed for the foreseeable future.

but your stomach growls, and the bodily betrayal forces you to move. you do it slowly, kicking both feet out from under the blankets. to see them bandaged is startlingly unexpected.

your memories until now are fuzzy at best, but the last thing you distinctly recall is the feeling of sharpened metal biting into your skin. there are few ways you can fathom connecting the dots from that moment to this—swaddled in blankets with your wounds tended to. it leaves you on edge.

on two feet, you sway a bit—the hunger feeds the vertigo that spins the surroundings in your peripheral. one hand braced on the bed now behind you, you blink until things settle. you take a step forward, and the pain is shocking—your feet are clearly more injured than they'd felt at the time, but there is only one way out of this room. you press on.

the heavy wooden door opens into a one room cottage. it's old, and not in the well-loved and well-lived way—the dilapidated structure and lack of any real homely qualities tells you immediately that it's current inhabitant is more of a recent opportunist than a longtime homemaker. that distinction mattered little now, though, and you suppose you should be grateful for your stranger's resourcefulness.

you creep further into the room without a sound until you find yourself in the middle of it. crouched and defensive, until the realization hits you—you see all four walls and are perplexed to find that you are completely alone.

the room is little more than a crooked wooden table and a futon pad on the floor. there are remnants of a fireplace in the center of the room—mortar and brick crumbling up wooden slats toward the roof, but still useful with still-burning embers inside. truly, it's more primitive than livable—there are weapons and tools strung up along the wooden panels of the walls, and animal hides hang in any space between metal and wood. but it's warm, and it's a reminder of what is at stake. what should spur anxiety brings only confusion—when cost of survival is so high, why add another body to the burden?

you forget yourself until the heavy fall of footsteps outside the door reignites your adrenaline. you watch, wide eyed and frozen, as the door picks a fight with whoever is on the other side of it. a weight smacks solidly into it once, twice, and a third time before it opens with a heavy groan. in the daylight, your captor is revealed to you.

hard eyes widen slightly at the sight of you, and then narrow in suspicion. you're still as he takes in all of you, and suddenly very aware of the nightgown you escaped your home in, still hanging off your body. you fight the urge to withdraw into yourself—you know it’s not the time to cower.

he eyes you for a moment more, and then drops a heavy pack on the floor next to him, and busies himself with unloading. you watch as he pulls out tools that look unfamiliar to you—though you suppose any tool would. it's not as if you or your family ever had a need for them.

you watch him work and are surprised to find that he's...handsome. jaw set at a hard angle with scars that wrap around the slope of one side, he's rugged in a way you'd never been taught to find appealing. he is unlike the men that sought after your hand with promises of riches and comfortable living. he is unlike anyone you've seen before, truthfully.

"um—"

"is there something you need?"

his coldness stuns you for a moment. you're not sure what you were expecting—you'd no real reason to anticipate any kindness from the man, but the care by which your feet were wrapped had led your mind in that foolish direction anyway.

you fight the urge to draw your limbs into yourself like a startled turtle. "oh—i just. wanted to thank you, i suppose. for helping me."

he looks up from his sorting to meet your eyes, and the disdain in them feels like a physical wound. he drops the tool in his hand with a sharp thud against the floor, and it makes you jump.

"once you've healed, you will leave."

you exhale sharply. it makes sense, of course—it is no small ask of him to allow you to stay even until you're healed. even so, the reality of the world that awaits you carries a weight to it—it lurks around the periphery of the tiny cabin, waiting for you to poke your head out.

then comes the loss—the blood that still stains your fingertips and the hem of your nightgown. you bow your head—out of shame or grief, you're not sure—and turn on your heel, right back into the room you came from. you shut the door behind you quietly, and you don't make it to the bed. you sink to your haunches and gravity pins you there, head in hands as your mind reintroduces you to each of the ghosts that now have a tight grip on both your ankles.

it's dark when you emerge, once again driven by hunger or thirst, or some other base need to stay alive despite every glaring sign not to.

you commit yourself to stealth—to staying out of your stranger's way, as much as you can before you take your leave. the dark of the cabin hides you in your trek out of your hiding place—unfortunately, it also hides the solid object on the floor, laid directly in front of your door. your foot catches it and it clangs, the metallic echo ringing in your ears.

you curse under your breath, bending down to feel around in the blackness for whatever you hit. you startle when your fingers hit something unexpectedly soft. you squint, and suck in a breath when you realize what you're holding—a piece of bread. rather, half of a loaf, with a cut of meat nearby, on the metal plate that you’d kicked. you blink, like if you do it enough, the mirage will dissipate and leave only dark wood behind. but it doesn't—the bread gives some as your fingers squeeze around it as if to test it's trustworthiness. you decide to stop looking the gift horse in its mouth, and recede back the dark of your room, food in hand.

oddly enough, it becomes a regular occurrence. you grow accustomed to expecting a plate of food by your door every night—a seemingly ironic luxury, given your reality now. you hardly see your stranger—you've no idea when he has the opportunity to leave food by your door unnoticed, give his penchant for absence. puzzling still is that the food you're given varies, as if he intends for you to have a fully balanced diet in the middle of a societal collapse.

he doesn’t stop at the food, either—after a few nights spent in your room, he makes his first real appearance in the daylight. a knock at your door rouses you from what’s become a habit of mid-afternoon naps, in lieu of staring at the splintered walls of what was quickly beginning to feel like a cage instead of a place of healing. you pull the door open to find your stranger towering over you—leering down at you with the same discontent he had before. only now, he holds something in his hands, and extends them to you.

“there’s a stream at the edge of the boundary.”

he thrusts what’s in his hands to yours, and you realize that it’s clothing—not in the best shape, but certainly better than the blood-crusted nightgown you still wear. he says no more, and for once you’re grateful for his curt demeanor. he turns on his heel and stalks out of the cabin, back to whatever the outside world has to offer him. after a moment, you follow his path, for the first time since you’d arrived.

it stuns you for a moment, how sinister the land looked in the dark, and how different it looks now. the sun shines hot down on the wheatgrass that sways gently in the breeze. it picks up a lock of your hair and you feel lighter with it.

you walk where you assume you should—down a thinly-worn path between the grass. you find it eventually: a small stream, just wide and deep enough for you to bathe in if you crouch. you turn your head to each side, squinting in your search for prying eyes—you find no one, but it’s still wholly uncomfortable to undress in the open like this.

your reservations leave you the minute you step into the water. warmed by the sun with a sweeping current, you let out a guttural moan that would’ve certainly earned you a chastising from your grandmother for its crudeness. you can’t help it—the caked on dirt and grime dissolves under your fingers and leaves you feeling better than you ever have. there is a slight sting in the soles of your feet—that it is slight is surprising to you, and a harrowing reminder of the clock that continues to tick out of your favor.

days bleed into weeks. your feet heal earlier than you expect them too, and the guilt you carry is worse than the wound. you know you’ve reached the end of your stay, but you can’t get yourself to leave. not when your stranger still insists on taking care of you. the anticipation is sickening—instead of sitting and waiting to be shooed away, you decide to earn your stay. hard work for someone who’d never worked a day, but the determination proves stronger than the fatigue.

you clean. it’s the only thing you can think to do, and truthfully, it’s necessary. you haul water in old containers on your shoulder from the stream, and you wash the dust away until the floors shine and the windows are clear again. you do this everyday—finding something to clean and fixating on it until the sun reaches the other side of the horizon. today is no different—you set your sights on the ash in the fireplace, using a metal pan to scoop it into a stray tarp to carry outside when you’re done.

you’re almost finished when you hear the now familiar sound of boots scraping the stone outside. you tense, but you don’t stop, pulling another pile of stale smelling soot onto the tarp as your stranger opens the door. you hear him stop behind you, but you don’t turn.

“what are you doing?” the tone is not as harsh as you’re used to—a little fatigued, mostly inquisitive.

“cleaning,” you say softly, pulling up at each corner of the canvas and watching the ash collide into neat little heaps in the center, “i’m almost done—i’ll be out of your way.”

you get to your feet, discard in hand, and turn to look at him. his strong brow furrows as he looks at you, like there’s something about what he sees that he can’t understand. against your best interest, your curiosity gets the better of you.

“i’m sorry, it’s just—i never learned your name.”

the look he levels you with makes you wish you’d never asked. his expression gives away nothing, but it tells you enough.

“how are your feet?”

your stomach drops—all of your attempts at earning your place for naught after all. but you stand in front of him now—to lie to him would be foolish at best.

you can barely raise your voice above a whisper. “healed.”

he studies you for a moment more, and it’s too much for you. your eyes fall to a crack in the floor, and distantly you wish you’d shrink down to slip inside of it, never to be seen again.

“tomorrow i will show you how to trap.” he gruffs, finality lacing his tone. your eyes snap to his but he’s already turning, half way out the door before he stops. he turns his head, eyeing you over his shoulder.

“kento,” he mutters, barely audible and strange meeting your ears, “my name is kento.”

and then he’s gone again—leaving you standing there with a hand full of dirt and no way to discern your left from right as your world tilts on its axis, if only slightly—but noticeable and disruptive all the same.

you don’t sleep well that night—startled out of a twilight sleep in what appears to be the dark hours of the morning by the rapping of knuckles on your door. kento nods to you in a greeting of his own, turning swiftly on his heel and heading toward the front door. you follow him dutifully, pulling over your shoulders the blanket you’d snagged before you left the warmth of your bed for the chill of the morning. the grass is cool and dewey under your bare feet, and it’s a quiet luxury you find yourself reveling in as you pad along behind him. you can hardly see him in the dark and yet you keep up, somehow—you know there’s too much at stake to lag behind.

true to his word, he teaches you how to trap. solely by doing—few words are exchanged between you as he trudges into the stream and hauls out a weaved basket attached to a rope, fastened to the shoreline by a stray branch. the light that creeps over the horizon begins to illuminate his work—silvery tails gleam as they flick back and forth from inside the cage. you know better than to be sad, but you feel it anyway. it’s silly to feel a kinship with the creatures, not even sentient enough to know that there is no escape for them—but you know, and the weight of that is a tangible thing.

he teaches you how to prepare the fish, then—and you get through it, if not only through sheer determination to not throw up in front of kento. the sun rises and illuminates other opportunities to learn—he teaches you about the native plants, only in simple directions of pointing to a patch of green with an accompanied “don’t touch”, or “fine to eat”. it’d feel patronizing if it wasn’t all so overwhelming—he had a knowledge of things you’d never dreamed of before. all you can feel is excitement that he’s willing to share it with you.

as the sun begins to set, he brings you to the garden—a small patch of land, seemingly unassuming until you step inside. there are fruiting plants everywhere you look—fat, red tomatoes and vining, prickly cucumbers, complete with rows of leafy greens and cabbages. you can’t begin to imagine how he’d managed to grow all of this by himself. his nightly food gifts start to make more sense.

you work side by side, pulling ripe crop from each plant and placing them into a metal canister—usually used for mechanical purposes, but at the end of the world, you find many uses for what you have. you feel emboldened somehow with your hands in the dirt next to his, and the words leave you before you have a moment to reconsider; you tell him of where you’d come from, and of your descent down the hill. you think of the kin you’d left behind, and you feel detached as you tell him of the loss—an observation if nothing else, as if you’d sat on a shoreline and watched the tide flood in.

he doesn’t react—not to your noble status, and not to the death—he’s quiet as he moves on to each plant, only the pattering sound of what he harvests hitting the tin bottom of his canister. you don’t mind—there’s no reaction you’d expect or find helpful, and for some reason, his presence is enough. you find it odd that weeks ago his footsteps incited real fear in your veins, and now he’d spent the day teaching you new ways to be useful. it was a strange and intimate gratitude, but one you felt nonetheless.

you find you see him more now, with your newfound ability to contribute and the determination to do just that. days are spent hauling fresh catches out of the stream, and hunting down small mammals to supplement your diet. you watch him closely—the flex and twist of his torso with the pull of the bow, the way he narrows his focus to the fluffy little thing that scurries among the leaves. with the twitch of a finger, the arrow flies toward its target—there is a screech, and then a sobering quiet. for the first time in your life, you pray—quietly, for the creature with the same instinct to survive that drives you to take its life.

“here,” kento says, handing the bow to you, “try it.”

you wrap your fingers around the wood and do as he asks. it’s deceptively heavy—the tension of the bow makes it nearly impossible to draw back with your own strength. focused and determined not to fail in front of him, you nearly jump out of your skin when his hands cover your own.

“there’s no trick to it,” his voice is gruff but gentle and far closer to you than he’s ever been, “just pull back, like this.”

he guides your hand backward with his own and the tail of the arrow follows—at your back, you feel the muscles in his chest ripple with the effort.

“focus,” he breathes, and you fight a shudder at his proximity, “listen.”

and it’s hard to hear anything over the roar of blood in your ears, but you try, blinking in an effort to snap out of whatever trance kento has put you in. it takes a moment, but then you hear it—the crinkle of leaves beneath tiny paws.

“take a deep breath.” kento allows you to move the bow where you want to, and you try to focus your aim. a bushy tail flicks up behind the underbrush—you train the point of the arrow right below it. your heart thuds wildly in your chest, and suddenly you’re worried that the bow might slide out of your sweating palms, impaling you instead.

“let it go.”

you do as he says, and the ringing in your ears drowns out the sounds of short-lived suffering. he lets go of you then—you don’t notice he’s come to stand in front of you until you feel the rough pad of his thumb swipe gently across your cheek. you blink, your own fingers reaching up to find tears you don’t recall ever shedding. your eyes meet his, and they burn with an intensity you’ve never seen in him before. but he’s not angry—you feel no compulsion to apologize for whatever is happening to you. he takes the bow from your hands, and slings it over his back.

“we’ll go back now,” he says quietly. you follow him up the path, and the tears don’t stop until you reach the cabin. you wonder who exactly it is that you’re crying for.

you don’t know what it is about the nights that follow that lead kento to decide to stick around, but there’s a part of you that’s glad he does. above all else, you knew better than to question it. he doesn’t say much—he never does—but you’re more than happy to fill the silence. you suppose you owe him the opportunity to know you, after all he’s done for you—you’ve no idea how to quantify the gratitude you’ve felt over the last few months. you do what you can.

“there’s a story my grandmother used to tell,” you murmur, eyes to the fire that crackles in front of you, “i used to sit at her feet while she brushed my hair. she only ever told it to me—it was like a secret between us.”

the wood pops and spits an ember at your feet. you watch it blaze bright, the tiny thing—one last attempt to catch before it snuffs itself out. “there was a princess that lived high in a tower built to protect her from the bandits of the neighboring empire. she was only ever allowed to walk the grounds of the palace under the safety of a full moon. one night, as she crept out of the tower under the cover of the dark, she’s lured into the dark forest by a witch. she promises to grant the princess any wish, for a price.”

your eyes catch kento’s, and for once, his expression is not indifferent. he is here with you in this moment, and it warms you more than the flame. “of course she wishes to be free,” you continue, waving a hand at its inevitability, “and the witch turns her into a hare. and in the original story, that’s the end of it. there’s a lesson there, right?”

“but in my grandmother’s story, it’s the best thing that could’ve happened to the princess. she’s free to hop around to her heart’s content. all she does is eat greenery and lay fat in her den until she dies a natural death after a long and happy life.”

you hear what you think is a scoff from the man next to you. your eyes roam kento’s face, and you think there might even be a hint of a smirk there. it thrills you.

“the tale of an optimist,” he offers quietly, and it’s not bitter.

“she was,” you murmur, “until the end, she was an optimist.”

it’s quiet between you for a moment, save for the crackle of the fire.

“i’m sorry you lost her.”

you smile, and it hurts. the tears well up before you can stop them.

“it’s unfair,” you croak, despite yourself. you’d done well to put up a good front in front of kento—humbling, to see how quickly it could be undone.

you startle when you feel a warm palm close around your clenched fist. “it is unfair,” he says, eyes meeting yours.

the warmth is profound, again despite the fire that heats your cheeks. you find yourself leaning into it until you’ve tucked yourself under his arm. he’s tense, but allows it.

“tell me something about you,” you whisper thickly, needing to think of anything else. he hums, tipping his head back. you sneak a glimpse of the curve of his jaw, glowing between shadows cast by a flickering flame. scar tissue curves and shimmers as it tenses.

“we were a group,” he murmurs, still looking up at the old, wooden boards, “myself and some of the neighbor children. there were no family units, there— we created our own.”

you’re so quiet you think you can nearly hear him piece together the memory in his mind. you know he’s gifting you something precious, so you don’t dare speak.

“we were too young to be running around alone, but there was nowhere to go. we knew enough to dodge the militias that would burn through each village. we thought we did, anyway.”

“the elders were kind. they brought in as many of us as they could on nights when the trucks would come down the road. but we didn’t have parents or homes, and they couldn’t take in all of us.” he pauses, sucking in a long breath. it shifts you when his chest expands. “i was small enough that i was able to fit through a hole in the crawl space under a home. Yu tried, but he wasn’t fast enough.”

“he was my best friend.” kento’s voice is quiet, and more fatigued than you’ve ever heard it. it’s unnerving, seeing his humanity laid out so plainly. “he tried to run, but they caught up just as quickly. they would’ve just taken him to a work camp, but he put up a fight.” he says it with a small smile, like he’s proud. “they shot him and left him there to die.”

if there was a way you could be closer to kento, you’d have found it by now, but you find yourself trying to sneak up under his ribs anyway. trying to find a way to siphon his pain into yourself, if only for a moment.

“you were brave,” you whisper, having nothing else to say except for that—for what feels obvious and true. he scoffs, but you can hear the grief behind it.

“maybe,” he says, arm tightening around your shoulders, “i don’t think i’ve ever felt that way.”

you hum, a low and sympathetic thing, fighting the urge to nuzzle into his chest. it’s strange, how easy it is to default to such animal inclinations when there’s no need to abide by arbitrary customs. there is only the two of you here, and the urge to comfort kento is strong.

“will you let me do something?”

he glances down at you out of the corner of his eyes—narrowed in distrust, despite baring his most tender bits to you only a moment ago. you push past it.

“here,” you say, sitting up and out from under his hold, “sit here.”

“on the ground?” he’s not so much incredulous as he is confused—and you’ll take what you can get. you nod, an appeasing sort of grin teasing the corners of your mouth.

his eyes are still narrowed when he goes—crouched in defense like you wait with bared teeth instead of open arms. still, he moves to sit before you—facing you. you laugh a little, endeared.

“i meant for you to turn—“

“no.”

you’re snapped back to reality then—to the present moment, with this man that kindly took you in but does not trust you. you take in a slow breath, careful not to flinch under the weight of his stare.

“okay,” you murmur, reaching up to pull free from your hair the comb that tethers it in its knot, “that’s okay.”

your hair slips down over your nape as you pull the teeth of it free—hard and familiar in your fingers, you offer it to him like one would a scrap of food to a feral dog. an heirloom made of deer bone—your family’s own commitment to using all that you were given, even if it was in excess. a reminder of a luxury that never felt like one until now.

“is it okay?” you ask, pulling up on your own bravery to keep his stare. after a long moment of careful deliberation, he nods tersely.

you lean forward slightly, careful of his space, and let him see the comb as you reach up. he jumps when the dulled prongs meet his scalp, but you stay the course. you pull it through the blond strands—longer than they were when you first met, the dulled ends slipping through with each pass.

you sit back to look at him after a moment. there’s no resistance, nor is there any enthusiasm—but you trust that he’d stop you if he was uncomfortable, so you keep going.

you lose yourself in the task, pulling (or pushing, from where you sit in front of him) the carved bone through his hair. you allow him the privacy of a reaction—eyes focused only on the strands that flit away from the teeth of the comb.

so focused, it seems, that you have to suppress the jerk of your leg when he leans up against it. the quick glimpse you allow yourself gores you—his eyes now closed, head cushioned by the soft of your thigh. looking more childlike than you’ve ever seen him in the months you’ve spent every minute with him. you see flashes of him as a boy—small and without scarring or a reason for haunches to raise in fear or rage. you think of him laughing—rolling in mud and being scolded by an otherwise kind woman instead of squeezing his way through jagged, wooden boards to save his life. never knowing the sound of a shot ringing out in the street.

you tuck your face into your shoulder—determined to hide the tears and your grief on his behalf. determined to let him feel this, whatever it is, and be a safe place for him to do it. to be the strong arm and the kind hand for him now—the one he can give his precious trust to.

the fire crackles and the mourning is heavy in the air—but kento is alive beneath your fingers, and your own heart beat is a heavy and reassuring thud inside your chest.

he is a rose in bloom, in the nights that follow. tightly coiled and still with all of his thorns, but in bloom nonetheless.

he becomes something of your shadow. where he lingered out of distrust he now hovers with intent—comically so, his large body folding itself in the small confines of the makeshift kitchen while you wring out linens in the sink. it’s clear that something has shifted between you—though what, you’re unsure. your mind tells you he is finally coming around to you. your heart yearns for something more than just his trust, though you are not unaffected by the weight of that trust alone.

he is never more than an arm’s length away. he leaves in the darkened hours of the morning to hunt, and is somehow back before the sun rises to wake you. that was another shift—he hadn’t asked you to join him on a hunt since that night. he hadn’t asked you for anything after that, really. he sleeps nearer, too—you’d been under the impression that he’d been sleeping outside until he wound up at the foot of your bed, sleeping still like a guard dog. you didn’t have the heart to ask him about it—you just left the candle burning and turned away from the door. he was owed privacy in his vulnerability, and you give him that.

and however hard to read the man may be, you feel some discontent at not pulling your weight, so you try your best to anyway. patching up holes in the wooden exterior of your home. sealing the windows with fur and fat to beat the chill of the creeping fall. you know that the garden tending is cyclical with the seasons—the cold calls for heartier vegetables. you pull and preen until your fingers swell, aching.

and there he would be—watching you, as always.

“hard work for a princess,” he mutters through something suspiciously similar to a smirk. you level him with a glare—the heat of which is immediately snuffed out in comparison to the heat of the cloth that he wraps around your wind-bitten hands. the heat of his body before yours is a close second to the warmest you've ever been despite all of the holes you'd still yet to patch.

“i hardly remember ever being one now,” you murmur, leaning into his side as his thumbs swipe over your palms—needle pinpricks left in their wake, even through the fabric.

he scoffs, his hands engulfing yours in his warmth. "are you not still?"

"i suppose, technically." you shrug, letting him crowd you over to the old, torn up futon that you'd been using as living room furniture. he'd been doing a lot of that lately—pushing you to relax. itching to take a weight from you. he arranges you to his liking, wrapping one of the woven blankets around your shoulders. "i was meant to be made into more than that, you know. before the uprising."

kento only raises an eyebrow at you. you shrug, past the point of shrinking from his silence. "my family had paid a sizeable dowry to have me married off. an heir in a neighboring village, supposedly. only my grandmother was against it, in her own, quiet way. she took to calling me her rabbit, after her story. she wanted differently for me."

there's no mistaking the way kento stiffens. there's no reason for it, nor is there a justification for the way you want to placate him. you do it anyway.

"maybe it's for the best," you say, waving your hand as if to dismiss the whole thing entirely, "i'm not exactly the noble type, now."

you watch him deflate. he nods sagely, the smirk pulling at his lips again. "surely you're the most frightening princess i've ever met."

you turn your head to watch him settle in next to you—another new behavior, seemingly unbothered by the proximity that he no doubt was unfamiliar with. "what's that supposed to mean?"

his teasing grin fades into something a little more forlorn. "when i found you, i expected you to be afraid. i wouldn't have harmed you—i only wanted to scare you off."

you huff. "that wasn't very nice."

"you weren't afraid though. it was unnerving."

"oh?" you grin, reaching to poke him in the ribs. "you were afraid of me?"

he reaches for your hand and pulls it to his lap. "i was sad for you. it wasn't a resilience—it felt as though you were broken."

it hurts, you decide, to be known like this. how simple things had been when he'd only left you provisions at your bedroom door and left you be. now you'd gone and allowed your heart to run freely ahead without a tether. you'd no way of preparing for the injury that freedom would cause.

"you pitied me," you mutter, unable to keep the bitterness from your tone. the mood shifts between you, and something inside you wants to resent him for it. how warm it had been inside the delusion—the world in which you both exist in this space as equals, brought together by fate and want and nothing else.

"no, not pity." you startle at the feeling of his fingertips as they brush a tendril of hair from your face. "you reminded me of myself. i didn't want you to be alone."

"why take on that burden?"

kento hums, pushing his fingers through the hair at your temple. despite yourself, you lean into the touch. "maybe i didn't want to be alone, either."

you blink, the sentiment working its way into your head. it lands significantly south—deep in your chest with an ache you can't describe. you reach for the wrist in your peripheral, stopping his movement and keeping him close. "is that all?"

"no." his admittance is a whispered, strained thing. you're close enough that to tilt your head back brings his jaw to your lips. the ghost of your breath along his skin makes him shudder, and you feel the fingers in your hair flex into a grip.

"what else, then?"

he ducks his chin to nose at your cheek. your eyes flutter closed, mind empty of all that swam around in it only a moment ago.

"my rabbit," his bottom lip brushes against your own, "what else is there but you?"

the weather changes and the gods grow restless.

you both feel it at the first chill of the year. there’s no graceful turn of the seasons—the air is bitter and cold, and you know something is coming. there’s little time for play, so on the last few warm evenings of fall, you take advantage of it. or you try to—you drag kento into the stream to soak in the dwindling rays of sun, but the knowledge of what is to come weighs heavily on you both. he holds you up in the current—body to body, only breathing. you can't get close enough—to reach inside him and carve out a space for yourself would still not sate the longing you feel.

that wretched something shows it’s face soon enough. the first snow is harsh, collecting in heavy banks against the roof of the house. the wood sags under the weight and the cold creeps in through the wood until the fire is no longer enough to warm the house in it's entirety—only the small space in front of the mantel that you crowd around. you and kento don’t talk much these days—to speak takes energy you don’t have to spare. he is doting as he always is—making sure you are covered in every layer of fabric and fur he can find, but something is wrong. you know the worst is yet to come. you feel it in the way kento holds you too close during the night; it’s never warm enough.

at first there is hope. kento has his food reserves and you'd preserved some of what you’d gathered. but a week of snow turns to two, and two weeks turn to two months. the rations get smaller and the two of you get hungrier. by the third month, you understand that you will not be spared the gods’ wrath. you see the punishment for what it is—a utilitarian consequence to all of the bloodshed by man. you do not have the energy to mull over the unfairness of that. even if you did, the gods do not concern themselves with what is fair—you know that now. the light inside you fades with every new inch of snowfall.

but kento is kind, despite your insistence that he be otherwise. he pulls from his own warmth to add to yours. your dinner portions are always bigger, even if it means he goes without eating entirely. it’s in vain, of course. neither of you will live through this. you scold him for pushing the last of his food on your plate and he doesn’t bother to respond. he only watches while you eat, like he can’t rest until he knows for sure that you have eaten all he has to offer you. you chew through tears and the only comfort is the hand that reaches to wipe them from your cheek. it’s a painful end, wasting away like this. watching kento fade away.

it's when you can smell death's approach that you know with certainty that your humanity has fled for a better place. the thing that remains in you—that keeps your heart beating, that coaxes your lungs to inflate—is purely animal. and it's out of that same primal need that you close the distance between kento's frail body and your own. in the silent chill of the night, the warmth between you may be merely a hallucination now, but you feel it all the same. there is no pain anymore. only a pull into a sleep you want so badly to slip into.

you don't cry—you use the last of the strength in your body to tuck yourself under kento's chin and curl around him in some intimate display of what exists between you. of what has existed this whole time.

"if this is the end," you murmur, knowing that it is, "i'm happy that i'll leave this world with you."

the knuckles that brush against your cheek are sharp and gnarled now. you've never known a touch so tender. it’s odd to speak—to shatter the intimacy of the silence that’s floated around the both of you for much of the last few weeks.

"do you know now?"

if you close your eyes, you can pretend that the man in your arms will live to see the morning. that this is merely pillow talk, and the sun will wake you with warmed skin in a few hours.

but you don't let yourself turn away. it's striking, how even with his last few breaths, kento manages to use them worrying about you. you wonder if he's done it the whole time. you do know; you realize with unmistakable clarity that you'd know his love anywhere, now. you nod, feeling his thready pulse against your forehead.

"i do. you'll have to forgive me for not seeing it sooner."

you feel him scoff—an inappropriate use of dwindling breath that makes you laugh, too. "there will be plenty of time to show you in the next life, my rabbit."

a brief bitterness curls up your spine—the unfairness of all of this creeping back up like a rising tide. how cruel it was to have settled on the loneliness of a life without love, just to be shown the magnitude of a life with it in the final months of your own.

but it recedes in the next moment, because there is no more time to grieve. you can only feel grateful, now—to leave this world saturated in all that kento has given you.

cracked lips brush the skin of your temple—he has no real energy for a proper kiss, but the desire to comfort is strong between you. you spend the next few, precious moments counting the breaths that rattle inside his chest, grateful for every one cycled through.

in the silent hours of a darker morning, there is a light only the two of you can see. shrouded in the glow, he is so beautiful.

with all of your strength, you call him by his name, one last time. "until next time, my love."

epilogue

if the notion of certainty is alive in anything, it is in the way that fable and folklore are sure to be born and born again out of gatherings of beings with mouths to speak it. one such example is the jagged, snow capped hills of Akaito—a new village comprised of all walks of life, the one commonality between them being their displacement during the fall of the Zaiaku dynasty almost one hundred years prior. built overtop the remnants of survivor settlements crushed under the Great Snow, all who inhabit the land know well of the blood that has stained the soil and pay mind to honor the loss of life in their own ways—namely in storytelling. this great coming together eventually gave way to a new mother tongue for the telling of a new bed time story to bleary eyed babes in the middle of the night: the tale of the Akaito lovers—the wolf and the hare.

as the story goes, villagers who have been bestowed some unearthly dose of luck by the gods may catch a glimpse of an unlikely pair—a formidable looking white wolf with scarring across its broad body, and its counterpart: a fluffy and downright regal grey hare. one might catch them romping around in the dusting after a fresh snow, or preening one another under a shaded tree in the heat of the summer. depending on who tells the tale, it might be the case that if a person is truly fortunate and determined to wait out the dark of night, they might even be gifted the sight of the duo curled around one another, sleeping peacefully in a protective and loving embrace under the light of a waning moon.

as with all fables, the story is altered with every new tongue that speaks it, and one day the tale will vanish from the minds of the younger generations completely. but for now, it is ripe in the minds of the young and old, the latter of which are very certain that it is no mere fable at all.

#sike i’m posting it now #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento fic #nanami x you #jjk fic #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen writing #livedeliciously🐐collab

286 notes · View notes

iwtvdramacd18 · 3 months

Text

Well y'all know I have to do it. Louis T4T fic reclist

for @iwtvfanevents A meal 2 remember event! I'm picking one to highlight per person here but everything is HIGHLY recommended and many folks here have multiple T4T and trans hits as well as collabs!. (And I'm not telling you who, you better give them a click through)

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

I am amazed by peace–@dictee

This was a holiday surprise so desperately needed. There's an intimacy to every description here, I think of some deep conveying of wanting... wanted to be wanted and wanting to want in turn, and the joy of knowing you can be! And you can have that. One of those fics that feels like a film in your head. Whenever this updates my day stops so I can enjoy it.

try to swallow the wave– @diasdelfuego

Mindblowing use of prose, bringing disconnect and identity to the forefront. Mixing heartbreaking emotion and unexpected elation. I can't believe you first published this anonymously because I was lamenting the fact I couldn't give the author flowers... AND NOW I CAN. Brought a tear to my eye when I first read it. I get chills just thinking about reading it again.

Snow in the Champagne– @nakiaslilhoodoo

There is something masterful about taking these bigger than life characters and bringing them to a very relatable, intimately mundane level, the ability to take these "smaller" moments and give them weight and heat and humor. Grounding in small objects, rituals of love, that's the type of stuff I love.

cleave/tie– @kittyldpdl

What an emotional ride. Can you just call a fic "fleshy" and leave it like that? Carnality and horror, this is something I want to talk about at length but can't for hear of spoiling the experience. I live for the levels of trans parenthood on display as well. Scars in fiction that make you slam your phone down and shout NO WAYYYYY.

Allude me, Pursue me, Consume me.– @salmoncakepls

Angela Carter is nodding along to this.... LOVE the fairy tale trappings and the bleeding of human into animal and past the two thresholds. Incredible imagery that sticks to the mind, once again trans parenthood let's make it crazy let's make it insane. Ending chapter had me holding my breath.

perpetuum mobile– @knifeeater

I wanna pretend like I have something indepth to say about this. I really do. Because the depth is there. Thinking about vampirism in the far flung future, vampire bodies like orbiting planets and satellites. But also. This is just really fucking hot WE FUCKING? IN THE FAR OFF FUTURE????

breath, held– @enterprisery

Love the exploration of brief returns to humanity in an erotic sense, vampiric play with the vulnerability of mortality? The focus on sensation (and brief letting go of it), the communication and heat behind it, love to see Loumand getting down in this way.

Once Upon a Wine-Dark Sea– @weather-mood

Recommending the entire series because like many worthwhile many-chaptered many forked stories there's a lot of context to be taken in (and by all means you should take it in, the whole is recommended), Charybdis is chiefly what puts this in this list specifically, and ofc I must point to Tidelines, ongoing; another fairy tale/ mythic epic.

And here are some rapid-fire fic recs featuring trans Louis:

rhododendron– @blueiight (MY BELOVED...)

in a lonely place–@devotiondroid (FINE you're the final nail selling me on danlou noir....)

Charred–@blacclotusss (ANOTHER HOLIDAY BANGER)

Pleas on Deaf Ears–@ bloodiedroses (WHEW)

#a meal to remember #others fic #fic recs #reclist

54 notes · View notes

kanekisfavoritegf · 1 year

Text

Pathetic

@nymphoheretic - Poppin’ Cherries Collab

warnings: degradidation, virginity loss(obviously), mentions of bullying, fingering, mean girl!reader, nerd!Armin, Perv!Armin, public sex

DISCLAIMER!!! THE STUFF I WRITE IS NOT REAL. SMUT ON HERE IS ENTIRELY FICTIONAL AND THE ACTUALITY IF HAVING SOMEONE SIMPLY RAM INTO A VIRGIN IS VERY VERY VERY UNREALISTIC. BUT THAT IS WHY IT IS CALLED FICTION. DO NOT. AND I MEAN DO NOT. BASE YOUR SEXUAL EXPERIENCES OFF OF THE FICTITIOUS EVENTS THAT GET WRITTEN ON ANY SMUTTY STORY. THIS IS FOR FUN NOT FOR EDUCATION!!!!

Armin was fed up with you and your sweet smiles laced with venom. The verbal venom you’d spit out at him while keeping such a sweet smile on your face. You were considered to be one of the golden girls of your campus, smart, beautiful, and kind.

Bullshit.

It was all bullshit.

Armin saw the way you used your pretty smiles as a mask for your rotten personality.

And he hated it. Hated how you never called him by his name. Only ever referring to him as a “virgin loser”.

So today, after your usual late-night tutor session at the always empty library, Armin stood up and announced that this would be his last time tutoring you.

“What?” you exclaimed to him.

“I didn't think it was this hard to understand. I'm done dealing with you.” Though Armin tried to make his voice rougher than usual, it wavered a little as you stood upright to his face. The sudden attitude had thrown you for a loop, making you raise your eyebrow at the boy as you stood in his face.

“What, am I a bad student? Do I not retain the information well enough for you?” You scoffed at him.

“No, it's not that.” He said, rolling his eyes a little.

“Then what is it? God, I wish you could get straight to the point. Wasting my time like the virgin you are. Probably want me to stick around longer so you can stare at my tits again.

“See, that's why. I'm done with the names and the assumptions. I can't teach someone who doesn't respect me. You don't even call me by my name.”

“You aren’t a very respectable person, Armin.” You said his name smoothly as if you had said it a thousand times before. Armin let out a small gasp-like whine, hearing you finally call his name. “You don’t think I can’t see you staring like you want to fuck me every time you tutor me. You think, what?That I can't see you fix your pants whenever I lean into you. I call you a virgin loser 'cause you are one.”

Your hands, now, grasped onto Armin's collar shirt, pulling him in closer. Your lips were inches from touching, you watched as Armin’s eyes drifted from yours to your gloss-covered lips.

The proximity was driving him wild. The scent of your perfume mixed with your coco butter lotion filled his nose and made him step back. You were dangerous. He hated how you got him so worked up with your words. Causing you to smirk, and Armin cursed at himself. Proving everything you said right.

Well almost everything…

“I'm not a virgin.” The blond boy spat out. Ears and cheeks becoming a little bit red from anger. If you weren't so pissed off, you'd find him a little cute.

“Sure you're not, Min.” You spoke back in a mocking tone. “The hard on you're getting from me calling you a loser is great proof.”

Instead of stepping away, against Armin’s better judgment, he closed the distance between the two of you. Pressing his weight into you and trapping your body in between his and the desk covered in your books.

“Armin, what are you doing?” You let out a gasp as you felt his semi-hard dick press against your thigh.

“What? Nervous?” Armin’s head was bent into your neck. Mouth hovering right next to your ear. His words were quiet. But still held a mocking tone. He sounded much different from the timid Armin that never once tried to speak out before.

“Of you? Never.” You chuckled, trying to mask your nervousness. Armin’s eyebrow raised in surprise.

“Don’t tell me. You're a virgin.”

“N-no. I'm not. Shut up, Amrin.”He let out a small chuckle. The irony of it all.

Armin's hands were now at your thighs, grazing up and down your skin. His mouth latched onto your neck, giving it a bite before pulling away.

“You talk big shit, but you’re still a virgin.” He scoffed while ripping your panties. This action caused you to let out a loud pornographic moan. “Pathetic. You are pathetic.”

His finger now rubbed at your cunt up and down, slipping into your hole “accidentally” every so now and then. Each time he did, you found yourself becoming better and wetter.

“Min, please.” You whimpered out.

“Please what? Use your words.” He smirked down at you.

You hated how much he was enjoying this. His power over you. He knew you didn’t have a clue what to do, and he was taking advantage of that. Making you beg him to do something, anything.

“Make me cum.” His usually sweet smile looked so much more intimidating now that he held all the cards.

You gasped a little at the intrusion of Armin's long and delicate finger pushing its way into your untouched cunt.

“Oh fuck, you are so tight.” Armin groaned at how you clamped down on his singular digit. He felt himself harden even more, thinking about how you’d squeeze down on his dick.

All you could do was moan out in response as he added another, stretching and plunging into you deeper and deeper.

“I think I’m going to cum Armin.” You panted out into his ear. But before you could hit your climax, you felt it dissipate into nothing as Armin pulled his finger away from you. Making you whine in frustration.

“Don’t be a brat.” Armin spat at you while undoing his belt and pants buttons.

“I thought you liked me being a brat?” You giggled a little as his ears flared red again. “You are blushing like a high schooler.” You said, laughing at his rushed way of pulling his pants down. Your laughs would be cut short, a result of Armin ramming into your pussy without a single care for you.

“You make my life hell, calling me a virgin and a loser, but you’ve never even been fucked.” His eyes rolled back as he degraded you. Keeping his thrusts erratic and hard as if he was just using you as a vessel for his cum.

“You’ll make the prettiest cum dump, won’t you?” He asked tauntingly, but when you didn’t respond, it caused him to slap at your clit, making your whole body convulse.

“Mhm, Armin. The prettiest” You slurred out, choking on your moans and salvia. You were slipping in and out of consciousness as you gave in to the feeling of your incoming climax. You saw white as your orgasm hit. Your nails clawed at Armin's shirt as he bit your neck, muffling the moans he released as he came shortly after you.

You tried to wrap your mind around the fact that you had just lost your virginity.

In a library….

To Armin…

Once he had pulled out, he held you in place. Watching as his cum seeped out of you. Before you could get up and fix yourself, Armin turned your body around, bending you over the desk.“What? Did you think we were done?”

#cat writes ★#aot #attack on titan #aot smut #aot thirst #black reader #arminissohotiphysicallyneedhim #armin smut #armin x black reader #armin arlet #armin arlet smut #armin #armin arlet thirst #armin oneshot #armin thirst #armin aot #armin arlet x reader #poppin cherries♡

648 notes · View notes

thegetoufather · 2 years

Text

DORKY DOM • KUROO TETSURO

kuroo tetsuro x f!reader

warnings: smut, 18+/minors and ageless blogs DNI, choking, chaotic dom sub role play, dweeb kuroo, slice of life with my favorite nerd

w/c: 3.5 k

a/n: this is my. long overdue submission for the better than fiction collab. @spacelabrathor & @titan-fodder i hope you forgive my tardiness. Please check out the rest of the lovely fics in this collab here! this is a special piece of my heart bc ive slaved away on it for so long to give you the kuroo that has effectively stolen it (it is very much anti sex god kuroo propaganda warning yall now! im sorry). this piece would be nowhere without the encouraging screams from @karikarasuno & @whats-her-quirk. i hope yall enjoy <3

In the three years you’ve shared an apartment with Kuroo, you’ve learnt that there will always be a surprise when you open the door. You’ve seen it all, from the day the Black Jackals decided to rearrange your living room for a yoga session to the hoard of foster kittens that nearly escaped into the hallway. While you expect that black cat you two had decided to save from that day to circle your feet when you cross the threshold of your home, the exaggerated moaning coming from the living room was certainly a shock.

Kuroo doesn’t even seem to notice your presence. For a man watching porn, he’s impossibly still, hands laced in front of his face as he stares intently at the laptop below him. It’s almost as though he’s studying the scene, his broad back hunched off the back of the couch in an effort to stay closer to the screen. You scoop the cat off the floor and into your arms as you make your way over to your fiancé, Kuroo none the wiser to the sound of your footsteps getting louder.

The knot in your brow deepens as the video becomes clearer. It’s set in a dark room, various whips and crops adorning the walls. The woman lies on her stomach on a black leather plank, arms and legs bound behind her back with thick silk ties. She’s writhing, whining for someone to do something, and then a man comes up behind her, shutting her pleas with a swift strike of her ass with a paddle.

Nasally high-pitched moans ring through the speakers, the various fuck’s and oh’s she manages to choke out punctuated by the wood hitting her skin. When she sobs out a whiny “Master, please,” you’ve decided you had enough, clearing your throat loudly to catch his attention.

Kuroo slams the pause button and whips around to meet you, the greeting dying in his throat as he catches sight of the cat in your arms.

“Why aren’t you shielding the eyes of our child from such filth?”

“Well, hello to you too, Tetsu.”

He leans over the couch, grabbing the cat from you. Kuroo turns her around, cradling her so you can face the confused animal. “Apologize.”

You sigh, figuring that giving into his antics is the easiest way to get an explanation. “I’m sorry, Bubba. Very sorry I’m raising you with a dumbass that watches porn openly in the living room. Please, forget what you’ve seen and be free.” You take Bubba back from Kuroo and set her on the floor, waiting till she’s scurried off into the bedroom before you start with him.

Kuroo’s always been an expressive man, and with time, you’ve learnt what each contortion of his face means. He pulls his lip over his bottom teeth when the Sunday crossword stumps him. His left brow quirks whenever he has to talk finances with Bokuto. He looks up through his eyelashes whenever he thinks you’re mad at him, thinking it looks cute when it borders on ridiculous since he stands at 6’2. And now, he’s combined all three of those features in a rather alarming way, the state of deep concentration just making him look constipated.

“Oi.” You cup his face, thumb brushing against his cheek softly to get him to break out of his spell. Your lips curve into a half smile when you feel him relax against your palm. “I’m not mad, you know. Confused as to why you didn’t bother with headphones, but not mad. What’s going on?”

“Am I still sexy to you?” His tone is sincere, asking as though the question had been weighing on him for a while.

“You were up until you were making that face two minutes ago,” you tease, but Kuroo doesn’t offer a smile back.

“I’m being serious.”

You giggle, rounding over to the front end of the couch where you can face him. You clamber around his large frame, thighs bracketing his hips as you tilt his chin up to look at you. “Yes, Kuroo Tetsurou, you are still sexy to me.” You lean down to kiss his neck, relishing in the way his pulse jumps with the brush of your lips. But his mind still wanders, hands moving to hold your hips still.

“Even though I don’t paddle you?”

You pull back, turning back to the computer screen where Kuroo’s gaze is drawn. The video is paused at a moment where the actress’s face is contorted in a way where you question if she’s truly experiencing pleasure.

“Wait, is that what this is about?”

“I guess? I don’t know, are you sick of us? Sick of how boring it can get?”

“Do you think our sex life is boring?”

“No! No, I just, don’t want this to be our peak, and everyone talks about how marriage kills sex, and then we end up with a scheduled weekly sex day that turns into a once a month sex day and then —”

You squish his cheeks, popping his soft lips into an O to get him to quiet down.

“What did we say about thinking too hard?”

“That it’s bad for the two brain cells I have left.”

“That’s correct. And, Testu, I like us. Who knows, maybe a scheduled sex day isn’t such a bad idea.”

“Oh god,” he groans, throwing a hand over his forehead dramatically. “I’m a boring old man. I’ve killed us. Next thing you know we will only be fucking in our bed.” He perks back up, golden eyes boring into you. “We already do that now, don’t we?”

“Uh? I’m pretty sure we got up to something on the couch after we watched the Bachelor last week.”

“Oh my god we have a scheduled couch fuck day. This is the end.”

“Tetsuro, I really don’t understand what this is all about. I mean it's not like it's just missionary with us. And you’ve spanked me before, you were the one that got all freaked out about it.”

“It was swollen for three days, sue me for being concerned about cellulitis.”

“The point is — I don’t see any issues with how we fuck. What started all of this?”

“Well,” he sighs, running his fingers through his black locks. “The guys were talking about planning my bachelor party, and then when the subject of strippers came up, it just kind of devolved into sexcapade sharing. And babe, they get into some shit. Talking swings and everything. And then they started asking about the stuff we get up to and well, the only thing that I could offer was the time I spanked you.”

“And I’m assuming you left out the cellulitis bit.”

“Naturally. And then of course they started ribbing, calling me vanilla and all, but then someone talked about boring you enough to leave me at the altar —”

“Tetsuro, you know that would never happen.”

“I know! But it just got me thinking about me not being enough, and I don’t want us to be stagnant.”

“So, just to be clear, in your version of things, you’re worried that one day I’m going to magically decide to up and leave you, the man I’ve been with since freshman year of college, the only man I’ve been with, because you never hit my ass with a wooden panel or put me on a sex swing?”

“Well when you put it like that I sound ridiculous.”

“Because you do!” You laugh, smacking him lightly on the chest. You lean forward to snuggle into him, but he’s still tense, muscles taut underneath his white button down.

“But,” you say, fingers dancing up the plane of his pecs. “If you really think that this is the only way to stay sexy for me, I guess, it's worth a shot.”

You sit on your knees atop the gray comforter, staring at the bathroom door where Kuroo was getting ready. It’s the first time you’ve been so exposed in this room without him, the cool air perking your nipples as you wait for him. You’ve been over the scene in its entirety about three times now, and Kuroo’s asked you if you remember the safe word about 17 times in between that, delaying him from finally starting this whole show.

Kuroo steps out in a crisp white button down that has the top button undone, the gold chain you bought him for your anniversary sitting between his exposed collarbones. You crack a smile when you see he’s in the pinstripe pants you had fixed for him a week ago – the tear at the calf from playing volleyball in them disappeared with your handiwork.

“Is there something amusing to you?” he asks, his voice rumbling more than usual. He’s deepening it more, your bottom lip quivering in an effort to maintain your composure.

“No, Tet–”

“Is that how you address me?”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Wait.” The forced voice stops, confusion taking its place. “I thought we agreed on Master.”

“Tetsu, I mean this so respectfully, but I will walk out of this apartment and flash our neighbors before I call you master. I thought we said sir.”

“Well, now that you said it out loud, Sir just makes me feel like I’m at work.”

“Do you want me to call you Daddy instead?”

Kuroo pauses, head cocked to the side as he ponders his next move. “I don’t think I’m ready to make Freud proud today.”

“So sir?”

“Yeah let’s stick with that. Restart?”

“Yes, but please don't do that weird rewind thing you do. Just keep going.”

“But it’s fun to sound like a VCR.”

“Tetsuro.”

He throws his hands up in the air in defeat, but soon slips back into the role, trademark smirk plastered on his face. The usual fire in his eyes isn’t there, golden irises hardened as he focuses on you on the bed. It sends a chill down your spine, causing you to involuntarily straighten your posture as he towers over you from the edge of the bed.

“Did I keep you waiting?” Kuroo muses. The rumble is less forced this time, the silky tone of his voice living up to the power dynamic he’s set up. His hand reaches over to cup your chin, thumb pressing into your lower lip as he tilts your head. As corny as this had all started out, you have to admit to yourself he’s sexy like this – heat pooling in your belly as you look up at him.

“N-no sir.”

“That’s too bad. The anticipation of it all was a big part in what I had planned for you tonight. Should I leave you again? Have you sit here with your pretty tits out so you grow more desperate for me?”

“No!” It comes out more rushed than you expect it to. “No, please sir, I’ve missed you. I can’t wait any longer.”

“Oh, is that true, princess?” Kuroo places his hands under your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed. The tug throws you off your balance, back hitting the bed as he puts his thigh between the apex of your spread legs. Your eyelashes flutter open to find Kuroo towering above you, hands placed by your head to give him the leverage to rock himself into you. You gasp when you feel the fabric hit your folds, the friction a welcome change for all he’s put you through.

“Don’t be shy. Go ahead and show me.”

You take that as your cue to start gyrating your hips, doing your best in the awkward position. Kuroo moves his hand to rest on your neck as he watches you buck on his thigh, smiling when he sees the growing dark spot on the fabric. He shifts his gaze to your face, watching your eyes widen as he gives an experimental squeeze to your carotids, forcing another moan to tumble past your lips. Kuroo leans closer to you, his breath heavy on the shell of your ear. The pressure is starting to make you dizzy, and you buck your hips faster in response. You still can’t believe this whole scenario is making you act like this, finding yourself begging him internally to do something, anything.

“Is this, is this good enough for you, sir?”

“No,” Kuroo whispers.

His response makes you feel like someone’s dropped an anvil on your chest.

“You’re still too weak.”

“Weak?” you croak out.

“You just don’t have enough hate, Sasuke.” Just like that, the whole charade drops with him, Kuroo collapsing on you to bury his face in the mattress.

Your hips still, silence engulfing the room as you process his words. He lifts his head up meekly when he hears you make a loud snort, rolling himself to lay down beside you as it evolves into a full body laugh.

“Alright, alright let it out.” The words may sound defeated but he isn’t, Kuroo cracking a smile at your laughing fit.

“Tetsu,” you manage to wheeze out, “Tetsu, what the fuck.”

“I honestly don’t know. I think I just —”

“Just what?” You turn your head to find that Kuroo’s gaze had dropped to your chest, the sight of your perked tits rendering him speechless.

“Yeah, you gotta put those things away before I can give you an answer.” He sits up, swiftly unbuttoning his shirt and handing it to you. Kuroo climbs further up the mattress, watching fondly as you cover yourself in the white fabric.

“You’ve been seeing these since you were eighteen, Tetsu,” you tease, moving up the mattress to join him.

“And they will take my breath away every damn time.”

“Dork.” You stick your tongue out at him, prompting him to tug on your arm to bring you into his chest.

“But your dork.”

“You’re right.” You meet his eyes, brushing the sweaty strands of hair off his forehead. “You’re my dorky dom.”

“God, you’re never going to let me live this down, huh?”

“Not a chance in hell. You know, you were doing pretty well till the Naruto of it all.”

“Damn it.”

“I got to ask, Tetsu, who got you this worked up?”

“Makki and Terushima.”

The sound you make in response is akin to a vacuum starting up, Kuroo thoroughly startled by your rapid intake of air. You’re doubling over in laughter, falling back on to the mattress from his confession.

“Testu, Testu please you have to stop, you're going to make me break a rib today.” You wipe the tears from the corners of your eyes to look back at his bewildered expression, your fiancé’s naivety sending you into another small fit of giggles.

“What’s so funny?”

“You actually believe that Makki and Terushima are doing all this crazy shit?”

“Why wouldn’t they be?”

You prop yourself up on your elbows to rise closer to his face, eyes level with his as you explain in a monotone. “Hanamaki. The man who cried when he got a thumb in the ass. Terushima. Who ended up sitting out of a threesome and just ended up watching the whole time because he ‘didn’t know when to jump in’. These men are your sex gods?”

“Well —,” Kuroo’s protest dies on his tongue, processing the information you just gave him. “Wait, is that true? How do you know that?”

“Because, dummy!” You pause to flick his nose. “Girls talk. About everything.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

“So you're telling me that your friends know that my di—”

“Yes.”

“Damn, I didn’t even finish.”

“You didn’t have to. Female friendship is a sacred bond maintained by dick measurements as the annual tax.”

He lets out a little huff, the grin on his face betraying the show of faux annoyance. “So when are they going to learn about how Sasuke third wheeled?”

“Mmmmm, maybe next Friday over drinks.”

“Oh yeah? ” He’s leaning closer to you, your back hitting the mattress as you look back up at him. He’s giving you that lazy cheshire smile again, but it's his true smile, not one playing up a persona. It’s the first time you’ve seen him so at ease, free of the stresses of work, wedding planning, and these lofty sexcapades — and he's beaming. It reminds you how easy it is to love him, how it's just second nature to coax your lips to mirror his when you see him like this.

Your legs spread further to accommodate his body, tangling your fingers into his hair to bring him a breath away. “Maybe you can give me a better story to tell them instead.” With that your lips slot against his, finding home against his body as the warmth of his skin seeps into your bones. You feel the bulge his pants press into you, sighing between kisses as he slowly starts to rock into the apex of your thighs. It makes you want more, your free hand beginning to travel down the hard planes of his chest, pausing to fiddle with the belt buckle.

“Someone’s eager,” Kuroo chuckles, large hand wrapping around yours as you loosen his belt. He pushes his pants and underwear down in a swift motion, cock slapping taut against his abs. He settles it between your folds, tilting his hips so he can run it through to coat his shaft in your slick.

“That's because someone kept me waiting,” you say, but the annoyance dissipates as the sparks in your belly grow stronger. You reach forward to try to grab his shoulders, but he gathers your wrists in a fell swoop, pinning them above your head with one hand.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, sweetheart,” he croons, head of his cock resting against your entrance. “I'm here now.” And with that he presses in, drawing out a moan from you as he sinks himself in. As he leans over your body, he drives your hips up as he moves in, the angle making it seem he’s driving deeper than he ever has before, feeling so full by the time he’s finally flush with your hips. And then he’s driving back into you again, long languid strokes that have you stammering his name. Kuroo’s other hand leaves its resting place on your lower belly, trailing up past your sternum to settle his palm between your collar bones. Yet he hesitates — gazing into your eyes for permission to rest his fingers. You trade broken syllables for a rushed please, eager to feel him knock the air out of your lungs, and he swears when your cunt clings to him when he grants you your wish.

Your lips stay parted under the pressure, seeing stars every time your eyelids flutter shut. The lack of oxygen makes every rub against your walls heightened, feel the throb of his cock like its your own heartbeat — and it's no wonder you’re shattering in his hold soon after that. Kuroo returns your breath to you soon after, lifting his hand as hips stutter, spilling inside you with a broken groan of your name. The grip on your wrists is also lost as Kuroo comes down from his high, settling to move to clutch your face as pulls out of you. The giggle you let out when you feel his hair tickle you is slightly hoarse — causing him to break away so you can clear your throat.

“Well,” you begin, voice blissed out. “That was new.”

“It was,” Kuroo hums, “How do you feel?” He’s tilting your chin now, intently studying your face to see if your words will betray expression.

“I feel great, stupid. It’s almost as though taking small steps to trying new things makes it fun.”

“Oh, save it. I’ve bought your silence.” He rises off the bed, walking into the bathroom to grab you a towel.

“Sure you have!” Your response earns you a towel in the face, Kuroo’s face appearing a hair away when you pull it off you. He grins as he takes it from you, softly massaging your thighs as he cleans you up.

“I’m getting pizza to help sweeten that deal,” Kuroo announces, standing up from between your legs once he’s finished. He balls up the towel and does a little hop on his feet as he tries to swish it into the laundry hamper. He pumps his fist in the air when it makes it in, the confidence putting a spring in his step as he heads over the door, yelping when he sees your cat waiting patiently on the other side.

“Bubba what the FUCK!” He screams, rushing into the bathroom to cover himself.

It’s truly incredible, how in a matter of minutes Kuroo’s managed to break up the sex charged atmosphere of the room. The first time he walked out of the bathroom he was a page out of a magazine, and now he’s padding across the hardwood floor in nothing but R2D2 boxers, lecturing Bubba about indecency as he looks for the carryout menus you’ve saved in the kitchen. And once again it reminds you of how ridiculous he truly is, for even ever thinking that your love for him would run out or that you would think everything is mundane. Because life with Kuroo is many things, but boring is the furthest thing from it.

thx for reading! plz don’t recc this on tiktok.

join my taglist here!

#kuroo x reader #kuroo x you #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo tetsuro x you #kuroo smut #kuroo tetsuro smut #haikyu x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu smut #betterthanfictioncollab

1K notes · View notes

footprintsinthesxnd · 16 days

Text

Chapter 10: The Soliloquy

Gale Cleven x Hope Armstrong (ofc)

Series Masterlist

This story is based on on the fictional portrayal of these men from the MOTA to series.

Summary: After finding themselves in German territory the girls find themselves under interrogation and have a less than pleasant stay at Dulag Luft. Meanwhile Gale has to face his feelings of losing the woman he loves.

Collab: A Pair of Silver Wings by @major-mads

October 22nd: Dulag Luft: Frankfurt, Germany

Lying on the cold, stone floor was a far cry from the bed she was used to back at The Grove, or Thorpe Abbotts for that matter, yet it was still better than the rough cot in the corner. The fabric seemed to move on its own accord, and she could only imagine the infestation that had taken over between the sheets. The mattress was barely a few inches thick and the material was horrible rough.

Heavy footfall sounded outside the cell door before it swung open, grating against the floor with a harrowing screech. The two Luftwaffe officers stood before her, standing over her small form.

"Steh schnell auf!" The first officer called, marching over to her, "Up, now!"

The second officer appeared beside him, yanking Hope upwards despite her protests. She dug her feet into the cobbled floor, pushing her full body weight against the officers, but they didn't resist, continuing to drag her down the corridor.

Hope found tears forming in her eyes as she fought against the men that likely decide her fate. Were they going to kill her or worse would they torture her first? Death would be the easy way out at this point, in fact she would welcome death if it meant finding peace again.

The officers marched her into a small, office-like room and shoved her down into a rickety leather chair in front of a large mahogany desk. It was stacked high with folders, classified documents, and piles of letters. Her dark eyes roamed over the desk catching a glimpse of a familiar faces. Ruth. The picture was small and only half exposed but she'd recognise those blonde curls anywhere. Hope wondered if Ruth had been in this room recently. Whoever owned the office had clearly been looking over her file. She wondered if Frank's and her own file were in that mound too. What information would they have on her?

"Warren Sie heir," one of the officers instructed, slamming the door loudly behind them.

Hope knew very little German but regardless of what they had said she wasn't moving from the spot. Her heart was racing and she felt nauseous, the bile building in her throat. Her eyes remained trained of the half exposed image of Ruth in front of her. Somehow it bought her some comfort that her friend was okay. But the niggling question of , where was Ruth, and was she okay filled her mind? Her mind was full of unanswered questions and she wondered if she'd ever see her friend again. It felt like it had been a lifetime since she had seen the last glimpse of Ruth's face as she'd disappeared into her cell. Hope wasn't sure how much time actually had passed but she was sure it felt longer than it was. Her mind drifted to Frank too and she found herself reaching forward, a shaking hand brushing over the files on the desk to expose them. What would become of Ruth and Frank?

She turned to the sound of the door clicking open and saw another officer enter, his hair smeared down to his head and he wore a friendly smile, too friendly, the kind that made Hope feel uneasy.

"Ah, Lieutenant Armstrong, how nice to meet you. Are you well?" He grinned cheerfully at her, his bright white teeth seemingly dazzling in the dimly lit office and it made Hope feel uneasy. She shuffled her feet beneath her chair and continued to stare blankly at him.

From her very basic interrogation training upon joining the 806th MAETS, she knew everything was a tactic, a ploy to get her to talk. The best thing she could do, for everyone's sake, was to stay silent. There was nothing useful she could tell them anyway, she was a nurse after all and surely they would find the British pilots far more interesting than she was.

"I see you are not much of a talker, Lieutenant," the officer mused, sitting down opposite her, his hands clasped in front of him. "I am Lieutenant Haussmann."

Haussman's eyes bore into her but Hope continued to leave her eyes on the desk in front of her, not giving him the satisfaction that he could somehow get under her skin, despite the fact that his presence made her flesh crawl. Just the way each breath he took seemed to grate of her and each exhale caused his nostrils to whistle. She probably wouldn't have noticed if the room hadn't been so quiet, but there wasn't even the sounds of birds, of vehicles rumbling by, or even people talking. In this office Hope felt as though she was far away from the rest of the camp.

"Shall we begin then? I'm sure you want this over as quickly as possible," he began to shuffle the papers around on his desk until he found the folder he wanted, thumbing through the pages.

"Ah yes, here is your file. Hope Armstrong, that is not an American surname, it has Scottish origin, yes?" Haussmann raised an eyebrow expectantly at her.

"Lieutenant Hope Frances Armstrong, serial number N-770062." Hope bit her tongue, resisting the urge to spit the words at Hausssman.

Haussmann merely sighed, "Alright then. Why don't you tell me of your friend, Ruth Morgan?" Hope's stern exterior faltered slightly, the thought of them holding Ruth prisoner somewhere in some dank, dark cell like her own made Hope shudder. She only hoped that they found a Kraut doctor to assess Ruth's injured arm, the makeshift sling she had made after the jump was doing very little now to support the injured limb. She hoped Frank had been seen to as well, although she feared he would probably resist any kind of help from a Kraut.

"I believe she is an avid baseball fan. The Boston Braves. Are you a baseball fan, Lieutenant Armstrong?"

How did he know so much? How could he possibly know so much about them?

She knew Ruth wouldn't have uttered a word to him, even if she was scared out of her mind, and Frank would have rather died than told the Germans anything.

"Or what about Frank Martin? He is a baseball fan too? You Yanks and your baseball," Haussmann laughed. It was the kind of laugh that haunted Hope, it was particularly menacing but it chilled her to the core. She swallowed hard, watching as Haussman's lips turned upwards into a smile.

"He did not want to go quietly, your Frank Martin. I'm afraid, put up a fight. The guards sorted him though," Haussmann spoke plainly, flipping through Hope's folder. He stopped on a particular page, chewing his lip thoughtful as though he was going to ask a tough question. Hope felt as though she was in some sort of job interview and the real questions were about to start.

"What about Gale Cleven?" His words hung in the air, frozen in the moment as everything around her seemed to stop. Her Gale. Her beloved Gale who she may never see again.

Haussmann knew he'd struck a nerve with Gale, watching as Hope's face contorted at the thought of him. He picked up a loose photo from the file, turning it towards Hope. It was the photograph taken by the photographer from the night of Dye's party. It was Gale, dancing with her. They hadn't realised the photo was being taken at the time and Gale had been leaning down to kiss her, their lips inches apart when the camera captured the shot.

"Is he the one who gave you this?" Haussmann pulled out Hope's engagement ring that they had confiscated from her on arrival.

"Give that back!" She snapped, lurching from her chair and tried to grab the ring but Haussmann raised his hand in warning.

"He is your fiance , yes? He signs this letter 'Your Gale'. How sweet is it not?" Haussmann's lips formed a malicious smile, his words venomous as he spoke of Gale. "Do not worry, I have no use for your ring. Although I fear you will be missing your wedding very soon."

He tossed it carelessly back at Hope and she quickly slid it onto her finger. "No, I want to know about this Gale Cleven. He is a pilot, with the 100th Bomb Group at Thorpe Abbotts, yes?"

Hope's face must have had confusion written all over it because he picked up Gale's letter, turning the envelope to Hope, "I do love return addresses, don't you?"

Hope continued to stare blankly at him as she had done before. She couldn't let him get under her skin, couldn't let herself give anything away. Her mind seemed to turn over and over and her internal soliloquy of thoughts continued. It felt as though she was speaking out loud and maybe she, maybe that's how he knew so much.

Haussmann continued to press, asking about Gale, about Frank and Ruth, about Thorpe Abbotts and what base they had come from. Hope remained firm, resisting the urge to punch the officer and make a run for it. Her finger dug title into the leather chair, digging the fabric up beneath her short nails.

"I see," Haussmann finally gave up, he wasn't getting anywhere and he knew it. "Well, you have been...somewhat helpful I suppose. Thank you Lieutenant Armstrong, you will go back to your cell now."

The two officers from earlier appeared in the doorway, eyeing Hope with the same matching smiles that Haussmann wore. Those same smiles that would haunt Hope during the long hours spent in solitary confinement with nothing but her thoughts for company.

They yanked her from the chair, ignoring the way she dug her heels in and fought against their advances and hauled her out of the door.

"I look forward to our next meeting, Hope," Haussmann called after her as she was dragged away, her blood boiling at his words.

"I hope I never see you again," she mumbled under her breath, cursing the ground Haussmann walked on.

Upon returning to her cell, the large metal door slammed shut behind her and she was once again left alone in the dimly lit room. She sighed, falling down the stone floor once more, avoiding the rudimentary cot in the corner of the room.

Hope's back remained against the wall, glaring at the riveted, metal door, her eyes training on the small amount of light that came through the crack at the bottom.

The darkness seemed to close around her, making the small glimmer of light shine brighter. The air was cold, clammy against her skin and claustrophobic at the same time. Hope curled up on her side, her eyes remaining on the light, the small glimmer of hope that there was a way out of here.

..............................................................................……….

Hope groaned, rolling over on the cold, hard floor, her hand sluggishly feeling for the cup of water the guard had left on the tray that had been delivered with her daily bowl of soup.

Her throat was sore, raw from the hours she'd spent crying in the corner of her cell, clutching her knees as she rocked herself. The small amount of water did little to soothe it, but she drank it anyway, ignoring the potato soup that sat stagnant in the metal bowl.

She'd eaten it at first, glad of the sustenance but as the days crawled by the food became less appetising, and she began to doubt the RAF pilots from the mess hall.

"You shouldn't be at Dulag Luft too long."

Hope had lost count of how long she'd been stuck here. After her first interrogation, she'd been filled with a fighting spirit. With the return of her engagement ring, there was a return of hope that maybe she would see Gale again after all. Haussman had other ideas and after he called her back into the interrogation room again, asking her the same question, she began to wonder if they'd ever be moved out of their cold, damp cells.

Each time she fought more, resisting the questions, the guards, the regime, to the point that she'd ended up with a black eye and her abdomen felt like she'd been run over by a Dodge ambulance.

Haussman stopped his interrogation after the fifth day and Hope had been left in her own company, other than the guards bringing food and the latrine trip. She wasn't sure what had drawn Haussman to her, or whether he was interrogating all the prisoners like that, but she was glad when she didn't have to see his unsettling grin that only filled Hope with dread.

"You intrigue me, Miss Armstrong. I do not know why but you are different from other American women I have met."

Hope but back the urge to spit back a sarcastic comment but she managed. She didn't want to give him anything he could use against her, or her friends.

"But you will not talk," he sighed, clearly exasperated as he stood from his chair, moving around to Hope's side of the desk. "If you would just talk to me, Miss Armstrong I'm sure we could come to some kind of agreement."

His hand trailed up Hope's arm, causing her to flinch. She could feel his warm breath on the back of her neck as he leant forward, whispering in her ear. "You can talk to me, Miss Armstrong. I am your friend."

Hope leapt from the chair, sending it flying backwards and crashing into a filing cabinet.

"I won't tell you anything!" She screamed, throwing herself at Haussman as her fist nearly missed his thin cheek. The guards came rushing in, hearing the commotion and coming to Haussman's aid.

She was thrown to the floor, the but of a rifle slammed into her abdomen. She fell to the floor, wheezing as the air slipped from her lungs. Two arms, wrapped under hers, dragging her from the room. She fought against them, scraping her short nails against their clothed arms, doing very little damage.

She was thrown back into her cell, her heart pounding. She wasn't entirely sure what came over her. How could she be so stupid as to fight back? It was then that she noticed the blood trickling down from her left eyebrow and she noticed the blurred vision in her left eye. Feeling along her cheek bone, she winced at the sudden discomfort. Despite her discomfort she hoped that would be the last time she saw Haussman.

Although being alone with her thoughts wasn't a better option. Sometimes the memories of happier times soothed Hope and she could cling to those memories. Hugh often filled her thoughts, his bright smiling face filling the dark corners of her cell, promising that everything would be okay. Other memories were with Frank and Ruth, their visits to the local pub by the airfield, evenings spent chatting with Ruth, and Frank acting like an older brother.

She wondered if they were even still alive, trapped just like she was. Would she ever see them again?

And then there was Gale...

Memories of Gale should have brought more comfort than most, they had been the happiest days of her life, and yet they always ended with Hope crying herself to exhaustion. Her heart ached in her chest, as though the memories were slowly killing her from the inside.

She stretched out across the floor, her right leg knocking against the rudimentary bed against the back wall. She refused to lay on it, despite the floor causing her bones to stiffen and her muscles to ache. The straw mattress was lumpy, uncomfortable and alive with more insects than Hope cared to think about.

She ran her short nails over the scratches on the concrete floor. She'd ripped her nails off days before, scraping against the door to her cell, clawing away until her fingers bled. The guards had gotten used to her cries, choosing to ignore her until she gradually fell silent. She'd always considered herself a strong person who could withstand tough times but solitary confinement was gradually breaking her down, slowly wearing away at her soul. She felt hopeless. She was going to die here.

She rolled over, facing towards the door where a small crack of light filtered through, casting a light glow over her face. She hadn't seen sunlight in days and the only recognition of the changing hours was the noise around the camp. Hope began to wonder if it was the light from God as if he was calling to her and eventually, she would fade into his heavenly light.

That day didn't come.

A loud commotion in the hallway brought Hope back to her senses, as though she'd been in a daze for the past ten days and finally, she was awake again. The door swung back on its hinges with a loud groan, scraping against the rough floor.

Hope sprung to her feet, clutching her sore abdomen as a guard appeared in the doorway. She raised her hand, squinting at the sudden bright light streaming into the room. Hope had forgotten how dark her cell was.

"Out!"

She shuffled forward, following the guard sheepishly. She recognised him as the one who'd given her the black eye and she knew better than to test his patience again.

Her dark eyes drifted up to meet those of a few other prisoners all being led down the hall. She followed them out of the building, her heart racing as she tried to catch a glimpse of Frank or Ruth. There were several men dressed in Air Force blue RAF uniforms but she didn't recognise any of them.

Her legs felt heavy as they carried her across the muddy, overgrown courtyard. The ground reminded her of pictures she'd seen in a book of the trenches of The Great War. Her right foot slipped in a puddle and she felt her knee buckling beneath her. A strong pair of arms gripped her hips, steadying her against their chest.

She turned, pushing herself away until her eyes found the familiar, kind ones of the man she knew so well.

"Frank?" She whispered, her hand reaching up to cup his cheek, feeling the rough stubble of his cheek grazing her hand. He was here. He was alive.

"Oh, Frank."

Frank didn't utter a word, instead, he pulled Hope flush against his chest, pressing her head beneath his chin as he held her.

Hope hadn't realised that she still had more tears to cry until they began to fall. Her shoulders were wracked with a sob as she clung onto Franks's A-2 jacket, her sore fingers clutching the fabric for dear life. She couldn't believe he was here, he was here.

Frank pushed her away, his hand immediately coming up to run over the bruise that ran beneath Hope's left eye.

"God, Hope! What happened? Who did this?" His face creased with anger, his eyebrows creasing into a hard line. "Did they...they didn't?" His lip quivered as he spoke and Hope knew what he was asking.

Hope shook her head, grasping Frank's hand in hers, "It's okay, they didn't," she gulped back another sob that threatened to spill. "I'm just glad you're alive."

Before Frank could speak again a guard appeared beside them, his hard face glaring at them before he ordered them to move forward.

Hope and Frank joined the line of prisoners that disappeared into a small dilapidated building that Hope hadn't noticed upon their arrival at the camp. The prisoners, all men, seemed to filter through the building, appearing on the other side clean-shaven and looking far less scruffy than before.

Hope froze in the line, realising the guards were expecting them to shower. The thought of having to strip down in front of so many men was more than Hope could bear.

"I can't go in there, Frank, it's the showers...I can't...you can, but..."

Frank cut her off, squeezing her hand tightly, "If you think I'm letting you out of my sight again, Hope, then I'm afraid you're mistaken."

He wrapped his arm protectively around her shoulder, guiding her out of the line and to the other side of the hut. The guards watched but didn't seem to care whether the prisoners were clean or not. Hope wished she could have showered, to wash away the dirt and sweat from the past ten days, but she couldn't.

They moved to join the larger group of prisoners surrounded by guards with dogs, all barking and causing the prisoners to shuffle tighter together. Hope realised then that they were waiting for the train and within a few minutes it chugged into view, blasting smoke into the already damp, grey sky. Its wheels screeched painfully as the locomotive came to a halt in front of the group.

The dogs seemed to sense the change in the situation and began to bark louder, tugging on the ends of their leather leads and jolting their handlers. The shrill shouts from the guards signalled the group to move forward as they were shoved towards the awaiting compartments.

"Move! Go!"

Hope's hand never left Frank's as she felt the crowd of bodies moving as one, all pushing forward with the same common purpose.

A young RAF pilot reached his hand down, helping to pull Hope up into the carriage. She sent him a grateful smile, pleased she didn't have to struggle to pull herself up despite the pain in her abdomen. She in turn helped pull Frank up, abundantly aware that his ribs were still incredibly painful despite him not complaining.

Hope winced as the strong smell of urine and vomit filled her nose once more. Her stomach churned and the nausea bolted in her throat. She wasn't sure whether that was due to her lack of food or the stench from within the carriage but she swallowed back the bile.

Frank led her to the back of the carriage, never once letting go of her hand as they wound their way through the other pows.

Hope glanced at the faces of a few they passed, so many young faces, both English and American alike. She had never seen so many faces so gaunt and lifeless that she felt the small amount of hope that had bubbled when she found Frank diminish.

"Hope, look!" Frank stopped, causing Hope to crash into his back. He raised a shaking hand towards a small figure bundled at the corner of the carriage. The mass of blonde hair was faded and no longer in neat curls but Hope would recognise her anywhere.

"Ruth!"

"Hope! Frank!" Ruth called out, her voice trembling as tears of relief welled in her eyes. She pushed herself up from the corner and hurried over to meet them halfway. When they reached her, Hope enveloped Ruth in a tight embrace, holding her close as if she was afraid to let go.

"Oh, Rue, l've been so worried. I'm sorry," Hope cried. "I'm so sorry. I was supposed to watch out for you, and-"

Pulling back from the hug, Ruth's brows furrowed as tears glistened in her eyes. "Stop. You've got nothing to apologise for. You didn't know they'd separate us."

Frank then pulled her into a tight embrace, careful of both her arm and his still-healing ribs. "You alright?"

"Yeah, just hungry and grimy. But I'm just glad to see you both."

Hope wiped a tear that leaked from her eye and nodded. "Me too."

When even more men climbed aboard, they were pushed back into Ruth's corner and sat down, watching the entrance warily as the rail car became increasingly crowded.

How many prisoners were they going to shove in there?

Before long, there was barely any room to move, and the trio were thankful they sat before the door was slammed shut, plunging them into darkness except for the light shining through the cracks in the wooden slats. Most of the men were forced to stand. The train moved forward with a shrill screech and rumbled on toward its destination. Ruth sat between Hope and Frank, her good hand held tightly by her best friend.

"Were you interrogated?" Frank asked, turning to the girls with a creased brow.

Ruth swallowed thickly, thinking back on her visit with Lieutenant Haussman. "He...uh, tried to get me to talk about John," she said quietly, staring out at the dozens of legs before her. "But I didn't. He did send me to the infirmary, though."

"Really?"

She nodded. "A nurse splinted my arm. It still hurts, but I'm managing. What about y'all?"

Hope didn't meet Ruth's eyes. She was didn't want to talk about her time in the cell, the things she'd thought, the things she'd done.

Frank noticed the uncomfortable look on Hope's face and spoke up. "Well, my ribs are still pretty banged up but Hope's expert bandaging skills are holding me together."

The three chuckled and Hope shot Frank a grateful smile. Even though they sat in pure filth, had no idea where they were being taken, and were struggling with the mental strain of their ordeal, they were together...And that gave them more hope than anything.

...............................................................................………

September 24th, Thorpe Abbott AAF base 09:00

Gale sat, hunched over a steaming mug of coffee in the mess hall, allowing the aroma to waft under his nose. Hopefully it would be enough to keep him awake. His eyelids dropped heavily as he fought against the sleep that tried to envelope him. He hadn't slept properly for over a week, not since the news of the girls plane going down, but yesterday after the letter had arrived he'd spent the whole night sat up in 'Our Baby', rereading the last words that Hope had written. He'd barely seen John, who had also received a letter from Ruth, and Hugh had his own letter from Hope to deal with.

The safety of the cockpit had been inviting and he'd crawled in, shaky hands finding their way to his seat as he calloused. The sob wracking his body shook his whole body, his hands crushing around Hope's letter.

How could this have happened?

His calloused fingers ran over her words.

To my darling Gale,

His chest squeezed, compressing his lungs as he gasped for air, choking on the sob that wracked his body once more.

He could feel her next to him, as if her ghost was always nearby. He could smell the scented soap she used, hear her quiet inhales, feel her hand in his...

While John became closed off and angry after the girls went down, he tried to remain strong for his friend, and for Hugh, but when he was alone...

The picture of Hope was pinned to the plane's control panel. Her dark eyes seemed to shine despite the picture only being black and white. He smiled through the tears at her, enjoying the way she looked snuggled in his arms.

If only he could go back to that moment...or any of the moments with Hope really. The dance, the picnic by the river, his proposal, their first night together, Dye's party. Any of the precious moments spent with Hope would live in Gale's heart forever. That evening he had made a promise to himself, and Hope, to continue the fight.

"Major Cleven? Major Cleven, Sir?"

Gale jumped, his bright eyes shooting up to meet the sympathetic eyes of Helen.

"Major Cleven, I...I have something for you."

Gale sat up straighter, taking a long sip from his black coffee, trying to compose himself before the Red Cross girl could say anything else.

"Here."

She pulled a small piece of white fabric, folded neatly in a square, from her handbag. Gale took the fabric, his fingers running over the familiar white lace and he was instantly transported to that moment just weeks before when Hope had been making. He caught a sneak peak of the dress as she was bent over the sewing machine. The others had all finished up for the afternoon but she'd been so desperate to finish it.

He held her close as she finished the last few stitches, impatiently kissing along her neck and distracting her. She'd scolded him at the time, but he was glad for it now. He would remember every single kiss he could, for as long as he could.

"The rest of the dress I've folded up and given to Hugh to put in your footlocker, but I thought you'd like a piece of it with you."

Gale nodded slowly, thanking Helen who retreated slowly, leaving Gale with his own thoughts once more.

He tried to keep the tears at bay, pushing his chair back and hurrying out of the mess hall. The worried eyes of his fellow crew members following his retreating figure.

Harry sighed, reaching out for Hugh's shoulder and giving it a quick squeeze. Hugh gave him a small, grateful smile. Between Gale and John, he was just trying to keep morale up. It wasn't until he'd received a letter from his grieving parents that everything came crashing down. It had been Harry and Rosie who picked up the pieces, taking it in turns to comfort their friend as his whole world fell apart.

He wanted to be that friend to Gale, he just wasn't sure how.

...............................................................................……

Tags: @georgieluz @docroesmorphine @major-mads @violetdaze25 @bcofl0ve @precious-little-scoundrel @blurredcolour @artlover8992 @b00ks1ut @xxluckystrike @hockeyboysarehot @groovin2beats @kmc1989 @ginabaker1666 @hesbuckcompton-baby @beebeechaos @forsythiagalt @prettyinlimegreenboots @blueberry-ovaries

#masters of the air #on a wing and a prayer #hbo war #gale cleven #john egan #gale cleven x oc #hope armstrong #mota #MOTA OCs #John Egan x oc #ruth morgan #two bucks #buck cleven #bucky egan

30 notes · View notes