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galacticgraffiti · 6 months

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✿⋅ Oh, to be Alone with You ⋅✿

NSFW ⋆ 18+ ⋆ Minors DNI

Rating: Explicit Wordcount: 2.6k Descriptors: I try my best to write inclusively. Reader uses she/her pronouns and is mentioned in her physicality but not described in detail. If anything escaped me, please let me know! Sorry I couldn't make this more gender neutral, but since this fic is a gift to @naariel I thought I'd use her pronouns. Warnings: dirty daydreams, yearning, lusting after someone, male masturbation, dirty talk, fantasy of PiV sex within the daydream, bath sex, this is written from Halsin's POV

⋆⋅ Inspired by this insane artwork by @naariel ⋅⋆

Author's note: I've been pondering, rotating and marinating this artwork in my mind for WEEKS. It haunts me in the best possible way and I am so happy Naariel gave me permission to reference her art! If you are not already following her, you definitely should - her skill and talent are infinite.

Masterlist ⋆ If you prefer AO3

───── ⋆⋅✿⋅⋆ ─────

Oh, to be Alone with You

Halsin sighs when he finally sits down, long limbs sprawling on the too-small chair that can barely contain him.

Chairs. What superfluous oddities, where a big tree stump might have sufficed. If one has to make them at all, why not at least make them comfortable? Why not sit in the meadows, why not find a place to lay where the sun has warmed a rock that has been washed and polished by the rain? But no, the rules of the city demand he be contained within four walls instead of roaming free, they demand he bathe in a wooden tub instead of out in the wilds, they demand he wear clothes and be polite to people even as they trample the Oak Father’s creations beneath their boots without even stopping to look and enjoy nature’s gifts.

Halsin shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose to stave off the oncoming headache. It has been a long day and he is so tired. A long week. A long few weeks, if he is being honest with himself. In all these centuries, times have been- well- rough, to say the least. But whatever haunts the Sword Coast now… it’s different. Bigger than the invasions of Goblins across the land, bigger than the Shadow druids, bigger even than the Shadow Curse that has occupied Halsin’s every waking hour for nigh on one hundred years.

At least, Thaniel and Oliver have been reunited, some life returning to the lands as it always should have been. A victory, chased for so long, tasting sweet only for a moment before the stale urgency of the matter at hand had seeped back into Halsin’s mind: Mindflayers infecting innocents, magic-infused tadpoles, an Elder Brain… There are too many battles to be fought, and not one of them to be won.

Halsin presses his lips together and tries to banish the dark thoughts from his mind. There are some good things that have come out of this: They have not lost a fight yet, and his newfound companions are… stimulating, to say the least. Fighting alongside them has been a joy and a privilege - watching their blades sear, their magic erupt, their arrows pierce their targets as the bear Halsin rips through flesh and bone. The fighting is necessary, and his companions are more skilled than he could have ever wished for. This day may have been hard, but it was successful nonetheless, and now he is here, freshly bathed and ready to find some rest for the night. If only it could be under the stars, far outside the city walls, he would almost call himself happy. Instead, he must bed down alone, encased by too many walls and a too-small bed frame.

Halsin misses the smell of grass that has not been trampled by hundreds of boot-clad feet, he misses the feeling of bark against his fur, he misses his wildshape and trodding through calm forests instead of bloodied battlefields. He misses air that is crisp and clean and doesn't smell of artificially molten metals. He misses the Grove, he misses Thaniel and he misses the woods. The city has been forsaken by Silvanus, and even if this place is a small oasis of nature, it is not the same as being out among the Oak Father’s creations.

He cracks his neck, his hair tickling his collarbones. Halsin curses quietly to himself, pushing a curl behind his ear. He needs to cut his hair - it’s getting too long. And he needs to braid it again, his plaits are all out of sorts. It might be a hassle to do it without a mirror- but maybe he could ask-

No.

Shaking his head as if to will the thought away, he slumps into the discomfort of the chair a little more.

No, he shouldn't ask her anything. Nothing that would involve her hands on him, at least. Certainly not her fingers buried in his hair, tugging softly, her voice gently commanding that he tilt his head a different way. He can’t ask for that. It would only lead to him asking for more:

More of her hands on him, more of her skin against his, more than innocent touches and whispered goodnights across the campfire. He would ask for everything: To bury himself inside her until the world fades away, to devour her until she is slick with sweat from the pleasure he brings her. To be the keeper of her heart, just as he yearns for her to be the keeper of his.

Halsin can feel the familiar tightness in his back as the golden shimmer of his wildshape travels up to his shoulder blades. One thought of her, and already the bear stirs.

He remembers everything that happened today, even as he tries so hard to think of something else:

He remembers the way she smells, of sweet berries, blood and leather. He remembers her looking up at him, as her fingers clutch her weapon tightly. He remembers the fire in her eyes after the slaughter, the glow in her cheeks when she turned around to look at him and found only the bear. He remembers how she smiled at him, even after all that violence, a smile like the sinking sun, bloodied and red, but more beautiful than he could ever have dreamed up.

And as the day progressed: Her arm bumping into his, her head tilting up when she asked him a question and wanted to read his expression. How her hands slipped around him to reach for some food at the campfire earlier when they rested. Her sweet breath on his face and a mumbled excuse when she walked into him, still drowsy with sleep. And all Halsin wanted to do was pull her into his lap and bury his nose in the crook of her neck and forget about the world, forget about everyone watching, and have her, right then, in that moment. Have her all to himself, make her his very own. To feel her around him, to show her the depth of his affection, the desperation of his desire, the magnitude of his commitment.

All he wanted in that moment - all he still wants - is to touch her, to feel her in ways that he cannot ask for because he is scared she will not want the same thing he does. Halsin wants to lick the sweat off her skin, he wants to be buried between her thighs whenever they can steal away, even for a few minutes, he wants her taste on his tongue when he fights, and to wrap himself around her when they sleep.

The force of his own thoughts makes Halsin shudder, glowing desire stirring deep in his belly.

Her tongue in his mouth, his hands on her skin: How soft she would be against him. How wonderful to hear her voice break when she cries out for him, how she would taste if he could lick her off his fingers, the honey of her thighs, the salt of her sweat. He would give anything to know the expression on her face when she is lost to mindless bliss- he would give everything to know that he is the cause of it.

A low moan escapes his throat then, and Halsin presses his lips together when his mind returns from memory and sweet imagination to this house in the midst of a bustling city. This is not nature, where he can do what pleases him when it pleases him. No, the city - ‘civilisation’ as they call it - comes with rules, expectations, limitations.

He is in someone else’s home, exhausted from the day, the blood barely washed off his skin. And yet, all he can think about is… her. All he can feel is the constriction of his clothing, the confinement of leather where he longs to be touched. He wants to shed like the bear sheds his fur after the winter, he wants to feel free again.

Halsin hums, breathing deeply, willing away the golden sparks of his wildshape that dance along his fingertips. He listens intently, fingers dancing across his thighs, drumming an impatient rhythm.

Nothing in the house stirs. Maybe they are all gone still, running their errands, finding bath houses, visiting old friends and merchants they used to know before they return here for a long night’s rest. Maybe Halsin can have a small pocket of time to himself. Time to dream himself away, to give in to the desire he has harboured for so long.

Maybe… he could use this opportunity to release some of that tension that has settled deep in his belly. Refocus his attention. Maybe it’ll be for the best- not to think of her constantly anymore, not of her smell, or the colour of her eyes, of the way her fingers linger on his for a moment too long whenever they touch, or how much he wished they could have bathed together when he sank into the tub earlier that night.

The city has many downsides, but baths are one of the few things to enjoy. Hot springs are wonderful, but few and far between. Nature provides: The bear does not mind the coldness of a stream in the woods, or the iciness of a mountain lake. But there is nothing like a steaming bath to help prevent the sore ache that settles in his bones after a fight.

If only it was acceptable to ask her if she would join him. If only it had been her hands washing dirt and grime and blood from his skin, brushing his hair, kneading tired muscles, her hands much smaller than his, but strong and determined. Loving.

Halsin lets his head fall back, spine cracking as he settles in the small, uncomfortable chair, spreading his legs to cup his hardening cock. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine it…

She glistens in the dim light, thin streams of water trickling down her skin when she emerges from the bath, her lashes stuck together as she beams at him.

“Mhh, we should have done this ages ago!”

“I could not agree more, my heart.” Halsin loves seeing her like this. She looks happy, like she has not a care in the world.

She crawls up into his lap, settling on him, her thighs bracketing his. Her hands run across his chest, lathering him in soap that smells of lavender and thyme. Halsin’s heart is beating in his throat when she leans in to kiss his collarbone, her lips soft, her hair smelling of smoke and flowers as it always does.

Desire surges inside him, crackling like lightning in his veins, and he sends the bear away, far away. This is a moment he wants for himself: Skin against skin, tongues exploring, hands intertwined. This is no place for fangs and claws, not tonight. Halsin unlaces his trousers with steady fingers, though even those few seconds seem unbearable to him. When his hand finally wraps around his cock, he breathes a sigh of relief, only to feel dissatisfied moments after. He wants her hands, her eyes on him, her voice dripping with lust. For now, his imagination will have to do.

He dreams himself back to the bath, thinking of all he could have had, if he had only had the courage to ask.

Her skin is burning hot against his, her fingers leave a flaming trail wherever she touches him.

“Is this alright, my love?” Her voice is full of concern and affection, as it always is when she asks about his comfort and well-being.

“More than alright.” Halsin’s breaths grow shaky when she moves her hips, shallowly grinding down against him. “Gods, I want to-”

“Mhhm?” There is a curious twinkle in her eye. “What is it you want? Tell me. I’m sure I could make your dreams come true.”

Halsin shifts when the wooden backing of the chair digs into his back as he bucks his hips, fucking into his hand that is wrapped around his cock - a poor substitution for what - for who - he really wants.

A growl rings out in the empty room when he closes his eyes and imagines her again.

Her thighs look so lovely, spread wide so he can fit between them. She smells of the bath salts and of herself, and her voice talks to him through the thick fog of his desire.

“I know what you want, don’t I, bear? I’ll take such good care of you if you let me. I’ll make sure you don’t even have to ask for it. I’ll let you taste me, whenever you want- wherever you want. I’ll help you focus- you can focus on me, can’t you? There you go…”

Halsin is panting, his hand moving faster.

She feels good, so good when she sinks down on him, wet with arousal and so willing to take him.

“You, little flower, are the jewel of nature’s creation,” he mumbles. “You are all I could ever want and more. I want to taste you on my tongue, always- for there to never be a day where I won’t know the way you drip for me- for you to never go a day without being satisfied, without feeling loved and cared for. Your happiness is all I want- your ecstasy all I desire. Let me take care of you.”

She moans, her head falling back as she starts to roll her hips, taking him deeper and deeper with each stroke.

“I’ll take care of you as you do of me,” she whispers. “I’ll make sure to provide for you all you could ever need or want. You give and give, let me give you everything I am in return. Be selfish, bear. Take what you want, swallow me whole, devour me without worrying whether it’s too much. I want you to. Mark me- make me yours. Tell the whole world I belong to you, whichever way you desire.”

Her movements are desperate now, her words only sighs and moans, breathless as she buries her head against his shoulder. Halsin inhales the scent of her hair, sinks into her words as the fog of lust that has settled on his brain grows thicker and heavier, until there is not a thought left on his mind but her.

“Halsin-” Gods, his name sounds so sweet off her tongue. “Halsin, I want you to fill me. Please- please, I want to feel full with you, today and every day you’ll fucking let me. I want to fight knowing you are still dripping down my thighs, I want to kiss you under the stars and know I’ll never be without you again.”

The curses that are falling from his lips are ungodly, but Halsin does not care. He is desperate now, mouth open as he calls her name and thinks of the words he wishes he could hear her say.

“Come for me, bear. Come inside me, lay claim to me as only you ever could- f-fuck- make me yours- please- Halsin, I’m yours, I’m yours and yours and yours, as long as you’ll have me- forever if you want to-”

With a cry of her name on his lips, Halsin gives in to pleasure and lets himself be overtaken by a wave of bliss. His thighs tremble as he spills over his hand, sticky warmth dripping from his fingers. He does not open his eyes. Not yet. He wants to stay in the fantasy just a moment longer.

“Halsin, I-”

His eyes open, blood rushing to his cheeks as he returns to the real world and finds her standing in the doorway.

I'm going fucking feral. Running into the woods hoping to find him there, who's with me -

@purgetrooperfox @ashotofspotchka @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @ulchabhangorm @queen--kenobi @samspenandsword @rescuethewretched @pinkiemme @baba-fett @witchklng @ladykatakuri @certified-anakinfucker @fanfiction-i-llike @voidinfernal @foxferret02 @rosieofcorona @savagemickey03 @perseny @margoisthemoon2 @shiiunn @saucyhedgehog @tonysoffice @pupshr00m @supercalifragilisticprincess @palpipeen @silly-gooseastarion @mila-bee @shit-i-say-throughout-the-day @idkwhatsgoingonwithme @aeryntheofficial @jekasha @gub @nogitsune-the @solarrexplosion @hexqueensupreme @unofficialavenger90 @frankiesghost @curtaincaramba

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#bg3 #halsin #halsin x reader #in some capacity i suppose #baldur's gate #baldurs gate 3 #halsin bg3 #nsft #halsin x f!reader #gala writes

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harmonysanreads · 16 days

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“A little bird told me that today is a certain someone's birthday.”

You feel the distinct prickle of two fangs halt halfway through the curve of your throat, a breath stuttering against the now marred skin. The tassels of Aventurine's earning tickles your nape, before his lips replace its unsought touches, soothing over the bite.

“I don't quite recall this,” he drawls upon your neck, gloved fingers slide up from the plush of your thighs and slant against your waist ; a clear message. “Being the resting place of wanton birds.”

You heart kicks against your ribcage as the implications of his words soak into your brain. Your eyes connect with enigmatic swirls when you swivel with a gasp, “It's just one little bird, Aventurine.”

He hums, a ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of his lips, reaching out and failing to grasp his eyes. You feel his other arm wrap around your abdomen and tugging you closer closer closer— until not even whimsical air can intervene in your moment. For a time insignificant compared to the expanding cosmos, he leers and he waits — for you to stumble and forfeit your fortune to him. You've observed this game unfold many times, which is why, you don't so much as blink in the face of his scrutiny.

Aventurine tilts his head, the golden strands that frame his face shift in stride, “It's ‘one little bird’ for now, my jewel. Soon, it'll fly to-and-fro and invite its companions. One bird will become two birds, then three, four, five — until this flower of mine will be torn to shreds.”

Your skin erupts in pins and needles where the blonde's hand rests, the teases of pain make you lean your head against his chest in reflex, but they don't coax pained breaths to escape your lips. Your eyes gloss over upon capturing the dimming orbs heralding the colors of a bygone lineage. You feel as though you were lost in a dark landscape, with a shadowed fox breathing down your neck, claws already sunk midway — but you don't feel like the struggling rabbit, like a prey.

Your palm cradles Aventurine's face, “That's why we keep guns below our pillows, isn't that correct?”

The phantom finally reaches his eyes, his grin spreads across his face and the sun casts aside the darkness from the forest. Aventurine answers your query by tackling you with a flurry of kisses, you feel him at every corner of your body, grasping at every crevice of your soul — but it's not enough, neither for him nor for you.

When the intensity of his advance wanes momentarily, you sneak your hand past his grip to rest atop his chest, “Tell me your wish,” this time his heart revolts against the confines of bone, yearning to be freed and caged into your palm. “What gift do you want for your birthday?”

Aventurine chuckles, though it sounds quite strained this time. His fingers encircle your wrist and press your hand further on his chest for a moment (his shirt does little to mute the rapid marching of his soul) before he drags it to his face, his lips ghost over your pulse point.

“You don't think me to be that greedy, do you?” the humorous lilt of his voice prompts a smile to bloom on your face, too. He sighs as though he breathes in the gardens of heaven, lips firmly pressed to the beat of your existence.

“How can I ever wish for anything more when I have the whole world in my hands?” his eyes twinkle, hugged by a smile. They remind you of autumn sunsets blending into an awestruck ocean, before disappearing behind nightfall.

And just like them, you embrace and merge into one another, as well.

Happy birthday to the luckiest, prettiest, Aventurine <3

#aventurine #aventurine x reader #aventurine x you #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #yandere aventurine #yandere aventurine x reader #yandere hsr #yandere hsr x reader #yandere honkai star rail #yandere honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #yandere imagines #yandere #hsr #aventurine fluff #hsr fluff #honkai star rail fluff

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jiminrings · 2 months

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fail-safe (3)

pairing: yoongi x reader

wordcount: 14k

glimpse: you hear everything you've ever wanted, but you don't know if it's too late.

alternatively, yoongi is consumingly yours all the time.

[ part one, intermission, part two, intermission 02, finale ]

[ still angst (but u can breathe now bc it’s the finale), brother’s best friend AND single dad au, jealousy, yearning from all angles, did i say angst alr (mom-wise and brother-wise), fluff, redemption ]

notes: this is it for the chronological series of fail-safe :-) from the bottom of my heart thank you so sooooo much for reading n loving!!! sharing fs with the lot of u is an experience (and era) i'll never forget!!!

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!! | series masterlist

Your trip back home isn’t as rough as you expected it to be.

Somehow, there’s a huge difference between coming home alone and coming home with Jungkook. There’s an irreplaceable weight in your chest that still flares even at the mention of Yoongi, the anger you have towards him mixing with the trepidation of holding everything in you, not just him, for another three days. There’s an angry rash around your fingertips just waiting for you to pick on your nails until they’re raw because atleast in that way, you get to forget the way Yoongi’s hand picked up yours in the dark.

There’s an ache in you that not even Yoongi and Hyewon could undo by never having met in the first place. It’s long been there, perhaps even older than Haneul. The ache of unfulfillment in you is bred by everything significant in your life — all from your first argument with your mom because of your lack of direction in life, to your latest heartbreak that keeps manifesting into your first ever.

You're no longer angry recounting the fact that you weren't destined for greatness. Namjoon turned out beyond great, world-renowned even, despite living in the same home that you did. Maybe it's not your environment or your lack of a passion that hindered you — maybe, it's just you alone.

Maybe, some part of you had ached too much from reaching (read: loving) too far up, you're doomed to live the rest of your life unfulfilled. Yoongi's never been yours, but the way your heart withdraws from him is as if he's always been.

You've done your share. You've completed your fill. You've worked yourself to the bone to make anything (not something, and certainly not everything) out of yourself that even if you're not decorated in sports like Namjoon nor celebrated in music like Yoongi, you have a fail-safe to fall back on.

You're earning more than the white collars you could recognize from your old yearbook and even if it's to look after someone, to look after Jungkook and his craft, and neither use your actual degree nor make a name out of yourself — a part of you feels fulfilled.

If being fulfilled meant being in the shadows as a manager; if it meant caring for someone in a professional context yet in a way you've always known with practice, with love, through the years– you'll take it.

You'll take the peace of being fulfilled without a trophy than to be listless trying to compete for first place.

You're fulfilled now to be sitting at the passenger seat of your own car because despite having never been to your place anymore, Jungkook fought with you in order to get his hands on the wheel.

You're fulfilled now, even if you only took Jungkook's silly suggestion (read: insistence) of fake-dating him just so you wouldn't have to face your family and Yoongi alone. You're fulfilled despite having no real place in neither men's lives.

Oddly enough, Jungkook wants to be both. He wants to be fulfilled and compete for first place in a position in your life that he can't even say to your face.

Jungkook holds you right in the middle of the living room, his eyes wide and grin sparkling as if the director had already said action! and the task for him was to act out what being in love looked like, right in front of his female lead's family in her childhood home. (Read: he isn't acting at all.)

“And he’s…?” your mom lets the question hang in the air, eyes trailing from Jungkook’s face, to his bicep, to how his forearm fits snugly against your back and his hand curls around your waist. Your mom visibly looks surprised, although you don’t know if it’s about the fact that you actually came back despite everything, or if it’s because her favorite actor is in her kitchen while she’s sweaty in an apron, or if it’s because said favorite actor leaves no space between the two of you.

“Jeon Jungkook, ma’am. It’s nice to finally meet you,” he greets politely, a little jittery now that he’s face-to-face with her. He’s only heard of the woman she is from you and as much as he tried to picture her from memory, your stories don’t do her much justice. Jungkook’s always loved your kind eyes and your sweet smile, but he knows now where you’ve got it from; in fact, if he turns around right now right after shaking her hand and bowing profusely, you’re showing exactly those to him — that, along with a pair of gazes he can’t place.

Those gazes aren’t kind at all. One is confused and dumbfounded, and the other harbors nothing but hostility and anger.

“Sweetheart, I know you. Who doesn’t?” your mom’s at a loss for breath, mouth still agape as she keeps flickering her eyes between the two of you. She knows that you’re his manager, but what she doesn’t know is why the Jeon Jungkook is in her humble kitchen of all places. He has the most expressive and sincere eyes ever — he can’t possibly mistake your childhood home as a filming set and your waist as a hand rest.

You finally placate her thoughts when you speak, the loaded silence between the three of you (it’s buzzing with tension if you account for the other two) breaking. You actually giggle, your laughter taking the load off her shoulders because you’re happy; you don’t feel an ounce of guilt even if you’re lying to her face.

“We’re dating, mom,” you grin. “Jungkook’s my boyfriend.”

Jungkook smiles automatically, feeling your hand snake towards his own. His palm’s much bigger than yours yet it’s warmer than you’ve ever imagined, the envelope both of your hands make putting you at ease.

Your mom’s gasp bounces across the walls. Namjoon’s head that’s only been lowered the entire time you’ve been back suddenly whips to look at you and Jungkook. The fridge even lowers its hum to make way for the theatrics aimed at you, yet your eyes are fixed on your mom’s and Jungkook’s alone.

You came home for her and with him. You’re not here for anyone nor anything else because it’s merely a play for your survival, only this time, Jungkook’s hellbent on increasing your odds.

Yoongi freezes evidently, hand tightening around Haneul’s bottle as if it would do anything to release the red from his vision. He staggers silently, breathing suddenly ragged as he stares down at the offending steel cylinder. It’s small. Compact. If anything, he figures it would hurt if he were to throw it at anything. Anyone. Someone, even.

“Wow, that’s.. that’s amazing!” she embraces the both of you, making you and Jungkook share a gaze you only laugh through because he actually looks honored.

“Thank you, ma’am. I’m sorry I haven’t had the time to let you know personally,” he apologizes meekly for a mistake that isn’t even one in the first place, the humility in his tone making your ears perk. It’s Jungkook onceagain with the apologies towards you that he shouldn’t be making at all, and yet, even in front of your family, he persists.

Jungkook apologizes even for the things he hasn’t done, not because he plans on doing them, but because a large part of him wants to be in the actual situation wherein those mistakes were merely possibilities.

“It’s no problem at all. You’re busy getting all these awards, I know how that’s like,” she jokes, unable to stop smiling. “I’m just glad someone’s taking care of my baby.”

“And I don’t plan on missing a single day, ma’am.”

“Stop that,” she chides, shaking her head eagerly. “You can call me mom.”

Yoongi lets the bottle clatter to the sink.

( ♡ )

Yoongi hadn’t been able to sleep last night.

He’d woken up in a cold sweat hours before his alarm was supposed to go off to cook dinner for everyone, even if it was only yourfavorite. The anxiousness that bubbled in his veins when he was asleep was going to burst and while Yoongi thought nothing of it initially, he realizes in panic that it was actually pointing to something.

He woke up next to Haneul and he was placated momentarily, but the knot tied around his heart tightens twofold when he sees Hyewon on the same bed.

On your bed.

The guilt that filled Yoongi then was enough for the bile to creep up into his throat, making him stagger outside to find Namjoon pacing right outside of his own bedroom. His personal phone’s tucked in between his ear and his shoulder, his hands preoccupied scrolling through whatever it is on his work phone. Yoongi momentarily stops his panic to inquire why the hell Namjoon’s panicking and why did he just see a glimpse of your social media accounts pulled up to the screen, your following list staring your brother in the eyes.

“What? What happened? Is it Y/N?”

Namjoon only looked at him with nothing but pity and guilt, the resentment he had for himself bleeding through the way he shifted his gaze to him.

“She saw you and Hyewon.”

Yoongi hadn’t been able to sleep since.

He didn’t even blink when Hyewon thanked him and said her goodbyes. He wasn’t even fazed when his ex-wife kissed Haneul goodbye and his son only resumed playing with his blocks. Yoongi hadn’t even tended to himself throughout the entire night, surrendering himself to be awake in your couch in the far event that you’d come home.

Yoongi wanted to follow you home, except almost exactly similar to the past, he had chased you out of what’s supposed to be your own home in the first place. The difference now was that he didn’t mean for Hyewon to be on your bed at all, let alone your room, but in the back of Yoongi’s thick skull — he figures that it won’t be enough for you.

Yoongi waits for you all night throughout the morning like a loyal dog waiting for its master, his chest rising up and down in hope yet his chin down in despondence. You do end up coming back home though, but your presence is neither unaccompanied nor for him.

With you is Jeon Jungkook, your boyfriend.

If only Haneul hadn’t asked for his bottle to be brought upstairs because he’s watching cartoons on Yoongi’s laptop, he would’ve collapsed on the floor then and there, uncaring of the way everyone else would be looking down on him.

If only Namjoon’s gaze wasn’t flitting to him to gauge his reaction because it’s the first time he’s, or by everyone else rather, hearing that you have a boyfriend, Yoongi would put his hands on his head and curse until his piercing migraine suddenly disappears.

If only your mother wasn’t here, frozen in the kitchen mostly because of what you just revealed and who you came home with, and partly because she’s waiting for him to finish washing Haneul’s bottle, he would’ve thrown up right in the sink.

Yoongi gathers all his pain and keeps it shut within himself until he gets you alone, catching you by the staircase when everyone else has dispersed.

“I’m sorry. Namjoon told me what you saw and-…” he stops himself when you look up at him with an innocent yet empty gaze, the weight of it (or lack thereof) startling him. “Let me explain why Hyewon was there in your bed.”

“I don’t want to listen,” you enunciate clearly, keeping your voice down because both Jungkook and Haneul are a few steps away. You do it for their sake and not for Yoongi’s, the bitterness in your chest physically restricting you to think about his state.

Yoongi pushes on, breath already catching in his throat when you’re still stiff as a stone. You haven’t even made a break for it yet; he only unconsciously held onto you out of fear that you’ll be out of his sight. “She was in the area because her parents are old and they don’t know much about selling their house here a-and well, she knows that I did the same for my parents when they sold ours. Nothing happened. I just helped her with the sale! S-she was playing with Haneul in the living room while I napped a-and, I just… when I woke up, they were right next to me. Y/N, I swear, nothing-…”

You shake your head fervently, the innocence of his reason doing little to break the seal in your stomach. You feel it dropping once again and even if Yoongi’s right, even if he’s saying the truth, the sight alone of him appearing to be a part of a happy family jogs up all the pain.

“I don’t want to listen and you don’t have to explain either.”

“But I hurt you. That’s why I want to explain,” he stutters. Yoongi’s eyes are so glassy, you could see your reflection in them.

“Oh. So you know,” you whisper, teeth harshly digging into your bottom lip. “I hate Hyewon for a lot of things but not for being the mother of your child. That’s out of my reach. I get it. She’s his mom and that’s that,” you admit, the vacancy in your chest and on your ring finger reminding you what Yoongi had never given you the chance for. “What I hate is that you let her sleep in my room. Seeing Haneul in there is good. You and him? That’s okay because I let you sleep in there,” you heave, voice close to breaking because of how you force it to be tamped down. “I hate how you let her sleep in my room, Yoongi. I-I, I fucking hate it because it’s just like that time I caught you practically fucking her in my room.”

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t-…” Yoongi sniffles, tears already pouring. The staircase in your house is far too narrow to hold the both of you, let alone your history. “I didn’t think. I didn’t notice, a-and, I didn’t think. I didn’t think at all, Y/N. I thought it was okay for a split second because we looked like-…”

“A family,” you finish for him. “I get it. I do,” you nod your head fervently, your own hand snaking to your lips to stop the sharp inhale that pains you from the inside. “Almost everyone loses their sense of reason when it comes to family.”

“I didn’t notice she already entered the room. But I-I woke up,” Yoongi still swears up and down, adamant on his truth that you aren’t open to entertaining because he’s hurt you far too many times before. “Hyewon and I… we’re not. We’re co-parenting.”

“Still a family.”

“But-…”

“What the hell do you want to hear from me, Yoongi?” you snap, voice finally toning down when you notice faint footsteps coming from the second floor. “Do you— do you want me to agree with you and say that the three of you aren’t a family? And for what, s-so that could somehow excuse you for everything you’ve done? I don’t even know what family’s supposed to mean at this point!”

From upstairs, Namjoon suppresses a sob.

“My mom doesn’t know a single thing about all of this. I-I can’t even cry to her because I’m thinking of you. I’m thinking of protecting you, your son that she looks to as a grandson, a-and even your mom who’s her best friend,” you break into tears, ignoring the baby towel that Yoongi keeps on his person all the time that he offers to you. You sound far too defeated, and maybe you actually are, that Yoongi lets you push past him. “Meanwhile, my own brother probably knows everything but his first instinct is to protect you. Not me, his actual sibling. You.”

Namjoon had been waiting for you upstairs. He’s been barricading the door to the bathroom because he knows you can’t go to bed without your nightly shower, and because he knows that out of every space in the house, it must be the only one left wherein you can be truly alone with no hint of Yoongi.

“We have to talk,” he gets out as soon as you make eye contact with him, the towel that’s slung on your shoulder almost falling at the urgency to which he pulls you aside.

“It can wait.”

“I need to apologize,” he pleads once again, gripping your wrist gently like he had always done when you were kids to get you to listen to him.

“And I said it can wait. I can’t stand you right now,” you grit, the tears on your cheeks barely being dried up when Namjoon, unsurprisingly, decides to apologize to you within the same timeframe as Yoongi. They hadn’t planned it at all — the guilt and remorse weighed far too heavy for them to actually communicate.

“Where will you sleep?” he asks instead, exhaling heavily because you’re insistent on not crying again in barely your first night back, again. “Where will Jungkook sleep?”

“We’ll sleep together in a hotel.”

“Hotel?” Namjoon asks loudly, eyes bulging in shock. His voice is far too loud that everyone in the house (and maybe even your neighbors) must have heard him. “That’s nonsense. This is home, Y/N. You don’t have to book a hotel.”

“It is?” you seethe, your closed fists tightening on themselves painfully. “Did you also say the same thing to Hyewon? To Yoongi in the first place?”

“It’s my fault for-…”

You’re unaware that you and Namjoon are neck to neck until your mom chimes in out of nowhere, her gentle eyes asking more questions than she’s actually uttering. “What’s going on?” she switches her gaze between you and him. “Are the two of you fighting?”

“No,” you answer in unison, unable to fit a relieved sigh in between the terse silence.

“It’s nothing, mom,” Namjoon puts a hand on your shoulder, his smile tight and tense. “I was just telling Y/N that she doesn’t have to book a hotel.”

“Why would you book a hotel?” she gasps incredulously, her tone being the exact copy of Namjoon’s just a second ago.

“It’s just crowded in here, mom. That’s all,” you muster a sheepish smile, your posture slouching the more you realize that there’s no way out.

“I can ask Yoongi and Haneul to transfer to Namjoon’s so you can-..”

“No-!” you interrupt her in a hurry, breath hitching at the mention of him. “No, no. That’s unnecessary. I don’t want to sleep in my room.”

There’s a loaded pause between all of you, even between the door that Yoongi has his back on as he listens in.

“You and Jungkook can take my room instead,” Namjoon insists, his offer only barely scratching the surface of the apology that you truly deserve.

“Great. Thanks,” you conclude, already halfway into the bathroom when the sudden thought strikes you, your curiosity (and limit, by extension) getting the best of you to ask Namjoon while your mom’s still here. “How… how much longer are they gonna stay here?”

“I… haven’t asked yet,” Namjoon admits, the animosity you have towards Yoongi not going unnoticed by your mother.

“You need to ask then,” you quip. “This house is too small to have everyone and anyone.”

( ♡ )

Jungkook woke up in peace from sleeping in a bed that isn’t his.

Even before you actually got to shower (and not just sit on the toilet seat whilst trying to compose yourself) since you forgot to retrieve your clothes from your suitcase, Jungkook was already starfished in the middle of Namjoon’s bed. It’s a touching sight atop your own blanket and bug spray that your brother put in for you.

The two of you are far from okay. As a matter of fact, the only people you’re truly okay with in the house is your mom and Haneul; despite knowing that fully, Jungkook still dived in head-first in the middle of your situation. You’ve tried to dissuade him all throughout the five-hour long car ride, and not once did he even budge.

He’s here for you and no one else. He’s snoring in the middle of your sibling’s bed whom you aren’t in good terms with. He’s at ease with you in a province that he’s never stepped foot in, all because he felt compelled to protect you somehow and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Jungkook cares for you, enough to write a note and place it beside him just before he went to sleep, telling you that he’s a messy sleeper and to either jolt him awake to move or just manhandle him to the side so you could also sleep on the bed.

You go for the latter, trying to pry him as gently as you could (but even if you just hauled him like a sack of potatoes, he still wouldn’t wake up because he’s at ease too much; it’s you, of course) before finally calling it a night.

You may have lied awake mulling over the perpetual ache in your chest, but you didn’t cry at all.

Eventually, you fall asleep to the sound of Jungkook snoring.

Jungkook may have slept earlier than you, but he makes sure that you stay in late. (read: he physically tucked you into bed so snugly, you probably can’t even shift your shoulders by a centimeter). He wants to pull his weight around a house he hasn’t even been in, even if you hadn’t asked him to — you’d never do, because even as a manager and not as a fake-girlfriend, you don’t let him lift a single finger. Simply put, Jungkook feels this massive pull, not to perform for you, but serve you.

He finds himself quietly going down the stairs, still in his socks because you had stolen his house slippers just last night and he doesn’t have the heart to ask you to give them back. He’s quickly figured out the kitchen, getting a soup started before he allows himself to sit on the dining table by himself.

It turns out that Jungkook’s not alone at all.

“Hi.”

His ears perk at the soft voice that comes from the side of him, eyes immediately setting on the toddler who’s still dressed in his pajamas and has a similar case of bedhead to him.

“Hey buddy. Nice bangs,” Jungkook chuckles invitingly, pulling out a chair for Haneul to which he gets up on easily by himself.

“My appa cut them for me,” he answers with a smile, shyly pointing to Jungkook’s forehead with an eager finger. “You have bangs too. Who cut yours?”

“My girlfriend. I think she can be a hairstylist one day,” he hums, not feeling guilty over lying to him when it’s only a half, easily-corrected lie. You may not be Jungkook’s actual, real girlfriend, but you did cut his bangs when he asked you to. He couldn’t be bothered going to the salon and you didn’t have the energy to argue with him otherwise, so that’s how he ended up with choppy, viral (it only became viral because he has them) bangs that gained him a few dozen articles or so.

Jungkook doesn’t have kids of his own, but what he does have are several nephews and nieces. He’s the youngest of four children, and that’s perhaps the reason why he could empathize with you. He’s never been through what you have, and although you would never wish for him to do so, a part of him wants to know what it’s like — not because he seeks the pain, but because he wants to know how he could empathize with you better

With Jungkook being Jungkook, it’s perhaps the reason why he’s one of the gifted few people who could strike up a sensible conversation with a toddler and make them laugh without doing anything at all.

Something about Jungkook makes Haneul laugh so loudly, he wakes up almost everyone in the house in peace. Even Jungkook’s attempt at lame jokes tickle Haneul more than the way Namjoon’s ever tried in earnest to make him laugh.

You’ve already slinked past the two of them on the dining table, tending to the soup and the few hundred side dishes Jungkook started on but paused just to talk to Haneul.

“Haneul, don’t believe your uncle-…” you chime over a playful dig that Jungkook makes in your expense, the giggles that had only been filling your ears just seconds ago instantly ceasing when you notice Yoongi standing near you.

“Uncle?” he raises his brow at you, turning his attention to his son. “Haneul, what did I say about talking to strangers?”

“But he’s not a stranger. I saw him in that movie!” he frowns, the immediate awe that slips out of Jungkook’s lips not helping his case in the slightest.

“Still a stranger,” Yoongi smiles tightly, his exhale dragging out as he mulls over the eerily domestic sight of the three of you.

“But he’s Uncle Kook,” Haneul reasons with him, pointing his finger at you. “He’s auntie’s boyfriend.”

Yoongi’s softened a little bit since breakfast.

He was never mad at Haneul in the first place (more like halfhearted because he still stands by his lesson of not teaching him to talk to strangers, even if they’re a worldwide-famous actor, but those are not his words at all) but what he is annoyed about is the scene that he walked into.

It looked far too natural for you to look like Haneul’s mom and for Jungkook to look like him, maybe even better as a dad despite not having children at all, that he thought he was seeing red.

Haneul’s lying on his shoulder as they rewatch Bluey for the second time in the living room, the shadow of your alleged boyfriend walking past him until he registers the accent, later doing a quick turnaround that makes Yoongi ultimately irritated and Haneul more than happy.

“Oh cool. I love Bluey!” Jungkook says sincerely, inviting himself to sit on the lone sofa chair to watch the episode.

“Wow, you’re just so… quirky,” Yoongi mutters under his breath with a roll of his eyes, his snarky remark making Jungkook’s ears tingle. The latter scoffs slyly, making him finally acknowledge Jungkook, albeit sarcastically. “So what do you do, Jungkook?”

Even before he could answer though, Haneul does it for him with an excitement that only comes out whenever he’s talking about his favorites.

“We watched his movies in the cinema, appa! Remember?”

“Did we?” Yoongi narrows his eyes, playing his huff into a cough. He repurposes the tinge of embarrassment that he feels into snark, running a hand through his hair cockily. “I’d for sure remember an actor if they were good.”

( ♡ )

“Where’s your brother? I need him to do the heavy lifting.”

Your mom asks you with an urgency that parents only past the age of forty could possess, her lips already parted awaiting your response towards a question she asked just two seconds ago.

Even if you weren’t engrossed on an episode of Bluey (Jungkook and Haneul put you into it and you get their laser focus now) just now, you still wouldn’t know about your brother’s whereabouts. Yoongi saves you this time, his response piquing both yours and Jungkook’s interest.

“He’s in practice. Joon took Haneul with him so he could learn too.”

Jungkook looks up from his phone sharply, eyes wide in eagerness. He and Yoongi haven’t even looked at each other since yesterday yet their coordination (read: competitiveness) syncs with the other at the exact second, their insistence on tagging along a menial task making you jolt.

“I’ll come with, mom!”

“I’ll come with, auntie.”

It’s not a competition, yet Jungkook jumps up to stand so quickly, his head almost brushed the ceiling. “Let’s go, babe,” he holds out a hand for you, making you clear your throat as you’re still trying to gauge the situation.

“But what about Yoongi? Poor thing, he’ll be left alone,” your mom awes, her pout only deepening when Yoongi pretends to look crestfallen at being overlooked. He doesn’t have to pretend that much because despite not being the biggest fan of grocery-shopping, especially in your area because it always smelled of eggs despite barely carrying any eggs, he’ll jump at any task to impress your mom, and you by extension.

“I don’t think you should worry-…” you start, already being interrupted in an instant.

“Oh come on, Y/N. Two pairs of hands are better than one! They really have to do some heavy lifting because I forget to tell you about that one time your aunts hounded me for-…” she trails off while telling you a story about your supposedly huge extended family, blissfully unaware that there’s two men fighting to open the door for the both of you.

Yoongi’s driving his car as the most spacious option, making Jungkook snicker under his breath as he blames himself for not bringing his SUV which is clearly more expensive than whatever Yoongi’s driving, even if you elbow him lightly by the ribs because you didn’t ask him to do that.

“Mom, what are you doing here? Go sit in the front,” you nudge her, unwilling to sit next to Yoongi in an enclosed space.

“Oh, right! Sorry, I was just used to you always taking shotgun whenever Yoongi’s driving,” she squeals, fondly clapping to herself as she revisits the memory. “Do you remember that, sweetheart? You’d always fight with Namjoon because Yoongi got his license first.”

It may only be your mom who’s leaning against the center console to look at you in the back, but it doesn’t mean that Yoongi’s ever taken off his attention from you.

“I remember,” Yoongi smiles, looking at you from the rearview mirror. “I never forget.”

The grocery store hasn’t changed one bit.

It still smelled of eggs, the lights still aren’t as bright as they should be, and there’s still trinkets that you’ve always been swayed by being displayed near the register.

You’re taking it all in after not having been back for five years, whereas Yoongi strolls right in, but never ahead of you, as if he’s visited multiple times already since he left your town.

Your mom and Jungkook are side by side as he asks her a question you can’t even discern, only getting to know his actual agenda when you hear his sneakers skidding against the floor as he runs towards the pushcarts.

Yoongi, without even knowing the full context, runs after him because he didn’t want to come in second place for whatever it is that Jungkook’s challenging him to.

“I’ll steer the cart,” Jungkook presents definitively, his hand raised mid-air as if he’s being graded for eagerness alone. He looks like he wants to prove himself even if it’s only you and your mom present; no director, no producer in sight who sizes him up.

“No. I’ll do it,” Yoongi argues out of nowhere, his bruised hands reclaiming the cart under Jungkook’s grasp. He’s not even looking at your mom because his gaze is only fixed on Jungkook who’s just two tugs away from actually spitting at him.

“I said it first,” your pretend-boyfriend forcefully pulls the hunk of metal away from Yoongi, the latter coming along with it for the briefest of seconds before he does the same, this time with Jungkook gasping.

“What, are you method-acting for your next role as a cart-steerer?”

Your mom’s a little perplexed at the scene before her, lips parting in both concern and amusement because for a pair of people who haven’t met each other before, Yoongi and Jungkook are oddly competitive. They want to provesomething, anything, and maybe everything so bad, they neglect the fact that they look ridiculous fighting over a pushcart.

“We actually need two,“ she says to no one in particular, thinking out loud as she goes through her grocery list. “I think maybe even three because-…”

“I’ll get it,” Jungkook rushes out in panic, almost bumping into you in the process. You were only gone for a minute to retrieve your phone from the car and yet he already looks breathless, the knot between his eyebrows untangling when he realizes that it’s you. “Oh. Sorry, babe.”

“I’ll get it, Koo,” you murmur, catching the tail end of what your mom said about the pushcarts. Jungkook’s cheeks are tainted pink in frustration and you can’t help but to be concerned, the back of your hand already flitting against his forehead before you know it. “Are you okay? Sorry, the AC in here is not like the AC in the city.”

“Huh, what? Oh no, it’s okay. I just got into this heated cart argument,” he waves you off, eyes rapidly moving between you, your mom, and Yoongi who’s mirroring his exact actions, except for the glaring hint of annoyance with the way he’s standing so close to you.

“Cart argument? What’s-…”

“We need meat.”

You barely even have a chance to digest what Jungkook’s saying to you before you see him glitch right in front of you in a hurry, the only words to register clearly in your mind being your mom’s. She’s absent-mindedly talking herself through her grocery list (as she always does) and yet the two men right next to her hang onto her every word, the speed they take off on giving you no clue to why they’re acting as such.

“I’ll get it, auntie!” Yoongi gets out even before the wheels of his cart could cooperate, momentarily tripping over himself. Jungkook sputters at that, the laughter that builds in his throat being interrupted because he realizes that the other guy is ahead of him and he simply cannot bear that.

“Beef. We need beef, right, mom? How many kilos. Like… ten? Okay. I’ll get it!” Jungkook dashes even if he’s never been in this grocery store before; even if your mom hasn’t said a single word to either of them.

You’re left dumbfounded in the middle of the store, your gaze unable to locate the distinct sounds of both of their sneakers skidding against the floor.

“I didn’t even say anything,” your mom mutters in confusion, eyes flitting to you with a wonder you can’t place because even if the both of you are lost, she seems to have a better idea than you do. “Are they… competing over you, sweetie?”

“Competing? Me? Why would you even say that, mom?” you huff, leaning against the cart as you snatch her list to get the things she’s actually looking for.

“I don’t know,” she lulls, shrugging carelessly before nudging you. “Jungkook’s your boyfriend and well, I assume Yoongi’s always wanted to be in his position.”

“How did you even come to that conclusion?”

“Small town. Few people. Cute girl, cute guy,” she places, the end of her hypothesis being accompanied by a chuckle. When she says it like that, it sounds far too easy — it sounds far too seamless, you almost wish it was exactly that. “I didn’t even take the news that Yoongi was going abroad seriously because I thought it was a joke. I thought he could never move on from here or Namjoon,” your mom pouts, tilting her head when you freeze. “Much more, he could never move on from you.”

“He did,” you answer through gritted teeth, the grip you have on her list making the paper crumple underneath your hold.

Your mom doesn’t know everything. In fact, you don’t even know if she knows anything at all. You don’t despise her for her lack of involvement because you want to keep her from the chaos of your burdens, and you’ve always wanted to keep it that way.

But the way she speaks now, so full of conviction and faith, you find yourself despising it. She speaks as surely as the way Yoongi speeds past the both of you, weaving through aisles to get items she didn’t ask for, competing for and against a higher power (read: you) that Jungkook himself seeks.

She says it so surely, it’s as if she knows about every waking thought that Yoongi’s ever had in your absence.

“It doesn’t look like he did.”

You ponder over your mom’s adoration for Yoongi, most of which you can’t decipher if it’s misplaced or not. You know he’ll always have a special place in her heart and in her home because she’s known him even before he was born because she’s best friends with Mrs. Min.

Yoongi has a place in your life, no matter if it’s in your own or in the lives of the people you love. He probably has a modern penthouse in Namjoon’s life, the decoration in it improving over time. On the other hand, Yoongi probably occupies an ancestral cabin in your mom’s life that’s been well-maintained for longer than he’s ever been alive, the decor in it being handmade and resilient through the years.

In your life, however, you can’t tell how and if Yoongi occupies it in the first place. For the longest time, his place in your life had come in the form of a mansion that not even a single architect nor engineer could ever think of. For a moment too, Yoongi’s place in your heart came in the form of a little house on a vast farm overlooking the mountains and the sea. Throughout all the houses that Yoongi’s shape-shifted to in your life, you doubt now if he could ever turn into them again.

When you think of Yoongi, all you see is your room.

When you see Yoongi, all you could remember is your childhood house and its shortcomings in your life, especially when you needed to come home to it— to him, the most.

“I’ll pay, mom,” Jungkook snaps you out of your reverie, his whine making your ears ring.

“What? No, Jungkook. This is all too much,” you refuse vehemently, trying to fight him from extending his black card any further.

“It’s not. This is for your family anyway. I, I might have even grabbed extra portions for myself because mom said she’ll repeat tomorrow what she did for lunch today,” he grins, momentarily losing himself to the sight of you that he doesn’t even notice he’s in the process of being one-upped by Yoongi.

“Jungkook, baby, I’ll feel-…”

“I paid for it, auntie,” Yoongi announces, making your lips part and Jungkook’s jaw drop.

“You shouldn’t have, Yoongi,” you scold him softly, a whine already building at the back of your throat but he waves you off easily. Your mom’s thanking him profusely in the background, and while Yoongi’s pleased with the attention, his gaze remains on you.

“But I wanted to,” he insists, pursing his lips. “I should.”

“You’re not family,” is what you want to say.

“But I want to be,” is what he wants to scream.

Wordlessly, Yoongi puts a plastic toy ring he bought from the register into your bag. It’s pink and it’s star-shaped, its mold still the same from all those years ago.

You barrel into your mom’s room just to see Namjoon.

You bit at the chance of giving him the stuff he’s asked for from the grocery as per your mom, taking advantage of her focus on organizing the groceries downstairs to have a one-on-one with your brother.

“You have to make Yoongi drive into the city tonight. Either that or he flies to the US. The reunion is already tomorrow,” you seethe, crossing your arms as he sighs in defeat.

“It’s already late. Yoongi’s driving with Haneul, a kid, alone,” he emphasizes, running a hand through his hair as he himself is troubled by you being in a bind over everything. “And he can’t book a flight back on such short notice.”

“Short notice? What, did he just happen to book a one-way flight and not a round trip one?” you snort in amusement, shaking your head in disbelief. The thought actually cracks you up because out of the three of you, Yoongi happened to be the one more adept to websites despite your limited materials back then. Namjoon remains silent, and with how serious he looks, your face falls.

You can’t believe Yoongi at all.

“He did? You’ve gotta be kidding me, Joon,” you groan, throwing your head back. “What, does that mean Yoongi gets to stay in our home while we’re in this godforsaken family reunion?”

Namjoon delivers yet another blow, his revelation making you more enraged than the last.

“Mom invited them.”

“What? Why?!” you exclaim, chest rising in frustration. “Yoongi’s not family, Namjoon. Atleast not for me.”

He doesn’t miss your added remark at the end of your sentence, the underhandedness of it making him look down on the floor.

Namjoon feels guilty, he really does, but he can’t seem to make it right. He couldn’t even fight you in insisting to apologize that night.

For each day that you try to delay the inevitable of confronting him and letting him taking the fall, of letting him apologize, Namjoon feels more like a big failure for an older brother than he already is.

“But he used to be,” he says under his breath, looking up at you with a stubbornness you can’t place. “Your lifetime versus those five years — which one amounts to more?”

( ♡ )

Everyone gushes over Jungkook.

In an altitude higher than the mountainside that you’re in now, the aunts, uncles, and cousins you didn’t even know you have squeal over your fake boyfriend. By the fifth relative, you’ve already got your routine down of letting them hug you and kiss your cheek before holding Jungkook’s bicep, acting as his bodyguard to make sure they don’t squeeze him too hard or not at all.

“Oh my god, Y/N. Jeon Jungkook is your boyfriend?!”

“I knew it, I knew you were gonna have a partner who’s famous! I dreamed about it when you were-…”

“If that’s your boyfriend, then who’s he?” your cousin (?) whispers to you, cutting himself off as he turns his gaze to Yoongi and Haneul. They’re most certainly not your family, meaning that they’re unrelated to everyone present, so what your relatives (some more nosy than others) can’t wrap their heads around is the fact that there are strangers in your family reunion.

It takes one, two times for your mom and Namjoon to explain who they are and what they’re doing here in the first place, the chorus of nods eventually signaling that they’ve moved on. Some of them could even recall Mr. and Mrs. Min from the neighborhood, and Yoongi could only nod.

It’s not that he doesn’t belong right now — he actually feels the opposite. Yoongi feels that he has a place amongst a barrage of relatives he’s not affiliated to by neither blood nor paper, and it pains him; not because he’s scared of belonging, but because you probably don’t think the same way.

Haneul runs to him underneath the umbrella he’s isolated himself at, his son grasping an assortment of cash, food, and juiceboxes Yoongi most certainly did not pack in Haneul’s backpack from the night before.

“Auntie’s family is really nice, appa. Look what they gave me,” he shows everything that his hands could carry, breathing heavily in excitement as he explains that your relatives told him to come back once his hands are empty.

“Oh dear. They really think you’re adorable,” he laughs, pocketing Haneul’s cash (he swears he’ll give it back) and hiding some of the snacks he’s been given so he wouldn’t give himself heartburn eating too many at once.

Yoongi’s smiling from ear to ear, sitting Haneul in his lap as he overlooks the view of your town from above. Everything looks so small and delicate, you’d almost think none of what laid downhill ever even mattered. He didn’t get views like these in New York.

Yoongi didn’t get people like you in New York.

“Mama’s family isn’t this nice,” Haneul speaks out of nowhere, his thoughts uttered out loud directed more-on to himself than it is for his dad. Yoongi stops in his tracks in trepidation, shoulders tensing over what his son just said. “They never play with me like this. Not like auntie.”

He knows Hyewon’s relatives, albeit not that well. Her family members in the US were not this kind, not this warm, even to a child who’s actually related to them.

Yoongi’s stuck in his thoughts the whole time Haneul sips on his juice, finally being snapped into his reality nowwhen you approach their direction. His son waves at you excitedly even if you’ve just crossed paths minutes ago.

“Here, Haneul,” you hold out a container to him, the gentle smile on your face limited to only him yet Yoongi, for a lack of grace, pretends it’s also for him. “I tried my best to make it look like Bluey,” you chuckle, pointing to the mini sculpture made out of the marshmallows and blueberries that your relatives set aside for him.

Haneul beams at you, thanking you profusely. If only he wasn’t sat on Yoongi’s lap and therefore grounded, he would’ve launched himself at you to hug your legs.

Yoongi takes the hat right off his head, putting it on you while you’re crouched next to his son.

“It’s hot,” he explains, his heart continuously speaking beats the longer that you linger beside Haneul and the longer that he giggles in excitement. “I know you get headaches easily.”

( ♡ )

Despite being reachable, Yoongi still yearns for you.

He yearns for you even if you’re only within arm’s reach, sitting near you but never close enough at the long table because with you, he feels safe. He laughs in the background like it’s a sitcom to every joke and every episode of banter thrown around him. He doesn’t feel out of place with your family — he feels out of place with you.

He’s never been a wickedly jealous type. Even when he and Hyewon were still together and she cheated on him, Yoongi felt more resentful than he was jealous. He didn’t feel this type of way; he didn’t feel inferior. He didn’t feel like he was nursing a loss in his life because he has no choice but to. Yoongi had managed to divorce Hyewon because it didn’t work out between them, and that was that.

Yoongi can neither divorce you nor pull away from you because you’ve never been with each other. He harbors no resentment for you and that scares him, not because he wants to hate you so badly, but because he feels as if everything you’ll do to him, he’ll take it.

Yoongi will take it even if you set a plate for Jungkook despite unconsciously forgetting what he’s always disliked eating when you were still kids. He’ll take the serving tray from your hands still, uncaring if eating the tiniest bite of the food you’ve passed gives him an allergic reaction because you were the one who offered.

He’ll take it even if you hold Jungkook’s bicep in a hurry when there’s a bug that’s getting awfully close to your drink. Yoongi would walk to where you sit and dispose of it wordlessly because even Jungkook himself is scared of bugs. He doesn’t mind if you don’t thank him, because atleast now when he looks at you from a distance, you’re sitting in relaxation and you no longer have to hold your boyfriend.

He’ll endure the jealousy that burns through his throat more than the poorly-made, highly-alcoholic vodka your uncle made himself. He’ll hold onto the poison that is yearning and how he’ll feel like his throat would close up because if you were still young, in this setting of free rein, except you were still in love him like you used to be and he’s in love with you like he is now, neither you and Yoongi would be hurting.

Yoongi will take it. He’ll take the nothing that you give him and give you the everything that you don’t ask for anymore.

Five years versus the rest of your lifetime that you spent being in love with him is only miniscule. The suffering that he’s going through now is only a speck of the years you’ve spent in an unrequited love.

Unlike you, Yoongi’s weak. If he were to say it outloud to you, you’ll never agree because you’ve never regarded yourself otherwise. You’ll go on this tangent that you’ve always been weak, influenced by the times that Yoongi had chastised you for your lack of a passion.

To you, Yoongi had been right in a way.

To Yoongi, he’s always been in the wrong.

He’s crying to you now that the both of you are alone, overlooking the small town he used to be keen on getting out of. Now, more than ever, Yoongi wants to stay in it. He wants to stay with you.

“Why is everything with you so hard?” Yoongi whispers, his tears stinging badly from the corner of his eyes to the point that he can only make out shapes. He’s unkempt and frantic as if his life flashed before his eyes and there’s nothing he could do about it, voice strained like much of the times he’s drank himself to sleep.

He resembles Haneul at the moment. He’s always had because there’s not one bit of Hyewon in his son’s features or personality, but he looks especially like him now that he’s crying. The back of his hands harshly dig into his face, sobs bursting right from his throat. “Why do I make everything so hard for us? Why can’t I— w-why can’t I make it right for once?”

There’s a tremble to your chest that you ignore earnestly, the presence of it enough to scare you because it’s familiar; too familiar. Seeing your past play out in front of you in the form of a seemingly content family sleeping on your bed is one thing, but it’s another to see its patriarch crumble in front of you. It’s different to see your past pleading in front of you for just the slightest bit of your attention.

As a matter of fact, it’s different now because you resemble Yoongi the most.

“You never tried,” you seethe, jumping the gun before you even try to decipher what’s in the barrel. It’s a bullet you fire haphazardly that comes from your pocket that you’ve always held onto. It’s a misplaced, misshapen, old bullet that you force into a gun that Yoongi passed onto you.

Right now, Yoongi doesn’t resemble Haneul, and neither does he resemble his ex-wife.

He resembles you with the way his eyes are clearly swimming in hurt while you avoid looking at his, just to relieve the painstaking feeling of guilt and longing compacted into a sob.

“I never tried?” Yoongi exhales shakily, his quivering hands running through his hair to tug on them.“I never tried?”

You hear yourself clearly even if it’s his voice. The tremble and the anger, even all the way to the blind hope.

“I kept trying to reach out to you every single time. Every single birthday, every single Christmas, every insignificant holiday I could search up!” Yoongi cries — he actually thrashes with the way he sobs, shoulders shaking violently. “I didn’t try? If I didn’t try, try looking at every page of my passport to see all the stamps there are whenever fucking Jungkook was reported to be in another country,” he spits his name like poison, the vitriol behind it, however, never catching up to what he feels about himself.

You resemble Yoongi the most because you stand untethered, eyes blurring and lips quivering, yet you only watch him lose himself before thinking of uttering a single word.

“I’m selfish, I’m an asshole, and I’m fucking insufferable. I can’t even apologize to you correctly,” Yoongi lists, chest rising up and down too heavily, he feels like it’ll give out. “But I love you, Y/N. I-I might be every bad thing in your life right now and I own up to that. I’m still trying to be the best for you.”

Not only does Yoongi resemble you — he’s actually become you.

“You can call me the vilest names ever but you can’t say that,” he grits, teeth chattering not from the cold he’s put himself in, but because he can’t stop mentioning your name in between. “You can’t say I never tried because I always have. I’ll never stop becausethat’s what it takes,” Yoongi mutters; because, he says, not if.

“I love you,” he says it far too clearly for someone who’s drunk; far too sincerely for someone who had spent the better part of his life putting it through your head that he can’t return your affection. “I’ve always loved you.”

( ♡ )

You don’t feel good.

There’s a fever that’s starting to bloom from the base of your skull all the way to your toes, the abnormal warmth you feel in your chest making you unable to interact with everyone else outside of your room. Jungkook had left with your uncles before dawn to go fishing in the nearby lake and never would you think to inconvenience him; to tend to someone like you for something as minor as a fever, or for anything at all.

You already have a system down for taking care of yourself when you’re ill. It started when neither your mom nor your brother were home with you, and it was finally perfected when you had to live completely alone in the big city. All you had to do was gather all the energy you have, spend it at the start to get everything you could possibly need and put them all at the side of your bed, and rest until everything no longer hurts.

The major flaw with your system now is that you don’t have the energy at all. You can’t build up the strength to get up, walk across the hall and interact with your relatives, and rummage through groceries to get what you need without being questioned; you can’t build up the sense of importance you have for yourself to ask for help.

Namjoon comes into your room before you could dance around the idea of asking him to get you water, all because he has this innate sense of guilt in him and you could utilize it to your advantage. Your brother gets ahead of you before you could even register that he’s here with you, his eyes sullen and pleading.

“Can we talk?”

“I can’t exactly storm off right now,” you rasp, your voice fading out into a low chuckle.

“Do you want to talk when you’re able to storm off?” he asks sincerely with a small smile, his hand fixing your hair as gently as he could without making your migraine ring further. “If you do though, then you probably might never hear me out again.”

You stay silent because he is right, but Namjoon feels otherwise. He feels as if he hasn’t been doing anything right at all and you existing separate from him is a constant reminder. His career is at its peak but he thinks he could go higher; his relationship with you is deteriorating and he doesn’t think it could possibly be worse.

“I’m sorry for being a shitty brother,” he apologizes, the first thing out of his mouth being the last thing that floods his mind before he goes to sleep at night. “I should’ve never defended Yoongi, even Hyewon by extension.”

The heat behind your eyes isn’t all from your fever. The tears that prick your eyes aren’t because of the pressure in your head, but because of the fact that you haven’t heard Namjoon apologize to you in a long time; you haven’t talked this sincerely for even longer

“I should’ve put you first,” he sniffles, muttering apologies in between his pauses for finding the right words that would make it okay; that would somehow undo all that he’s been an accomplice to. “I should’ve been this reliable, sturdy man of the house. I-I should’ve been more of a father figure to you-…”

“Don’t,” you interject sternly. “You never filled in his shoes and you should never will. You’re only mom’s son and my brother, Namjoon. It’s never been your job to raise me.”

Even after everything, there’s a gentleness to you that Namjoon’s always loved but hate the most now. He hates that even if he’s the one who’s apologizing, you’re the one who’s saying sorry for the things you didn’t even inflict on him. Neither of you wanted to be raised by only a single parent, yet you absolve him of the guilt he’s always felt.

“But I could’ve been better. I wish I was already better from the start.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think how hard life was for you growing up. I-I would’ve given up football if only-…” he trembles, unable to get the last of his sentence out because you shake your head in earnest.

“Stop.”

“But I mean it. If only I-I didn’t get into football, I could’ve been there for you and mom much often. I could’ve been better and-...”

“But I grew up to be okay, didn’t I? You’re the best at what you do. We’ve managed to retire mom early because we put in the work,” you whisper, the shrug of your shoulders feeling more heavy that it should feel because the words don’t come out easily from you.

“But okay shouldn’t have been enough for you,” Namjoon tears up, bottom lip trembling as you try to take in his words that you’ve always wanted to hear at the back of your mind; you hear them now when you’ve already grown up. You hear them now after you’ve already endured the grief. “I— we should’ve given you the fighting chance to grow up more than okay.”

It’s not Jungkook who comes to visit you while you’re nursing a fever, because you’ve temporarily banned him from the bedroom. He only pouted in complaint when you called him, but he didn’t fight you that much either because you’ve called him out for the excitement in his voice to go hiking for the first time.

It’s not Yoongi who comes to visit you while you’re nursing a fever, because Haneul asked him to teach him Go (he’s not even that good at it and being the ever unable to show incompetence and have pride especially when Jungkook’s watching father, he discreetly asked lessons from your mom) so he’ll be able to play with your cousins.

Instead, it’s your mom who visits you. Even if Namjoon hadn’t tipped her off that you were feeling under the weather, she’s already had a feeling this morning.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” she asks, her hands full of everything you could possibly need and more before plopping them at your side. She makes you sit up even before you could complain, handing you a drink with some medicine you didn’t even know she carried

“Just a little fever,” you answer, getting back into your cocoon.

You don’t even attempt to make conversation because you fear that you don’t have it in you to have a heart-to-heart talk with your mom just minutes after you’ve had one with Namjoon.

You don’t even say anything to her except your thanks. Namjoon didn’t even tell her about your conversation, even if he approached her with tear-stained cheeks and bloodshot eyes while saying that it was just allergies.

Your mom feels the guilt spring to her chest even if you don’t utter a single word. She feels the remorse in her eyes when you don’t ask her for anything more. She feels the guilt the most in her hands when you don’t ask her to stay.

“I’m sorry if I made you feel like there wasn’t enough space for your burdens growing up.”

“What?”you scramble to get up in a seated position, eyes hazy from how quick you do it. “Mom, you scared me. Where’s this coming from?”

She shakes her head at your cluelessness, eyes stinging when you genuinely look at her innocently. You don’t know what she’s talking about, even if the thought has plagued her for so long.

“You’re not really okay, are you?”

“It’s… just a fever,” you mumble, your breathing already trembling at the way she looks at you.

She’s looking at you like you’re still a kid; ever so fragile and innocent, it’s as if she wouldn’t let a single thing in this world harm you. She doesn’t know a single thing about your feud with Namjoon and your long drawn-out conflict with Yoongi. What your mom does know is that she doesn’t know a single thing about the heartbreak you suppress, and that thought alone makes her hiccup in tears.

“You’re right, you know? Our house is small,” she says, distinctly recalling the tensioned conversation you had with Namjoon back at home. “It’s tiny but it was far too big for you growing up alone,” she inhales sharply, trying not to sob in front of you. “He wasn’t in the picture. I was working a hundred jobs left and right. Namjoon was trying to make a name for himself,” she shakes her head, so much so that the necklace she’s had since you were children, the same one with yours and Namjoon’s birthstones on it, rattles. “I’m sorry for making you feel that you can’t come to me.”

In just a full day, you’ve heard everything that you’ve ever wanted. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted during the school plays where you had no one from your family, except Yoongi, to watch you become an extra up on stage. He’d always deny that he did show up for you and just say that it’s because he was genuinely interested in a play about a poet he didn’t care about in reality, but you take it nonetheless.

It’s everything you’ve ever prayed for watching Yoongi live a life far too advanced for you as he held Hyewon’s hand after school. It’s what you wanted to hear when you begged him not to leave you behind.

“I-I’m okay. I’m really-…” you stutter, looking away before your tears fall in the fear that they’ll never stop.

Your mom only hugs you tighter.

“I’m here if you want someone else to carry your burdens,” she whispers. “I’m here now.”

( ♡ )

It’s the last day of the reunion when you fully recover, and it’s hours ahead of everyone when Jungkook has to leave by himself.

Without even asking for it, Jungkook grants you another week’s worth of break. You didn’t even plan on asking, yet Jungkook’s willing to give you a month if only you do.

You’ve already arranged for his personal driver to pick him up and take him back to the city. You’ve already packed his bags, along with the multiple containers of food that your relatives (and especially your mom) insisted for him to take. You’ve arranged for your substitute to take care of him for his schedules throughout the week, along with the insistent reminder to call you whenever Jungkook needs you. (Read: he does, with or without a schedule.)

Everything is set for Jungkook to leave except for his driver who’d been roped by your mom to be filled with breakfast first, yet with the remaining minutes left, Jungkook’s still with you on your bed.

He lies on your lap even if there’s plenty of space for him to lie parallel to you on a pillow — and you let him.

“Have you ever thought about kissing me?” he asks in the middle of you texting your substitute, the randomness of his thought already being familiar to you. This time, unlike the few thousand times he’s ever asked you something straight off his mind without refining them, is different.

It’s different now because your pretend-boyfriend asks you if you’ve ever thought about kissing him, while looking like he really wants to kiss you.

“Where’d that come from?” you giggle, looking down on him on your lap.

Not once does Jungkook ever look away from you.

“Dunno,” he shrugs, pointing up at you. “Your lips are close to bleeding and it’s bothering me.”

“Sorry for turning you off,” you snort in laughter, wiping at the tiny specks of blood. Jungkook tuts when you rub at them, feeling for his lip balm out of his pocket.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he stresses, going a little cross-eyes when he applies them for you. His eyes keep goading you, the smile he has on his face widening the more that you look at him incredulously. “Sooo… have you?”

You don’t want to lie to him at all.

“If I answer yes, Jungkook,” you toy around with his hair, setting your phone face-down because you can’t focus on anything else now. “We can never come back from that.”

Jungkook laughs in glee so loudly, Yoongi (who was only passing by; he really, really swears he didn’t just happen to eavesdrop in your room because Jungkook’s driver is all done eating and wants to beat traffic) actually flinches.

Jungkook strains to be closer to you, unconsciously training you to lean down. His lips are far too soft — far too close to you, you could see every line and every nuance in them. He whispers, eyes practically crossing at your proximity.

“And is that such a bad thing?”

( ♡ )

You’re back at home when Jungkook texts you that he’s made it back safe, and that he wants to kiss you again.

You’re back at home when Yoongi asks you if he could use the bathroom first because Haneul spilled milk on him during the drive. You’re in your childhood bedroom when you let him clean up first, and you’re sitting on your childhood bed when you volunteer to put Haneul down because he’s cranky and for some reason, wants to be held by you.

You’re back at home too when Yoongi and Haneul are knocked out for the night, and your mom calls you and Namjoon down for all three of you to talk at the dining table.

You’re back at the home you were raised in, sitting on the dining table that’s creaky when more than two people lean their weight into it, in the space you’ve roamed around alone waiting for them to come home, when your mom talks about wanting to sell it.

“You want to sell?” Namjoon’s eyes widen, exchanging a glance with you who’s as equally surprised as he is.

“Yes. It’s under my name, y’know? Not that… man’s,” she snorts, the off-hand mention of your father making you and Namjoon laugh unexpectedly. Your mom looks at ease as she talks about selling your house, the smile she has one her face being shaped with experience and grace. “I doubt the both of you would want to keep this, and besides, the offers I’ve kept for years now are high. You already know that big-shot companies have been buying out houses here for years now because of the growth potential and whatnot. Who knows, maybe our block will be turned into a mall!” she shrugs, the happiness in her tone infectious.

For someone who’s decided on letting go the house she’s both struggled and strived in, your mom’s beyond excited.

For two adults, who were once kids, who’ve seen the amount of sacrifices your mother’s put into the place by herself, you and Namjoon don’t have any objections.

“Also, consider this as me asking for permission to go on a vacation, even if I’m grown, because some people get so paranoid when I don’t answer calls,” she digs at you and your brother, immediately inciting coughs because you two, in fact, are guilty of worrying over your mom too much. “I’m going on this worldwide trip with Yoongi’s mom,” she grins, pulling out one last surprise. “We’ve talked about it since we were young. She’s earned her stripes working abroad, I managed to raise two amazing children as a single mom. We’ve earned it, I think.”

You and Namjoon share a glance once again, this time more definite than the last. You’ve made up already as far as your mom could tell, and that confirmation is what she needs before finally selling the house you all grew up in.

“You’ve earned it more than anyone.”

( ♡ )

Yoongi’s packing up for their flight tonight when you go into your room to pack up the life you’ve lived there.

“You’re coming with me and Haneul?” Yoongi jokes when he sees you pulling out your own luggage, the tone of his voice highly suggesting for you to become serious. He gets you to smile and that’s big enough of a win as is, the remainder of it more than substantial to hold onto when he’s away from you. Again.

“No, unfortunately. I’m packing up the room and eventually… the whole house,” you answer with a chuckle, voice trailing off when you see the crestfallen look on Yoongi’s face. He looks like someone who’s just absorbed the largest pain to man as he’s trying not to make it obvious. “We’re posting it for sale two weeks from now.”

Yoongi nods tightly, inhaling sharply as he tries to maintain his steady tone. “Then why are you packing up already?”

You could do this tomorrow. As a matter of fact, you could do it tonight because you don’t have to drive them to the airport. You have all the time in the world within two weeks to do this, yet you go into your room now when Yoongi’s still in it.

When Yoongi still hasn’t left, and neither of you know when you’re gonna see each other next.

“I have to get a move on. If I don’t move now,” you trail, voice close to trembling as you open cabinets you’ve never even given the time of day before. “I’m scared that I’ll keep holding onto this house.

Yoongi nods, even if he fully understands — even if he doesn’t want to swallow what you’re saying.

“You want out?”

“We want out — me, mom, Namjoon,” you explain, looking at him properly for the first time since he told you that he loved you. “For the longest time, we’ve held onto this place because we became this house at one point. Namjoon’s this world star, my mom’s traveling the world with your mom-…”

“Oh, they’re finally doing it?” Yoongi interrupts, a smile finally coming to his face at the news. He hasn’t talked to his mom in a month from how busy he’s been, and although he’s always missed her (even if they’re on much better terms than he and his dad could be), he’s happy knowing that your moms have each other atleast. “How about you? What will you be doing?”

“I’ll just be… living day-to-day. I’m not doing anything extremely special, but I’m happy and busy doing it,” you laugh, looking around your room that hasn’t appeared this clean, this warm, since you last stayed in it. “No one’s going to be around here anymore.”

As if on cue, Haneul runs to Yoongi’s arms to be picked up. He knows what the luggages mean and because he’s largely in denial that they have to leave later (as referenced by him crying to your mom and Namjoon), Haneul keeps pretending to sleep so that their trip gets delayed.

Yoongi’s about to put him on your bed even if he knows his son’s antics already, but in the fear that he’ll actually get to sleep and they don’t get to leave (which he isn’t opposed to at all), he keeps him in his arms.

You, on the other hand, take Haneul from him when his arms outstretch for you.

There’s the sentiment of you not having to do it that’s resting at the tip of Yoongi’s tongue but he holds himself back, the image of you and Haneul completely fitting one another, he wants to burn a copy of it to his retinas and designate it to be the last thing he’ll see if he ever goes blind.

Without putting Haneul to sleep on your bed, he goes to sleep in peace in your arms.

“Do you regret it?” Yoongi asks throughout the silence between you, sitting next to you at the edge of your bed. “Do you regret ever liking me?”

“I do,” you answer truthfully, rubbing circles at the Haneul’s back. “I regret knowing you.”

Yoongi takes the responsibility fully, even fuller than the way both your hurt and happiness could make or break him.

“I can’t take back all the hurt I’ve caused you,” he admits just as honestly, turning to look at you. He becomes surprised to learn that you’ve been looking at him the whole time. “But what I can promise you is that I’ll never do anything to hurt you again.”

“I have my share of faults too.”

“Eh. Mostly mine.”

“Mostly yours, yeah,” you laugh easily, nodding to yourself as you continue. “But I held onto you as much as you didn’t hold onto me. That’s my mistake.”

Yoongi stays silent at that, not because he agrees, but because the bias that you’ll never be wrong in his eyes overtakes your humbleness.

“Do you think he’ll remember the entirety of the trip?” you ask, gesturing to Haneul who’s already sleeping like a hibernating bear in your hold. “Or will Haneul just remember that time the power went out because he cried a lot?”

“Oh, he’ll remember everything alright. He’s good with retention and people in general,” Yoongi waves you off. “Even if he didn’t come along the trip— even if we didn’t crash the whole thing, Haneul would remember you.”

“Who am I to him?” you ask in curiosity, lips turning into a straight line before they curve in the slightest. “Appa’s friend, I bet.”

“Not really. You’re a lot of things to me,” Yoongi chuckles, looking at the way Haneul grips you as if you’ll float away if he lets go; he’d do the same too. “More like my first love.”

Yoongi loves you quietly.

He loves you quietly with the way he draws the curtains downstairs when you sleep on the couch, tired and stressed over a solution you couldn’t understand. He loves you with the way he’ll scoop the warmest, freshest, least-burnt portion of rice to your bowl without you even asking for it. He loves you with the way he’s willing to let you walk all over him.

He loves you quietly in the way that not even distance nor time could disrupt him.

Yoongi loves you quietly, it might have been too much.

“Is that a lottery ticket?” he asks suddenly as he spots the familiar face of it inside your luggage, tucked into the discreet pocket where your mother’s letters of encouragement when you went to the big city were also kept

“Oh, it’s still there,” you answer, in surprise yourself because even if this is the same luggage you use whenever you go out of the country with Jungkook, you’ve never noticed that it was still there. “I bought it when you left for the US.”

Yoongi stops in his tracks in retrieving the scratch ticket from the pocket, looking up at you in curiosity. “Why did you buy one that day?”

Haneul stirs in his sleep in your arms, waking up right at the middle of you and Yoongi being lost in each other. He mistakes the silence as a signal that they’ll be leaving already, making a mess of himself as he quickly goes down the stairs to look for your family there and cling to them instead.

You and Yoongi are alone again.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly, grasping the scratch ticket you used to spend hours looking. “I guess I just needed some proof that fate was against me that day.”

“But how would you even know that?” Yoongi asks, pointing to the card that’s still covered. “You didn’t even scratch it.”

You answer honestly, the reason burnt to the back of his mind.

“Because I knew I would lose my mind if I actually lost.”

“Try,” Yoongi swallows, nudging the ticket closer to you with a gaze that mirrored yours when he left. “Try again. Please.”

You have nothing else to lose.

Yoongi isn’t yours to lose.

You retrieve the same old coin Yoongi gave to you on the same day that he bought you your first scratch ticket, the appearance of it from your luggage making his heart skip a beat.

He doesn’t speak and neither do you, gaze only fixed on the way you scratch the card almost hesitantly, as if you’re still scared of the results of something that you should’ve known five years ago. (Read: you still are.)

When you get to the last digit, you freeze. You comb through the pattern over and over again, yet you still can’t believe it.

You’ve won the highest possible prize.

“Oh.”

“Oh,” you parrot Yoongi, looking up at him as he can’t believe it either.

“You won.”

“I won,” you repeat, running a hand through your hair. You actually laugh, the lump in your throat subsiding. It’s a welcome, albeit loaded, feeling of happiness that comes in between the two of you. “I thought I would lose,” you mutter bitterly, shaking your head.

You didn’t lose. Fate wasn’t against you that day, and yet you still lost yourself thinking subconsciously what the proof of it would’ve been.

“Who would’ve thought, right?” you sigh, eyes drifting to Yoongi. “If only I took that chance years ago, I would’ve won.”

Yoongi smiles tightly, breath faltering in recollection.

“I’m familiar with the feeling,”

Yoongi doesn’t get to finish packing for him and Haneul and neither do you with your whole room, the shift in the atmosphere suddenly making him stand.

He’s breathless and he doesn’t know what for, the rapid beating of his chest making his voice louder than necessary. “Hey, what do you say you take a break? I’ll pack up your room. I have to stay alert anyway for Haneul."

You thank him before leaving him alone in your room.

Yoongi can’t find the strength in him to pack. The only power he has left in him is for him to think of taking everything out from his luggages, the thought of leaving again, this time worlds different than the last when you were begging him not to — he feels like throwing up.

Yoongi’s merely an amalgamation of you. He’s only a compilation of your every word, every feeling you’ve implanted in his heart. He’s filled with nothing but your every triumph and shortcoming; every late night hanging out with you as you attempt to study while he keeps you company, every minute he spent going out of his mind trying to look for you when you ran away from home.

Yoongi loves you silently to the point that he gets out of your room without accomplishing a single thing he said he’ll do just awhile ago.

In the grand scheme of things, Yoongi realizes that he was wrong. He was as wrong as you were right that the moment he leaves home, he’ll spend the rest of his life looking for it.

Even if you left your home like he did, even if neither of you could come home anymore the moment your childhood house gets sold, Yoongi would still search for it. He’ll still search for you. You’re no longer where you were, but you are everywhere that Yoongi is.

He looks for you in Namjoon’s room, to the dining table, and all the way outside, just to ask if he and Haneul could stay for dinner.

Yoongi finds you and Haneul eating sundaes on the pavement outside, with you on the ground and a scrap cardboard underneath Haneul so it wouldn’t be hot for him.

Fate hadn’t been against you five years ago. And even if he’s much too late, Yoongi could only pray that fate isn’t against him now.

He walks over to where you and Haneul are, grabbing another scrap of cardboard to put underneath you.

Yoongi is consumingly yours all the time.

#WHEWWWWWW HOW R WE FEELING!!!!#yoongi imagine #yoongi oneshot #yoongi series #yoongi angst #yoongi angst imagine #yoongi fluff #yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #yoongi au #min yoongi imagine #min yoongi scenario #yoongi fanfic #yoongi x you #bts yoongi imagine #bts yoongi x reader

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highvern · 27 days

Text

Patterns III

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Pairing: Jeon Wonwoo x fem!reader

Genre: smut (18+), eventual fluff/angst

Summary: Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is a pattern. So what does it mean when you find yourself in Wonwoo's bed over and over again?

Chapter Warnings: oral (f. & m. receiving), protected sex, kissing, awkward wonwoo, jealousy, grinding/dry humping, making out, fingering (in public)

Length: 8.5k

Note: part 3 is here and now we will yearn. you can find most of the pieces i reference HERE and some are printable! thank you to everyone in @svthub for helping and @gyuswhore beta-ing

Remember: Tumblr runs on reblogs and I run on validation in the tags and comments :)

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This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked!

Wonwoo recognizes the heat of a body blanketing his before anything else. Slowly, like sands sifting through an hourglass, he wakes. Your chest sticks to his from the heat of the morning, skin on skin. Feeling comes back to his hands as they ghost along your bare spine, following the curve of your ribs, down to the soft spot above your hips and back again.

The second thing he realizes is your lips ghosting his neck.

“Morning,” he croaks through a yawn.

You hum in response, nosing along his jaw. Eyes still shut, he can see the shadow when you rise and leave the next kiss on his lips. The same rush of arousal that haunted him last night lingers. But at least this time he’s awake enough to appreciate your efforts.

After dedicating all his energy to pleasing you, Wonwoo nearly screamed when you palmed his cock. Too tired to fuck a pretty girl? Pathetic. But with swallowed pride, he brushed away your ardent hands, and passed out before you demanded any answers.

It was the fastest he’d fallen asleep in weeks.

Now, you seem to be making up for the lost opportunity and Wonwoo is just as eager to enjoy.

Hands trailing the dip of your back, his mouth opens when you prod across the seam of his lips. Everything slides together easily; your leg thrown over his hip finds the mattress and the heat against the crotch of his sweatpants calls like a siren’s song. The first nudge into the seat of your ass sends dual sighs into the air.

Wonwoo fills his palms with the swells of your ass, dragging you across his clothed length again and again until your arousal soaks through his pants. Eyes still shut, he savors the grind, slowing you with firm hands until you protest with a huff.

You indulge him as best you can. Idle touches across his chest turn the edges of Wonwoo’s mind hazy, melting his resolve until your mouthing down his neck, then his chest, and finally his caved stomach.

The first glimpse of your visage is proof he’s still lost in the land of dreams. All Wonwoo can see is endless skin, still bare from last night. The blur without his glass does little to dim your glow. Trails of golden light peeking through the window cast a halo around your shoulders like something ethereal; as if the sunrise itself sat itself in his lap this morning and decided to greet him personally.

But the way you suck him through the fabric of his underwear is akin to the devil.

“Fuck,” Wonwoo gasps. His hips curl up, searching for more relief. You don’t give in easily. Instead, you favor mouthing along the outline of his bulge until you’re back at the patch of skin sitting about the waistband.

Just as he falls into the comfort of your mouth, you move it elsewhere; lips tapering over the crescent of his hip bone while your hands make quick work of the single layer confine. Each new swath of skin is documented with fingers first then your mouth. It's slow work given the position but Wonwoo lifts his hips and assists until he’s bare and moaning your name on the first touch against his length.

Even in the coolness of the morning he’s burning. Wonwoo wants. Whatever you want, he wants too. Anything you give him he’ll take. The hunger for more worsens with each tease wherever you can reach.

His first mistake is touching you. Hair tickling his fingertips as he cups your jaw, thumb tracing the dip of your cheek as you suck him deeper. The gentle hum from the contact vibrating through his already weak willpower.

The second mistake is peeping where you lay between his legs when you come up for a breath only to find you already looking his way.

“Good?”

Wonwoo responds with a mute nod, trembling when you smile before taking his cock back in your mouth.

Your tongue flicks against his cockhead slowly. Content to focus the heat of your mouth there, a hand sneaks to jerk off what you’re neglecting.

A quick buck of his hips, completely unintentional, forces you to sputter.

Wonwoo scrambles to apologize, “Shit, sorry! I didn’t—oh fuck.”

The words die on his lips as you dive back in, swallowing him down the tight heat of your throat and leaving him there before pulling away with a gasp. His head digs into the pillow as you descend, taking more; Again and again and again until your nose brushes the smooth skin of his pelvis and you choke from another involuntary buck.

Eyes weighted, Wonwoo fights between wanting to watch the bob of your head and the instinct to pinch his eyes tight and feel. Your own choked hums are the siren song that pluck him apart until a hand stops your progress.

Grabbing himself on the next upstroke to prevent more torture, Wonwoo uses all his will to speak. “Wait.”

“Wait?” you huff.

Your tongue sneaks across the tip of his cock, lapping at the leaking slit with determination. Sticky on the next stroke, Wonwoo fucks himself into your mouth involuntarily.

“Come up here.”

“Don’t wanna,” you complain around a mouth full of dick before he can stop you.

Wonwoo pulls you off again, this time with a firmer hand and a glare he hopes silences your objections. Then, with the most pathetic sincerity he can muster, “Please?”

“Are you begging?” you goad. “Or asking?”

He doesn’t have the bandwidth for games right now. There’s a serious risk he’ll come in your mouth if you keep it up. The urge too lives in the back of his mind, haunting him since the first night you begged him to fuck your throat. But right now, after a night of denying himself the simple pleasure of burying his cock inside you, he needs more.

“Whichever will let me fuck you.”

“Say it again.”

Wonwoo chokes at the first attempt to satisfy your request. You're nasty. Licking at his cock again, undeterred by his hand preventing your greed from fully consuming him. But it’s not enough to stop you. You slip your tongue over the valleys of his knuckles, between his fingers. The wet heat of your mouth surrounds his thumb as you lash against it just to get another taste.

“What was that?” you whisper into his thigh, focusing your attention on his hip, nipping until he’s sure there will be a bruise in the shape of your mouth.

“Please let me fuck you.”

You fall to the side, scrambling for the bedside table for what he assumes is a condom. All of your back, your ass and thighs, left on display and Wonwoo takes advantage. Fingers following your curves, squeeze the supple swell of your rear until your breath stutters and your hips arch. He doesn’t stop there. Lips find your shoulder, trailing up until he can nip at your ear and his hand curves around between your thighs.

Fingers slipping through the mess, your head falls lip while Wonwoo repays your early morning favor. A ghost across your clit that sends you rocking back into his cock. “God,” you whimper as the heel of Wonwoo’s palm grinds harder. “Wonwoo.”

The sound of his name rasped on your tongue makes him hot. Wonwoo could finger you like this for the rest of morning if you let him; teeth bruising your neck, cock sandwiched between your ass and his stomach, the subtle friction enough for him to cum if he didn’t need you so badly.

But you won’t have it.

You push off his grip, turning until you’re face to face for another kiss that's too dirty for the early hour; generous with affection like you’ve got all morning to cover him in it. It’s the perfect distraction as you roll the latex down his length, and plant yourself in his lap.

It’s deep. Deep enough he feels the punch in his own gut as he splits you in half. You focus on his neck after a grunt breaks the kiss, overloading his senses. A few experimental swivels of your hips force his own to rise, keeping himself as deep as possible.

Riled from your mouth, Wonwoo is already on the precipice of finishing. Even through the condom he can feel the delicious heat of your walls clamped on his cock. The trickle of your pleased sighs into his ears don’t help either.

“Fuck, fuck, shit,” Wonwoo bites.

He tries to swallow back the rush of want, focusing on getting you caught up to where he clings so desperately to sanity. Gripping your waist, hands rough enough he’ll apologize later, Wonwoo uses the leverage to fuck roughly. One hand focuses a messy rhythm across your clit.

But it's no use. Thighs rushing up, Wonwoo’s end hits before he can warn you. You scramble for purchase from the rough jerking threatening to dislodge you and in the chaos you end up pinned to his chest as he cums.

All you can do is blink. Wonwoo stares back, hair matted to his forehead, pinked skin peeking through the sweaty locks, eyes rounded with his own shock.

“Well,” you pant, rolling to the side. “That's flattering.”

The stickiness between your thighs still burns hot; unfulfilled by such a quick ending. But he’s earned it after last night. Goosebumps flicker across your body from the cool air as you stare at the ceiling and clear the morning fog from your brain.

“Sorry, I’ve nev��”

You swat at his side. “It’s okay. Promise.”

Wonwoo’s quick enough to snatch it, fingers intertwining and preventing you from poking him in the ribs again. Laying side by side, shoulder to shoulder, your eyes slip shut. You pretend to ignore the way he moves over you, flattening his body atop yours.

A kiss on your collarbone, another between your breasts. His mouth trails to your nipple, sucking until you squirm before moving to give the other one the same treatment of teeth and tongue. It barely eclipses the feeling of his thumb searching between your thighs.

He descends lower when you start shaking. Lips blazing across your stomach and hips, lazy like there’s all the time in the world. Nerves short circuiting, you arching everything he has to offer; until his mouth replaces the hand between your thighs.

It’s slower than last night. Wonwoo savors the taste of you, tracing all the parts that make your vision blur with shocking ease. You encourage him to focus in the right spots with a hand knotted in the base of his hair, thighs crushing to the sides of his face when he delivers exactly what you need.

A wiggle of his tongue on your clit distracts from the fingers sinking inside; one before he adds a second. Not as satisfying as his cock but the bend and curl with the right rhythm for your hips to buck.

He isn’t goading or punishing. None of the usual quips that accompany him between your legs spill from his mouth. When you grind up into his face he flattens his tongue and lets you; when you tell him to give you more he does, a third finger joins the mix as he sucks your clit until you cry.

“Just like that, fuck I—” you choke. “Wonwoo, please, don’t stop.” You hump his face, feet planted on the bed for more power as you pull tight across his mouth.

A last rough curl of his fingers across your walls breaks the dam. Eyes rolling back, you savor the feel of him bullying your insides until everything explodes in flashes of white. Wonwoo does right and keeps playing with you until pushed away but not before sneaking a last lick to your bundle of nerves just to watch you shake.

Wonwoo rises with a cocky smirk before dropping back into your chest. He nuzzles down into the cradle of your throat, face still wet but you don’t have half the mind to complain. You don’t have any mind at all from the wet kisses he paints into your skin.

Sleep comes easily; carried by the lull of calming breaths and the waves still flooding your system.

The second time you wake up, Wonwoo is still asleep across the bed. It makes slipping away to the bathroom for clean up easier, but your eyes continue to glance at him as you move across the room for a fresh set of clothes. His back faces you so only the mangle of hair at the crown of his skull and the broad expanse of shoulders are exposed. The memory of the morning after your first hook up plays in your mind. Embarrassment, anxiety, the rush to be anywhere but his bed.

Now it’s the lazy weight of an early orgasm and a good night’s sleep. If the afternoon wasn’t booked, you’d be sorely tempted to lay back down and sleep the day away next to him.

A fast shower wakes you enough that fatigue can’t seduce you back beneath the sheets. The first time in weeks you aren’t plagued by racing thoughts, mind blissfully empty as you wash away the remnants of a satisfying morning. You leave the bathroom dressed and prepared for the mess waiting in the rest of the apartment.

Fishing your phone out of the trail of discarded clothes from the night, you see a litany of messages waiting to greet you. But only one catches your attention.

Em: tickets for the new exhibit are at willcall! I got an extra in case lisa wanted to come

Wonwoo’s voice makes you jump. “Big plans for today?”

You watch him wince out of the corner of your eye as he rounds the corner of the hallway, dressed in the new pair of sweats you left on the corner of the bed before leaving, chest still bare.His hair is more of a mess than what you left him with, and he bounces from one foot to the other. Good to know you’re not the only one out of their depth.

Rather than stand idle, you race to keep your hands busy in an effort to fend off the awkwardness.

“Ugh, yeah.” You pop bread into the toaster. Two slices, just in case. “My friend got me tickets to this new exhibit at the museum downtown.”

He moves for his phone on the couch scrolling through messages from the evening. “Oh, cool.”

You hum agreement into your coffee cup.

The silence of the kitchen is stifling. Not ten minutes ago you curled up in bed with him but without the guise of sex there doesn’t seem to be anything tying you together. The pop of the toaster almost sends your coffee cup flying.

“It's, um, a really cool exhibit. She’s been curating it for the past two years.” You say while putting together a sham of breakfast. “It’s the first exhibit they’ve let her do solo.”

“Impressive.”

“Yeah.” You wince. “I’m gonna get dressed so…”

“Yeah.”

Mirroring last night, you shuffle to the reprieve of your bedroom. Locked in, the crumpled sheets of your bed pointedly stare at you; the scene of the crime. If you look too closely there's traces of the dip in the mattress where you both fell together.

But you won’t look because the suffocating tension in your chest is bad enough without reliving the past hour. From tangled in a lover's embrace to the inability to look each other in the eye.

You dress quickly. Warm enough to fight off the rain beginning peppering against your window and the winds that will no doubt come with it. In the mirror you still look fucked. The unmistakable glow of a morning on the right side of the bed; puffy lips, warm cheeks, and eyes glassy no matter how much you blink. There’s nothing to be done about that though so you grab your bag and return to the living room to deal with your guest.

The back of Wonwoo’s head sits over the couch. Slumped back like he’s given up in his fight against bad luck and ready to accept whatever fate the universe bestows.

“All good?” you ask, grabbing the now cooled mug.

A hand scrubs down his face, “Landlord can’t come until this evening.”

“Oh.”

“It’s fine, I’ll just go hangout at some coffee shop or whatever.”

He looks pathetic. Like last night in the hallway soaked to the bone. Unfortunately, you’ve got a soft spot for pathetic things with glasses and broad shoulders.

The words are in the air before you can bite them back. “You can come with me if you want.”

New tension fills the space. It curls around Wonwoo’s shoulders, slipping into that place in your stomach that’s suffered all morning. He turns slowly, failing to hide the shock that finds its way in the corner of his mouth.

Staring at one another, both surprised at the offer hanging in the air, it’s Wonwoo who speaks first.

“I don’t really have clothes for a museum.”

A true enough excuse. His clothes still sit in the washer from last night and the collection of wrinkled shirts and sweats sitting in the closet will get you killed; or worse, laughed at. There’s only one person who might have clothes in the apartment that would make the cut.

“Mingyu might have some clothes here. But if you’d rather not, that's fine.”

“Uh,” Wonwoo blinks. “Then sure, I’ll go.”

Abandoning the cup on the counter, you journey down the hall. Beyond the door to your room, then Amina’s and finally the last one. You step into Lisa’s room and dial her number. She picks up the call on the second ring.

“Helloooo?” She sings. Ears straining, you can hear Mingyu’s mumbling somewhere in the background.

You wade closer to the dresser on the far wall before responding. “Hey, does Mingyu have clothes here?”

After years of living together and sharing clothes, you know the first few drawers house nothing you wish to see. But rather than spend hours digging through the massive collection she’s amassed, you wait for an answer as you slide open one of the safer ones.

“Why? Are you planning to go as him for Halloween?”

Wedging the devices between your shoulder and cheek, you move to the next drawer containing more Lisa sized clothes and less Mingyu sized ones.

“Um, Wonwoo-is-here-and-needs-clothes.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Lisa pauses before screaming. “He’s there?” The volume makes you wince, dropping your phone as she continues to babble like a lunatic on the other side.

“What did you do? Rip his clothes off? I knew you were a little minx.” She hums.

“I didn’t—” you sputter. “He got locked out last night and stayed here. Did Mingyu check his phone?”

“He dropped his phone in the lake yesterday and it isn’t working. So you and Wonwoo didn’t have sex?”

Choking on the directness, you change the subject. “Anyway! Does Mingyu have clothes he can borrow or not?”

“You did! Was it on the couch? The kitchen?”

“We’re not freaks like you and your boyfriend”

“Oh so there's a ‘we’ now?” Lisa asks like a shark smelling blood.

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” she sings. “Mingyu’s clothes are in the bottom drawer.”

Shutting the current drawer and dropping on your knees, you mumble. “Thank you.”

“Have fun on your date!”

“Drown.”

“Love you too.”

The line goes dead as you dig out a pile of shirts and pants. Mingyu nearly has his name on the lease next to Lisa so it’s no surprise he’s got half his closet here. Not that you mind since the nights Mingyu stays over come with a morning of homemade breakfast and a clean kitchen. If Lisa and Mingyu ever break up you’d consider kicking her out to let him move in.

You return to the living room with a stack of options cradled in your arms.

“Here,” you say, shoving them into Wonwoo’s chest. “We’ve gotta leave in like ten minutes if we want to make it on time.”

Wonwoo emerges from the bathroom with two minutes to spare. Mingyu’s clothes are too big for him but it works. A sweater you could only describe as “meet the parents” hangs off his shoulders, tucked in at the waist. You try not to ogle but he looks good; too good considering you know what lies underneath.

“Ready?” he asks, breaking your trance.

“Yep. C’mon.”

The car ride downtown gives Wonwoo plenty of material to strike up conversation but he falls flat every time his mouth opens. Luckily, you’re more than willing to fill the silence and he’s grateful.

He tries not to dwell on the fact this feels suspiciously like a date. Not just the sequence of events but the fact when you stopped for another coffee he immediately grabbed his empty pocket for the black leather wallet still on his kitchen counter. Or how he steps ahead to hold open the door when you reach the imposing white marble building downtown.

It doesn’t matter what it all feels like because Wonwoo doesn’t date. Not for lack of interest but some things in the world don’t work out and one of them is his love life. Further proof was the pained expression on your face when you invited him here; like you would have taken back the invitation in a second if you weren’t so polite.

“So what's the exhibit again?” he asks to fill the silence of the line at will call.

Today is a busy day for the museum. Students mill about between different groups. Couples young and old mixed between families. What do you two look like to them? A couple? Two friends that have seen each other naked but can’t manage a conversation afterwards? The idea has Wonwoo increasing the distance between you.

“Ugh, ‘Love: Immortal.’ It’s—”

“A collection of love, in all its forms.” Someone announces from behind.

A woman with dark hair approaches, obviously familiar to you from the way you greet each other. Wonwoo feels a fresh wave of discomfort at the way she cuts her eyes his way and then back to yours. Surprisingly, the way you shake your head makes him deflate.

“Alright, c’mon. Lots to see.”

She drags you two to the front, flashing a smile at the security guard before walking through without hassle.

“Benefits of knowing the head curator.” She turns to Wonwoo with a spark in his eye he recognizes from his interactions with Lisa. “Who are you?”

“Wonwoo.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Em, I’m sure you’ve heard nothing about me.”

You huff dramatically but the beginnings of a smile form on your lips.

“Y/N told me you’re in charge of the exhibit.”

“Wow, so you have heard of me! I like him better than the other one already.”

You turn to ice immediately. Shoulders tense, eyes burning. Wonwoo can only assume she means Seungcheol. He knows the barest details of the break up; he didn’t bother asking for information on something that wasn’t his business. Seungcheol didn’t like Wonwoo and he can’t say he was too fond of the older man in the few instances they interacted. Mingyu’s birthday party last year was the most recent time Wonwoo saw him and the entire night he couldn’t believe no one was feeling the same exasperation at turning every story into one about himself.

At least someone seems to feel the same way.

“The exhibit?” you grit.

Em leads you through the small crowds funneling towards the main room, to a closed off wing of the museum with several signs warning “EMPLOYEES ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.” Thick blue velvet curtains obscure the room beyond the final arch but she bats them aside and ushers you two through the opening before tossing them closed once more.

Frames fill the walls, evenly spaced with meticulous precision. Photographs in black in white, large canvases full of color. Across the floor, sculptures dominate the spaces; marble, bronze, one that looks like white sand from where Wonwoo stands.

“Well, you two have fun. I have to do some finishing touches on the brochures for tomorrow's benefactor showing.”

And like that he’s alone with you again.

At least this time he has the excuse of submersing himself in art. It isn’t something he has vast knowledge of but it’ll help dull the edge he still feels in your presence.

The first sculpture looks straight out of an Italian vacation catalog. Pure marble, dramatic and imposing as it greets you two. It’s impressive; the detail, the skill. Wonwoo may not understand what he’s looking at but he can admire people blessed with the talent to create it.

Warm sunlight pours in from the sky light, painting the figures in glowing buttery gold. The woman appears to be reaching up for the winged man, desperate, wanting. Her face is hidden but the man’s is angelic and serene.

A metal card sprouts from the ground at the foot of the statue.

Antonio Canova, “Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss.”

You split to circle the statue, taking in the smooth marble from all angles. Concentration bleeds across your brows, turning them into a soft scowl. Instead of staring, Wonwoo floats to the opposite wall, coming face to face with what might as well be a painting of the way you woke him hours ago.

Two lovers, curled in the sheets, share a passionate kiss frozen in time. It hollows Wonwoo’s stomach to think someone from decades ago could paint something so familiar. Capture a moment he took for granted in a second only to have it replay in his face.

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, In Bed, The Kiss.

Whoever this Henri guy is, Wonwoo doesn’t like him.

“What do you think?” you ask from his side.

Startling from your voice, Wonwoo is at a lose for words. “It’s…nice?”

“Nice?”

Scrambling for an explanation to the lie he decides on the obvious, “Like the colors and stuff.”

“Huh.”

He can’t help but feel he’s failed some kind of test. That something greater rode on his analysis of such a stifling painting.

“It looks like that one dude— Monet?”

“That dude Monet?” You snort. “He founded the impressionist movement so you’re not too far off.”

You’re already moving on to the next area when the initial sting of disappointment wears off.

More paintings, all lovers clutching in passionate embraces dot along the walls. Some are sequenced to tell a story. Some painfully longing, others with surprisingly obvious eagerness.

Wonwoo finds you again parked in front of one of the darker canvases. Your figure shields the entire image from view but it's okay. He finds himself observing the way your head tilts to the side, like the two hooded figures are the most interesting puzzle you’ve ever faced. It pulls Wonwoo in like a magnet, he wants to see what you see. Understand what makes it so fascinating even if he doesn't get it himself.

René Magritte, The Lovers.

Suffocating is the first thing Wonwoo can think of. Unsettling, scared. A litany of descriptions he’s felt looking at the other works around the room but this one leaves him reeling. He moves on before you can ask him how he feels.

Wonwoo doesn’t understand art, but apparently it understands him.

More pieces, cacophonies of colors and textures, swirls blending scenes into dreamlike scenes. Photos of couples, man and woman, woman and woman, man and man; all wrapped in embraces or staring fondly across the expanse.

Wonwoo works the way you came and you cover all the works he’s pretended to look at. The next time you collide in front of a dark painting near the end of the exhibit hall.

Edvard Munch, The Kiss.

“What do you think?” Wonwoo asks this time.

You stare at the canvas a moment longer before responding. “It’s one of my favorites so I can’t be unbiased.”

“Promise I won’t tell anyone.”

A conspiratory smile, there and gone in a flash, makes his heart squeeze.

“Munch was supposedly pretty ambivalent to love, at least that's what some people think, but I feel like this and his other paintings show the opposite. It feels jealous? You see other people blend together seamlessly and it feels that's what he wants. If you saw Kissing by the Window I think it’d be more obvious. If you look at any of his other work you’d see he wasn’t ambivalent to anything.”

“Anything I’d know?”

“The Scream?”

“Wait, really? Like The Scream?”

“Yeah, it was a few years before he painted this but he painted couples kissing since before that.”

“Huh.”

“What do you think?”

“Now that you say that, it feels like I’m watching my friends make out at a party.”

Dual shudders wrack your bodies, no doubt picturing your roommates.

Searching for a distraction, Wonwoo approaches the last piece of the collection. A dark bronze statue; two lovers, a man and woman, sit naked, wrapped in each other's arms. The placard on the floor reads: Auguste Rodin, The Kiss (Le Baiser).

Even though there's no movement, the desire is clear. It reminds him of this morning. How you sat in his lap, twisted in his embrace while he worked you up. For the first time, Wonwoo understands art. If he had the talent to immortalize the way you glow under his hands he’d do it.

The realization leaves his ears ringing, heart beating in a flurry.

Luckily, the only thing at the end of the hall is a photobooth. The sign next to it advertises the photos are free and the museum’s social media to share the pictures. You’re already making a beeline for the curtained side when Wonwoo decides to follow.

You scoot to the far edge of the seat, assuming he’s right behind. There's just enough room for him to fit in but the heat of your side into Wonwoo makes him sweat.

“Alright so we just press this and—oh!”

A flash of bright white startles you both as the machine quickly catches both of your startled expressions. The next one also catches you both off guard and so does the next. Wonwoo barely manages to smile in the last picture.

Peeking out from the curtain, he catches the strip of film falling into the dispenser tray and collects it for you both to inspect.

Surprise captured in blurry black and white photocards. Your mouth hangs open in almost all of them. Wonwoo’s eyes are shut in three of the four. As expected the final picture is the best but that's not much given the mess of the first three.

“Oh my god, you can see up your nose.” You cackle, fingers pointing at the second picture where Wonwoo’s barely a few inches from the camera.

He can’t argue. Instead he laughs too and points out how you’re crossed eyed in the third picture. You both howl with amused delight at the collection of silly expressions. And just when it’s under control, one of you snorts and starts laughing again until you're both breathless.

“Okay, okay. Let’s do a real one now.”

Settling in, you both wiggle next to each other to get comfortable despite the lack of space. Wonwoo’s arm finds its way around your waist simply because there's nowhere else for it to go. Same for your hand on his thigh as you lean forward and press the button again.

You're still too close to the camera lens when the first picture flashes but manage to lean back in time for the second.

“Now a silly one.”

You both move at the same time, heads colliding. Wonwoo jumps back, head hitting the hardwood wall behind him. The camera flashed again while stars danced in his vision. Like something in a movie, his eyes meet yours. Humor melts into something more serious. The urge to kiss you, to feel your lips against his, not from some primitive hunger but a different sort of long he felt all morning.

“You guys found the photo booth?” Em’s voice calls from beyond the curtain.

Wonwoo tries to hide his disappointment but you mirror it clear as day before he ducks out of the booth.

After your not-date with Wonwoo, you cherish the peace soon to be shattered that evening. Your roommates integrate you when they return from their trips. Amina first, pretending she has no knowledge of the unexpected guest until Lisa arrives an hour later. Her suitcase sits forgotten at the door, diving into a good cop bad cop routine over bags of takeout.

“Okay, so you hook up the night before, go to a lovers exhibit at an art museum the next day, get lunch afterwards, and you still don’t think it's a date?” Amina asks in disbelief.

“Nope.” You pop the ‘P’ for extra emphasis while dividing the steaming take out between three plates. The events of the early morning are one of the few details you kept secret. Mostly to preserve Wonwoo’s pride but also to keep more evidence from building your roommates’ case.

Lisa chews through her noodles. “Did he think it was a date?”

“No.” Maybe. What if he did? Wonwoo didn’t say anything, didn’t attempt to hold your hand like some might on a date, didn’t flirt with you or stand too close. The only thing to suggest otherwise was the almost kiss in the photobooth that didn't really count at all. He needed to kill time before being let back in his apartment and you were sympathetic enough to help.

But the strip of film, with blurry captures of you mid-sentence and Wonwoo’s shocked face, remains a secret, tucked under a pile of books on the shelf in your room. Another moment you feel protective of. Want it to exist away from prying eyes, just between you two after what was definitely not a date in an exhibit full of romantic paintings and sculptures.

The second strip of film is with Wonwoo. You watched him from the corner of your eye as he scooped it up while you focused your attention elsewhere. Anywhere that would keep away the idiotic warmth attempting to bloom in your chest.

“Mingyu said Wonwoo wouldn’t talk about it so maybe your right.”

“How is your boyfriend just as nosey as you?” Amina asks through her own mouthful of chicken.

“Hey! Mingyu is definitely the bigger gossip in our relationship.”

“Steep competition.” You snicker, joined by your other roommate when Lisa chucks a fortune cookie.

“Anyway,” Lisa claps. “You and lover boy should figure out if you’re dating now.”

“We’re not dating."

Another week passes in a blink; the same nonsense with work, roommates, and friends. But you can’t shake the feeling something has changed between you and Wonwoo. His endearingly awkward attempt at small talk over text didn’t help. Assuring you Mingyu put him under a microscope when he got home, random drivel about his work day, even asking more about some of the artists you showed him in the other exhibits at the museum.

But you aren’t dating Wonwoo. That’s the key fact. You aren’t in a relationship and you’re both free to do whatever you want with whoever you want. It’s the mantra you repeat in your head over and over as you watch another girl flirt with him at the bar over the rim of your drink.

She’s pretty. Pretty enough you can’t find a way to fault him for entertaining her while waiting for the next round. Confident too, tossing her head back as his mouth moves to respond to her quip. Nothing he said could be that funny. But she laughs wildly nonetheless and Wonwoo eats it up. One of her hands finds his arm, claws digging into claim him for the night.

Your buzz turns to a boil, fueled by alcohol and the green-eyed monster whispering in your ear. Wonwoo came with you. Technically not a lie because you arrived together with the rest of your group after meeting at his and Mingyu’s apartment. But Wonwoo hovered near you, his hand slipping further up your bare thigh as the night progressed. The unnamed woman can do whatever she wants because Wonwoo is at the bar to get you a drink. And it’s you he’ll sit back down next to. Or that’s what you tell yourself.

The details of Wonwoo’s face are indiscernible; if he’s smiling at her awkwardly, or laughing at her jokes, or looking at her with the same hungry expression you’ve been on the receiving end of. Granted the bar is dark and bodies crush in on all sides, obscuring your view to the point you try and peer around them without shame to watch the show. But she steps closer and Wonwoo isn’t stepping away.

Rather than continue your own torture through watching the display, your drunk brain forces your body to take action. The bar gets closer as you weave between the crowd with grace or shouldering through drunk partiers who pretend not to hear you ask for space.

Just enough space remains between Wonwoo’s body and the redhead for you to slide between them.

“Hi,” you smile with false sweetness.

Wonwoo doesn’t seem shocked as he smiles back after a beat. “Hi.”

“Um, excuse you?” the woman scoffs behind you. “We were talking.”

You don’t even need to speak before Wonwoo plucks the cup full of ice and lime wedges out of your grasp, passing one of the new drinks the bartender slides his way. Once he has his own, you’re led away while whatever-her-name-is stomps her foot in the background.

The dance floor bleeds out into the rest of the club but Wonwoo wedges you both deep enough that the walls of bodies all around offer some sort of privacy. Not that anyone is paying mind to another pair crammed close together, you two are simply one in dozens.

Chest to chest, the pulse of music lulls you into blind numbness beyond the warmth of his thigh between your own. The drag of muscle against your core with each sway. Firm hands guide your hips, teasing under the edge of your top before dipping back down. Your hands are far more teasing; one knotting in his hair, pulling until you can feel the rumble in his throat where the other rakes across.

Wonwoo focuses his own taunts across your face. A kiss to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, chin, temple, ear. Everywhere you want to feel him but not where you need him. The smirk of his lips against your jaw, a cruel mock at the way your hips buck eagerly from some light petting, sends a new wave of chills down your spine.

It's nothing worse than anyone else is doing but you feel naked. More exposed when you find his mouth against your own, tongue scorching between your teeth, dragging across your own to spread you thin. All you can think about is where he’s touching you, how easily he could dip his hand up the back of your skirt and find evidence of arousal in spades.

The bass dips to something slower, vibrating deep in your bones and any concerns for the public eye dissipates with it. You don’t know the song. It doesn’t matter if you did because the motions of your hips follow Wonwoo’s until you turn around. He doesn’t miss a beat when you turn and glue your back to his chest; hard against the seat of ass with his palm spread across your stomach to keep you firm against the next grind.

Wonwoo’s hand follows the heat of your thigh up and up and up until only the short hemmed skirt stands in the way. Skin glowing under the attention, you wiggle further back into his chest until he takes the chance. Wonwoo lets the sway of the music do the work, fingertips flat to the seam of your panties providing enough friction to drive you wild.

It’s too dark to see below your shoulders, let alone for anyone else to see where his hand works, but the risk of getting caught scorches your nerves.

Hot smokey air blurs your vision when you lean back to whisper an offer too good to refuse. The bar is on the same long street as his apartment, a quick walk to fuck in the comfort of a mattress. But as your eyes slip open to tempt him, Wonwoo is already looking at something far across the club.

Following his line of sight, you find your ex-boyfriend crowded in a booth, surrounded on all sides by familiar faces who became strangers in the aftermath of the breakup. Seungcheol isn’t looking at you because he’s in deep with some blonde; arm around her shoulder and chin tipped back. The same moves he used to get you.

But Seungcheol can’t be here because he’s halfway across the country. He wasn’t coming back. That’s what he said. He wasn’t coming back yet he’s sitting less than fifty feet away.

Your eyes finally manage to work again, scanning the others at the table and finding his best friend. Of course he’d come back for Jeonghan’s birthday.

It’s Jeonghan who looks at you first, not Seungcheol. His eyes drag above your head, where he must spot Wonwoo’s face given the way he fails to conceal a second of shock before looking away. Jeonghan leans towards Seungcheol’s ear and you don’t stay to guess what he’s saying.

The bar is too crowded, the music too loud. Too many people jostling you side to side while you navigate towards the hallway leading towards the bathroom. It’s dark, a few couples pressed against the walls; some chatting, others… reenacting what’s happening on the dancefloor.

Thankfully the bathroom is empty. After locking the door, you catch a glimpse in the mirror. Skin flushed with sweat, hands trembling, and heart racing. How much is due to dancing after a few rounds and what can be attributed to the anxiety of an unexpected run in with your ex is unclear. The coolness of a wet paper towel against your skin helps wash away some of the mess.

Pacing in a tight circle, you burn a rut into the floor.

You won’t be upset. You won’t. You aren’t. Whatever you had with Seungcheol is long over. Thoughts of him, rose colored memories, were nothing but the past. They didn’t bring the same misery as before, the longing to have him back or for a different reality. But your body refuses to have the same reaction now that he’s back in orbit.

A firm knock against the door startles you.

“Um– someone’s in here.”

“It’s me.”

Not Lisa. Not Amina. You unlock the door to find Wonwoo peering back. His eyes widen behind the frames of his glass as he eyes your state in the new lighting.

“Sorry, I’m—” you sniffle, cut off by the comfort of Wonwoo’s chest.

It’s awkward, arms pinned under his own and your nose jammed against his collar bone. You’ve never hugged Wonwoo, or seen him hug anyone else for that matter. But he’s trying.

The rhythm of his heart calms your own. On instinct, your arms circle the narrow part of his waist, melting into the weight of his hold. All the worries dull around the edges, softened with Wonwoo here; his face pressed into the crown of your head.

“Wanna leave?” he asks.

Nodding into his collar bone, you inhale the smell of his cologne. Sweat and beer and smoke from the bar also seep in but you hold tight anyway; cling to the comfort of his scent until you feel lighter.

Another knock at the door breaks you apart, but Wonwoo keeps you close with a squeeze.

“Occupied,” Wonwoo responds.

You imagine what the person beyond the door will think when you exit. Eyes glazed, shirts wrinkled, even Wonwoo’s hair is a mess from your fingers constant tugging earlier. Maybe you’d care less if the night wasn’t interrupted unexpectedly. But now you just want to run home and sleep.

This time when you step away, Wonwoo lets you. “Good?”

“Better,” you respond.

Ushering you out the door, you quickly find the person who knocked.

Seungcheol leans against the far wall, arms crossed in front of his chest. The massive silver watch he insisted on wearing staring you down. He looks exactly the same as the day he left albeit more inebriated. Face tinged pink, shirt wrinkled at the collar. The light pouring out from the bathroom highlights the smudge of lipstick on his throat.

And he’s staring Wonwoo down like he wants a fight.

He quirks an eyebrow. “So this is what you’ve been up to?”

The ability to speak evades you. What’s there to say? The first words you hear from him in months and the situation doesn’t paint a friendly light.

“Ya’ know, she let me fuck her in there too.”

Wonwoo stiffs at your back. It’s a half truth. Seungcheol wouldn’t fuck you in the bathroom after you asked but he left you suck him off. You don’t argue. The details won’t make you look any better. You doubt Wonwoo wants to hear it. Not after being so close to fingering you on the dance floor for everyone to see.

It’s embarrassing. You heat in the face once again but ignore the bait. Instead, you snag Wonwoo’s hand and pull him away. He fights for a second, a hesitant tug backwards while he sizes up the older man. If they want to fight, you aren’t going to play witness.

Wonwoo stays as you leave. Down the hallway, past the bar, and out the exit as quick as you came. Only the bouncer stands outside the bar in the chilly night, bidding you farewell as you follow the sidewalk home.

The cold sobers up whatever alcohol remains in your system before freezing you down to your bones. Rain lingers in the air, on the edge of falling so you pick up the pace. It’s a long walk but not an unwelcome one. Plenty of people fill the streets, pouring in and out from other bars or restaurants open to the late night crowd. Hopefully they’ve all had a better night than you.

A crack of thunder announces the sky’s descent. Fat raindrops soak you to the bone before you can dodge under an awning. Everyone scatters like ants, swarming for any safe haven available. Puddles the size of swimming pools flood the sidewalk; cars rip up waves to douse the unfortunate souls close to the curb.

It’s the kind of rain where the clouds fall all at once. Waves of thunder split in half from bolts of lightning. Raindrops bounce from the ground, sent sideways by the wind to soak your shoes. The pounding sound deafens everything else but not the embarrassment clouding around. All you want to do is get home, lie down, and forget everything in a tub of ice cream.

You thought you wouldn’t care about seeing Seungcheol after your break. Sure the brief shock would settle in but after that there wouldn’t be anything else. No hard feelings, no feelings at all. But the reality of these things is always worse than the way they play out in your head.

Seungcheol with a new girl like he’s done it a million times since your break up. Seungcheol wrapped in someone else’s arms, covered in someone else’s lipstick, without a glance your direction.

The more you think, the more you realize it isn’t seeing Seungcheol that freaked you out. Because you’ve been hanging around Wonwoo, spending nights wrapped in his arms, almost kissing him without the excuse of sex afterwards.

It’s having Wonwoo there to witness Seungcheol acting like an asshole. That he practically called you a slut to Wonwoo’s face, treating you like some object in their weird dislike for each other. It’s also the embarrassment that you dated Seungcheol to begin with. And how before you spotted Seungcheol you didn’t care about anything beyond where your body ended and Wonwoo’s began. All you wanted was to spend the night with him.

“Here,” a familiar voice rumbles next to you.

Wonwoo forces his jacket around your shoulders. Too tempted by the warm dryness, you accept without objection. The comforting scent of his cologne tickles your nose and you fit the urge to press into the collar for more. Instead you pull it tighter around your frame and watch the storm rage on.

“My place is on the next block.” Wonwoo says. “You can wait there until the rain stops.”

This time when you grab his hand, Wonwoo follows.

What Seungcheol said, what he implied, boiled Wonwoo’s blood. It wasn’t his business. It wasn’t anyone’s business. Maybe Wonwoo was jealous of what Seungcheol said, the power he still clearly had on you.

He hated that after you walked away Seungcheol’s eyes followed you down the hallway; the cocky expression on his face say ‘I won’ like you were a pawn in some fucked up game. In a way, Seungcheol had won. You scurried away like like being around Wonwoo was some sort of crime, leaving him to face the older man.

Wonwoo hadn’t take the bait. He was more concerned about where you’d end up in such a frazzled state that he only hesitated for a second rather than beating the crap out of your ex.

But right now, instead of dwelling on those unwanted feelings, Wonwoo focuses on not freezing to death in the storm. He sprints alongside you, kicking up more water that only serves to soak you both further. You take turns pulling each other under awnings and into doorways. A car passes by and sends a wave that splashes him in the face, knocking his glasses askew.

One glance at your face, shock pulling his features wide, sends you into a fit.

Hands on your knees, you keel over in laughter. Shoulders shaking, belly clenched cackling that confuses Wonwoo more than anything else tonight. More and more rain falls around you as you hunch over to catch your breath, only to choke on more shrill giggles.

Wonwoo starts shakes too. From the cold mostly. But then his head kicks back and he laughs at the ridiculousness with you. At the way you sway on unsteady feet, unable to breathe. At the utter insanity of the night you’ve shared together.

You fall into his arms, propping each other up the remaining distance to his apartment. Occasionally chirps break through; Wonwoo collapses, pulling you with him or vice versa teetering back and forth like a pair of drunk fools.

The metal of his front door is familiar once again but Wonwoo cages you against with new warmth in his chest. He could kiss you. He wants to kiss you, but he also want to stand here and laugh like kids sharing some silly secret for hours.

Settling for a quick peck against your chin, Wonwoo smiles again as your lips chase him. It squeezes something deep in his chest until it hurts. The corners of your own mouth strain along with his, warm pain because Wonwoo thinks he might like you.

More than a hookup. More than some casual fling that will dissolve in the next few months. Wonwoo likes you.

As he opens the door, ushering you inside and pulling off your soaked top, he really hopes you like him too.

Taglist: @tomodachiii @cvpidyunho @miniseokminnies @ddaengpotate @arycutie @gaebestie @primoppang @gyuguys @mine-gyu @doremifasire @missminhoe @toplinehyunjin @crvs4vldtn @prettygyuuu @lovelyhachi @sliceofwoozi @dokyeomkyeom @cheolism

Series Taglist: @aaniag @sdoulc @wonvsmile @jeonwonwooscutie @wonrangwoo @winterbeartaehyungbestboy @yogurttea @4cheezflatbred @fragmentof-indifference @p-dwiddle @icedearlgreytea @cottoncheol @hoshiskimchi @listxn @kwonshiho @kyeomofhearts @beananacake

#ksmutsociety #kvanity #svthub #jeon wonwoo #jeon wonwoo smut #wonwoo #wonwoo smut #seventeen smut #wonwoo x reader #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #svt fanfic #svt smut #🫡 highvern

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frostbitebakery · 2 months

Text

LOUD.

part one two three four five six seven eight nine

“You’ve got something there,” Quin says, gesturing vaguely at his own shoulder.

“I’m aware,” Obi-Wan signs. “It’s some sort of monkey lizard fungus.”

The monkey lizard fungus giggles into his shoulder.

Quin nods grimly. “I heard the only cure is to placate it with sweets and hope for the best.”

Anakin precariously leans over, heels accidentally digging into still bruised ribs.

Obi-Wan bites his lips behind the collar but of course Quin immediately detects his movements turning stiff.

Quin holds out an arm, flexing his bicep with wiggling eyebrows. It has the desired effect and Anakin jumps from Obi-Wan, swinging around the elbow before hooking his knees over Quin’s arm.

“He’s heavier than he looks,” Quin strains out.

They walk to one of the mess halls that’s open around the clock and mainly offers food and beverages to those clinging with teeth to their sanity during exam season.

One of the cramming Padawans looks up from their dozen holo books displaying graphs, and squints at them. “Master Vos, there’s something growing out of your arm?”

“Monkey lizard fungus,” Obi-Wan signs, hiding a smile behind his collar at the Padawan nodding to themselves as if that makes perfect sense.

“What’s with them?” Anakin asks, looking at the sleep deprived tableau and hoisting himself up and swinging one leg over Quin’s shoulder.

“This is your future,” Quin says gravely and Obi-Wan is catapulted to melting stone fire Darkness “You were supposed to be my Master!” yellow familiar eyes from a smoking alive corpse and the grief is ripping him apart “—see once you take your first assignments. The only places you’ll be is either here or the Archives.”

It’s been years since he last had a vision. It’s staggering, his heart thumping in his chest like a clock ticking down the inevitable countdown. But it’s not.

He looks over to Anakin who’s already watching back with wide eyes, the fear in his hands gripping onto Quinlan. “I won’t let it come to that,” he promises, fingers thudding together heavily but he’s still shaking off the vision and Anakin’s fear is a taste in the air by now. He can’t not make promises he only hopes he can keep.

Quinlan is silent during their exchange, gloved hands keeping hold of Anakin. The calculating look in his eyes a guarantee Obi-Wan is going to get cornered later.

“Do you like Depa being your Master?”

Let it be said, paranoia is a common infliction amongst Shadows.

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin sighs, voice breaking with puberty and annoyance. “Depa is wizard. She’s amazing even though she’s signed me up to all these classes.”

Obi-Wan looks over all the models, plans, and concepts with added calculations. There’s a data pad displaying language modules and another proclaiming the joys of agriculture. “It’s almost all in the engineering field,” he signs.

“Which makes her so wizard. You’d never have me taking up gardening though,” Anakin adds sullenly.

Don’t yearn for things I cannot give you, Obi-Wan has thought a lot in the past few years as the Galaxy seems to slowly steep in Darkness.

“Knowing what can poison you is important,” he signs, feeling restless and helpless. The mission he’s finished two cycles ago may still reside in his bones.

“I’ll just bite back,” Anakin says, tongue sticking out as he connects wires to ports. He presses a button and the thing he’s been tinkering with since before Obi-Wan left starts to purr smoothly. “Now she can even juice cocadooms,” he says, satisfaction purring just as smoothly in his voice.

“Well done.”

“I know,” Anakin responds airily and swivels around to face Obi-Wan fully. “You’re lurking in the shadows again so let’s get this tradition over with: Depa is an awesome Master and maybe I sometimes wish you’d have chosen me but,” he adds loudly when Obi-Wan lifts his hands to protest, “I also sometimes daydream Master Tiin had chosen me because he’s got his own modded Delta-7.”

The paranoia settles down as Anakin waxes over how wicked the new wing box skins and sensor fusions are, no, truly, you should see them, Obi-Wan!

#loud au #jedi shadow!obi wan #mute!obi wan #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #star wars #star wars au #my art #frostbitebakery art

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kitten4sannie · 3 months

Text

ᴡɪɴɢꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴏʀɴꜱ

ᴄᴏʀʀᴜᴘᴛɪᴏɴ/ᴄʀᴇᴀᴍᴘɪᴇ ➠ ʜᴏɴɢᴊᴏᴏɴɢ

pairing: demon lord! hongjoong x angel! reader (fem) feat. angel superior! seonghwa

genre: angel/demon au, smut

summary: you are sent to the fourth circle of hell to deliver a message to the demon lord that resides there. he has something to deliver to you in return.

w.c: 3.4k

warnings: sacrilegious vibes, dom! hongjoong, bratty sub! reader, praise/degradation, a lot of angel/demon stuff, voyeurism/exhibitionism, manhandling, brief choking, brief spit play, anal, unprotected doggy style, angel wings as an erogenous zone, creampie

a/n: so ik this is feb filth fest and filth is expected but this one right hereeee is just wrong on so many levels lol. also i do plan on making a sequel for this where joong and reader put angel hwa in his place ^^ but for now i hope you enjoy you sinners~ also be warned that the song rec is a tiny bit heavy hehe aside from it being from one of my fave bands i just felt like that song really fit the fic <3

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ᴅɪᴀᴍᴏɴᴅ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ʙʏ ᴅᴇꜰᴛᴏɴᴇꜱ

0:01 ❍─────── 4:28

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ᴘʀᴇᴠ | ꜰꜰꜰ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ | ɴᴇxᴛ

“Deliver this to Lord Hongjoong,” your superior Seonghwa ordered, holding out a tightly-wrapped scroll inside his golden talons and dropping it into your open palms. “He’s in the fourth circle.”

“As you wish, Master Park.” Swallowing what felt like sand down your dry throat, you placed the scroll into your messenger bag and closed it, the corners of your lips twitching slightly.

“Nervous, are we?” The high-ranking angel folded his arms across his bare chest, your eyes focusing on the glowing sigils etched into his skin, a wave of jealousy blinding you for a split second.

“Nervous? Why would I be nervous?” you replied hastily, your feathered wings lowering slightly.

Seonghwa tilted his head to the side, eyeing you up and down as though he already knew your thoughts and motivations. “Lord Hongjoong is captivated by greed, as you know. He’s fond of excess…self-indulgence…” He lowered one talon to run it along your jaw, making you wince. “He can be very tempting in that aspect. Will you be able to resist?”

Not knowing the answer yourself, you decided to respond to him with another question, “Is this some sort of test?”

He clutched your jaw on either side, lowering himself down so that he could study you closely with his piercing blue eyes. “If you want to move up, you’ll have to show me that you can resist the sins that the flesh yearns for.” One of his talons scraped down along your neck to your breast bone, lightly enough to make you shiver. “Can you do that for me, Miss Y/N?”

Feeling like you were already being tempted by your angelic superior, you did your best to force those conflicting emotions down, nodding your head as adamantly as you could and replying in a stern voice, “Yes, Master Park.”

He gave you a small smirk, before letting go of you and turning around, his large, extravagant wings folding inwards and concealing most of his elegant frame. “Good. Now go.”

࿏࿏࿏

By the time you had made your way past the third circle of hell and were finally entering the dark, hellish terrain of the fourth, you had felt a few waves of heat and pressure infiltrate your mind and body. It succeeded in making you feel heavier, as though you were underwater, forcing you to continue your journey on foot, rather than using your wings.

Gracefully stepping into the dark, bubbling pool of water that surrounded Lord Hongjoong’s domain, you rolled your eyes when a few small demons began to grab and scratch at your ankles. You huffed, feeling out of breath, but continued to wade through the abyss, a small smirk on your flushed face. “Pathetic.”

They continued their pursuit to frighten you, pulling and tugging at the wispy material hanging from your dress, making feeble attempts to drag you underneath. “You’re going to have to try harder than that,” you spat, holding up the damp folds of your skirt and wading through the deeper water, the large iron throne of the demon lord now in plain view.

Hongjoong sat with his legs spread open, one hand resting against his chin, his bare, tattoo-covered body on full display, a woven crown of spiraling black thorns sitting comfortably on the top of his head. His crimson eyes glowed against the darkness of the vast cavern, watching you struggling to reach him, his face remaining neutral.

You eventually made it to the deepest section of the water, the throne area sitting high above you, forcing you to angle your head upwards, the ends of your hair dipping into the black abyss below.

“What brings you here, angel?” the Demon Lord questioned, uttering the last word as though it were an insult, his commanding voice permeating all the way from his throne down to your pointed ears.

“I come with a message from Lord Park.”

He sat up from his relaxed position, leaning forward and resting his darkened, soot-covered hands in between his muscular thighs. “A message, hm? How trivial must it be if he couldn’t even bother to give it to me himself?”

“I don’t know. I just do as I’m told.” You swatted some of the smaller demons away from you, having to use more force when a few of the bigger ones began pulling at your hair and your thin clothes, threatening to strip you right then and there.

“Mm, of course you do.” Studying the way your dress clung desperately to your untarnished, glistening skin, he continued, his voice dripping with sin, “Why would he send such a delicious-looking follower to me all on her own with no one to protect her? It’s like you’re begging me to devour you.”

“I can protect myself, demon,” you growled, shoving another cackling creature away from you, unable to keep it from shredding the lower half of your dress with one quick swipe of its claws, exposing your thighs.

Hongjoong licked his lips, emitting a low chuckle, now finding your presence to be quite entertaining. “But you can’t seem to protect your precious garments. Weren’t they sewn by Lord Seonghwa himself? He won’t be very happy to see you in such an indecent state.”

“He’ll understand knowing I had to travel to such a filthy, unforgivable place,” you panted, about to continue describing how awful Hongjoong’s residence was when two of his demonic followers began tugging on both of your wings, causing you to let out an involuntary cry of pain mixed with pleasure. Meanwhile, another eager demon sent his claws down the front of your uniform, leaving it in ribbons.

“I do apologize for my pets. They always get excited when we have a guest, especially when it’s a pretty little angel.” Hongjoong couldn’t help but admire how vulnerable you were beginning to appear before him, taking great pleasure in the way you didn’t seem to give up, despite clearly being worn down.

“If I had permission from my Master, they would all be eradicated from my sight,” you threatened, forcefully ripping yourself free from the demons, a few of your feathers floating away into the dark water.

“You’re so frightening, little one. I almost let out a scream of terror,” he said flatly, rolling his eyes at you. Hongjoong tapped his sharpened nails against his knee, holding his other hand down in your direction, a demonic sigil etched into the palm of his hand. “Come on up here and deliver the message before I fall asleep out of boredom.”

Grumbling, you began pulling yourself out of the heavy water, grabbing onto the sharper edges of the rocky wall and slowly bringing yourself up to where he sat, your drenched wings threatening to send you back down into the clutches of the creatures that were whispering and snickering to each other below.

Once you stood before the Demon Lord, your chest heaving from how much energy you had to exert just to get to that point, you pulled the scroll from your bag and tossed it into his lap.

“Hope you weren’t too fond of your clothes,” Hongjoong mused, untying the scroll and scanning through it, while motioning to your dress with his free hand, just in time for it to begin peeling away from your dripping body and pooling around your feet.

Immediately filled with a sense of guilt and shame, you fell to your knees, hunching forward and covering your body to the best of your ability. “This only happened because your lecherous pets wouldn’t leave me be,” you hissed, glaring up at the Demon Lord that now stood above you, the mere sight of his cock hanging in between his legs making you feel faint. “Don’t you know that humiliating an angel is a capital offense? You could be–”

“Oh, sweetheart…” Hongjoong crouched down, running his fingers through your damp, tangled hair, his lips curling into a pompous smirk. “I can’t be punished for doing that to someone who’s no longer welcome inside the Kingdom of Heaven. You should really read these messages before you deliver them.”

The intense pressure you had been feeling for the past couple hours bubbled up to the surface, showing up as an unbridled rage that you didn’t even realize you were capable of expressing. “You dirty, filth-ridden pest! You think you can open your wicked mouth and spout some nonsense such as–”

Hongjoong grabbed you by the throat before you could finish, standing up and lifting you up in the process with one hand, his fingers squeezing around your delicate neck, using the other hand to show you what your Master had written on the scroll.

“No…” you mumbled, staring down at the scroll, almost unable to accept your fate. The message was clear: Lord Seonghwa wanted you to stay in the fourth circle where you supposedly belonged, as he was afraid of your inevitable betrayal.

How could he have known about your wishes when you never made them known to him? To anyone? You were so careful, so precise with your actions, so willing to do everything your Master asked of you, no matter how difficult. And this was the thanks you get? Banished to hell without a single goodbye?

“It’s not quite over yet, angel.” His blood red eyes bored into your half-closed ones, looking past them and gazing straight into your soul. “I can help you get your revenge. I may not like angels, but I loathe pretentious, high-ranking ones like Lord Seonghwa.” Hongjoong pulled you in closer, his hot breath hitting the bottom of your chin, a bit of drool escaping his plush lips. “Seduce him and take him down with you. That would give you immense pleasure, wouldn’t it? All you need to do is lend me your body.”

“You…you’re…a liar…” you choked out, grasping at his hand, your dripping wings beginning to tremble behind you. “Why…would you do that…for me?”

“It’s not for you,” he sneered, baring his sharpened canines, slowly lowering you back down to the ground, his fingers still clutching your neck. “I’m a lot of things, angel. Greedy, insatiable, consumed with desire, but…a liar is not one of them. I simply want to cause as much destruction as I can.”

Ignoring the angelic voices inside your head telling you to resist, you did the opposite, instead giving Hongjoong what he wanted. And what you wanted as well. “Very well…Lend me your power. I want as much as you can give me. My Master won’t go down easy.”

“So greedy.” Giving you a proud smile, the Demon Lord released your neck, the sigil on his hand now imprinted on your skin, though you couldn’t see it yourself. “I’ll give you everything you need, angel. But first, you must get on your hands and knees, and spread yourself open for me.”

Despite your instinct to spit in Hongjoong’s face and curse him, your profound need for power and revenge far outweighed your desire to piss him off. You did as he said, slowly lowering yourself to the ground and bending over, resting your hands down on the ground and spreading your knees apart, biting into your lip, knowing your angelic ancestors were rolling in their celestial graves. “Be quick, demon.”

Hongjoong got down onto his knees behind you, his cock standing at full attention from the sight of a haughty angel offering herself to him. “I’m the one who has what you desire, angel, so I will go at whatever pace that pleases me the most.”

“Then get on with it.” You rolled your eyes, knowing he couldn’t see you, about to say something snarky when the demon ran his heated hands up and down the curves of your waist, only stopping when he held them just above your ass.

With his hands cemented around your waist, Hongjoong slowly pushed himself into you, inch by inch until his hips were flush with yours, groaning so incredibly loud that his voice echoed throughout the large cavern. “Fuck, there’s nothing better than filling up an angelic virgin cunt like yours…”

“I’m…not…a virgin…” you struggled to inform the demon, gritting your teeth from how incredibly full you felt inside, your inner walls barely able to take his girth and size.

“Oh?” Hongjoong squeezed the supple flesh of your hips and ass, the pact on his hands leaving a pleasant burn wherever he touched you. “So angels suck and fuck each other too, eh? This is news to me.”

“You make it sound disgusting, demon. We conduct rituals that are ordained by God herself,” you huffed, glaring back at him with a fire in your eyes. “It’s a holy union used to connect our souls, to link our hearts.”

Hongjoong’s thrusts were quick, sloppy, but he made sure to fill you up completely every time he entered you, his cock heavy and almost hot inside your cunt, making you feel like you could melt. “So what are you doing now with me? Are we linking our souls, angel?” He snorted, sinking his fingers into your ass. “Because I think I’m just fucking you for the fun of it. And I think you like it, judging from that drool that’s falling from your pretty lips.”

You turned away from him, instead facing a few demons that had gathered around you, not having enough energy to care that they were pleasuring themselves to the sight of an angel taking the cock of a demon. “I’m not…drooling…” you exhaled out, your body completely relaxing into Hongjoong’s, just letting him use you to his black heart’s content.

Hongjoong let out a deep chuckle, hunching over slightly and speeding up his movements, the sound of your skin slapping together and your combined moans pleasing him and the demons around you both. “Liar. You’re not much of an angel, are you? All you’ve done is sin nonstop since you’ve visited my residence. Maybe you do belong down here with me.”

You grasped at the rough terrain below you, knowing it was going to scrape up your knees from how hard Hongjoong was pounding into you. “I’m-uuunh-doing this to bring-aaah-Lord Park down with me, demon. Don’t you forget..!”

“Is that so? You’re not also doing this for pleasure?” He ran a single finger along the edge of one of your wings, hearing you let out a small gasp.

“N-no, I don’t believe in losing yourself to earthly pleasures,” you lied straight through your teeth, gasping again once you felt the displeasure of suddenly being empty, your cunt clenching around nothing.

“Well, I do.” Hongjoong simply chuckled, spreading your ass open with his talons and sending a few wads of spit into your other hole, gaining the approval of the demons that surrounded you.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” you called out from below, turning your head back to look at him with disgust.

“I’m simply having you in every way an angel deserves to be had…desecrating you in the way you deserve,” Hongjoong sighed out, reaching down to grab your wrists and hold them behind you, leaving you in a position that left you no choice but to take the Demon Lord’s pulsing cock inside your ass.

“Oh my god, you foul beast. No one’s ever-nnngh-done such a thing to me,” you panted heavily, being filled up somewhere other than your sacred center, in a place that wasn’t supposed to elicit any pleasure whatsoever. The feeling of your ass being filled up to the very brim sent waves of pure arousal through your holy form, making you wonder if you’ve always been tainted if you were enjoying such a filthy thing. You gazed hazily at the demons around you past your wet strands of hair, their noises of animalistic enthusiasm only growing louder as Hongjoong began to pound into your ass harder than before, his cock slipping in and out with ease, your body shuddering underneath his.

“Look at you, taking my demon cock in your tight virgin ass like this,” Hongjoong mused, mostly to himself, letting go of your wrists to grab back onto your wings, making you cry out in a bout of sudden pleasure. “Mmm, my sweet angel, if you admit it feels good to be fucked raw, to be taken like this in front of a demonic audience, to be owned by a Demon Lord, I’ll make you cum harder than you ever have during any of your silly little angelic rituals.”

What have you got to lose? Your pride? Your innocence? Your holiness? Sure, those things were important to you, but it was a little too late to salvage them. You wanted revenge and you were willing to do anything for it. Even if that meant getting on your hands and knees, surrounded by filthy creatures, and taking demon cock in the fourth circle of hell.

“It feels…so good…it’s unholy, so filthy…and I…I love it…” you panted out in between hoarse moans, a few beads of sweat cascading down your spine to the small of your arched back, coming to realize that you had begun to fuck yourself back onto Hongjoong’s cock, desperate for your release.

Hongjoong found great satisfaction in your submission, eagerly placing his hands on the bend of your wings, slowly running them down the thickest part of it to the thinnest, repeating this action when he heard how whiny you began to sound. “Mm, you’re so sensitive…”

“Pull them, please…” you practically begged, digging your fingers into the ground, almost smacking Hongjoong in the face with your wings when they spread out.

The demon gripped the thicker section of your wings and tugged them in an outwards motion, still drilling himself into you at the same time, panting too heavily to let out a proper laugh of satisfaction. “Let’s see, is the pretty angel going to cum from having her wings tugged on or because of the fat demon cock that’s stuffed inside her angelic little cunt?”

“Haaaah…both…” You were practically losing your sanity at this point, so caught up in the inescapable heaviness and lust in the air that you couldn’t bring yourself to stop driving yourself back onto his stiff cock. “Give me more…I’m so close…!”

“As you wish.” Hongjoong grabbed onto both of your wings at the base near your shoulder blades, holding them like handlebars, suddenly pulling out from your ass and thrusting back into your cunt, so deep and so hard that your arousal began squirting onto his cock, the clear liquid dripping down your inner thighs. “Such a slutty little angel, cumming so hard for a filthy demon like me…”

You could barely breathe, huffing and puffing on the ground, covered in sweat, your ass still up in the air, knowing Hongjoong was about to cum too from the way he was groaning and holding you still. “Don’t cum inside me…That’s reserved for higher ups only…”

“Too late,” he grunted, gripping your wings so hard that he ripped a few feathers out, pumping his cum into you, clearly delighted by your soft cries of pain and pleasure. “It doesn’t really matter anymore now, does it? You’re not welcome back up there, so it’s better that your guts are painted white with my seed.”

You shuddered, already feeling the demon’s load dripping down your slit, making you grit your teeth. “As long as I can stay up there long enough to seduce my Master, I’ll be fine...” You eventually stood up, your thighs trembling, your face flushed beyond measure, still dripping sweat. “So will you give me your power now…?”

Pleased with the sight of his cum dripping from in between your thighs and the sigil glowing on your neck, he stood up and put his hands on your shoulders, the sickening smirk returning to his prince-like face. “You already have it. You had it as soon as I wrapped my hand around your pretty little neck earlier.”

If you had any more energy to exert, you would’ve made an attempt to shove him over the edge of his throne and into the murky water below, but you simply stood there, your wings raising up slightly out of anger. “So you fucked me and filled me with your filthy seed for nothing?”

Hongjoong shook his head, clicking his forked tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Not for nothing, silly angel. For pleasure.” He raised a hand to caress your jaw, angling your face up to look deep into his eyes, appreciating how your own gold ones lost their color and instead were as dark and empty as his soul. It almost brought a tear to his eye. “And you enjoyed it too, begging for me to grab and pull at your wings the way you did, you naughty thing.”

You raised your own hand up, grabbing him by the jaw, surprising him and yourself with your sudden bout of strength and dominance. “If you don’t help me desecrate Lord Seonghwa, demon,” you began slowly, through gritted teeth, using your other hand to grasp at Hongjoong’s crown of thorns, not caring that the sharpened edges pricked into your fingers. “I’ll have no problem with taking this crown off and using it on you as a nice cock ring instead. Am I clear?”

Hongjoong couldn’t have been harder than in that moment, having corrupted and turned an angel into something that was able to frighten even himself, the Demon Lord of the Fourth Circle. Chuckling, he caressed your cheek lovingly, giving you a fond smile complete with sharp, jagged teeth. “Crystal clear.”

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cabin-3-counselor · 7 months

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based on this post i came up with the headcanon that sally's pearl was not only a gift from poseidon but a last offer too, he respected her wishes for him to stay away, for her to be able to raise percy in normalcy, but if something ever happened that she needed his interference she should use the pearl, crush it/hold it/whatever, and he would show up and help them

#pjo #percy jackson #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo fandom #percy pjo #sally jackson #poseidon pjo #posally #poseidon is still waiting for her #i know it #i can feel his yearning in my bones #pjo series #pjo show #nycc 2023

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honeyedmiller · 3 months

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An Ode to Forever | Joel Miller

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+, minors dni.

warnings: mostly pwp, sex in a bathtub with lots of feelings, fluff, tenderness, they’re both so sickeningly in love, smut (vaginal fingering, unprotected piv, joel is handsy af, some butt stuff [lol]), light alcohol consumption, sort of erotic food consumption(not really tho???), use of daddy twice in this (idk what came over me), joel doesn’t have kids in this, no use of y/n.

word count: 3.2k

synopsis: after an arduous day, joel draws a bath to help you both relax.

an ode to how much you love joel miller, and he, you.

a/n: this is a lil valentine’s day one shot i wanted to put out. slowly getting my writing juju back. this is also a follower milestone celebration. thank you to everyone who supports my work. love you all <3

divider by @saradika-graphics

It’d been a rough day.

A day where bones ached, minds were exhausted and all that was yearned for was to be home with each other.

You’d texted Joel that you were stopping off at the store to get some wine because hell, you needed to relax. He instantly texted you back to be safe and that he loves you.

He loves you, he loves you, he loves you.

A true love like this is something you’d never in a million years think you’d ever have to yourself. Someone who cares so much. Someone you can cherish. A love that was all your own. You were so wrapped up in the bliss of Joel Miller, and he, you.

It was the kind of love that was terrifying and beautiful and gut wrenching and so fucking rare. A love that made you feel like you were floating in the clouds, euphoria pumping through your veins every time you looked at him. The kind of love that was a forever thing. Something you never, ever thought you’d have.

He loves you, he loves you, he loves you.

The lights were off when you got home. You call out his name, hanging your keys on your designated hook before toeing off your pumps.

“Up here.” He calls back, voice cascading down the stairs. You make your way up and into the bedroom, setting your work bag down before you look around in confusion.

“Joel?” You call out, and his broad frame emerges from the bathroom.

“Hey baby.” He says. You smile softly at the sight of him, body visibly relaxing in his presence. Joel notices and the corner of his mouth twitches upward into a smile.

“Hi.” Your voice is as soft as your expression, allowing him to envelope the whole of your being into his strong, warm arms. He kisses your temple before gently taking the pinot grigio out of your hands, humming at your wine choice.

“Take your work clothes off and meet me in the bathroom.” He gives your forehead a kiss before disappearing again. You cock your eyebrow in confusion, but oblige to his request anyhow. You strip off your clothes, leaving your body clad in just your bra and underwear. The plush carpet beneath your bare feet feels heavenly after a day of wearing those pumps for work.

The cold tile of the bathroom sends a chill up your spine, but you ignore the sensation when you take in all that’s in front of you—a bubble bath with rose petals scattered atop, candles lit on the side of the tub, and a small tray of chocolate covered strawberries waiting to be devoured. Wine glasses filled with two cubes of ice each sit perfectly next to the strawberries, along with the pinot grigio.

You feel the sting of tears immediately. Your eyes move over to Joel, who’s standing with his hands behind his back and a boyish grin adorning his handsome face.

“What—what’s this?” Your voice is meek, eyes glossy and bottom lip slightly trembling.

“I know we won’t get that much time to ourselves on Valentine’s Day, so I thought we’d celebrate a little early. Y‘know, a nice way to relax after a tough day.”

“Joel, honey, this is perfect.”

“Yeah? You like it?”

You turn to face him fully. “I love it. And I love you.” You close the distance between the both of you, pulling him in for a tender kiss. He hums against your lips, enveloping your body into his arms. He slides his hands down to your ass, giving it a playful tap.

He unravels his arms from you before taking a small step back, shucking off his shirt and his pants. He looks at you as you watch him, desire for him pooling your eyes. A glint of fascination crosses his gaze as he studies you studying him.

“One more thing.” Joel says before stepping out of the bathroom. A minute later, soft tunes of Frank Sinatra wafted throughout the bedroom and into the bathroom. He comes back in with a smile on his face as he grabs your hand and twirls you before kissing you. You couldn’t help but smile against him.

He pulls down his underwear and climbs into the tub, groaning at the warm water against his achy bones.

“C’mere, sweet girl.” He nudges his head, holding his hand out to you. You smile and remove your bra and underwear, climbing into the tub with him. The warm water eased the tension that was left in your body, rolling off your shoulders and dissipating into the aroma of scented bubbles. Lavender, you think.

Joel pulls you back against his body, warm and inviting as you lean on him and close your eyes. You sit like that for a minute—still, calm, and silent. It’s what you both needed. Days like this could be more than overstimulating, and Joel knew that. You both basked in the fact that you could sit in silence in each other’s presence and be perfectly content.

You felt movement behind you, only to see Joel reaching for the wine bottle. He opens it with ease and pours the wine into the two glasses, clinking his with yours in a soft ‘cheers.’

Joel set his glass down on the edge of the tub, hands landing on your shoulders. Water sloshed gingerly with his movements. He started to dig his thumbs into the tense muscle. You couldn’t help but groan, head lolling to the side slowly.

“Feel good?” Joel chuckles close to your ear, goosebumps raising at the low vibrato of his voice.

“Mhm,” You manage.

Joel leans his mouth down to the base of your neck, leaving tender kisses in his wake. Your nails trace patterns on his thick thighs, the slow drag pulling at the need for you within him.

Your touch, your smile, your voice, your laugh, you. You drove him absolutely crazy. This man loved you more than life itself. If he could give you the whole world, he would—but for once in his life he knew he was enough.

“I love you, darlin’.” Joel’s voice is nearly a whisper. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, kissing your soft flesh repeatedly.

You crane your neck to face him and his hands drop to your arms.

“I love you more, cowboy.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Not possible.”

“Mm.” You muse, leaning in to kiss him. Those same rumbling butterflies stir in your stomach, heart strings pulling at the softness of his lips and how perfect they feel slotted with yours.

His tongue easily made its way into your mouth as you slid a hand into his slightly graying curls. You moaned into him, your other free hand gripping his thigh tighter as the neediness ignites within your body.

See, that was the thing. Joel had you wrapped around his fingers. He knew exactly what made you tick.

His hands slowly slide to your breasts, kneading them with such care before pinching both of your nipples between his thumbs and index fingers. You gasp into the kiss at the sensation as it travels down like hot liquid to your core, already pulsing with aching need.

Joel’s small chuckle separates the kiss, and you lean your forehead against his cheek as he continues to toy with your pillowy flesh. Your breathing begins to stagger, mind clouded with the carnal desire for the man who’s stolen your heart.

“Joel,” You’re breathless, legs mindlessly rubbing together for any friction you can get. “Please.”

“Please what, baby?” His chest rumbles with the low vibrato of his voice, goosebumps erupting on your skin once more.

“Fuck. Touch me. Please, Joel.”

“Fuckin’ love when my girl uses her manners. How do you want daddy to touch you?” His voice is a low growl, one hand easily gliding down the curves of your body before his fingertips brush over your mound. You can’t help the soft whimper that escapes you as he easily spreads your legs with his hand, running his middle finger down your slit. “Like this?”

You suck in a breath behind clenched teeth, head dropping back onto his shoulder as he starts to slowly drag his fingers over your slick sex. Even underwater, Joel could feel how aroused you are.

“Answer me, sweet girl. Tell me.”

“Y-yes. God, yes–please—fuck me with your fingers.”

You’ve come to learn how to be more vocal with Joel, always shying away from telling him what you wanted when it came to your pleasure at first. He eventually coaxed it out of you, telling you that there’s no reason to be shy around him. He’d take care of you all the same.

You knew that, but you were still grateful for the man being patient with you when words would get lodged into your throat, seemingly unwilling to be vocalized. It got easier over time, and the confidence you radiated when you and Joel initiated anything intimate was a show he’d always want a front seat to.

You moaned as he easily slipped a finger into you, disappearing down to the knuckle. It was a welcome stretch, his fingers always reaching places yours never could. But it wasn’t enough. You needed more.

“Another one, please.” You sigh, rutting your hips down to grind onto his hand. He easily complies, this time a little bit more of a tight fit. You moan at the sensation, and Joel has a crooked grin on his face as he starts to languidly pump his fingers in and out of you. He was teasing you, you think, because he wanted to hear you beg him to go faster. And, truthfully, you weren’t above doing so.

“Such pretty sounds you make for me, baby,” He starts to pick up his pace, and you subconsciously bite your lip to quiet yourself down. “Uh uh, don’t go all shy on me now, darlin’. Wanna hear you. Wanna hear how I make you feel.”

“You know—shit—you know how you make me feel, Joel,” You reason with him, “You drive me fucking crazy.”

“Good.”

That was all he said before he picked up the pace of his fingers, curling them to press against the spongy spot in you that had your eyes rolling back and your toes curling. He swiped his thumb over your clit, finding a steady rhythm with his fingers.

One of your hands had his thigh in a vice grip, likely to leave scratch marks on his tan skin while the other held onto the edge of the tub. That same liquid heat traveled throughout the course of your body, pooling at the bottom of your spine. Waiting. Wanting. Begging to be released. You grind your hips down to match his pace, just needed a bit more of a push.

The whimpers and moans that eluded you only added to Joel’s own arousal, the occasional grunt from him reverberating off of the bathroom walls. His cock was solid against your back, and you couldn’t help but think how much self control this man had.

“Can feel your pretty pussy clenchin’ my fingers, sweetheart. You gonna come on them? Hm?” His lips are at your ear now, poking his tongue out to lick your earlobe before nibbling on it.

“Yes—oh, fuckfuckfuck. Right there, Joel, please don’t stop. Pleasepleaseplease—” You’re a begging, whimpering mess before you come undone, whole body shuddering as your orgasm washes over you so intensely.

“There you go. That’s it. My girl always does so well, hm? So fuckin’ well.” Joel praises you, slowly sliding his fingers out of you before running them over your slit once more, featherlight and meticulous. You shudder at the sensation, a choked moan escaping the hollows of your throat.

“What do you say?” Joel teases, riling you up.

“Thank you, daddy.” You laugh softly, giving his thigh a gentle squeeze.

You sit up and turn yourself around, careful not to slosh any water outside of the tub. Joel has an amused look on his face and you huff a laugh through your nose before kissing him. It was passionate, like something you’d see in those romance movies on the big screen.

It’s a silent promise, something that can’t be put into words. It surges through your veins and exists in you all the time, heightened by the very man that made you feel these things again.

You pull apart from him, rubbing your nose against his before you lean back to take in his handsome features. His dark brown eyes gleamed with budding love.

Your gaze shifts to the untouched strawberries, and you pluck one off of the plate before taking a bite. It’s sweet; the mixture of chocolate and the fruit dancing on your taste buds. You hold the rest of the strawberry to Joel’s lips, and he grins before taking a bigger bite. You place the calyx back on the tray, gaze drifting to Joel again.

You grin when you see some chocolate on his bottom lip.

“You got a little…” Your words die in your throat as you lean forward, licking his bottom lip before kissing him again. You move to straddle his lap, hips flexing to fit around the broadness of him.

“Be mine forever.” He whispers against you.

“I’m already yours, Joel. You’ve always had me.”

You trail a hand down his chest, toying with his hair before sliding your palm down his torso as your nails slightly scrape his flesh. You plant soft kisses all along his collarbone, tongue poking out to lick his already wet skin.

Your wandering hand brushes through the tuft, wiry hair that sat atop his aching cock. You hum against him and wrap your hand around his length. He pulses in your hand, heavy and waiting to be relieved. You begin to slide your hand up and down his silky flesh, nipping at his collarbone as you did so.

Joel sucks in a breath behind clenched teeth, eyes closing in pure bliss as he tries to refrain from bucking up into your hand.

“Such a pretty cock. Love it so much.” You muse, and Joel groans at your words. He’ll never get used to you worshiping him and his body the way you do, he thinks.

But, he loves it all the same. It makes his heart fucking flutter, and even though he’ll probably never openly admit it, he loves it. It makes him feel worthy. Wanted. Loved.

“It’d look even prettier buried in that perfect pussy.” He says, and your movements falter for a split second. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to his filthy mouth, but it was something you couldn’t get enough of.

You look down at him with hooded eyes and a satiated grin before lifting your hips up to hover over him, swiping his tip over your folds before sinking down on him. You’re slow with your movements, wanting to feel every ridge and vein his pretty, pretty cock has.

You both moan in harmony as you reach the hilt.

“So-fuckin’-perfect.” Joel grits, head lolling back as he takes in the sensation of your warmth wrapped around him so perfectly, like you were specifically made to be there. And you are, you think.

Your hands rest on his shoulders as you start gliding up and down on him, the stretch so welcoming every time you fully sink back down. Joel’s hands settle onto your ass to guide you into a steady pace. He wraps his lips around one of your nipples, giving it a soft bite, and you gasp at the sensation. Joel could feel you clenching around him with every pass of his tongue on your sensitive bud.

One of your hands tangles itself into his curls once more, giving them a little tug. His eyes pop open and he lets go of your nipple with a small ‘pop’, gaze never wavering from yours. You toss him a saccharine smile before kissing the tip of his nose.

“So handsome.” You whisper, kissing every high point of his face before resting your forehead against his once more.

“Yeah?” He asks, fingers grazing down on your ass slotting themselves between the crevice of both cheeks.

“Mhm.” You bite your lip, knowing what was coming. It was something new that you tried around a month ago and really liked, so Joel would implement the action whenever he could.

The tip of his middle finger circled around the tight ring of your asshole, a wicked grin on his lips as your hips stuttered.

“Gotta fill you all the way up, darlin’.” He chuckles as he pushes his middle finger into your tight hole.

Your eyes clamp shut tight, feeling so full of the man you love.

“Fuck, god, Joel– feels s’good.” Your words are slurring together and you’re trying your damnedest to keep the pace of your hips steady, maybe even riding him a little faster if that means his finger in your ass will pump faster, too.

“I know, baby. Doin’ so well. So good for me, hm? Takin’ what I give ya, so full n’ all.” He cooes, nosing at your jaw as your mouth falls slack and eyebrows thread together.

The pleasure coursing through your body is devastatingly euphoric, the sensation of him everywhere driving you crazy in all the right ways.

You know it wouldn’t be long before you fell apart at the seams for him once more.

That deep, throaty growl he does while his eyes are shut in concentration, and the pulsing feeling of his cock is a dead giveaway that he’s going to fall apart for you, too.

“‘M close, Joel.” You’re clawing at his back now, his finger curling inside you as you bury your face into his neck.

Your hips burn from straddling his wide frame, desperate for a break, but you won’t stop. Not until You’re falling apart for him and he, you.

“I know, sweet girl. Can feel ya. Give it t’me, c’mon.” He groans, fucking up into you. His jaw ticks as his teeth clench, feeling you pulsing around him as you cry out his name in pure bliss. Another orgasm crashes through you, eyes rolling back as your body goes limp on his.

It only takes him a few more thrusts before he’s coming, filling you with everything he has. He moans with every stutter of his hips as his chest heaves up and down, body following suit with yours and going completely limp. He removes his finger from you slowly before you lift yourself off of him, already missing the feeling of being so full.

You stay wrapped up in eachother for a few minutes, giving yourselves the chance to catch your breaths. You kiss his chest repeatedly, placing your hand over his rapidly beating heart.

“I love you. So fucking much, Miller.” You laugh softly, tracing patterns on his chest as your head presses against the solidity of it.

The feeling of his beating heart surges life into you. Knowing that you get to exist at the same time as this gorgeous, loving man is a feeling you couldn’t even begin to comprehend. There really are no words for it, you think. At least not strong enough to describe the feeling.

“I love you too, darlin’. Forever.”

And then you think to yourself, you’d do life over and over again if it meant you got to meet Joel in every single one of them.

i’m such a fucking sap dude. lmfaooo anyway, hope y’all enjoyed <3

tags: @nostalxgic ; @ilovepedro ; @endlessthxxghts ; @punkshort ; @joelsgreys ; @pamasaur ; @cool-iguana ; @joeloverture

#joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller one shot #joel miller fluff #joel miller imagine #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you

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cherubfae · 3 months

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Alastor's Lament || Jack Skellington!Alastor x Sally!AFAB!Reader

What if all this power as an Overlord has grown tiring for Alastor? Sure, he likes it. But can he even hope to yearn for something different? Could helping the hotel be his missing piece? Could you?

tags: gn!afab!reader, half-ragdoll!sinner!reader, Jack Skellington!Alastor, hurt/comfort, loneliness, implied abuse, blood/gore, protective!Alastor, friends to lovers

a/n: Tim Burton still has some of my favorite films and I'm also going to be working on a Victoria/Victor Al x afab!reader, so please look forward to that! ^~^ Sally's Song belongs to Disney!

From his little corner of Hell, Alastor could see the pale white moon embedded in the red sea sky from his radio tower. On a rare night where the moon could be seen so clearly, it left a deep sense of melancholy within his chest; even his dead heart ached.

All of his years as an Overlord seemed to drain him. Bartering souls had been his greatest pleasure, and sure, he was rather powerful but now that he had all this power; what was it worth to keep gaining? He was already one of the most feared. He sought out a new career path, to become Hazbin's hotelier to rehabilitate demons! It gave him a spark of interest that had been lost in him for centuries. Everything came easy to Alastor. Everything except you.

What a simply fascinating creature you were! Able to unstitch your limbs and sew them back together good as new! He considered you one of his dearest friends, a lovely thought always lingering in the back of his mind. Yet time and time again you seemed to slip away into the night before he could say anything, or even thank you for the lovely vintage wine you'd gifted him. Like a whisper in the dark, you had disappeared.

Not even Rosie had seen you. Which was growing more and more worrisome with the more the hours ticked on by. Where could you have gone? Were you alright? It was an uncommonly chilly night in Hell, thanks to an ice demon casting a spell over the lands as of recent. It was certainly no weather to be out and about in if one could help it.

The Radio Demon was aware of the unsavory living conditions you kept living with your adopted father and self-appointed 'creator' (which was wholly untrue), Dr. Twisttike, having invited you to live at the Hazbin Hotel. Even Charlie, Princess of Hell, had cordially invited you but the two were unaware of just how tightly you were bound to an over- controlling demon. One who claimed that he made you, therefore you were his.

Shaking his head, Alastor fretted over his blueprints for a new radio tower design, yet that inescapable feeling of dread continued to gnaw at his bones like a starved dog. He runs his hand over his face, down the red pinstriped suit, stopping to adjust his black buck shaped bowtie. Its glimmering red eyes blinked. This will simply not do. He needed to find you.

Hidden away, locked inside of your 'room' once more by the demon who held your chain so tightly, you weep silently to yourself. "And will he see how much he means to me?"

"Will you stop that dreadful singing?" Dr. Twisttike hissed, grasping your glowing pale blue chain and yanking you harshly. You fall to your knees, scraping your hands against the dirty concrete. Red abrasions collected on your palms, threatening to break the surface of your skin. "Your lover boy, Alastor, won't be coming for you, dear. You think you can keep up with a demon such as him? Look at yourself. You can't even keep your stitches together. Next time I make a ragdoll, I'll make one out of proper cloth and not flesh like you. All you do is cry and bleed." Clicking his tongue, he leaves you crying on the cold ground.

With your knees tucked to your chest, you sigh. That brute of a man--demon, oftentimes left you more undone than anything else did. Constantly pulling apart your stitches and not letting you put yourself back together. He almost let you catch fire a few weeks ago. Sure, none of this could kill you. But that didn't mean that it doesn't hurt when it happens.

Standing to look out your window, you hum to yourself. You could see the peak of Alastor's radio tower from here, the full moon rising behind like a great beacon. An immense sense of longing filled your body, you hoped he was looking at the same moon and feeling the same way as you. With a gasp, you slip through the partially opened gap and allow yourself to fall to the cobblestone. More abrasions and bruises from, your blood coagulating from your missing limbs.

Plucking out a needle from behind your ear, you begin to sew yourself back together, hissing softly around a particular tender area. Standing on rather wobbly feet at first until you break out into a sprint before your Overlord can know you've left. Your other arm was left behind, but you couldn't be bothered with that now. You needed to get away, heading towards the highest hill of town, near Alastor's tower.

Alastor frantically searches around town. There's still no sign of you anywhere. Dread continues to eat away at him, until he finds himself standing outside the gates of your home. The dread boils away into anger. Your sweet scent lingers in the air mixed with the scent of blood and fear. You were hurt. Bleeding. He wills himself to calm down, his claws bending through metal gates as he pushes them open with brute force.

"Ah, Alastor! Welcome, welcome, come in my dear boy!" Dr. Twisttike's serpentine tail swishes behind him, allowing the tall redhead into the cramped and dingey house.

Even for Hell's standards, the old and decrepit house was absolutely deplorable. A sulfuric musty smell hung in the air, damp with black mold and cobwebs clinging to every viable rafter.

Tension wafted through the air, Alastor's scarlet eyes turning into radio dials. In an instant, he's turned into his full demon form, mouth sewn by green stitches. A glowing green chain wraps taught around Dr. Twisttike, sending him to the ground with a harsh thud.

"Where are they?" Alastor's neck cracks at an ungodly angle, the echo of screams surrounding him. When Twisttike fails to speak, Alastor yanks the chain harshly, his heeled shoe slamming down onto the demon's claw, snapping it clean off. Black inky blood oozes from the putrid wound. "I won't ask again, good man. Where are they?"

Dr. Twisttike rasps, "Upstairs! Their bedroom! Please, stop!" Alastor snaps his fingers, the demon's limbs and extremities are bound by glowing green rope.

Alastor thunders up the spiral staircase. "My dearest! Are you here?" His eyes are frantic, wild. His ears stand alert, waiting for any sign of your lovely voice calling out to him. The only answer he receives is a perplexing silence. He rounds the corner to enter your door lies and snarls. "A cell? You keep my darling in a goddamned cell?"

Blowing the door off the hinges, Alastor surveys the small, cramped room. There's a bare bed with a single flimsy blanket and ragged old pillow. Small splatters of bloodstains stain those sheets. A tiny dresser to the right of the bed holding a single analog clock that seems to have stopped working long ago. The walls are bare of any color and character, with peeling paint and black mold scuttled around the corners of the ceiling like soot sprites. Everything he knows that you love and adore does not reflect in your room. There was no personalization, there was no you. It's uncomfortably damp. It was nothing short of a miracle that you weren't sick.

"You pitiful creature, keeping my beloved in such conditions. Why I should--," Alastor's sentence does in the back of his throat, noticing something half-hanging out the window. A dismembered arm, the thread of your stitches caught on a rusty nail. Carefully expecting it, he gently traces the stitch marks. "Hmm, it appears I have no more use for you, Dr. Twisttike."

A sickening squelch echoes throughout the house as Dr. Twisttike's body splatters all across the walls. Alastor's slithering tentacle removes itself from the corpse, shaking off the blood before retreating into his back. There isn't much left of the poor fool other than the remains of his guts and brain matter. Alastor carefully dabs his cheek free of blood, holding your severed arm close to his chest. He exits, form swallowed by darkness and shadow. Behind him, the home ignites into hellish green flames.

It did not take long for Alastor to find you. You nearly took his breath away. Your gaze is so beautiful and forlorn, sitting on a hill with the clearest view of the large full moon. The silver light casts delicate shadows against your skin as you hum a soft song to yourself. What a true, ethereal beauty you are.

"My dearest friend," rumbles Alastor, his tone a delicate purr. You stand in surprise, which quickly melts into a delicate smile. "If you don't mind, I'd like to join you by your side. Where we can gaze into the stars," Alastor gently reattached your arm, green magic carefully sewing it back on you.

"And sit together."

"Now and forever."

|| I DON'T GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORKS TO BE REPOSTED, RESHARED, OR EDITED. TUMBLR IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT AND THE ONLY PLACE WHERE I POST MY WRITING. ALL CHARACTERS BELONG TO THEIR RIGHTFUL OWNERS, THE STORY BELONGS TO ME. || CHERUBFAE © 2024

"For it as plain as anyone could see, we're simply meant to be." With a gentle embrace, Alastor presses his lips to yours, tugging you into his arms and off the chilly ground.

#hazbin hotel imagines #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin imagines #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor x reader #alastor x you #alastor imagine #cherubfae 2024

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syneilesis · 5 months

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[fic] if only for a moment

if only for a moment

Love and Deepspace | Rafayel (Qi Yu) x Main-Character!Reader | T | 3.6k words | ao3 link (with correct formatting)

Rafayel waits. And waits. And waits.

A/N: Another LaD fic!! This time it's Rafayel. Several elements of this fic are inspired by and loosely based on his story anecdotes and bond story, plus that Deep Sea card line backdrop. So more spoilers in this one, I'm afraid. I think you need to be aware of them in order to follow the flow of the fic. But if not, here's what you need to know: basically Rafayel accepts a visiting professorship at the University of Linkon to reunite with the MC/you. And the prose poetry interspersed are loosely situated in the Deep Sea card lineup setting (you can search in YouTube for the scenes. This one is a brief glimpse of the scene). That princess/knight(??) dynamic is yum yum.

If possible, please read the version on AO3. I formatted the prose poems there as if they're really prose poetry, so I'd appreciate it if you check that out. (Though there isn't too much difference between the formatting here and there, I did make the effort of coding a little 🥺)

Anyhoo, hope you enjoy, and I am sO STOKED FOR THE OFFICIAL RELEASE. rip my wallet 💸😭

JUST LOOK AT THIS MAN AND BELIEVE

There’s a type of berry in a distant land that produces a rare shade of ink that matches the color of your eyes. It takes a hundred of them to create the right hue and volume for the art that he wants to make. It comes to him in a dream: endless desert, then fireworks of verdant sparks that coalesce into stem, leaf, and, finally, fruit. Rafayel remembers that land, so much different from the iridescent blue of ocean underwater, and the acrid gold of the barren desert. His mouth filled with the succulent sweetness of the dream, the lingering sandpaper roughness of the berries on his fingers. He already knows the name of the artwork even before he’s begun—Waiting, Missing. The ache in his bones gaining form, an intangible thing taking flesh.

Under the ocean surface, time is muted, a deafening thickness that surrounds you with its ambiguity. On land, however, it is linear, and fast, and in a matter of blinks, Rafayel’s visiting professorship nearly wraps up.

He’s only glimpsed you once or twice. Thrice at most. The university is big, but not big enough to warrant a dearth of fateful encounters. The first time he saw you it was at a coffee shop: walking along with your friends outside, your voice mellifluous and festive wafting through the trellis of the café entrance. You were talking about him—well, about Lemuria to be specific, but these days any talk of Lemuria inevitably draws in his name.

He’s committed your schedule to memory, and yet it just seems impossible to capture a moment with you. Even just a brush of shoulders, or of sleeves—an asymptote of contact. Just navigating around your orbit, but never truly meeting.

What would it be like—finally talking to you? You in front of him, face to face? Rafayel imagines the ache of waiting fading into the background until it’s completely gone. He yearns for that feeling, the release of it. A conclusion—or maybe even a beginning.

i. take my hand, he told you under the glow of the lustrous moon, the only source of light that contoured the secretive valleys of his face. i want to show your highness something. there was a country, he said, beyond the undulating monochrome of the desert, blanketed by lush trees and shrubberies and flowers that buildings were made in betwixt and around them—a nation of trailing and winding architecture, a marriage of the natural and the manmade. you wanted to ask why he’d planned on taking you there, and the only answer you got was a curt turn of his head and the profile of a masked man layered by shadows and distance. it would have been nice, you thought, if the moon poured light upon his hooded gaze.

Eventually he begins to frequent the café. Twice a week at first—he doesn’t want to come off strong right away, of course—and then making his way up until he’s hanging out there more than his own studio. He schedules his visits around your classes, always during the ones when the probability of you dropping by the café is high and he can ‘coincidentally’ be around the same area. It’s gotten to a point that Thomas calls him out on it, and nags at him to focus more on his painting. The next exhibit is immediately after his visiting professorship after all.

“From where I’m standing,” Thomas says, “you’re not painting at all.”

Rafayel ignores him.

Five minutes later, he says, “Not painting is part of the painting process.”

Thomas rolls his eyes, but he leaves him to it.

At the café, Rafayel attracts curious looks. A few attempt to approach him, but he pretends not to see them. They linger around the periphery, like moths to flame.

And then something happens: the entrance door chimes, and you swan into the coffee shop, earphones and denim overall skirt, the kind of rosy-cheeked image Rafayel finds on teen magazines, wide-eyed and earnest. You fall in line and order when it’s your turn, and your eyes sweep across the packed café searching for a vacant seat until they finally land on him.

Rafayel’s heart stumbles.

Up close, the baby fat on your cheeks still gives you the appearance of being younger than you actually look. You turn a polite smile his way, and his heart stutters again—but this time it is taken as a warning.

“Hi,” you say, tentative. Any hint of recognition absent. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

ii. you're counting the steps of your inevitable parting. you're at the edge of the desert, far away from your home and its familiar scents, oriented towards a direction that promised a future sad memory, the gentle warmth of his hand, the downward denial of his gaze. this longing that grew out of your bones, aching during cold, aching during heat, aching when he looked at you with such tenderness he had to hide it through the sharp tug of your joined hands, the long strides that opened up a lonely distance. intimacy was dangerous, knowing was dangerous, the bowels of his heart like a solitary flower on a high peak. what would you do to such loneliness?

Memory isn't always an infallible thing. The human brain cannot hang on to every moment of your life, though Rafayel wishes it were so. But still—to think that you would forget him, and it hasn’t even been a century. You were like a phantom thief stealing his heart in the night—no recourse, no resolution.

To wait is to be in agony, the burn of yearning locked within the heart. Rafayel has been waiting for a long time, and the only memory scorched in his heart is fire, the blaze and its blinding, all-consuming want.

What would you do to such want?

You have a blurry childhood, Rafayel discovers. After the first Wanderer descended on Earth, the incident strummed your memories like a stringed instrument that tired of the same chord, over and over. It had bothered you at first—not being in control of your own memories—but eventually you had learned to live with it.

“Grandma and Caleb—my childhood friend—helped me through the process,” you tell him, stirring your iced mocha with its straw. “I owe them a lot.”

Eyes cast down, but still the melancholy shadows remain in your expression. Rafayel folds his arms on the table, and leans closer.

Around them only a few people occupy the coffee shop at this time. How fortunate for Rafayel to catch you during your break while every other student is trapped in class lectures.

“There’s no use in dwelling upon what's already happened. Even sharks have to give up when their prey escapes. When you remember, it will be all the more joyous, no?”

The smile you give him is crooked, disbelieving.

“If I remember.”

“You’ll remember.” Because there’s no other choice, for you and for him. Rafayel cannot bear being shelved in the history of your smile and happiness. Waiting can only be endurable if there’s an endpoint.

In his studio, Rafayel begins his next painting.

iii. the berries tasted sweet, with an edge of sourness that clung to the bottom of the tongue. it had the exact shade of your eyes, a detail that rafayel brought up the moment he plucked it from the shrub. raising it to align with your eyes, comparing them with his artist's meticulous gaze. maybe when this is all over, i'll go back here again to extract ink from these berries, and paint a portrait of your highness using these to color your eyes. he never showed you any of his paintings, merely mentioned them in passing, and you constructed a dream of him from the throwaway words that left his covered lips. i'm not used to sitting for so long, you reminded him, and he glanced at you, then at the berry between his fingers. my memory is enough, then handed you the fruit.

In the few weeks of meeting with you Rafayel forgets that his visiting professorship is ending soon and he has to give out his last lecture. Thomas had asked him what his topic would be. At that point Rafayel had no answer. But now he has.

“I’ve been hearing you talk about Lemuria every now and then with your friends.” He props his cheek on his hand, tilting his head slightly and giving you a charming smile. “Interested?”

You blink. “How did you know?”

“Oh, I’ve seen you a couple of times here, and I happened to hear your friends chat about my lecture. Your points were almost accurate, I’m in awe.”

“The visiting professor—that’s you?!”

Rafayel pauses, the slosh of his drink nearly spilling on his frozen hand.

“You didn’t know?”

Sheepish, you say, “Honestly, I didn’t make the connection. Is that why plenty of people have been glaring at me as of late?”

He releases a frustrated sigh, eyes rolling heavenward.

“In any case, my final lecture is on Friday next week. It’s titled “Memory and Meaning in Lemurian Art”. Why don’t you drop by and listen, and you can tell me what you think afterwards.”

You retrieve your bullet journal to check your schedule. It’s colorful, filled with stickers and doodles that Rafayel finds endearing. Then the excited moue on your face drops into a frown, and Rafayel can foresee the next words that will come out of your downturned lips.

“I’m sorry,” you say guiltily, “but I have a major test that day, and I need to get a high score in order to pass the course.”

Rafayel exhales, long and weary, but ultimately shrugs off the apology. “What a shame, but I forgive you. Just don’t fail your exam or else my magnanimity would be all for nothing.”

He calls Thomas that night.

“I’ll disappear for a while once the professorship is over.”

“Hey, wait, what do you me—”

“You’ll be happy to know that this is for my next painting.”

A beat. “Okay … but for how long?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

Then he hangs up.

He’s trying, he really does. The lecture ends to a resounding applause, and it’s mechanical how he answers the questions posed by the audience. But he’s trying, he’s trying. There’s no specter of you in the sea of faces in the auditorium. You’re at the other end of the university compound, sweating your way through your exam. He genuinely hopes you’d pass, for your sake.

Thomas had booked his flight to another country, where he’ll traverse to a land that he’d visited many times in his dreams and had woken up with a filmy, sweet-sour tang at the roof of his mouth. He’ll leave the morning after the closing dinner party the faculty has prepared for him. There isn’t time to pack much, and no time to tell you goodbye.

Rafayel guesses that it’s only fair: how would you feel waiting for him at that café, the chair across you empty, only the sunlight pooling from the window as your companion?

iv. parting, somebody once said, is such a sweet sorrow. much like those berries in that ever-green nation, a lingering sourness remained underneath, the sting of it reminding you every now and then. he was already mourned for even before he left. tell me what it's like—the ocean. he was elusive, untouchable in his grief. you'd heard through whispers, the story of his migration, the drowning before the drying, the unwanted journey. grief brought him to you and grief would steal him away from you, you knew, down to the cells of your body and the hopelessness in your blood. —and yet. and yet you wanted to have a taste of it, anyway.

The ever-green land is no longer green, or lush, or alive. Time corroded it into memory, sepia-faded, wizened. Past. The berries he’s searching for don’t grow here anymore. Everything here is empty, barren, helplessly so.

Rafayel hasn’t accounted for such development, but he should have known. Disappointment stings at his chest, and bitterly he turns away and stays at the next town over. At a family-run restaurant situated near the outskirts, he looks over the wide windows, across the highway road, beyond the jagged horizon. The painting won’t be finished, then. Another tragedy, pressed flat next to the forgetting, to the waiting, and his home.

The chef personally serves him his order and, after a shuffle of hesitation, brings up a question.

“Young man, you came from the direction of the old country, yeah?”

Rafayel meets his inquisitive gaze. “Yes, why?”

“It’s been a while since we had someone visiting that place. There’s nothing in there anymore, it’s been that way for years. Why did you go there?”

Rafayel is reluctant to say, but at the guileless set of the older man’s face, he concedes.

“I was looking for berries. The ones native there. They produce a shade that I need for my painting.”

At the mention of the fruit, the chef’s expression lights up. “Oh! I see, I see. You’re in luck, son. We grow them here at the farm. Plenty of those for everyone. How about I give you some? It’s rare meeting someone who still remembers the old country, it’s almost fate. How many did you say you need?”

Fate. Just like the time of your first meeting, as if the universe had gifted you to him. Just like the time of your parting, of your forgetting, of his waiting. Fate as a connection from you to him, red and burning brightly.

He doesn’t want to seem eager, but he knows he’s failed from the way the chef toothily grins at him.

“A hundred or so.”

The chef falters at that, jerking slightly back. But he accepts it with a nod, an avuncular smile making its way across his kind, powdery features.

“That sure is a huge number, but I think we can work something out.”

His painting takes a month to complete, inclusive of the time spent making the ink from the acquired berries. Sometimes, Thomas watches him paint, quiet in the background. His stays usually don’t last—a quick flash that Rafayel nearly misses, or deliberately ignores. But during the final stages of the painting process, Thomas hands him the exhibit details.

“I’m just thankful you’re on time for this one.” He sighs, relieved, then leaves.

Alone, Rafayel creates. Brushstroke after careful brushstroke, each varying by pressure and angle. He lets each layer of paint dry before moving onto the next. The berry ink—the color of your eyes—the solely different element of this painting. Center, central. The focal point. The beating heart. The years and years of waiting and longing. The form and the flesh. Alive.

This, too, is an endpoint.

v. can i see your face, just this once? your hands grazed his mask like a ghost wanting to touch. rafayel stayed still beneath your desirous fingers, observing, waiting, his own fingers twitching towards his dagger. even in the parting he could not let go of this distance. hopeless, hopeless. your highness would get nothing out of seeing my face. he's wrong, his eyes never left your face, and he's wrong. he didn't stop you from your grasping of his mask, and him—finally—bare and beautiful yet a little sad. you're wrong, you said, tracing his slightly parted lips with a trembling finger, you're wrong. it is everything to me.

The gallery is packed. No surprise there. It’s almost boring, in a way. Waiting, Missing hangs at the farthest hall in the floor, special and intimate as it should be. Thomas knows him well; otherwise, Rafayel would have whined at him to hell and back just so he could be granted this demand that is in reality a mandate.

He’s hiding from the throngs of journalists and art critics alike and sequesters himself in a corner that has a clear view of the painting. Loosening his collar and tie, Rafayel breathes and closes his eyes, leans tiredly against the wall. A few more minutes, and he’ll slink out of the building, reputation be damned.

He melts into the shadows whenever somebody passes by. He has neither time nor energy interacting with people today. Watching them through half-mast eyes, Rafayel stays in his secret place and studies with weightless detachment the people looking at the painting.

He’s made a bet with himself about the opinions of his followers and admirers. Who thinks what and why. It makes for great entertainment. The last time, a fresh-faced critic praised Rafayel’s technique as “innovative and a soul-rending reflection of the prodigy’s character.” He had laughed and laughed for hours until he couldn’t breathe any longer.

Another walks by, and before Rafayel retreats further into the corner, he glimpses a familiar gait and a familiar face.

His heartbeat races. He’s never told you that he’s holding an exhibit today. After the professorship Rafayel failed to maintain communication with you, convincing himself that it’s for the best that he protect you from afar that day onwards. It didn’t help that he had to leave as well. At the same time, you never made an effort of reaching out, and Rafayel thought that it was back to square one again, that waiting, that yearning.

But here you are right now, elegantly dressed, like someone gliding out of a dream. Rafayel swallows, his hands shake. You do not have someone else with you, and your eyes are brightly focused on Waiting, Missing, and for a fleeting moment your expression flickers into longing, strange and old and battered and sad, that it compels Rafayel to take a step forward—to you.

“Hey.”

The curious look vanishes; left no traces in your delighted face, as if it wasn’t there in the first place. “Rafayel!” you exclaim. “Long time no see! Congratulations on the exhibit; these are all beautiful.”

Outwardly he smirks, belying the torrential emotions he’s currently going through. He cants his head a little, works his charm on you. “Impressed? No need to hold back your compliments.”

Laughter, prismatic and crystalline. “Yes, yes. Especially this one—Waiting, Missing. What an interesting title. At the center, what paint did you use?”

Ah. Rafayel inhales before answering. “It’s actually ink. I had to make it from a hundred berries. It was a tedious process, but I wouldn’t use anything else. It has to be this, you see.”

“Whoa, no wonder you’d been radio silent all this time. You were creating this masterpiece.”

He hums, afraid that, if he speaks, he’d reveal too much.

“Well …” You throw a playful glance at him. “Shouldn’t we celebrate your success?”

His breath catches. “I—”

Before he manages to finish the sentence, a journalist calls out to him and that summons plenty more, swarming him with no chance of escape. It pushes you out of his peripheral vision, and Rafayel wants to shout your name, but you smile and gesture at him to entertain them first. You mouth, I’ll be back, and wander around other paintings some more.

When he finally succeeds in shaking the journalists off, he seeks you out and stumbles upon you near the exit, where there’s fewer people to pile on him.

“Excellent,” he says, sidling up beside you. You turn to him and smile, and there’s that lightning-flash of something again. For one unbelievably surreal instant, Rafayel thinks that despite your hazy memories, maybe you’d been waiting for him all this time, too.

And that thought emboldens him, moving closer and closer until your bodies almost touch. An asymptote of contact. But this time, he has mustered the courage to close that unbridgeable gap.

Rafayel offers you his hand. “Let’s get out of here?”

You stare at his hand then at his face, his eyes, and a meaningful moment stretches between you and him. But even before the idea of retracting enters his mind, you grab his hand joyfully, grinning ear to ear. His heart warms, full with everything.

You squeeze his hand, ready to go. “Lead the way, then!”

vi. a kiss is a greeting and a goodbye, and rafayel tasted of ferocious tides even if you'd seen them only in dreams. his eyes closed, as though savoring his last moments with you, guarded till the bitter end. would that i could ask you to stay—with me. but he shook his head—a final rejection. maybe in another life. there was nobody to watch you cry, in the after.

Rafayel is working on a new painting—a portrait this time. The model squirms on his couch, obvious about the discomfort of posing for too long. He huffs a laugh to himself, hidden by the canvas strategically placed between them.

“I heard that,” you grumble.

“Shush, you’re breaking my concentration.”

“If that already breaks your focus then I pity the rest of the art community.” A beat, then: “Is it done?”

“Patience, my dear muse. You need endure it a little more.”

“Hmph, fine. But after this you’re treating me to an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

“All right, all right.” He shakes his head, fond. “My muse, so demanding.”

Something sweet touches the edge of his tongue, succulent with a hint of tartness. Like longing. Except now, it’s layered with something new and exciting. Something like a new beginning.

In the far distance, the sea murmurs, lit fire by the setting sun.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace fic #lad rafayel #lad qi yu #love and deepspace rafayel #love and deepspace qi yu #fic #my fic #rafayel x reader #qi yu x reader #lad rafayel x reader #lad qi yu x reader #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace spoilers #it's near midnight again i shall now sleep

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spacebarbarianweird · 6 months

Text

Snowstorm

Summary: As you stay together in a small inn, you accidently do something that triggers Astarion

Pairing: Astarion x f!Tav

Tags: angst, hurt/comfort, f!tav, established relationship, post-game, trauma talk

TW: a mild description of SA, a mention of rape

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Headcanons

You want him.

Your body pulses with heat, and your veins course with adrenaline, the aftermath of the thrilling fight. Whether facing a dragon, a troll, or a devil, your muscles are taut, and the desire for more blood, debauchery, and victories fuels you. The longing for the fight to continue is undeniable, but nothing can hinder the path of your sword.

Yet, when the battle concludes, a different yearning takes hold. Your body desires something more personal, more natural, and at this moment, it craves Astarion.

A snowstorm blankets the surroundings with heavy flakes. You shiver in the cold. You get inside the inn, the only one along this part of the Long Road and go upstairs to the room you and Astarion have rented. It's the first time in months that both of you will sleep under a roof.

Astarion is there. Sitting on the floor with a book.

It's something with beds, he once admitted to you. The only time I used to have a chance to sleep on them was when I was seducing someone. I slept on the floor at the mansion, often tied up or chained. Hard surfaces feel safer; I know it sounds odd. I-I will try to adjust to sleeping in beds. Cuddling with you is worth fighting another shadow from my past.

Astarion puts the book away, studying you. You see happiness in his eyes, absolute joy.

"How was it, my sweet?" he asks. His voice is tender and caring.

"I wish there was one troll more," you pout. "I am ashamed even to ask the reward for such an easy kill."

"How dare they bother with you with boring tasks?" Astarion chuckles, finally standing up before you, opening his arms.

You are a weird couple. You effortlessly embrace your feminine side when you're in front of him, feeling like a beautiful, desired woman. To kiss him, you have to tiptoe a bit, and you revel in the sensation of sinking into his strong hands. Yet, you are the warrior, wielding a formidable two-handed axe. While you could easily lift Astarion (his elven bones being light and hollow), you refrain, knowing it annoys him.

You hang around his neck, nuzzling the collarbone. His arms press you tightly. "I should be upset with you for leaving me here," he teases, kissing your forehead.

"Just wanted to give you some personal space. Besides, that beast really took a toll on locals."

"Such a brave little thing, always thinking about the others. I still have a lot to teach you about selfishness."

You want to say something else but can't. You turn your eyes to the small window. The snowflakes are dancing in the winter wind, and you shiver.

Astarion helps you remove the armor, and it falls to the floor with a loud thump. As his hand slips under your shirt, you realize he has desired the same thing you have.

You pull away a little and then lightly push Astarion onto the bed. He chuckles and lets you lead. You straddle him with your hips, feeling a hardening bulge between your thighs. You kiss him and then take his white shirt off.

Astarion raises his elbows, anticipating your next action. You place your chilly palms on his chest, and although he would shiver if he were alive, the contrast between your usual temperature and that of someone who's just been outside in winter is barely perceptible to him.

You are burning hot, darling, he once told you. You are constantly burning like a campfire. No, more like… sunshine.

You tease his right nipple with your tongue and then lick the left one. Astarion groans, but you push him back on the pillow when he tries to sit down.

You don't notice that he stops looking at you and turns his face to the window. But you are already too aroused to pay attention.

You firmly grasp his wrists, using all your strength to pin Astarion to the bed, effectively restraining him. As he mumbles something, you silence him with a kiss, anticipating a response, hoping for a passionate reply that would make you lose yourself in the moment's intensity.

"Let me go," he mutters through clenched teeth when you part your lips from his.

"What?"

"Let me go!" he yells at you. His body is rigid; his fangs are bare, ready for an attack. You weaken your grip, Astarion frees his hands, and the next moment, you find yourself on the floor.

"A-astarion", you whisper. "What is wrong? Did I do something wrong?"

He is trembling; anger is mixed with fear and disgust. His mouth is half open, and his eyes wander as if looking for a hidden enemy.

"Leave me alone- "his voice cracks as if he's been screaming too long. It seems he wants to say something else, but whatever fear gripping him is too intense.

He gets out of bed, snatches the shirt, and puts it on like light armor.

What have you done; you think. You scroll through the memories, trying to figure out what has hurt him. Gripping his wrists? It's not like it could hurt him…

"Astarion, my love, » you stretch your left arm to him, but he recoils as if you are holding a razor to flay his skin.

"Go away. Go away!" he collapses on the floor, pressing legs to the chest.

There is no point in arguing; you will hurt him even more if you try to touch or console him. At this moment, you feel like your heart is pierced with a spear.

You leave the room and go downstairs.

The tavern on the first floor of the inn is empty. The snowstorm rages outside, threatening to bury the whole town.

Your heart and mind ache as you think about Astarion being alone with his fears and whatever nightmare you accidentally awoke. You are sure it was about hand gripping, and though it doesn't sound like something awful compared to what you usually do to each other, still -

You should have asked.

You should have asked him, you stupid cunt.

Astarion is still healing his broken mind and soul, and even if you don't have to be extra careful around him anymore, it doesn't mean there is no trigger left.

But there is no point in returning right now. You know him. If you press any harder, Astarion will just run away. And who knows where he will go in such a snowstorm.

You spend sleepless hours watching the snowflakes fall. The winds are howling like hungry wolves. Finally, you decide to come back – if Astarion still doesn't want to see you, you will just rent another room and sleep.

Because gods know you are tired.

…Astarion lies on the floor on his back, eyes closed. There is no implication that he's tried to hurt himself (it has happened a few times before after enduring yet another nightmare), and you are happy that at least he is here.

"Hello, my sweet", he says, opening his eyes. There is no fear or disgust. It is only the exhaustion of a person fighting monsters within for too long.

"I just wanted to check on you. If you don’t want me here, I will go."

He sighs. "Sit with me," he finally says, and his voice removes the stone from your chest.

You can't help but notice he's rolled the sleeves down. "Tell me what I did wrong".

"You? Nothing. It was just a… coincidence. Something got into my mind, and…you know how it happens to me".

You feel the desire to hold him, to hug him. You haven't seen Astarion so vulnerable for ages, but you don't want to trigger him further.

"We both know it wasn't. Please, tell me. And I am sorry for making you feel whatever you felt."

He tilts his chin up, studying the wooden ceiling.

"It just reminded me" he avoids looking at you. "One of my victims."

Oh no.

"I don't know who she was. He usually gave me some time to hunt, to choose a victim. But that night, he wanted something soon, right away. He said he would carve another poem on me if I didn't bring him anything within hours."

Astarion makes a pause. "It was a very similar evening. The snowstorm. So cold even I felt it. No one was outside, so I just went straight to the nearest inn to pick up some unlucky victim. It’s not like I had many options in such weather. "

His gaze wanders the room as if he is ashamed to look at you.

"There was a woman. Some old prostitute, drunk and filthy. It wouldn't take me much to do the job, and I was in a hurry."

You recognize this emotion on his face. Utter disgust.

"Well, I didn't have to play any tricks on her. There was no point. She just dragged me to bed, stinking like a pile of dead rats. Ideally, I would prefer to forget all the intercourses I'd had before you. But if I had a choice to choose only a few to forget, this would be the first I would name."

"Did she do the same things I did?"

Astarion finally looks at you. A familiar light returns to his eyes. "Darling, there were so many things done to me and things I did to others. We would have nothing left to do in bed should I decide to avoid every detail about my past."

"But still?"

"Yes. She gripped my hands and pinned me to the bed. The prostitute was pretty strong, and I thought she would break my arms. Or something else. At least, I would not be surprised if it happened."

It is not precisely that, you realize. Something after.

"So," Astarion proceeds. "Since she thought I was her client, I needed to pay for the "unforgettable service." I said I would gladly give her extra gold, but we must go to my place, that rich mansion in the Upper City. And some people, relatives of mine, would want her services as well. She followed me despite the terrible weather. Things we do for money and sex, I guess."

Astarion is silent again. The light in his eyes is replaced by disgust again.

"For a moment, I actually thought he liked her. At least, her blood. He was pretty content in the process. I was standing about five feet away from them, watching life leave her body. And seeing the choice I had as usual."

"A filthy rat and a sharp razor," you mutter.

He chuckles. "The rat wasn't really bad looking. Less filthy than the victim, that's for sure."

Astarion's shoulders start trembling.

"When he was done, he made me approach him. The moment I was in his arms' proximity, he started beating me. I don't know why. Because he didn't like the victim, because she was too drunk, because I did my job too bad or did it too good. But it was violent even to his standards."

The tears flow through his cheeks as if his body re-lives those moments of pain. You stretch your hand to show your intention but don't dare to touch Astarion. He looks at you but doesn't see.

"I don't remember how long it lasted. I started dissociating. It wasn't me. It wasn't my pain. Cazador beat me to the state where even vampiric regeneration needed time to repair the damage. And when I fell down on the floor, he –"

You know what he will say. You know what happened after.

"-he raped me"

The silence is unbearable. The only sound you can hear is muffled sobs. You feel like crying, too, but you get yourself together. That is the moment when he needs you, when it is you who is strong. Because he isn't. Because the monsters of the past have won.

"Astarion", you finally say. "May I touch you?"

He looks at you in horror, and you think he will either run away or snatch one of his daggers and slice his own skin.

"I don't know what was worse. That it was so painful because every fucking bone in my body was broken, that the other spawns saw it, that this dead woman was just near me. Or that after he'd finished, he ordered me to stay on that floor. I remember the window – it was a dark night, and the curtains were open. It was snowing." He points outside. "Snowing just like now."

Silence envelops you, drowned in a mixture of sorrow and rage. It feels like you've witnessed every horror that has befallen the man you love, only to discover that his mind harbors yet another layer of torment. The weight of it all is crushing. If it were within your power to end Cazador's existence a thousand times more, each demise would be crueler than the last.

Twenty-eight stabs by Astarion weren't enough for such a monster.

"My – My sweet, it wasn't you. I just heard his voice again in my head. As if he was still alive and that he gave an order not to move. Similar place, same weather, the grip." Astarion looks away. "I am sorry, it doesn't seem like… I will be able… for a while."

Now, there is shame in his voice, which breaks your heart for the second time.

"It's all right, Astarion. Take your time. Do you want me to touch you?"

"Not - not naked skin – please," he mutters.

You finally hug him, and Astarion melts in your arms.

"I am here, Astarion. You hear me? I am not going anywhere. I don't care about your past, about all these awful things. I am not scared. I am not disgusted", you say firmly. "Take all the time you need. Just let me know what you need.”

He finally relaxes enough to hold you again. "Did I hurt you?"

"No. Astarion, what can I do to make you feel better?"

"Can we just sit together?"

You sit on a bed, putting the pillow behind your back. Astarion sits between your lap, putting his head on your chest. You hug him as tight as possible, pressing him against you as you reach for the blanket.

"What are you doing?" he giggles.

"It's so cold I won't be able to warm you alone. Relax"

Astarion nods, and, in a moment, his whole body is covered by the warm blanket.

You start massaging his scalp, and he releases a sigh.

"You are the best thing that happened to me," you whisper. "I love you. I will do anything to help you with your memories and your past. I am not ashamed, not disgusted. I knew what I was getting into when you told me the first details of your life. I am not with you for your looks. I am not with you for sex."

«That is still the most surprising because if you were for me for these two things, I could understand it.”

"Honestly, I really fall into your looks, don't get me wrong. Never seen anyone so beautiful in my life. But the more we traveled, the more I loved you.”

You kiss the crown of his head and are pleased to notice that he is no longer tense.

"Do it again, that – thing."

You kiss him, burying your face in his silver curls. "My beautiful elf, my love, my man, so strong, so beautiful, so resilient. Every spawn in that wretched place was broken in pieces. You were the only one who managed to preserve himself. Everyone was telling me you were a mess that would drag me to hell, but I saw such strength in you! You survived. You did the most unimaginable thing. You survived where anyone would die. Preserved your sanity where madness was the only remedy. And what you did back then, refusing to become the very monster, is the thing that makes me proud of you. Astarion, listen to me. You are everything. I want you. I need you. Your presence makes me happy."

He looks up at you and raises his hand to caress your cheek. His face is red with tears. He wants to say something, but words are drowning in cries. He covers his face again, and you start cradling him in your hands as if he was a little child.

Eventually the sobs subside, and Astarion finally relaxes. He turns his head toward the window, watching the falling snow.

"Do you want me to close the curtains?"

"No. I am making new memories."

"What?"

"The next time I see a blizzard outside the inn window, I want to remember at once how you held me, how I felt safe and loved. In time, I will be able to replace everything. "

He touches your knee cup below the blanket. "Tell me about that awful troll you murdered yesterday. With all the gore details."

You plant a kiss on his cheek. "Just don't complain you weren't there."

"Of course, I will complain. Had fun without me, how did you dare?" he laughs. "And what if this troll had hurt my darling girl without me by her side to protect her?"

"I thought I was the warrior in our relationship."

"You are the most amazing woman a man dares to get. So, forgive me for being protective."

You squeeze him in your hands. You feel like falling asleep, and the last thing that comes to your mind is how grateful you are for having Astarion in your life.

Tag List

@tragedybunny @caitlincat-95 @tallymonster @astarionsbeloved @lumienyx @fayeriess @aoirohi @elora-the-slutty-songstress @veillsar @astarion-imagine-archive @micropoe10 @starlight-ipomoea @herstxrgirl @theearthsfinalconfession

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