writeingdocs

[writeingdocs]

Every writer has two sides:

"I love my characters, they are my children and will protect them with my life"

"I wanna make them suffer so fucking much"

[writeingdocs]

the one where chan "forgets" your birthday

☀️Feelbokkie M.list☀️

genre: slight angst, slight fluff

pov: 2nd person

description: in which chan thinks he forgot your birthday...but you just never told him

pairing: boyfriend!chan x reader

warnings: swearing, mention of eating

word count: 1,169

©feelbokkie (2024) — all rights reserved. reposting/modification of any kind is not tolerated.

You slide your ID out of your wallet and hand it to the waiter. He skips over Chan for a second, ignoring the ID being held between his middle and pointer fingers. His elbow resting on the table, palm facing up practically begging the waiter to take his ID too. The waiter glances at him and finally takes the ID from him once he makes eye contact.

You fail to stifle a laugh at your boyfriend's misery. It's a thing that happens often now when you two go out. Almost every date the two of you go on where the occasion arises for the two of you to be carded, Chan normally doesn't. Especially when he's been working long. The only times you don't get carded and he does is during your very occasional trips to a club. But every week, without fail, the waiter will ask you for your ID and not him, much to his dismay.

Weekly dates, guaranteed time with Chan where you two go out and do some sort of couple thing. Not often do you two order drinks while out, but it's been a long week. Chan's been stuck at the company since your date last week and you were busy with work. The two of you hardly had time to text each other. How you two managed to find time to coordinate this week's date is beyond you.

You place your elbow on the table and rest your chin the the palm of your hand, watching Chan as the waiter double-checked your IDs. He looks better than he did last week. He looked beyond tired, his face paler than normal and the dark bags under his eyes more prominent than you're used to. It's why last week you two just spent a quiet night at your place, cuddling on the couch and watching movies until he fell asleep halfway through the second one. But he looks much more well-rested today. His face has a little more color to it. His black curly hair slightly framing his face. Finally healthy after years of dying and redying. He stares back at you with soft eyes and a smile wide enough to deepen his dimples. He quietly takes your free hand into his, squeezing slightly.

"Here you two are, I'll be right out with your drinks." The waiter hands both of your IDs back. You quickly let go of Chan's hand to take yours back and slip it back into your wallet.

"Thank you," Chan smiles as he puts his wallet back in his pocket.

"You're welcome. Feel free to take a bit longer to look at the menu." The waiter is just about to turn to leave before he suddenly stops and turns to you, "Oh, and happy birthday."

You fight the urge to roll your eyes and just plaster on a small smile. "Thank you,"

You watch as the waiter nods happily before walking off to tend to another table. You shake your head as you put your wallet away.

You don't notice at first, the way that all of the color in Chan's face leaves, turning him chalk-white. Or how his eyes quickly grow impossibly wide as his lips part in silent terror. You can't hear how fast the gears in his head are turning or how hard his head is banging in his chest. Not until you return your hand to his now limp and clammy hand.

"Chan?" Your furrow your eyebrows as you look up at your boyfriend, "What's wrong?"

"I...am so fucking sorry," He speaks with a suffocated whisper.

You tilt your head to the side and squeeze his hand to reassure him despite your now growing concern. "For what?"

His voice cracking and tight, "I forgot your birthday,"

"You--" You start.

"I'm so, so sorry--" Chan pulls out his phone and begins looking for something.

"Chan--" You try a little louder this time.

"--what kind of boyfriend--"

"Chris--" You try again.

"How did I forget it was your fucking birthday--"

"Christopher--" You place your hand on his, trying to get him to look at you.

"--I normally don't forget things like that--"

"Bahng Christopher Chahn," You nearly shout, finally getting his attention.

Chan stops and looks up, his eyes red and on the verge of tears. "I'm really, really sorry."

You look around the restaurant, taking in the atmosphere. The lights are dim creating a calming ambiance. The other patrons quietly talk amongst themselves. You can barely hear them over the soft classical music playing in the background. You and Chan are in a more secluded area covered by a plant to give you privacy from prying eyes.

"You don't have anything to be sorry about. You didn't forget my birthday," You say softly, stroking the back of his hand to calm him down, "I never told you when my birthday was."

"You...never told me? How is that...how did that even happen?"

Truth be told, it just never came up. You met after your birthday and started dating shortly after. With both of your busy schedules, it never really came up. You know Chan's birthday because of all the posts you see circulating on various social media sites by fans. His birthday is hard to miss, it's practically a national holiday.

"I don't really celebrate my birthday. It's...it's a long story. I'll tell you one day. But to me, it's just another day. You know I don't like that much attention on me anyway. I rather just let the day pass, without much of a fuss."

"That's understandable. It scared me though. I thought I forgot and I don't ever want to hurt you like that. You're really important to me. Everything about you is...even your birthday. But if you don't want to celebrate it, I won't push you." Chan takes both of your hands in his, lacing your fingers together.

"Thank you." You smile, "And I should have at least told you so you didn't have to panic like that. I'm sorry,"

"It's okay," He smiles, his dimples reappearing on his cheeks. "Want me to say something to the waiter so they don't do the whole dessert and singing thing?"

"If you don't mind." You sigh, relieved that you’re not going to have to ask Chan to do it for you later.

"I'll tell him when he gets back with our drinks." Chan presses his lips together into a fine line, “Can we at least go get ice cream or something later? I promise not to sing 'Happy Birthday' or anything. I just feel like you should still have something special today.”

You crack a smile, trying not to laugh at your boyfriend’s sudden sheepishness, “Yeah, we can go get ice cream.”

“Can’t I get you a gift? A small one?” He suggests.

“Chan,” You sigh, ready to argue back.

“Sorry,” He runs his hand through his hair. “I just feel bad still.”

“We’ll talk about it more later. For now, let’s just figure out what to eat.”

—

Buy me a coffee?

—

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[writeingdocs]

the one where minho gets you exactly what you want

☀️Feelbokkie M.list☀️

genre: fluff

pov: 2nd person

description: it's impossible to tell minho no. espceially when you tell him you don't want anything for your birthday.

pairing: boyfriend!minho x reader

warnings: none

word count: 1,207

©feelbokkie (2024) — all rights reserved. reposting/modification of any kind is not tolerated.

"Hang on--wait a second--Minho!" You call out as the bag you are looking at is suddenly yanked from your hands.

Minho ignores you, as he continues to make his way to the checkout counter. He walks quickly, not quite running or speed walking. You know his pace, this is the fastest you've ever seen him move when he isn't dancing. And yet, he moves swiftly like he's on the stage.

He's already halfway to the checkout counter when you manage to catch up to him. Somehow, one of his steps is two of yours and you're having trouble catching up to him. His eyes keep facing forward, focusing on his end goal. Maybe you're imagining it, but you think he is moving even faster.

The two of you finally reach the front of the store. One other person

"W...what are you doing?" You try to catch your breath from the unexpected jog you just took.

"Buying your birthday presents," Minho responds nonchalantly, finally turning to you.

"I said I didn't want or need anything for my birthday though." You remind him softly.

It's true, Minho has been asking you what you want for your birthday for weeks, and each time, you've told him 'nothing.' You didn't think much of it when he invited you out to lunch. You thought he would settle with just paying for your meal and drop the subject of getting you a gift altogether. So when he suggested going to the mall afterward, it completely slipped your mind.

"Uh huh," He turns forward again, checking to see if the customer who was ahead of you is still finishing his transaction.

"You paid for lunch already. And I don't need anything--" You try to pull the small brown backpack out of his arms to no avail.

"But you want this, right?" He questions, still not looking at you.

"That's not the point--"

Minho cuts you off by walking up to the counter and setting his things down in front of the cashier. You watch in amazement as you realize that all of the things that Minho is buying are things that you were contemplating buying yourself but changed your mind last minute.

"Did you two find everything okay?" The cashier asks cheerfully.

"Actually--"

"We found everything okay," Minho cuts you off. You watch as he pulls his wallet out of his pocket.

Minho makes polite conversation with the cashier as he rings up the items. He's wearing a pair of blue jeans and a black polo shirt that you got him. You can't remember if it was for Christmas or his birthday. His face is covered up with a mask and his hair so he's unrecognizable at first. You know it can't be comfortable. You know how he feels about his hair being in his eyes and how the strings of the face mask always dig into his skin. He's wearing it more for your privacy than his. He doesn't mind running into fans but he knows how some of them can be so he's dressed as inconspicuous as possible.

"When did you grab all of those?" You question as you watch the cashier continuing to bag everything.

"I can be sneaky too." He pats the top of your head without breaking his concentration.

"You don't have to get me anything for my birthday. I already know that you love me." You mumble as he slides his wallet, getting ready to pay.

"You should let people do nice things for you every once in a while. Not everything has a double meaning. I'm buying them for you because you want them and I love you and it's your birthday. I'm not trying to convince you of anything. You deserve nice things so let me give them to you." He hums softly.

You clench your fists, knowing he's right. But you really don't need anything for your birthday. Spending time with him is enough. All the little things he does for you are enough.

Your eyes glance over to the cash register and zero in on the balance.

$358.60

"Hey, Lee Minho!" You quickly grab his wrist to stop him from paying.

Minho turns to you and blinks a few times. You stare at him with pleading eyes, trying to convince him to stop.

"Eh erm," He grunts before taping his card to the card reader, your grip having no obvious effect on him.

Ding

You sigh as you release his arm, defeated. Minho thanks the cashier and takes the back from him. He throws his left arm around your shoulder and leads you out of the store. You can practically imagine the smirk on his face underneath his mask.

"You're going to use the things I got you right? And they'll make you happy?" He asks quietly.

"Yeah," You mumble.

"Then I don't mind spending that much on you. I would spend more but I know that it would make you uncomfortable. But I also want to spoil you because you deserve it." He says loudly as you exit the store. It's not crowded out, there's less of a worry.

"I already feel spoiled dating you so I really don't need much else from you,"

You're not sure how you got lucky to have a boyfriend like Minho. Who, while being a bit more on the quiet side, is the most attentive and caring person you've been around. He always seems to pick up on your moods before it even registers in your brain. And he tends to do little acts of service for you like cook you food for work or pick up a copy of a book that you mentioned being curious about once. He's already given you so much, there genuinely wasn't anything else you could think of to ask from him.

He stops walking, forcing you to slightly jerk back. He holds up the shopping bag in front of you, "Just take this. You can think of me whenever you use the backpack then. Put a little Leebit on it and my photocard or something. That way I'm always with you. You can even use that picture of me with the prop gun so it wards off other guys. And when you tell them that it's a picture of your boyfriend, they'll just think you're a delusional fan and back off. Now say thank you and give me a kiss."

"You're ridiculous," You laugh, taking the back from him.

"What was that?" He teases, pulling down his mask to reveal his infamous mischievous smirk. He stares you down and taps on his lips to give you a hint.

"Thank you, Minho. I love you," You give in, the heat in your body rushing to your cheeks.

"You're forgetting something,"

"Ah, you're a brat," You gently press your lips to his. Only momentarily in case someone spots you.

"No, that's you. Now let's go home and rest, I ran today and I'm tired."

"Yes, yes, I saw. Surprised your old body can move that fast still."

"You want to talk about old? You're the one who aged today."

"Don't start with me."

"Hehe," He giggles, pulling his mask up and dropping his arm to lace your fingers together. "Happy birthday, jagia."

—

Buy me a coffee?

—

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[writeingdocs]

Texts with bf!Minho when you watch another idol's live

☀️Feelbokkie M.list☀️

genre: crack

pov: 1st/2nd person (depends on how you view it)

description: Minho wakes up grumpy and alone in the middle of the night and decides to be petty about it

pairing: bf!Minho x reader

warnings: none

screenshot count: 5

©feelbokkie (2024) — all rights reserved. reposting/modification of any kind is not tolerated.

—

Buy me a coffee?

—

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@amyysfics @berryblog @jaydebow @junebug032 @boiohboii

*the rest of the taglist is in the comments*

[writeingdocs]

A Midsummer Love | hhj

❝𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐲?❞

↳ Much taken with the romance of finding a husband, you have looked excitedly to this season since you were a girl, only to find all you thought it would be ruined by your overprotective brother. Enter the handsome Duke of Hastings, who possessed of his own ulterior motives, presents you with an arrangement to yield you a love match. This season shall be the most scandalous yet.

↳ Hwang Hyunjin x female reader

↳ Bridgerton au. Fake relationship romance trope. Period piece, early 19th century. Angst and tension, conflict, mild violence, sexual tension and budding romance, yearning and pining, a sweet and happy ending.

! Mature content, adult themes, 17k, suitable for 18+ readers only !

「Part of the skz tropes collab w @yoongihan」 「main contents list」 「© March 2024 by jl-micasea-fics」

‘Twas the Regency era’s fifth season of courtship that bloomed upon the ton when you came of age.

The whispered stirrings of anticipation bewitched ladies and lords alike as early as the first thawing of spring’s chill, and to say you had counted down the days towards it would be to vastly understate your enthusiasm.

Last season you had watched your elder sister make her debut with awe, enraptured by the gowns and balls and romance that seemed to glow rosily over all of society for the summer months that were, in your young eyes, all too painfully brief. Now they began again, bringing hope after dream, and you felt it not too soon to proclaim that these months would be yours. How wistfully you had dreamt of the day you would be whisked off your feet by a wealthy, handsome gentleman that would make of you a blushing bride and (though the logistics escaped you), a doting mother to many, many children. How beautiful a life you would live, making a home of a quaint country house— it need not be so opulent, of course; perhaps ten or so rooms in which to repose would be ample. Taking tea and hosting friends would fill you with much delight, as would turning in with a good book to the view of gardens clustered with flowers and exotic posies of the most stunningly vibrant ilk.

Such were the romantic musings you lost yourself to amidst the surrounding clamour of house servants that fussed about your bedroom.

“Come, come Miss!” One such servant entreated, her arms full of colourful satin ribbons. “We must get you dressed! Time is upon us!”

When the work of the servants was done and you had been made presentable, you admired yourself in the looking glass, whereupon your breath caught. Surely the modiste had outdone herself; you hardly knew your reflection. The white chiffon gown fell flatteringly to the shape of your body, trimmed as it was with dove’s feathers and silver. Satin white gloves and a gossamer shawl about your shoulders kept you modest, yet a generous neckline did plainly put on show your decolletage and the long column of your throat, teasing at the swell of cleavage your snug corset so amply bestowed.

“My goodness!”

Your mother’s breathless exclamation drew your attention to the doorway, where she flustered and fussed. She breezed over as though to take you in a hug, yet caught herself for fear of rustling what perfection had been achieved.

“My darling girl, look at you,” she cooed, her kind eyes teary. “Should the queen not immediately proclaim you the diamond of the season on first sight of you; well! I shall proclaim her mad on the spot, and off shall be my head!”

“Mother, please,” you laughed, warm with her affection. “I can hardly take credit. If anything, I rather think I should be thanking you.”

“Nonsense!” She waved the sentiment away. “The finest gowns are but rags on those unfortunate young ladies without the poise for them. You, my dear, will be the most refined debutant of the social season.” She pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “Now, then. Are you ready?”

“To face the queen and have her exact judgement upon me before all the ton?”

“Yes.”

With a deep breath, you nodded. “I have awaited this day for longer than I care to admit, mother. Yes. I am ready.”

“You shall dazzle, my dear.” She turned to the orderly line of servants still amassed. “Fetch the carriage, please. My second born is to debut today!”

*

Never had you seen so much beauty in one place— surely such gatherings upset the balance of things, temporally or spiritually.

Most everywhere you looked was a young lady dressed in her finery, attended to by their mother or other such family member to which they afforded responsibility of chaperone. The keen tingle of giddy nerves hovered about the royal lobby, the vastness of which was almost enough to overmaster your own anxiety— how high the ornate ceiling loomed above your head! From the first you had been utterly awed, having heard only tales from your sister of the rich grandness the royal family possessed, the gold and the white and the floral; her stories seemed to fall utterly short of where you now stood, waiting your turn to parade yourself before the queen, who in the next room reposed with her retinue and all those noble men and women of court. An intimidating affair no matter which way one sliced it, to have one’s name called out in invitation to a lion’s den, but so excitedly were you anticipating what might come after the formalities had been dispensed with, you found yourself rather clearer of mind than those that shared your plight. The opulent double doors at the far of the room were opened and shut by the pages, yet another young lady admitted with a fanfare.

“Now, remember dear,” your mother said softly. “Be only what you are. The queen will know if you appear before her with ill airs and graces. She has a nose for such things.”

“Yes, mother. I shall be fine.”

“Naturally, dear. Naturally. Just— Well, do take care where you tread, yes? Your frock is so delicate. Should I have instructed the modiste to take it up an inch? Will you be—”

“Mother.” You took her hands. “I shall be fine.”

Just then, the clear pronunciation of your name suffixed by ‘of the house Bridgerton’ was heard by all, your heart lurching with the blare of horns that accompanied it. Your mother flustered yet stood aside for your entrance, maintaining several paces behind as you stepped from the lobby and into the queen’s chamber. Lords and ladies and courtiers of unthinkable wealth and astute reputation looked on, gathered either side of the central aisle where you walked demurely, head held high, heart pounding all the while. The queen, so widely known to be benevolent and fair, awaited you at the end, throned and wrapped in a grand gown of striking purple that complemented her dark, silky complexion. It was difficult to tell much of her expression: her lips were pressed thinly, her brown eyes focused. Behind her stood her retinue of ladies-in-waiting, each of them cradling a bundle of white fluff that you understood to be the queen’s dogs— the small irony made your lips twitch. Just as the tinny shrill of the horns faded and died, you stopped and gave as most courteous a curtsy as your mother had trained you to do.

“Your Majesty,” you said reverently.

Still, it remained nigh impossible to intonate anything of the queen’s feelings through her drawn features. She looked you up and down, and after a moment, rose from her throne. A quick gasp shocked all in the room, and though composed in appearance, your insides twirled with worry.

She took an elegant step towards you, and all at once it seemed too bold to look so directly and so closely at the queen, force of nature that she was. And yet the queen reached out to tilt your chin up and right your posture, looking you squarely in the eye. She smiled warmly.

“Flawless, my dear,” she said.

So it was that the diamond of the season had been found, and within the hour the news had swept across the ton and into every household of note, eliciting from those bachelors keen to seek a wife this season a most enthused and determined course of action, for the young lady that possessed the queen’s endorsement was unquestionably proper and pretty in every way a young lady ought to be, and therefore coveted the attentions of the finest men.

During the carriage ride home you listened to your mother speak excitedly of all this, in truth too giddy to much consider that you might attract the wrong attentions.

*

“And so, mother, you understand why I must take over as her chaperone and representative, yes?”

The eldest Bridgerton brother meant well. He, like all men, simply lacked the trait considered widely to be feminine, but that to your mind (perhaps naïvely) ought to be considered par for the course of simple conversational etiquette in high society: tact.

“I’m afraid I do not, Anthony,” your mother replied, her stitching set aside. “In fact, if I possessed a more hysterical mind, I might think that you mean to insult me.”

Anthony rolled his eyes, pacing about the warm sitting room. “I mean no such thing.”

“You imply that my judgement in the matter of your sister’s matching is inferior to your own, do you not?”

“I imply that your knowledge as to the men of the ton is inferior to mine, mother,” he said. “My sister has been proclaimed the diamond of the season. You know well the attention this will draw to her.”

Your mother smiled. “Indeed, I do. The more, the better for her.”

“And that is precisely why I should be more involved,” he sighed. “She should not indulge just any man that approaches her, mother. It might not be gossiped of in your sewing circles, but I assure you, the things I know of these men remove more than half of them from eligible courting.”

Your mother blinked. “And how, dear son, did you come to possess such information?”

Anthony ceased his pacing.

“Would it be because you too frequent the gentleman’s clubs?”

“I am a man. It is normal to—”

“Normal for you, but not normal for those men that may show interest in your sister?”

With a start, he roughly cleared his throat. “Am I not the man of this house?” he asked sharply. “Is my word not final? I shall accompany her to every ball and event of the season and take responsibility as chaperone. I will know who intends to court her. This, I have decided. We shall speak no more of it.”

Your mother sighed wearily and picked up her stitching. “As you wish, dear.”

“I merely wish the best for her, mother.”

“I know, dear.”

Anthony nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Well, then. I have business to attend to.”

He strode across the room as though to leave.

“Anthony?”

He turned back to where his mother reposed in a stream of summer sunlight.

“Your word is final on matters of the Bridgerton household. That is the duty left to you by your dear father,” she said gently. “But mind your words on your sister’s heart. You cannot speak for her when she sets it, and she will do so of her own volition.”

Anthony pursed his lips, indignance flaring.

He would see about that.

*

The first ball of the season was thrown by the esteemed Lady Danbury, a close acquaintance of your mother’s. You knew her to be a rich widow, her husband having passed when she was middle-aged, and the vast fortunes she now enjoyed were those left to her by marriage.

When the carriage pulled up outside Danbury House, you were much awed by what you saw. The grand country manor had been set for the event, vines of colourful wildflowers wound about the stone pillars that propped the awning. Gemstone encrusted braziers blazed hot with open flame, tincturing the summer night with the excitable scent of burnt charcoal. They aligned a wide red carpet that lords and ladies walked arm in arm, and it was this that you stepped upon as you climbed from the carriage.

Anthony, first to disembark, offered you his arm.

“Come, sister.”

Entering the manor to the bustle of partygoers, you returned greetings and well wishes to those that you both knew and didn’t; indeed, the heft of the queen’s issue of you soon became clear. All eyes were trained to you as though expecting you might grow a second head, and though flattered by the attention, you were inwardly flustered and consequently glad that your brother had decided on accompanying you, despite the initial perplexment.

In the main ballroom, a central dance floor was marked off by high standing bouquets of white and lilac lilies— such appeared to be the theme of the night. Soft violet hangings of chiffon and lace formed stunning tapestries along the smooth, curved walls. Bows and ribbons and elegant arrangements of dove white fabric concealed the darker corners of the ballroom, so that all appeared bright and soft. Suited servants made the rounds with flutes of fizz and bites to eat. Young ladies stood near to their chaperones, their coy eyes wandering to those men whose attentions they most hoped to attract. The gentle tones of violin and cello floated about the ballroom from the concentrated band, soon to play a tune that would have all involved in the customary baroque dances.

Your conversations with the other ladies were congenial and light; pleasantries exchanged on your dress and your apparent luck at being declared the season diamond. Three quarters of an hour passed much like this, and having yet to be approached by a suitor with an offer of conversation or dance, you began to worry. Was your dress not so appealing after all? Was there something wrong with your hair? Did you have something in your teeth?

“Anthony!” called a voice from across the ballroom, so loud as to startle you from your thoughts.

“Lord Berbrooke!”

Somewhat solemn until now, your brother’s face lit up as he warmly greeted the stout gentleman that had entreated him. He was rotund around the middle and at least two heads shorter than Anthony, his cheeks puffy red and chin abused by a scraggly ginger beard. Too long did his bloodshot eyes linger on you, much to your discomfort.

“How goes it, Viscount?” Berbrooke asked gruffly, his breath hot around his words. “Not married yet?”

Anthony shook his head. “No. God forbid I ever should be.”

“Tosh! It comes to us all in the end, Bridgerton. You shall be no exception; especially with a fortune such as your father left.” He licked his chapped lips. “I imagine you've suitors simply chomping at the bit to get a foot in the door, so to speak.”

“Not as many as one would like,” you muttered.

“What was that, young lady?”

Anthony laughed, and in a bid to change the topic, said, “Lord Berbrooke, this is my younger sister. She makes her debut this season.”

You smiled and curtseyed politely. Berbrooke’s eyes rolled over you greedily.

“A fine young flower, indeed,” he slathered. “What a delight it is to meet you, my dear.”

Revulsion twisted your gut, yet you smiled all the same.

“Might I steal her away for a dance, Anthony?” he asked.

“You flatter me, sir, but I—”

“She would be delighted,” Anthony stated flatly. “Wouldn’t you, sister?”

Berbrooke looked on eagerly. Horrified but unable to voice it, you strained a smiled and nodded, suddenly coming to understand what it was had made you so entirely unapproachable this evening— or rather, who.

“Please excuse me a moment.”

Not wishing to remain a second longer, you quickly departed the conversation and hurried across the ballroom, heart in your throat. You were loath to believe that Anthony’s insistence on chaperoning could be based on such overzealous reasoning as protecting your virtue, but how else was it to be interpreted when all evening he had stood sombrely at your side, repelling all who might hope to approach save for one? And that one, of all!

“Sister!”

Catching your elbow and halting your escape, Anthony quietly manoeuvred you aside.

“You will apologise to Lord Berbrooke for your rudeness,” he said plainly.

“Apologise?” you hissed, for your relationship with your brother was none delicate and could well withstand the brazenness of sibling conflict. “How could you ask me to dance with him?”

“Lord Berbrooke is a fine man. He has business in many quarters of the city and his reputation is solid. Above board. You could do much worse.”

“I could do better, brother. He is thrice your age and ten times as foul. I will never marry him.”

“You would do well to remember yourself. The matter of your marriage is as much my affair as it is yours. You will be matched well, and by my hand.”

“Then I shall not be matched at all,” you said, tears pricking your eyes. “When I marry, it shall not be in the name of convenience or business. It shall be for love.”

“Oh, do grow up, for heaven’s sake.”

“Mother shall hear of this.”

“Mother already has. She has agreed to my terms.”

“If that were true, you would not have insisted on her residing at home tonight,” you said, snatching your arm from his grip.

“Sister—”

“I require air. Do not follow me.”

You stormed away before your tongue could much more loosen, weaving through the crowd that had begun to amass on the spacious ballroom floor, positions taken up according to the music cues that you hardly heard for the anxious pounding of your heart.

Anthony could not do this to you. You would not allow him to do this to you. To marry that detestable man would be the most unthinkable fate—

Just then, you were promptly winded by a force of collision to your chest, solid enough to have you reeling from your feet. Strong arms caught and steadied you, and you soon realised that the fault was all your own— in your distress you had rushed with haste into the broad back of a man you’d never before seen, but that now held you near to him and looked upon you with soft hazel eyes and a grim expression of bewilderment. Light blonde, shoulder-length hair framed his features that, in the ballroom light, seemed almost feminine in their soft curvature, yet the tell of masculinity held in his strong jaw and sharp nose.

“M— My apologies,” you quickly offered, straightening yourself and stepping from him; he released you easily.

“The apology should be mine,” he said in a most pleasingly smooth voice. He bowed courteously. “Curse my foolish body for getting in your way, my lady.”

You laughed lightly, somewhat relieved. “Indeed. Curse my eyes for not seeing your foolish body.”

The man grinned, his perfect white teeth on show. Breathtaking.

“I do not believe I know you, sir,” you said. “You are from the city?”

“Ah. Well, yes. I am not long returned to the ton. My business demands I spend much of the year overseas.”

“And you are back for the social season?”

He cast his eyes over you, a wry smile forming on his plush lips. “At the request of my aunt, yes.”

About to throw yet another question at the man whose name you had yet to even discover (for that was simply how enthralling he was), your endeavour was disturbed by the boom of your brother’s voice.

“Hwang!” He approached quickly and took the man you were addressing in an embrace that was spiritedly returned. “I had not heard you were back!”

“Then you pay as little attention to the gossipmongers of this city than I, old friend,” he laughed.

“Business allows you the break?” Anthony asked.

“Business flows as busily as ever, Bridgerton.”

“I see. We have the esteemed Lady Danbury to thank, then?”

“My aunt can be...” He flicked a gaze to you. “Persuasive.”

On your congenial smile and the acknowledgement of your presence, Anthony finally turned to you.

“I see you have met my sister,” he said, tone markedly flat.

“Your sister?”

Anthony nodded. The man blinked, his smile disappearing.

“Sister, allow me to introduce you. This is the Duke of Hastings and a personal friend of mine. Hwang Hyunjin.”

A duke. Goodness. Though he himself seemed none taken with the formality, grimacing at the exchange.

“It is wonderful to meet you, your grace,” you said, looking determinedly into those sweet eyes.

“The pleasure is entirely mine, my lady.” He returned the gaze.

“Yes, well—” Anthony cleared his throat. “She debuts this season, and it is my endeavour to find her a suitable match.”

“I am capable of deciding for myself, brother. Shocking though it might be for you to discover, I am possessed of a brain.”

Hyunjin scoffed a laugh.

“I have already introduced her to the esteemed Lord Berbrooke,” Anthony said, quite ignorant. “I rather think him a strong candidate.”

“Berbrooke?” Hyunjin repeated. “Surely you cannot mean—”

“Mean what? You do not agree that he would make a reputable husband and provide for my sister well?” Anthony snapped.

Hyunjin nodded. “If that is where your concerns lie, I suppose.”

“I know well the reputations of all these men,” Anthony continued, casting a disapproving glare about the ballroom. “Not one of them has anything to recommend them to my sister as suitor, let alone husband. Their very names inspire scandal.”

“I think that a margin harsh, Bridgerton,” Hyunjin said. “Those in glass houses should not throw stones.”

“You think me like them?”

“I only hope that when the time comes for your search of a wife, you will not be beholden to the same kind of persecution. If visiting the gentleman’s clubs and such propensities are enough to deem a man unworthy of marriage, then not one in all of London shall ever wed!”

Anthony’s nostrils flared, his ego clearly struck.

“I merely think you worry unduly,” Hyunjin then added gently. “Your sister, like you, is a Bridgerton. Trust in her to make the right decision.”

How quickly you were growing to like this man— stunning beauty aside, you easily felt yourself warming by his glance and soft smile, his words so affirming. With a sigh and shrug, he patted your brother on the shoulder.

“If you would kindly excuse me, I believe I am quite spent for one night. We shall catch up, Bridgerton.”

He turned to you and bowed courteously, taking your hand to which he pressed a soft, reverential kiss.

“A pleasure,” he said.

With that, he strode off through the crowd, bodies parting for him and longing eyes following where yours too went.

Hwang Hyunjin, Duke of Hastings.

A pleasure, indeed.

*

The days that followed Lady Danbury’s ball were, by your own declaration, a torrent of misery.

Lord Berbrooke, spurred on by your brother’s approval, sought to court you every day, calling on the house to regale you with tales of his business and of his youth as a military man. Listening to the tales was not so painful as merely sitting with him, for the man seemed to possess no ideals of bathing or the benefits of pleasantly scented herbs to ease the eye-watering odour which he seemed to carry always— how vehemently you insisted on extra sprigs of lavender in the sitting room.

Your mother, adequately horrified by the entire affair, made her displeasure known to Anthony on multiple occasions and with increasing strength, and you might have found relief in it if you believed he would in any way relent. As it stood, there seemed no sign that he would budge on the matter of your betrothal to Berbrooke, and with such little power as you possessed, there appeared nothing to be done about it.

“Must I promenade with him, mother?” you asked wearily.

“Oh, my dear.” Your mother patted your cheek gently, affixed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I know this weighs heavily on you, but do as your brother says for now. I have not given up on changing his mind on all this.”

“I was declared the diamond of the season.” Your voice caught, breaking with tears. “Does that mean nothing to him?”

“It is difficult to see it now, but he simply wishes the best for you. For the family.”

“If he truly wished that, he would marry himself. He speaks of duty and honour, yet I see no such demonstration from him.”

Your mother looked on you sadly, her sympathetic eyes reflecting all you already knew— that when your emotions got the better of you, there was no assuaging to be done.

“It falls to you, my dear,” your mother said. “Show him that there are other men in the ton able to make for you an honourable husband. His prejudice blinds him, but if he sees how you try, perhaps he shall bend. There is nothing else for it.”

You sighed and blinked through the tears. Your mother wrapped her arms around you gently, the comfort of home so reassuring for its part.

“A diamond glitters no matter how dense the darkness,” she whispered. “This all shall pass. I promise.”

*

The summer morning was light and warm, the park in full and colourful bloom. Lush lawns of trimmed green dipped to embankments that circled the calm lake, where lords and ladies took tea and sweets as their chaperones and families looked on. Pastel parasols bobbed along the paths like buoys seeking land, the gentle breeze rustling their fringes redolent of freshly cut grass and sweet wildflowers; the essence of rosy, romantic summer.

Shame that it did not quite reach you, however, tucked under the shade of a tall birch where you stood sombrely and watched the enamoured couples promenade. Your brother lurked at your right-hand like the gargoyle he had taken to becoming, while your mother poised at your left.

“Perhaps we should walk a while, Anthony?” she asked. “It is such clement weather, it would do us good to—”

“We wait for Lord Berbrooke.”

Your heart sank.

“Anthony, please,” your mother entreated. “I am sure Lord Berbrooke shall find us. We look quite the lark, standing here uncomfortably. People are watching, you know.”

“Let them watch,” he sighed. “They shall see nothing of interest.”

And it was at that moment that a stroke of luck happened upon you.

“Lady Bridgerton?” A smooth, feminine voice said, puzzled. Your mother turned quickly, her face alight when she saw her good and old friend.

“Lady Danbury! How good to see you!”

Lady Danbury was, as ever, turned out as though the day might be her last. Deep purple satin made her frock, and her eccentricity shone through in the smart top hat wound with ribbons that perched on her head.

“Indeed,” Lady Danbury said, her look quizzical. “You are here to promenade?”

“We are,” your mother replied, and then quickly added, “We sought some shade from our walking. How hot it is today!”

“Walk with me, then. I am in need of good company.”

“We are awaiting someone—”

“Thank you, my lady,” you hastily took her on the offer, linking your mother’s arm before your brother could much more ruin things for you. Several steps out of the shade after her felt an immediate relief.

“You do not join us, Viscount?” Lady Danbury turned back to ask.

He shook his head stiltedly. “I shall see you on the way around.”

“As you like, then.”

With that, the three of you took to a delightful stroll about the lake, the clack of Lady Danbury’s cane timing your pleasant pace.

“How fares things, Lady Bridgerton?” Lady Danbury asked.

“Very well, thank you. And you?”

“Much the same. I must say; I did not expect to see the viscount in attendance at my ball. He so seldom involves himself in the social season. He is chaperoning this time?”

Your mother nodded. “He is.”

Lady Danbury laughed, gravelly yet soft. “He is giving you a time of it?”

“I do not wish to speak out of turn, Lady Danbury.”

“Nonsense. We are all women. Lord knows we cannot speak to the men of our strife— they are so often the cause of it!”

Your mother sighed. “Indeed. Well. I dare say he is—”

“He is forcing me into a marriage with Lord Berbrooke,” you said.

Lady Danbury quirked a brow. “I see.”

“He says the other men of the ton are unsuitable. That he knows their reputations and pastimes and that their names would invite scandal.”

“He is in search of a saint, then?”

“It certainly appears so.”

Your mother intervened. “He means well, Lady Danbury.”

“Of course. He takes the duties of his father seriously. One cannot resent him that.”

“But should he not trust my judgement on the matter of a husband? I wish to marry for love, Lady Danbury, as my parents did. As my sister did. Not for business. I have told him as such, yet he frightens all the men from me. Not one dares approach!”

Lady Danbury hummed. “It is indeed unfortunate that he has made the matter of your marriage his first course of business. Though it is not unheard of for such marriages of convenience to bloom in love. I can speak to this myself.”

“Lady Danbury.” You stopped. “I sooner see myself declaring madness than falling in love with that foul ogre of a man. I should rather live alone and spend my days as a spinster than—”

“Aunt!”

All eyes turned to the approaching gentleman that jogged gently across the lawn, his light blonde hair like silk about his shoulders. Yet more breathtaking in the glow of summer than the first you saw him, something felt as though to twist in your chest as the Duke of Hastings embraced Lady Danbury warmly, a kiss on each of her cheeks.

“I did not think to see you here, your grace,” she said.

“You may dispense with the formalities, aunt,” he laughed, then looked up to the sky. “I thought I might soak up the sunshine whilst it lasts. So rarely does it visit.”

“How agreeable. Walk with us then.” Lady Danbury turned to you and your mother. “You have met the Bridgertons?”

Hyunjin bowed courteously. “I have not had the pleasure of the matriarch,” he said. “How lovely to meet you.”

Your mother blushed scarlet when the man took her hand gently. “Y— Yes. Lovely.”

“And I believe we met at Lady Danbury’s ball, did we not, miss?” He directed the question to you, his eyes alight with something you could not read.

You nodded graciously. “We did, your grace.”

“Excellent. Let us walk, then.”

And so the promenade began again, with your mother and Lady Danbury taking to a leisurely pace ahead of yourself and Hyunjin. A respectable distance was maintained between you, and even so, you felt the warmth of the man through his smart navy two-piece that happened to fit him as though he had been birthed in it.

“I do not see your brother in attendance,” he said, hands clasped behind his back as he walked.

“He is here.”

“Ah. I shall see him later, then.”

A cluster of ladies gathered on the embankment giggled loudly— they were watching a fierce rowing competition on the lake between the men.

“Did you enjoy yourself at the ball?” Hyunjin asked.

“I did.”

“Good. I am glad to hear it. Only, you seemed rather out of sorts, is all.”

“You would have my brother to thank for that,” you sighed.

“I see. The matter of your matching?”

“Yes.”

“He still insists on Lord Berbrooke?”

“He does.”

Hyunjin shook his head.

“I do not wish to speak of it any longer,” you said. “Such grim topics spoil the day. Tell me of yourself, your grace. You are Lady Danbury’s nephew? By which side?”

The concern on his features did not so much abate, but he entertained you regardless.

“By neither. I call her my aunt, and she entreats me as her nephew, but we are not kin. She raised me just the same.”

 “I see. And your parents?”

His brows drew together, a visible swallow bobbing his throat. “Gone.”

“I am very sorry to hear that.”

“Sorry?” He quirked a brow. “You need not be. All transpired well, and I owe all I have now to Lady Danbury’s kindness. She is a good woman.”

A moment of silence elapsed, where the many questions you could pose to him rattled around your head like skittles. How many hours you could spend simply conversing with him!

“I understand your father is also passed?”

You nodded. “The memories I have of him are fond. My siblings and I were much too young to understand what happened at the time, but Anthony...” You swallowed. “He recalls all of it, but he does not speak of it.”

“Naturally. Such tragedies are better left to collect dust. We must move on.”

“Agreed.”

“Start our own families and begin new legacies.”

“Quite.” You chewed your inner cheek. “May I ask something, your grace?”

Hyunjin stopped, for the path had directed over a small, raised area that bridged a trickling stream. “Of course.”

“You are not married?”

“I am not.”

“Why?”

Hyunjin looked out to the larger lake, head tilted back for the sun to kiss his handsome features and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath.

“I have never felt the need,” he said simply.

“But what of starting your own legacy? Your own family?”

“I am all the family I need. And at the risk of sounding pompous, my legacy is already well established. There are not many that do not know the Duke of Hastings and all he owns.”

“And what will you leave behind? What of an heir?”

“My estates and assets shall be donated on occasion of my death.”

“What of love?”

He opened his eyes, the almond flecks of hazel catching in the sunlight. So unthinkably stunning was he, your own breath caught short in your throat and seemed as though to seize. Such strange sensation made you flush with heat— Hyunjin smiled softly.

“Might I speak freely, my lady?”

You merely nodded, awestruck.

“You might think me mad, but it strikes me that we might be able to help one another.”

“H— Help?”

“Your brother is insistent on this arrangement with Berbrooke, yes?”

“Yes.”

“He will only relent to a man whose reputation he can respect? Whom he knows well?”

“I suppose.”

Hyunjin stepped closer, his voice a hush over the breeze. “As you know, it was my aunt that ordained my return to the ton for the season,” he said. “I could not well refuse her. But she is with motive. She hopes to secure me a wife, and now that the idea is upon her, it shall remain. Like you, I have tried to reason with her as to my feelings on the matter, but she is not to be convinced.”

“I see...”

“I propose we work together,” he continued. “Allow me to court you, and not only shall it satisfy my dear aunt that I am making attempts to marry and thus keep her eyes from me, but it shall assuage your brother’s worry as to your match. He and I are old friends; he cannot dispute that I am, for my part, a good man. He shall have no choice but to call off this arrangement with Berbrooke.”

“B— But, surely if you are seen to be courting me, I shall be kept even further from the attentions of other men?”

“On the contrary, my lady. There is nothing men covet more than that which his wealthy neighbour possesses. Once the ton hears of my attentions toward you, men will come from every constituency to court you. They shall clamour for your hand whether Anthony approves or not.”

It made sense. Oh, how much sense it made, but how much scandal it might provoke! To partake in a ruse such as this was unheard of, unthought of, entirely unlike you in most every way. And yet here you were, considering such proposition from a man you knew scarcely, save for that his face was carved by angels.

“What say you, my lady?” he asked softly, gloved hand discreetly offered.

What had you to lose, save a fate of spinsterhood and destitution?

“Very well.” You slipped your hand into his; he squeezed it tenderly, and your heart did something most bizarre. “You have a deal, your grace.”

“Excellent,” he smiled. “Though I must make one thing abundantly clear.”

You quirked a brow, still clasping his hand.

“This is an arrangement of business. We must not let our emotions interfere.”

“Meaning what, your grace?”

“Meaning...” He released your hand. “You must not fall in love with me, my lady.”

Your laugh was as forceful as the weight that sank your chest; he told you nothing noteworthy, for you knew how he spurned marriage and love. Yet to hear him say it seemed so sad. A waste of so much.

“You flatter yourself, Duke.”

“Perhaps. Just so long as we are clear.”

“We are clear.”

He nodded graciously. “Very well then. I look forward to working with you.”

*

“The Duke of Hastings is here to call on Miss Bridgerton.”

Your mother leapt up from her knitting, the ball of yarn rolling across the floor as her needles clattered.

“What!?” she cried. “My goodness! Say again?!”

The servant cleared their throat, and once more said, “The Duke of Hastings is here to call on Miss Bridgerton, my lady.”

What ensued was nothing short of a flurry of hysterical panic; servants ordered to furnish the sitting room with tea and refreshments and fetch the nicest doilies should the duke wish to set his teacup on any near surface. Such effort was neglected for the visits of Lord Berbrooke, and as you watched the chaos with a smile, it felt that the season of romance you always wished for might finally be starting. Such thoughts you really ought to have kept in check, for as you too often forgot: all of this was a pretence.

“Good morning, ladies.”

With a grand bouquet of lilac lilies—the favourites of his aunt, you noted—the duke was welcomed into the sitting room. Never had he looked more dashing, his three-piece suit of stone-grey clinging most pleasingly to where his frame betrayed lean, toned muscle. He was so tall as to stoop when he greeted your mother, his long legs stretching the britches that themselves seemed to struggle to contain the elegant length.

“What a wonderful surprise!” your mother gushed.

“I hope I do not impose upon you, Lady Bridgerton.”

“No, no! You are most welcome, your grace! Come, sit! Would you care for tea? Perhaps a sweet? Or anything else at all?”

After the frantic attendance of your mother had eased and you were left to the man’s company (inasmuch as ‘left’ occasioned; your mother merely retired to the other side of the sitting room, where she knitted and pretended not to listen), you thought of what to talk about. Indeed, it all seemed rather contrite when the arrangement bore an expiration date.

“You are radiant this morning, Miss Bridgerton,” he said graciously from beside you on the chaise longue.

“You need not flatter me, your grace.” Though the flush of heat up your neck betrayed your inward delight. “No doubt news of your calling on me has already begun to travel over the ton. The servants do miraculous work.”

“It was no attempt at flattery, my lady, but as you wish.”

While you clawed your heart back from your throat, he looked about the room, his eyes falling to the book that rested on the table; an encyclopaedic work on native birds.

“You read, my lady?”

“I like to.”

Hyunjin smiled.

“It amuses you that I like to read? Should I sit before the window and vegetate from sunrise to sunset instead?”

“I am not the sort that finds intelligent women distressing, my lady. If I thought you ill-educated, I would not have approached you in the first.”

You cleared your throat. “I see.”

“You doubt me?”

“No, your grace. You strike me as a sincere man.”

“Good. I am glad.”

“Though I do wonder why you prefer to partake in such ruse with me,” you whispered, “when you could simply do things the right way, as your aunt wishes.”

“The right way?”

You shrugged. “Meet someone and fall in love.”

“I have addressed this already. I do not wish to marry.”

“I was not speaking of marriage. I speak of love.”

“I thought you believed the two not mutually exclusive?”

“I do not, but why would one ever refrain from marrying the person they love? Such a course of action must be madness.”

“Love is a childish affair that makes hapless fools of better men and hysterical crones of good women. I have no need of it.”

“I dare say anyone has need of it, your grace. It is hardly a lame horse. I am rather inclined to believe it simply... happens. Whether one wishes for it or not.”

Hyunjin blinked, the muscle of his jaw feathering as it tensed, then relaxed. He held your gaze, almond eyes focused.

“I find it rather lovely, actually,” you added. “That there exists an emotion powerful enough to make one wish to change the course of their life. Love should be celebrated.”

“You speak as though you yourself have felt it, my lady.”

“I have not,” you sighed. “I know only what I have read of and seen, in my sister and in my parents. But I most desperately wish to feel it. I wish that all those I care for will one day feel it.”

“You have been surrounded by goodness, it seems,” Hyunjin said. “You should count yourself lucky.”

“Oh, I do, your grace. I am most grateful for all my parents have provided my siblings and I. They have raised us well, in love and luxury. I should be eternally grateful.”

“Indeed. Not all are so blessed.”

You searched his face, for he had averted it to the window, and what you could make of his expression had drawn sombre.

“Your grace?”

He shook his head and smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. “My apologies. Pay me no mind.”

He rose from your side, and on sight of him doing so, your mother rose too, setting her stitching aside.

“You are leaving, your grace?” she asked.

“I have taken up quite enough of Miss Bridgerton’s time,” he said with a bow. “Thank you for entertaining me, my lady.”

He took your hand and with the pillowy lips you had so vehemently thought to ignore, pressed a chaste kiss to your gloved knuckle. So reverent and tender was the suggestion, you could not help but wonder if the show was entirely necessary when only your mother was in attendance to see it— you ought to have spared your heart the misery.

 “I shall call again tomorrow, if I may?” he asked, directing the question to your mother, who watched the exchange with delighted quiet.

“Of course, your grace. We should be honoured to have you again. Any time.”

“Very well, then.” He bowed once more. “Until tomorrow, ladies. Good day.”

With that, he availed himself of your company, and for the coming hours you suffered the titillated chatter of your mother to the servants and your siblings, to all who would listen of the wonderful, wonderful news that ‘the Duke of Hastings is courting my darling daughter! What beautiful children they shall be blessed with! Oh, but I knew how it would be! What happy days!’

What happy days, indeed.

*

The next most prominent event of the season was to be the observatory ball— an affair organised by the dowagers of the ton, long since removed from the formal romance of the social season and with nothing more engaging to occupy them.

Chaperoned by your ever dutiful brother, though his presence did more to harden your heart than bear assurance, it was with some misery that you entered the stunning glass building, unable fully to appreciate the opulence that dripped from every pillar and awning in shows of white flowers and delicate lace. A great mural of intricate symbols had been painted white on the dance floor, where several couples had taken to spinning already. Spirits seemed to be high, infecting the evening air with a great buzz of anticipation. You felt it yourself, despite your brother’s attempts to act the aegis. Something would happen tonight. Something that would change everything.

“I see no sign of Berbrooke,” your brother huffed from your side, casting focused glances about the guests. “He assured me he would be in attendance tonight.”

“I should rejoice if he fails to show up entirely,” you sighed.

“Such pessimism is most unbecoming of a lady, sister. You ought to be more congenial.”

“I could have until judgement day and not muster enough congeniality to offer that man even a single smile, brother.”

Anthony blinked at you, his dark eyes in astonishment.

“I should like to say hello to the other ladies,” you said, starting away from him. “Do not follow me.”

For what reason your brother this time chose to comply, you could not guess at, but you indeed considered that the occasional speaking out of turn impacted men more than you initially believed.

In crossing the observatory and passing under white wreaths of berries and flora, you sought the lemonade stand, in truth none thirsty for a drink, but possessed of some hope that a gentleman might spy you alone and summon the courage to approach for a dance. Minutes passed where no such thing occurred, and it was just as you began to sink into depths of sadness, that a rash clearing of throat from behind you caught your attention.

“Miss Bridgerton.”

The Duke of Hastings stood before you, most dashing in a red velvet suit finished with black trim. His light hair tucked behind both ears seemed comprised of silk itself, and his countenance most relaxed, yet strong and firm, brought you to a smile.

“Your grace,” you curtseyed politely, despite the weakness of knees. “How wonderful to see you.”

He cast an eye that might have been interpreted as critical over you, a smile caught on the curve of his lips.

“You look lovely,” he said.

“Thank you, your grace. As do you.”

“I look lovely?”

“Quite lovely. I thought velvet a dated material, but I appear forced to reconsider my opinion.”

“Did I not have the measure of you, Miss Bridgerton, I might be inclined to believe that a veiled insult.”

“I am not in the business of veiling my insults, your grace. Should I ever mean to insult you, you shall know it.”

His eyes glimmered with amusement. “Noted.” He offered you his arm to take. “Shall we dance?”

“Can you dance, your grace?”

“I am educated in formal baroque. So, yes.”

“Very well, then.”

You took his arm, a wave of unhindered delight threatening to outweigh your sensibility as he walked you to the floor, turning curious heads as you went. The instrumental band played an upbeat melody, one that had the occupants of the floor dancing the menuet in two lines of ladies and gentlemen. Joining the end of the respective lines, you fell easily into the steps, swaying both away from and towards the men that captivated your attentions. By now it was no wonder that most eyes in the observatory were on the two of you, your brother’s included. Smiling through the bout of anxiety, it was in taking Hyunjin’s hand again that the melody changed to allow for a slower, closer dance, which was of no small relief. It felt better to be close to him.

“Do you possess such strong opinion of all fabrics, Miss Bridgerton?” he asked quietly, the arm floating about your waist hardly touching.

“I am educated in textiles, your grace. So, yes.”

He smiled wryly. “I see. Allow me to consult you on the matter of my attire from time to time, then.”

“If it pleases your grace.”

“It does. Are you inclined to fashion, my lady?”

“Not particularly. Mother insists on engaging me with the modiste for gowns and the like, and I am able to appreciate a pretty dress as much as the next lady, but I much prefer the employment of a book or my sewing. Such stimulating things brings me great peace. The fancies of fashion seem only to bring me a headache.”

“In that, we are in agreement, my lady.” His smile widened to a grin, and in the lingering eye contact you went through the steps of dance, his smile gradually diminished to more serious appearance.

“All eyes are on us, your grace,” you whispered.

“Indeed. That is the point. Your name shall be on every gentleman’s lips for the remainder of the eve; the remainder of the season. You recall our bargain?”

“I do.”

“Then you understand why I thought it prudent to attend tonight. To dance with you before all the ton.”

You nodded gently, the heat of his hand in yours a most distracting sensation. He led you easily and without too much thought, the coming together of your movements a most natural and intimate event. Too intimate to be watched by those present, you rather thought.

“You do not seem pleased.”

“What?”

He searched your face. “I thought the prospect of your popularity renewing would delight you.”

You shook your head. “It does. I just… I fear that Anthony shall not take this well.”

“Be assured, Miss Bridgerton. As I have already explained, Anthony is a good and old friend of mine. He shall find no objection to our courting, and if by some means he should, it matters not. We are pretending. The fruits of our labours have already begun to yield. Look there.”

With a careful glance to your right, you saw the cluster of gentlemen that looked eagerly on at your prance with the duke, curiosity lighting their eyes. Nowhere, however, did you spy your brother.

“They already covet what belongs to another,” Hyunjin whispered, voice low above the shell of your ear. “They are none deterred by your brother, nor by me. You shall have your love match, Miss Bridgerton, and I shall be left in blissful peace from the naggings of my aunt.”

A cool unease set upon you, though you smiled as though in gratitude all the same. What it was in aid of, you could not say; only that you felt it, and not even the warmth of the man that imposed upon you so closely could ease it.

The dance gradually ended and you ruefully stepped away from the viscount, and near immediately were you accosted not by the gentlemen that had watched you from afar, keenly counting their chance, but by the footman that manned your carriage.

“Miss Bridgerton, forgive the interruption—”

“Whatever is it?”

“The Viscount has sent me to escort you home, my lady,” he said.

“Home?” You looked about the observatory. “Where is my brother?”

“He has already retired, my lady, in another carriage.”

“What for?”

“I could not say, my lady. He did seem…”

“He seemed what?”

“W— Well. Upset, my lady? I could not well say why—”

You turned to the duke, who until now had listened sombrely. He met your gaze, and though his smile was meant to offer reassurance, it did no such thing.

“It seems you are required elsewhere, Miss Bridgerton,” he said quietly. “I bid you goodnight.”

“Y— Yes. Goodnight, then,” you said, quite bewildered by your thickness of voice.

“I shall call on you tomorrow.”

“Very well.”

With a curtsy, you began away from him, following the footman through the gathering of lords and ladies that parted for your exit. It did not so much feel like a fall as a long, drawn-out dive into ice cold water.

One from which you might never surface, if you could not find your feet to swim.

*

“The Duke of Hastings is here to call on Miss—”

“Show him in at once!”

This time prepared for the duke’s visit and much inflated by the tale of your dancing with him at the observatory ball (though painful were her lamentations on not witnessing said event), your mother had the sitting room so immaculately arranged with flowers and garlands and refreshments more than anyone present could eat. It was no wonder the man stopped short and broke composure with an inquisitive smile in your direction. One that you could not well return for being awed by his smart dress and handsome composure.

Your mother first approached, greeting him warmly. “You are most welcome, duke. Good morning to you.”

“Good morning, indeed, Lady Bridgerton. How does it find you?”

“Very well, your grace. Very well. There is something of the summer that inspires a skip in one’s step, do you not agree?”

“Quite. I find the season most agreeable.” He turned to you. “I thought I might accompany Miss Bridgerton on a walk about your courtyard, actually. If it pleases her.”

“It most certainly would please her!” Your mother gushed. “Wouldn’t it, my dear?”

You nodded graciously, taken with the suggestion. “I would love to, your grace.”

And so, your mother watched from over her book, under the shaded terrace as you and the duke took to a congenial stroll through the greenery of the courtyard. Bowing willows and hedges aligned flower beds of daises and sunflowers; favourites of your mother to nurture.

“I must thank you for last night, your grace,” you said when out of your mother’s earshot. “The dance was most effective. Though I regret I could not speak to any gentlemen afterwards, I dare say I shall not be lacking for choice at the next social event.”

“You need not thank me, Miss Bridgerton. I am simply upholding my end of the bargain.”

“Of course.”

A moment of silence passed, where you thought of how to word your next question.

“I thought you might have begun to reconsider, in truth.”

“Reconsider?”

“Our… bargain.”

He chuckled. “Why should I reconsider that?”

“Ideas of gulling are often more agreeable in concept than practice. One would be forgiven for having second thoughts. You owe me nothing, after all.”

“I act not out of the goodness of my heart, my lady,” he said. “As I have said, this arrangement benefits me also. Why; after the ball my aunt visited the manor to express her delight on the news of our apparent involvement, and this morning I was subsequently spared from the ritual of rejecting her many offers of introductions to eligible matches.”

“Goodness. One forgets how quickly news travels about the ton.”

“Indeed. So you see, our ruse yields results. I should have no reason to withdraw.”

A quaint, white pagoda nestled at the back of the lawn, its benches warmed by the sunlight that bathed it. Hyunjin gestured to it.

“Shall we sit?”

With a nod, you followed him to the structure, taking up a seat. Hyunjin paced a moment before sitting near, his composure unsettled.

“Is there something on your mind, your grace? Mother is still able to see us, you may rest assured—”

“No, my lady. Apologies. It is not that which vexes me.”

“You are vexed?”

“Since hearing of your brother’s plans and how Lord Berbrooke might fit into them, I have felt unsettled.”

You laughed unceremoniously. “In that, we are the same. He is a most detestable man.”

“You know something of him?”

“I know less than nothing, your grace, and I could not wish more for matters to remain that way.”

“Then, your revulsion—if that is not too strong a word—”

“It is not.”

“Comes from where?”

You wrinkled your nose and thought on it, then simply shrugged. “A feeling.”

Hyunjin narrowed his eyes. “A feeling?”

“Yes. I become quite uneasy when he is near. Something of his manner offends me, and though I speak baselessly, he strikes me as the sort of man that would have no qualms conducting himself improperly. He makes me most uncomfortable.”

“I see.” He crossed his legs, his foot bobbing as he thought, and then said, “His reputation is quite astounding, you know. To speak to other men of him is to listen to them sing his praises. He is known for being kind and wealthy. Of good repute. It is no wonder Anthony approves.”

“And yet?”

“And yet, I am inclined to echo your sentiments, my lady. There is an air of foulness about him. The thought of leaving you in his company unchaperoned irks me greatly.”

So simple a statement, and so rapidly did your heart flutter to it. You pinched your wrist, an effort to ground yourself.

“Make assurances to me that you shall not put yourself in such a situation,” he said firmly.

“Your grace?”

“I do not wish for you to be left unattended with him.”

You scoffed through the thumping that rose to your throat. “I— I can hardly control such a circumstance.”

“Then if you find yourself in such a one, remove yourself from it swiftly. Find me. Find anyone. I cannot emphasise enough how strongly I feel on this. I do not jest.”

He held your gaze, the determination there enough to convey sincerity in his words, for you felt it rolling from him in a great wave of warmth.

“As you wish, your grace,” you said quietly.

He nodded, seemingly satisfied. A moment of silence passed, where the blackbirds from their perches tweeted their melodious tune as they basked in the sun, and the clean, fresh breeze swept your skin. Natural it was that thoughts should wander to the impossible future; how pleasant many more days like this would be, spent in his company, be they silent or not.

“May I ask something, your grace?”

He nodded, his hands clasped as he reposed on the bench.

“When last we spoke at Bridgerton house, you seemed troubled.”

“Troubled? I do not recall.”

“We were discussing family. How I was raised to the example of a loving marriage, and how grateful I should be for that.”

Hyunjin’s jaw set firm. “I see. Yes. It comes back to me now.” He swallowed. “I suppose something of the topic did trouble me, if I am to be truthful.”

“Why, your grace?”

“It is hardly a tale for such a fine day.”

“Then should we wait for it to rain? I believe autumn to be a long way from now, your grace.”

He rose from the bench, shoulders squaring as he strolled to the balustrade and looked out over the green.

“You may speak freely,” you said. “I would not have asked if I did not wish to hear it.”

“And I am grateful that your curiosity implores you to ask anything of me at all, my lady,” he sighed. “But all I would have you know at this moment is that…” He turned to you, golden strands drifting about his face. “Is that I was not so privileged as you in my upbringing. Lady Danbury did her best for me, and as I have already stated, I am eternally grateful for her kindness, but mine was not a loving childhood. My father was possessed of firm expectations and did not suffer fools easily. He bore no love for my mother. Theirs was a transactional marriage, and it costed my mother more than she should ever have had to pay.”

To hear him speak so candidly did more to move you than you had hitherto thought it could, and this was none aided by the pain in his eyes.

“Your grace…”

“That is all I wish to say of it,” he said, voice thick. “You understand.”

And though burning with so much more than curiosity as a result of his opening the door, albeit only a crack, you could not well press him further.

“Of course,” you smiled.

He nodded, took a deep breath, looked out over the green and up at the sky, where the sunlight warmed his face. What pain he lived through shaped him, you supposed, and though it could have made him cruel and cold, he did not seem so.

“We should return indoors,” he eventually said. “Before the heat sends us queer.”

“Yes. Let’s.”

Slowly you returned to the house, shoulders brushing innocently, steps taken in time. You were in no rush to be done with his company, and by his gait, neither was he.

“Done already?” your mother called when you were near. “I suppose it is thirsty work! Come, we have lemonade prepared!”

“You are most kind, Lady Bridgerton.”

Lemonade was taken in the sitting room, deliciously fragrant and refreshing, cooling your sensibilities that always seemed to warm beyond reason when the duke was near. Too easy was it to forget that this entire charade was precisely that when he acted with such dedication.

“Hwang? What on earth are you doing here?”

Hyunjin rose immediately, lemonade set aside.

“Viscount. Good to see you.”

Anthony’s expression stern, he hardly returned the sentiment. His question hung in the air unanswered, and so Hyunjin cleared his throat.

“I thought to call on your sister,” he said. “Lady Bridgerton has been a most gracious chaperone—”

“A word. Outside.”

*

Hyunjin hadn’t much considered that Anthony might protest his courting of his sister. He had rather been counting on the opposite. Silly, really, that it only struck him as he exited the Bridgerton house to the rear courtyard, where the viscount paced strongly back and forth.

“Explain yourself,” he said. “Immediately.”

“I have given you explanation.”

“You call on my sister? What for?”

“What do men call upon women during the social season for?” Hyunjin scoffed.

“I forbid it.”

“What?”

Anthony stopped, his stance stiff. “To dance with her last night was insult enough, but to now call on her at our family home is an abject act of mockery. You make a fool of me. You will cease your attempts to court her. I forbid it.”

“Anthony, old friend, you have lost yourself. Surely you cannot object to—”

“I have every reason to object,” he hissed, now stepping closer. “You think I do not recall the days of university? How loose you were? How the life and soul of the party and all its debauchery begun and ended with you? And that is to speak nothing of what ‘business’ you have been engaging in abroad these last years. I will not have such improper affairs connected to my family.”

Hyunjin’s jaw ticked. “I was hardly alone in the days of our youth, Anthony. As I recall, you were as much partial to the liquor and women as I. I could say the same of your present day conduct.”

“Do not attempt to turn this back on me. My virtue is not the one in question.”

“Perhaps it should be.”

“You walk on thin ice, Hwang. This is my sister we are discussing. She is my responsibility. She is family. Do what you must with whatever women take your fancy of the eve, but do not come into my family home with pretences of doing right by her. I know you.”

“I do not profess to being without fault,” Hyunjin said. “But is a man not allowed to change? Do you not think I would take the greatest care imaginable of her? Even more so for the bond that exists between us?”

Anthony’s nostrils flared. “You have no interest in marriage. Have said as such since I have known you. That cannot have changed with but a few chance encounters. There is something afoot—”

“Anthony, for heaven’s sake—”

“There is something afoot.” He said resolutely. “And I shall not allow you to drag my sister into scandal and discontent. Keep your distance from her.”

With a final glare, he about-faced and stormed across the courtyard. A gathering of darkened clouds drifted across the pellucid sky, blotting the summer sun.

“You shall not keep me from her, Bridgerton,” Hyunjin called, his voice clear and unwavering.

Anthony stopped, turned back.

“Then we shall settle this by our honour. Friend.”

*

Next day, the Duke of Hastings endeavoured to call on you once more, this time without himself making an appearance.

His horse and carriage trotted up to the steps of your home, where a page disembarked with clear instructions that he read aloud to you and your flustered mother.

“The Duke of Hastings cordially invites Lady Bridgerton and Miss Bridgerton to take tea and refreshments at his manor this morning until noon, and if it pleases your ladyships, would be most honoured to host them for dinner.”

So it was that your mother accompanied you in the duke’s carriage for a journey that lasted three quarters of an hour, the duration of which she chatted excitedly and showered praises on the duke for the ‘most proper’ occasion. Indeed, it stopped only when you arrived before the grand entrance of a stunning country manor— a quintessential summer home surrounded by blooming nature.

Escorted by servants up the steps and into the lobby where you were received by yet another entourage of house staff, you were much awed by the state of the place— while indeed impressive and grand on most every imaginable scale, it radiated something of a cold loneliness. Perceptible only to you, perhaps, for your mother’s delight was none dampened.

“What a beautiful home!” she gushed adoringly. “How the duke must love to spend his summers here, don’t you think, my dear?”

As though invited by mention of his rank, the duke stepped out from an adjoining room, his dress casual in light of residing at home. The white shirt that was tucked loosely into black britches hung open at the neckline, revealing a slope of skin that to your starved mind, seemed most illicit.

“Lady Bridgerton,” he beamed, stepping forward to greet your mother. “I do hope you will allow my state of dress; I measured that making this a more casual affair might help us get to know one another better. Formalities so often stiffen things, I find.”

“Of course! Naturally! How honoured we are by the invitation, your grace! We thank you most kindly.”

“Nonsense. You honour me with your presence, my lady. You have hosted me graciously before now. It seemed only right I return the favour. Please, come through.”

To the sitting room you were shown where tea was served, and expecting that the duke might lavish on you the attentions you were (perhaps foolishly) becoming accustomed to, you were disappointed to feel somewhat surplus to requirement, as he instead made your mother the focus of discussion. They talked contentedly of their interests, and covered most topics you yourself would have liked to unravel with the duke, but your mother seemed none perturbed by your stoic silence and occasional input in the form of a forced smile here or there. When conversation moved to that of your late father, so directed by the duke, you found the role of wallflower had rather overstayed its welcome.

You set your teacup aside and rose from sitting. “Might I be excused, your grace?”

Hyunjin blinked. “My lady?”

“I would very much like to walk the grounds, if I may. It displeases me to be cooped up indoors on so lovely a day.”

Nary a second did you wait for his answer, making a swift exit out the room and through the luxurious reception. Outside, the summer sun warmed the stone and grass, its radiant caress doing something to ease the discomfort that appeared to have driven you to such impatience.

You began to walk, neither direction nor destination in mind. Quickly at first, as your inward distress dictated, and then slower as you approached the hedgerows that formed a snug path into a winding maze. How odd you felt; at such unrest but unable to pinpoint why. Was it that Hyunjin’s attentions had been solely for entertaining your mother? Was it this place, that exuded such outward beauty but felt so void of joy or hearth? Was it simply your own mind endeavouring to play tricks?

These thoughts you mulled over as you walked the narrow paths of the maze, sunlit corridors shaded by keen, leafy branches that had grown beyond their remit. Gravel crunched beneath your feet, the air warmed your skin, and after a while of strolling, it seemed your nerves began to settle.

“Miss Bridgerton!”

Until they spiked once more. From around the corner of a hedgerow, the duke appeared, concern etched to his face the like of which you’d never seen. A jacket had been thrown about his shoulders, but did little to conceal the thin cotton of his gaping shirt and toned planes of skin beneath. You cursed your fluttering heart.

“I searched all the grounds for you,” he said breathlessly, stopping a foot from your person. “You had me worried.”

“Whatever for?” you laughed. “I am quite safe here, am I not?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Concern yourself none, your grace. Return to my mother. No doubt she awaits your undivided attentions.”

With a curt nod, you rounded the man and walked beyond him.

“You are upset,” he said pointedly, following.

“I am no such thing.”

“Have I neglected you this morning, my lady?”

“That you ask at all means you are aware of the answer. Do not toy with me, your grace. I find no amusement in it.”

“My apologies. It was not my intention to offend.”

“Your apology is unnecessary. You owe me nothing. This is a business deal. My frustration is my own; I am the fool for allowing emotion to become me.”

“Is one not allowed to become emotional over business?”

“You were the one dictated that we must approach this rationally, your grace.”

“I dictated on the matter of love, my lady. I spoke nothing of other emotions.”

“Well, then. This being my first business venture, I am none equipped to answer your question. You should be the one to tell me. Have you ever wept for a deal gone awry?”

Hyunjin bounded several steps ahead, putting himself in your path. Narrower still the natural corridors became, and unable to circumvent him easily, you stopped. His eyes softened, yet the concern held firm. So able to take your breath away with a mere look.

“You have been weeping?” he asked softly.

You shook your head. “No, your grace.”

“Good. There is no need. I have my reasons for tending to your mother so closely.”

“Such as?”

“Such as ensuring our deal does not go awry,” he said. “Lady Bridgerton’s approval may yet sway Anthony to us. Her support is important.”

“I thought you were assured that Anthony would approve of you?”

Hyunjin’s jaw ticked. “Yes. Well. I was.”

“And are not now?”

“Circumstances have changed. It seems he does not hold me with the regard I presumed upon.”

You cocked your head. “And why would that be?”

“It matters not.”

“Do not withhold from me, your grace. If there is something I should know—”

“You need know only what I share with you,” he said sternly. “I am loath to have one more Bridgerton persecute me by their astute moral compass.”

Taken aback by the outburst, you folded your arms, confident in the face of his glare.

“Might my brother disapprove because you are, in truth, no better than the men he is so prejudiced against? Because you too visit the gentleman’s clubs and gallivant your affections listlessly? Because you, just like my brother, have a violent discontent for the honest institution of marriage that you thought you could well conceal, but have inevitably failed to?”

Hyunjin blinked as though struck. His glare faded, his stance easing.

“Honestly.” You shook your head. “To be spared from the ridiculous egos of men for just a day would be too grand a wish.”

With that, you moved to dismiss him, rounding his side closely, and as though your proximity awakened him, he swiftly turned and caught your wrist.

“Your grace—”

“You presume much about me,” he said, an edge to his voice that felt near sinister. He took a step closer; you retreated to feel hedge at your back. Your heart pounded, pulse leaping about your throat. “I will not suffer such insult of character from a girl fed by silver spoon. You know nothing of me— nothing of what I have suffered or the lengths I must attend to warm my bed when sleep eludes me every single night.” He leaned in, so close as for his breath to fan over your lips. “But I imagine you should like to find out, my lady.”

Such vitriol laced the address as to make your stomach turn over, yet it was not with fear. A heat had begun to bloom in the lowest recesses of your belly, and even lower still, a region of your body as yet utterly sheltered.

“Do I speak falsely?” he asked.

Never had you experienced the sensation of standing on a precipice. The meagre shake of your head betrayed your wants, for truly, you did wish to find out. Hyunjin smirked, his gaze dropping to your lips.

“When I am alone in my bed, and all is dark and the world has left me, I am haunted by demons that whisper of my mistakes. They come to me when I am vulnerable, and I am ill-equipped to drive them away, so I indulge them— some of them. Those of them that promise to sing me to sleep should I give them just a moments’ attention. I drift with them, and they take me to where I might find comfort in the quick warmth of flesh.” He lifted his hand, brought his fingertip to your throat. Barely a touch, yet you could not breathe. “I chase pleasure, my lady, exerting myself in the act until my limbs give out and my mind is a chasm of emptiness.”

Your chest heaved for breath. His finger ran down your neck, to your decolletage, along the seam of your bodice that pressed tightly to your bosom.

“If that condemns me as a wicked man, so be it,” he muttered.

Over your breast and to your stomach did his finger draw a tender line, his attention solely focused on your every miniscule reaction. If inside, you felt to combust, he surely would have known it.

“But I assure you— to be condemned feels unlike anything you have ever experienced, sweet girl.”

Faces so close you could make out the pores of his skin, it was a mortifying whimper that escaped you when the man wrapped an arm around your waist, propping you against the hedge well with his thigh wedged snug between your legs; so forceful as to liquidate your bones, and you were helpless to resist, honour and virtue be damned. A flex of the muscle—even cushioned by your frock and petticoat—was felt distinctly, and the heat in your belly sank and gathered, quivering with anticipation. You ran hot under the skin, unable to grasp a lungful of air, for the man was so close that all sensation was of him. Him— so unthinkably beautiful and strong, wealthy and good.

Him. So utterly unattainable.

“Is this good enough, my lady?” he whispered.

“I... What?”

“Have you enough of my affection to curb your jealousy?”

You could hardly think rationally, unable to make sense of the words.

“This shall be the last time we find ourselves alone together.”

Too cruelly did he disentangle himself to leave you collapsed on the grass. With his jacket rearranged and a surreptitious pull of his britches (for what reason, you knew not), he stalked off through the maze.

How intemperately your heart thundered as you gathered yourself.

How hopelessly you were falling for the man that spurned love.

*

The duke had made a terrible mistake.

What sort of a fool betrays his own values so spectacularly as he? To scheme a ruse that would fool the ton and his aunt was one thing. To fall into it himself was quite another. For he was adamant on the matter of love and all its facets; he needed it not and would reject it until the day he met his end, grisly as it would probably be. He would not be the man that repeated his fathers’ mistakes.

She was just a girl. A Bridgerton girl, yes, and thus generally set apart from the wider female populace for good reasons pertaining to her beauty and wit, but still— just a girl. Diamond or not, she knew nothing of the world or its evils, nothing of life beyond what existed in her small and sheltered bubble. She could offer him no excitement of culture or music, language or arts beyond what she had read of in her books, and yet she excited him greatly; more so than any other woman he had yet met, and among those ranks stood singers and actresses, designers and poets, women of real repute.

What possessed him to impose upon her like that? Had he lost the last of his wits? Was he so frustrated in desire that he simply moved for the nearest outlet? Somehow, he knew better. It was neither in his nature nor his want to objectify so blatantly, heated confession as to his proclivities notwithstanding. He kept company through the darker nights when madness threatened his door, and if for that, Anthony was intent on shunning him, there was little he could ultimately do. He could only pray that her lingering in his thoughts would pass, and was due to stress or some other such imbalance of the mind— the sooner this season was over and he could return overseas to normalcy, the better.

Thankful that Lady Bridgerton deemed it best they return home for dinner for reasons pertaining to the youngest of her brood, the duke sat in his study and made work of his third whiskey. Try as he might, he could not stop his thoughts from wandering. The softness of her gaze tormented him; how closely her eyes seemed to plead for something she knew nothing of but would weep with pleasure to discover. What care he would take of her, so soft and sweet and delicate. What delightful sounds she would make, akin to the small whimper she let slip when he exacted just a meagre tenth of the desire that frothed inside him. She was perfectly untouched, as pure as winter’s first snow, begging to be undone by his hand though she spoke not a single word. With her, it would be so much more than a means to an end. He might even enjoy it. No— he would.

The swelling in his groin betrayed his lust— a first for him that such thoughts alone were capable of rousing him to occasion, but so was all of this new. Never before had he craved to corrupt such innocence. Never before had he felt such innocence craved it just as much, for there was no pretence of want in her eyes that morning, and he knew it well. He knew it awfully.

He knew it would all end in pain.

*

Several days passed with an absence of the duke. Your lamentation was quiet.

Not so concerned were you with the matter of your virtue, for by conventional standards and as far as you understood it, nothing tangible had occurred between you in the maze. A closeness of proximity could hardly condemn one to spinsterhood. Rather, you found yourself much yearning for the man. Missing him. Ludicrous, for he was naught but a business partner, and an effective one at that.

Gentlemen called on you sporting bouquets and gifts of sweets, all of them most preferable to the ogre that was Lord Berbrooke— whom coincidentally, you had neither seen nor heard from since the duke had made his ‘affections’ for you public. Sometimes as many as five gentlemen a day made their introductions, and you found yourself quite spent by dusk.

“They are all most pleasant suitors, I do not dispute that,” said your mother over supper. “I merely observe that they do not have much to recommend them compared to the Duke of Hastings. I dare imagine there is a man that would!”

And so in the matter of your mother’s approval, it seemed the duke had excelled. A shame that it would ultimately come to nothing, and doubly shameful that you could not bring yourself to sway her to thoughts of one of the many men that had imposed upon you, for you could do no such thing yourself. Try as you might, it seemed not one of them was able to rid you of thoughts of the duke. Perhaps the right one had not yet come along, you reasoned. It seemed not so mammoth a task to be turned from a man that did not even want you, after all. Your heart could not be long for him, if it even was at all, for you knew not what love felt like and could just as easily draw these sensations up to a peculiar turn of health— which would certainly explain the bouts of fever and giddy breathlessness you experienced in his presence.

All this you considered during the carriage ride to the midsummer ball, hosted at the queen’s own residence in the country. Last year it had been the topic of much excitable talk about the ton, and this year stood to be no different. Arriving at dusk to the mansion that boasted four separate wings and enough rooms to accommodate each guest of the party and then some, you marvelled at its majesty. To think that one person could possess such riches!

The structure rose high, illuminated by sconces and tall, standing braziers of coloured flame; dancing plumes of blue, pink and purple cast their shadows on the stone walls, and would have been eerie had they not been scented so sweetly. A red carpet had been rolled out across the neat gravel that itself circled a grand, running fountain, its centrepiece that of a marble woman in prayer. Lords and ladies made their excited entrances quickly, keen to discover the marvels of what lay inside; and a marvel it was. The queen had spared no expense on decoration or entertainment, the ballroom inside transformed to an elegant take on the Cirque du Soleil— from the great domed ceiling were suspended rings wound with wildflowers on which gymnasts twirled and performed. About the crowd mingled entertainers on high stilts dressed with parlour tricks and glamours that delighted ladies and challenged the men. Great and regal birds perched contentedly on the gloved arms of their masked hosts, who encouraged those curious enough to come closer, to take a look. Colours and sounds and exotic scents such as you had never before experienced accosted your senses to much wonder, driving from you all nerves you had inherited during the journey.

On your entrance flocked a number of gentlemen keen to secure from you a promise of a dance, and how happily you fell into conversation with them, feeling ever more like the potential for romance might finally bloom. You felt light, as though suspended on one of the ceiling rings yourself.

Lady Danbury made herself known to you and your mother, clad (as was traditional for her) in a colourful array of satins.

“Might we be expecting the duke in attendance this evening?” your mother asked her, ever hopeful. “We have not seen him at Bridgerton house for several days.”

Lady Danbury’s face drew solemn. “Speak not to me of my nephew. He does his utmost to bring me despair.”

“However could you mean?”

“For many months I have had words with him on the matter of courtship and marriage. I was well prepared for my pleas to be ignored as they have been, but imagine my delight to see him making efforts with you, Miss Bridgerton! I thought, perhaps, his mind had changed.”

“He is against marriage?” your mother asked, shocked.

Lady Danbury shook her head. “His heart is hardened by the years of his youth. Such a difficult time he had of things. His mother passed during childbirth and his father was none suited to the task of fatherhood, utterly without love for the boy. I have never known such a cruel, cold creature. I shudder to imagine what might have become of him had I not taken him in, and it awes me every day to know the man he is now. I am endlessly proud of him, Lady Bridgerton, but he suffers the sins of his father as though they are his own. It saddens me greatly.”

You listened to the conversation, breath caught. He had alluded to his upbringing on your enquiries, but had kept much of it from you, for reasons that you supposed pertained to his pain. How much pain indeed! Could it be that this explained his aversion to love, to marriage, to wanting children? Such was the urge to take him in an embrace and assure him that all would be well— if only you possessed the courage.

“His mind must be changed, Lady Danbury. He has courted my daughter with clear intention; I have seen it myself, the way they alight one another when they are together. Whatever is responsible for this distance, we must fix it. Perhaps he has been repelled by the other gentleman that have called on her?”

Lady Danbury scoffed a laugh. “I find that highly unlikely.”

“Then there is nothing for it,” your mother turned to you sharply. “Seek him out, dear. Assert yourself upon him and assuage his worries.”

“I shall do no such thing, mother.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because he is not the only man in the ton. There are many other gentlemen here I should like to get to know.”

Your mother laughed. “Nonsense! I have watched numerous gentlemen court you these days just gone, and not a one of them has titillated you as the duke did!”

“What would you know of it?” you snapped, so emotional as to forget yourself. “What would anyone know of it? I am positively sick of being told whom I must and must not entertain, what I can and cannot feel. I should rather prefer to be left well alone so my own mind might be decided.”

Lady Danbury smiled wryly. Your mother blinked in shock.

“Please excuse me.”

With a curt bow you departed from them, as adequately mortified by your own outburst as by the fact that your mother seemed so easily able to read you. Through the gathering you navigated as best you could, stepping out to a veranda that overlooked the mansion’s rear courtyard. It was quieter here, the din of partygoers and shrill of the brass band reduced to a pleasant background buzz. It allowed for a catching of breath, where you settled yourself and decided an apology was probably due to your mother. Later.

The courtyard stretched out before you, its lush green lawn lit by standing sconces that emitted haloes of amber light. Arrangements of flower beds and animals shaped from the rose bushes were much delightful to look upon, and not a soul thought to disturb you.

“It is disrespect of the highest degree, Hwang. You must see that.”

Your heart seized as a raised voice floated to you.

“Then I cannot win, Bridgerton. I am damned if I am too close to her, I am damned if I retreat. What would you have me do?”

Looking over the veranda’s balustrade and down to the courtyard, you saw the silhouettes of two strong frames you knew well cast over the stone, though they themselves remained just out of sight.

“I demand that you make your intentions clear. Assure me that you intend to ask for my sister’s hand, and I shall grant my blessing. A man’s word is his bond.”

“The whole ton knows of my intentions. Have you not heard the gossip?”

“I know better than to alight any credence to the rumour mill that drives this society. I know you, more importantly. Why can you not simply offer promise of marriage to my sister when you have made a show of courting her to that end? Why do you find such difficulty in so simple a thing?”

“I find no difficulty in it. I find insult.”

“Insult?!” Anthony laughed hoarsely. “You jest, surely!”

“You call into question my integrity. My honour.”

“Then take action, Hwang. Make me the fool, prove me wrong. Convince me that your courting of my sister is not some ploy, the ends of which I can only speculate to.”

Silence fell. Fire in the sconces crackled. Your skin tingled with anticipation.

“You cannot,” Anthony said.

“I will entertain this conversation no longer.”

“You are a coward.”

“Careful, Bridgerton.”

“You are the one should be careful. You have toyed with my sister, dragged her into your affairs and pressed upon her expectations.”

 “She has no expectations of me, Anthony. Of that, I can assure you.”

“Do you find it amusing to make a fool of her? Of me? Of my family? Would not any young lady from the ton have sufficed for your games?”

“That is enough.”

“Shall I tell you what it is wounds me most, Hwang? Of all this?”

A beat of silence passed; Anthony spoke again.

“I was at first outraged to learn of your calling on my sister. We exchanged cross words, and my anger continued still, until the family dinner that eve. Never have I seen a woman glow such as my sister did that night. It seemed as though a flame had been ignited under her skin, and that all was hope and excitement. I was forced to reconsider my prejudices. Could a man that brought her such joy truly be as roguish as I hitherto perceived? I struggled to comprehend it, and so I thought I would allow you to continue. Perhaps I was wrong to indulge my curiosity, but I acted from the goodness of my heart, and furthermore, saw yours. I kept myself scarce and allowed things to take their course, objected not when you invited her to tea. I know I detected sincerity about you. The truth of the matter cannot be concealed when it shows so abundantly in your eyes.”

Another beat of silence.

“I am informed you have not called on her this week. Why?”

“The other men of the ton have kept her occupied.”

Anthony laughed. “And yet, it is not other men that she wants. You have seen well to that.”

You heard footsteps, the silhouette of your brother wavering.

“I neither know nor care what games you play, Hwang, but from this moment on, you shall play them with someone else. Leave my sister be. I beg you. Please.”

With that, his shadow disappeared from sight, your eyes so blurred with the makings of tears miraculously able to see it. There was the huff of a deep breath, and measured footsteps as Hyunjin appeared from under the veranda, his state of dishevelment such a shock as to bring you to gasp. He whirled around and looked up, your eyes meeting in the dim light. What grief struck his expression surely matched your own.

“Go inside, my lady,” he said, voice gruff. “The evening draws cold.”

A whirl of indignation possessed you.

“Is that all you have to say, your grace?” you called.

He hung his head, his demeanour so unlike what you knew. He shook his head, raked a hand through his silken locks that caught the golden light of the nearby brazier.

“It seems I am unable to trust my words this eve,” he said. “They irk all who hear them.”

“That is because they are dishonest.”

He looked up at you once more, his jaw feathering as his lips pressed thinly.

“Come down, my lady. I should like to speak with you.”

“Come up here, your grace. The view of the courtyard is most agreeable.”

With something resembling a smile, Hyunjin nodded. He buttoned his jacket as he began into the mansion, once more disappearing from your view. How the minutes seemed to prolong as you awaited him on the veranda, each second weighing heavily on you until he called your name—

“Ah! The fair Miss Bridgerton!”

A shiver of revulsion possessed you— that was not how he called your name.

It was with a bout of horror that you turned and saw Lord Berbrooke barrelling towards you, his suit too small for his podgy frame and his beard as wildly untamed as what little hair yet clung to his bonce for dearest life.

“You are all alone out here!” he exclaimed, draining the flute in his hand and tossing it carelessly aside. “A lady so dainty as yourself should not be left unattended.”

“I was in need of some air. I am quite content to be left alone.”

“No, no. You mustn't be,” he drawled. “All manner of horror awaits the unsuspecting young lady.”

“As I am coming to learn,” you muttered.

He came closer still, near enough that the reek of liquor spoke for him.

“I must confess dear, that I eagerly await the day of our nuptials!”

“Excuse me?”

“Perhaps it is gross of me to admit, but I am not so cold-hearted a man! I am as susceptible to love’s pinch as any other! Miss Bridgerton—” He stumbled and caught himself on the balustrade. “You shall make for me, a most pleasing wife.”

“Lord Berbrooke, you presume far too much. You have made no such proposal to me, and if I may speak frankly, I should decline if you did.”

“My dear,” he cackled, throaty and vile. “The proposal is not yours to decline. The viscount is in hearty agreement with me! The deal is made! You are already mine!”

Icy trickles of fear seized your limbs with a wave of nausea. Lord Berbrooke guffawed louder still, and made as though to reach for you, his grubby hands keen in their search. “Come, my dear. We need not pretend any longer. Let us get ahead of the consummation—”

What happened next was so utterly quick you might have blinked and missed it. Lord Berbrooke lunged with delight in his eyes, and yet his advances were short. He was dragged backward by the collar and thrown to the ground in a heap, where the sole of a firm foot pinned him by the chest. Above the man did the Duke of Hastings loom, his expression thunderous.

“If you value either your reputation or your life, Lord Berbrooke,” he snarled. “I suggest you leave here and never again darken Miss Bridgerton’s door.”

“Get your damn foot off me—”

“You will relent in your attempts to marry her and leave her be. Am I understood?”

“What?! How dare you—”

“Else the entire ton shall know of your improper advances on the young lady by morning light, and you shall be shunned from all you know, dropped from all deals of business, exiled as a vagabond and a villain. How do you think the viscount might take to such information?”

Hyunjin pressed his foot into Berbrooke’s chest, resulting in a hog-like squeal.

“Am I understood?”

“Yes! Yes!”

“Say it,” Hyunjin snapped.

“I will leave the girl alone! Consider it done! Release me! Please!”

The man removed his foot; Lord Berbrooke scrambled to his feet, clutching his chest and panting. With a glare of immeasurable hatred, he stumbled from the veranda and into the mansion, scarcely looking back. Had you known that was the last time you would ever see Lord Berbrooke in your lifetime, you might have mustered a smile. As it stood, you were too horrified to much move or speak.

Hyunjin collected himself and turned to you.

“My apologies, my lady. I wish you had not seen that.”

You shook your head. “Thank you.”

“You need not thank me. Any decent man would have acted the same.” He stepped near. “Did he put hands on you?”

“No. I do not think—”

Hyunjin reached out, and from the waistline of your dress caught a thin strip of ribbon that seemed as though ripped loose. He ran it between his fingers, his eyes narrowing sharply.

“I should have made haste.”

“It is nothing the modiste cannot mend.” You took his hand, entirely thoughtless in doing so. “Truly, I am fine.”

He hung his head, strands of gold falling about his features. His hand stilled in yours, warm skin doing nothing more than brushing softly.

“I fear I have made a terrible mistake, my lady,” he whispered.

“How so?”

He looked at you, his hazel eyes warm, yet sad.

“It would appear that... in my efforts to assist you with the matter of your finding love, I have myself fallen.”

You swallowed. “You have found someone?”

“Indeed, I have. Foolishly, I have. I have attempted to distance myself from her, but she invades my every thought. Her name carries on my every breath. There is nothing I can do to avail myself of this torment.”

“Have you confessed as such to her, your grace?”

“I cannot. She believes me dishonest, I am sure, among other things.”

“You might be mistaken,” you whispered. “One must always account for intent.”

“My intentions were selfish.”

“And are they still?”

He searched your face, the fire light from the near brazier dancing on his flawless complexion.

“Yes,” he breathed.

The background lull of music from the ball seemed to cease. The man flicked a gaze from your eyes to your lips, the suggestion such that your heart lurched and drove you the step toward him that closed your bodies near; he drew tense, his hold on your hand firming as he slotted his fingers between yours. His other hand found your cheek, sure yet afraid, and it was by your unrelenting gaze that you drew him in to kiss you.

His lips were as tender as to break your heart, and in the embrace did your sensibilities unravel like tumbling yarn. One kiss, then another just as soft, and by the third you clutched his jacket as though he might disappear.

When he broke away, it was with a high flush on his cheekbones. He licked his full bottom slowly.

“The taste of a diamond,” he whispered. “How painfully I have longed for it.”

“Your grace...”

“You must think me a monster.”

You took his face in your hands. “Do not presume to know my thoughts. I shall tell you them myself. You need only ask.”

“I fear I am not so brave as that, my lady.”

“You were brave enough to kiss me just a moment ago. Brave enough to face my brother in the name of upholding our bargain. Brave enough to aid me when I believed all hope lost.”

“I acted in my own interests.”

“As did I.”

“There is... much you do not know of me.”

“Much that I look forward to discovering, when you are ready and the time is right.”

He sighed as though exasperated, yet the weight of it was light.

“You vex me, my lady.”

“I should say the same of you, your grace.” You swept your thumbs over his cheekbones, his lids fluttering. “You insisted so strongly on the goodness of your character, and yet when faced with acceptance, attempted to paint yourself a villain. Forgive me if I speak out of turn, but I must have you know— you are not the man your father was, and neither are you doomed to repeat his mistakes.”

Pained was the expression that crossed him, his breath catching sharply.

“Do you truly wish to spend all your days alone?” you asked on a whisper.

“Not anymore, my lady.”

“Then do not attempt to push me away with talk of your devils. I shall accept them all, horns and wings alike.”

He turned into your palm, revelling in the touch. He clasped your wrist and pressed plush lips to the warm, soft skin.

“You have altered all I thought I knew,” he said. “I am utterly taken with you, Miss Bridgerton. I am in love, and you were quite right; it is to be celebrated. I wish to tell all who attend this ball that you are the woman that has bewitched me, mind and soul, such that I do not even know myself or these things I say. I feel driven mad, and yet never has a course of action been clearer to me.”

With another a kiss to your palm, he dropped to his knee, clutching your hand with both of his.

“Marry me, my lady. If you can return even a sliver of my feelings, make of me an honest man and I shall take care of you for all our days. You shall want for no comfort, long for no affection. It shall be all I can do to satisfy and delight you.”

Choked with the onset of emotion, it hardly seemed true that such a thing could be happening; that the Duke of Hastings could be proposing.

“What say you, my lady?”

You squeezed his hand tenderly, your heart so full of warmth. How reminiscent it all seemed, and to that end:

“You have a deal, your grace,” you said, utterly giddy.

Hyunjin laughed, his eyes crescent with joy that alighted him. He rose from his kneel, took you into his embrace.

“Excellent,” he said softly. “Though I must make one thing abundantly clear.”

“Oh?”

“I am of the belief that keeping separate bedrooms is a terribly archaic practice.”

“Meaning what, your grace?”

“Meaning...” He kissed you once more, and spoke against your sweet lips. “There shall be no rest for you tonight, nor the next, nor on any night to come, my lady. You are mine, forevermore.”

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 >

𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙖 𝙣𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙? 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚 ♡ >

𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙘𝙠 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙠𝙯 𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 ♡ >

[writeingdocs]

Love Said To Soul | lmh

❝𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮?❞

↳ When the God of Love is tasked with humiliating a beautiful mortal girl, he finds himself much vexed to discover her immune to his skills. Determined to discover the root of the problem, he takes to mortal form and embarks upon a dastardly ruse that requires his getting close to her. The God of Love thinks he knows all. The God of Love knows nothing.

↳ Lee Know x female reader

↳ Enemies to lovers romance trope. A retelling of the Greek myth Eros and Psyche. College au, angst and conflict, developing romance and yearning, quest and high stakes, Greek mythology and frequent reference to gods/goddesses etc, fantasy and myth meets modern day, mild drug use, smut throughout.

! Explicit content, adult themes, 20.1k, suitable for 18+ readers only !

「Final part of the skz tropes collab w @yoongihan」 「main contents list」 「© April 2024 by jl-micasea-fics」

“Thus, my dearest son, I charge you with this quest.”

Minho knelt reverently before his mother, head bowed low. Rarely did he question her whims or ways, for what the Goddess Aphrodite coveted, the Goddess Aphrodite claimed, and may the Fates help anyone who stood in her way, kin or otherwise.

Still; this all felt too bizarre.

“May I ask why, mother?”

Aphrodite smiled gently, her eyes—an infinite silvery galaxy of lovers’ souls—trained to him. As self-assured as he was, even Minho’s composure wavered under the gaze of the most apocalyptically beautiful of the twelve Olympians.

“It just seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to for a mortal girl,” he hastily added.

“You are correct, dear child. It is awful trouble. Trouble that I would not have you go to if it had not been ordained that this girl’s beauty will inspire a cult of worshippers that will revere her as the most beautiful creature to ever have lived. As more beautiful than even the Goddess of Love herself. They will make to her sacrifices and votive offerings and pray to her as though she is divine. I cannot have that, child. There is a natural order to things, and we must maintain it.”

Minho supposed that was answer enough.

“Relay to me again what you must do,” Aphrodite said.

“I am to go to her bedroom while she sleeps, and take with me a hog.”

“The hairiest and foulest you can find,” Aphrodite added.

“Yes, mother. I am to shoot her with one of my arrows and ensure that the first thing she sees when she awakes is the beast.”

Aphrodite smiled, her golden skin shimmering under the vast, heavenly sun. “She will fall in love with the monster, thus disgracing herself and ensuring that her Fate shall never come to pass. No mortal shall ever worship a pig-lover!” She laughed, melodic and triumphant.

Compassion in his very nature, Minho could not help but feel a sliver of sympathy for the girl that, for all intents and purposes, was innocent. She could no more control the beauty she was born with than her Fate— now it would be a sad and lonely one. She would be reviled by other mortals and mocked by the Gods, and spend her life in misery.

But an order was an order.

“Go now, my son,” Aphrodite commanded. “Take your bow and quiver, and make without delay to the girl.”

“Yes, mother.”

Minho stood, bowed, and from his divine palace retrieved his golden bow and quiver of enchanted arrows. Forged by Hephaestus and blessed by his mother, the arrows could pierce the heart of any mortal or deity with true, unbreakable love.

Such was his onus, his purpose, his charge as Eros.

--

Minho always enjoyed visiting the mortal world.

It was true that his reason for spending much of his time there pertained to the never-ending demands of love’s machinations, but even on the days when he sought to take a small break, he lounged in the warm waterfalls and on the snowy mountains and near the pellucid oceans, marvelling at the luscious spectacles of Mother Gaia— a different sort of ephemeral elegance to that of his heavenly home.

Mortals entertained him endlessly; such funny, flighty creatures. They warred and fucked and loved and killed and worked so hard for ultimately trivial reward. He often wondered what would have become of them, had Prometheus never gifted them fire. They certainly wouldn’t have built up centuries of civilisation and developed what Minho now overlooked from a wisp of cloud: the University of Oxford. So far as he understood it, this was a place where mortals gathered to learn— a little like the Mouseion, which he was admittedly less familiar with than he ought to have been. More importantly than any of that, however: this was where his charge resided.

Securing his bow and stepping off the cloud, he drifted down and over the sprawling campus on plush, white wings. The cool midnight air flowed through his onyx hair; starlight kissed his deep, rich complexion. A peaceful glide to the ground it would have been, had the ghastly pig strapped to his back not squealed for the duration.

Landing softly on the dewy lawn, Minho wriggled his naked toes on the grass and looked around. The building ahead, domed and Victorian in grand architecture, was signposted ‘Goodhart’. Being the dead of night, there was no sign of life from any of the single-paned windows; just as he had hoped. Invisible as he was to mortal eyes, the pig remained very much discernible. Nothing like a floating farm animal to incite panic.

With a short, sharp hop he glided gracefully up and away from the grass to the top floor, three stories up. Through each window he peered into dark rooms in which girls softly slumbered, until he came upon one that wasn’t: she was sat at her desk, illuminated by the amber glow of a tabletop lamp. Before her was spread textbooks and notepads, pencils and post-its, an open laptop and cold mug of coffee. Minho watched for several moments. She scrawled something to a cluttered page, tapped her laptop and scrolled. She dropped her pen and raised her arms, stretching out her spine and shoulders with satisfying cracks. She yawned and checked the time, then groaned: “Oh, god.” Her head fell to the desk with a heavy sigh.

Minho had counted on her being asleep. This was due to take much longer now that she wasn’t. Resigned to a wait of indeterminate length, he perched on the rooftop ledge above her window, pig tucked between his legs as he laid back and gazed up at the stars and constellations that decorated the now cloudless sky. There was Hercules, favourite son of Heracles, raised up to the heavens by the Cloud Gatherer himself in honour of his father’s legendary labours. There was Aries, the ram to whom the most coveted Golden Fleece once belonged. There was Andromeda, the wife of the great hero Perseus, who saved her from an unthinkable fate at the hands of the foul sea-dwelling monster Cetus. And in admiring these constellations and recounting the tales of ancient times gone by, Minho drifted into a contented sleep.

It was warmth on his skin that stirred him to the twitter of birds and chatter of mortals. Opening his eyes and rubbing them of their crust, he—for a moment—forgot entirely where he was. Indeed, it was the sore twinge to his skin that firstly informed him he was on Earth, and secondly, that he had Helios to thank for the sunburn. Immortality does not equal invulnerability. With a mean glare skywards, he clambered to his feet and stretched out his joints, possessively checking his bow, relieved to find it still where it should be.

It was at that moment that a wailing screech pierced the air, most alarmingly offensive to Minho’s sensitive ears. More commotion stirred and drew him closer; he crossed the ivy-laced rooftop of Goodhart House with nimble proficiency, peering down at the lawn where it seemed a dozen or more students had gathered.

“What do we do?!” He heard a girl cry out.

“Kill it!”

“We can’t kill it, idiot. It’s huge.”

“W— Well, just, get rid of it!”

“How do you suggest we do that?”

“Call security! Call someone!”

Intrigued, Minho hopped from the rooftop and fluttered to a nearby oak on whose thick branch he gently perched. From the gathering of girls, a familiar squeal and snort erupted: Minho froze. With a stroke of bewilderment, he looked down between his legs, then back to the lawn.

Shit.

The girls screamed and parted from their tight cluster as a splotchy, hairy hog barrelled towards them, slavering drool that splashed them as it passed. Over the lawn it charged and across the campus to yet more cries of distant fear and panic, until it disappeared entirely from view. Aflutter with confusion and fright, the girls drew back together, as though expecting yet more horrid creatures to spring from the ground. Luckily for them, Minho was fresh out. In fact, he was just considering where he might obtain a second beast when from the Goodhart building lobby, a girl strolled out. Confidence in her stride and an easy smile on her face, she was rushed by the gaggle of girls, every one of them relaying to her with varying degrees of dramatics what had just occurred. Minho watched intently; she laughed and hugged them, offered assurances and validation. By no small feat she managed to calm them, after which she took her leave, jogging across the lawn and towards the path with books bundled in her arms. Minho followed, from treetop to rooftop across campus until she entered where he could not, disappearing from his sight into a grand school building.

His mother had been right, he thought. She was beautiful; that was, for a mortal girl. After all, Minho had indulged with deities and nymphs the beauty (and flexibility) of which mortals could not utter into words, and so yes; she was beautiful, for a mortal girl. Rather astoundingly beautiful, for a mortal girl. But that was neither here nor there. He had a quest to complete, and was now distinctly lacking the beast required to complete it. He would just have to find another and bring it back. If not a hog, then something equally as detestable.

Something that would appease mother.

--

In the small and dark hours, Minho returned once more to Goodhart.

Pleased this time to see that the girl was slumbering soundly, he braced himself on the sill of the window and pushed it carefully. It gave with no resistance, as did all things he impressed upon. He climbed through it and into the girl’s room, and found himself immediately taken with what he caught wind of: the sweet and tantalising scent of honey— a substance that had something of a catnip-like appeal to Gods and deities in all forms. Minho paused, his mouth watering. The room itself was of no remarkable make: he had visited the habitats of mortal girls before, their comforts and wants manifesting in soft things, light things, warm things, pink things.

In his hand the creature he plotted with stirred and unsettled; he opened his palm and hushed the spindly tarantula softly. Besotted, it twitched its mandibles and allowed Minho to place it at the foot of the bedspread, where it waited. With a grace of movement unique to the Goddess of Love’s offspring, Minho drew his bow from his back and prepared an arrow, aiming at the sleeping girl. This was usually his favourite part; the anticipation, the thrill, watching how his efforts panned out in those few and rare seconds after his arrow struck and the love searched for a home. Perhaps that was why his heart hung heavily as he took a deep breath and loosed the arrow; in this, there was to be no thrill. He acted solely in service to his mother, and while other deities would surely press that that was ample reward in itself, something inside him ached.

Ever sure in its path, the arrow struck the girl in her breast, setting upon her a heat that woke her immediately. She gasped and made a sound akin to a moan: Minho stiffened, struck by it. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, her sleep-warm skin and bed hair appealing to him in ways he had erstwhile made fun of mortals for admiring. Groggy but seemingly able to perceive enough, she blinked at the end of her bed; at the patient tarantula that sat there. She shook her head, rubbed her eyes again, grimaced and took another look. The tarantula shimmied its eight legs. Certain that his mission had been a success, Minho could bear to watch no longer; he moved to the open window, braced himself upon the sill.

“How on earth did you get in here?”

He turned back. The girl rose carefully from bed and retrieved the glass of water from her bedside, rushing to the window where he stood. A mere inch from him and yet completely unaware, she tossed the water over the sill, the streaming moonlight briefly bathing her face. Minho swallowed and watched as she grabbed a slip of paper from her desk. With care and precise technique, she slipped the paper under the spider, poised the glass atop it, and trapped it.

“You don’t belong here,” she said softly, moving back to the window; back to Minho. “Here, little one. Go home safely now.”

Stretching across him, she leaned out to a gathering of strong ivy that crawled across the close facia. She released the creature onto it, smiling as it clicked its mandibles and scuttled away.

Several things crossed Minho’s mind as he held his breath and waited for the girl to move away. The first was that something, somewhere, had clearly gone awfully wrong. What just happened was not the work of a woman obsessively in love with a horrible spider, but rather that of a pitying Samaritan. The next thing he considered was perhaps more confounding than his failure: he had broken into a clammy sweat, his heart pounded, his vision swum with her nearness. The God of love loves all, loves unconditionally, loves fairly. He does not fall in love.

Thirdly and finally, he thought the worst of all.

He had failed his mother.

Aphrodite was not to be failed.

--

“What is it that you mean to tell me, exactly?”

Aphrodite sat poised on her regal throne of curved ram’s horns and silk, her infinite beauty radiating beneath her golden skin and through her calm, silvery eyes. Her hair, braided intricately and woven with wildflowers, seemed to throb and glow with the very essence of life and love. Minho knelt before her and summoned his courage.

“I mean to say, mother, that I failed.”

Aphrodite brought her palm to her chin. “I do not understand, dear child.”

“I failed to curse her, mother. It just... It didn’t work.”

“So you said. Therein lies my perplexment. You said your arrow struck her?”

“Yes, mother.”

“And yet she remained unaffected?”

“Yes, mother. She didn’t fall in love at all.”

“You must have missed.”

Minho looked up, about to voice his protest when Aphrodite spoke again, “The arrows of Eros cannot be defied. Whomsoever is struck by them must fall in love with the first creature they then see. That is, and always will be, the way of things.”

“But, mother—”

“You must go back down to Earth. Back to the girl. Make sure your aim is true this time.”

“Mother, it wasn’t my aim that was off, it was something else—”

“Are you suggesting there is a defect in Hephaestus’s weapon?” she asked. “Should we visit your uncle together and put this to him?”

Minho swallowed. “No, mother.”

Aphrodite smiled. “Very well then. It is decided. You shall go back to Earth and do a thorough job of things.”

Minho stood from his kneel, anxiety turning over in him. Whatever help he had sought to gain from his mother clearly wasn’t his to take, and so he would have to figure this one out on his own.

“And, darling?”

“Yes, mother?”

“Do not come back until the deed is done.”

Minho nodded dutifully, his heart sunk low.

“Yes, mother.”

--

Now, things were personal.

Not only had the mortal girl somehow resisted his arrows, embarrassed him in front of his mother—a woman whose opinion mattered to him above anyone—but she had also earned him effective banishment. There was no doubt in his mind that his mother’s warning was to be interpreted literally: he would not be allowed to return to heaven or his palace until his task was complete, and so what had begun as a run-of-the-mill task was now a quest of redemption. Minho simply despised working harder than he had to.

So, yes. This was personal.

The more he thought on it, the more he supposed his mother to be right. He must have missed. Yes, it looked an awful lot like he struck her clean in the breast— before this he’d have sworn his immortality on it. And yes, he had never been known to miss a shot, ever. And yes; she reacted as he had witnessed every other mortal react in the afterglow of the landing shot. But still. He must have missed. There could be no other explanation.

Resigned to a third attempt, Minho returned at night to Goodhart. This time, he would watch a while longer. He most definitely wouldn’t take to the (rather comfortable) rooftop and admire the constellations; this was serious business, and he ought to treat it as such. Gliding up to her window and perching on the exterior sill, he was surprised to see the room empty. It was late: late enough for most mortals to be going about their quaint evening routines, such as they were. The desk lamp was switched on and a gathering of clothes was strewn about the unkempt bed alongside an open, transparent toiletry bag. A closed laptop balanced atop the bedside table, where also rested stacked books of romance fiction. White, fluffy slippers peeked out from beneath the bed’s skirt, the small wardrobe door had been left ajar. It was curiosity that drove him to crack open the window, and from inside he once again caught the delectable scent that had so tempted him the night before: honey. It warmed him and made his mouth water, the sweet notes inspiring a rumble in his gut that he mentally hushed—as though it could be heard—when the door opened and the girl walked in. Robed in merely a thin towel, her hair wet about her shoulders, he held his breath and gawked. Something about her—something he couldn’t explain but most desperately wished to—was inexplicably appealing. On her entrance the smell of sweet nectar strengthened, and Minho widened the gap in the window to steal a stronger whiff. She shivered and wrapped her arms about herself, glancing to the window that, to her mind, was swinging loosely.

“Thought I’d closed you,” she mumbled, crossing the room and leaning again into Minho’s space. His heart thumped as she reached out to close it: confoundingly annoying, but what good was it to deny?

And then, something quite unfathomable happened.

She froze mid-reach, and stared at Minho.

--

You had never been the type to much believe in fairy tales, myth or folklore.

Being a student of the arts, you were aware enough that such tales were always a product of their time and culture, born to serve one purpose or another. Urban legends to keep folk from the woods at night, fables to sow the seeds of conformity, myths to elevate men to the status of Gods, for hubris and ambition does much to produce good literature.

So does insanity, for its part, and that was precisely what you felt to be stewing in as you looked upon the barely corporeal form of a creature—a man? —perched daintily on your windowsill. He was naked save for a thin white skirt that seemed not to touch him, but float about him. A broad and firm chest tapered to a svelte waist and thick, muscled thighs. Hair of impossible black framed features that you could not entirely comprehend for their beauty, and as though to that end, his face remained a blur save for the shimmering silver of eyes that stared back. A pair of feathery, white wings closed around and under him, and this, you promptly decided, could not be real. If you were to touch him, he would disappear. And so you reached out, hand trembling and warming the nearer you got, as though pushing your arm into a pocket of hot steam. The angel(?) watched, statuesque, and as the very tips of your fingers grazed the smooth upper chest that you were sure you would simply pass through, a pop erupted, as though piercing a vacuum. An extraordinary bout of colour bloomed and spread across his skin, the opaque veil giving way to an iridescent, dazzling gold that shimmered and sparked under the moonlight, yet where your fingers had touched was a deep, purple blotch— a scar on perfection. His features cleared and you saw him with perfect clarity: sharp yet feminine, strikingly gorgeous with plush lips and strong brow. Like nothing you’d ever seen; nothing that ever should be seen. Despite your wants you cried out in shock, recoiled, and slammed the window shut. The angel flitted from the sill, great wings beating gracefully as it hovered for but a moment, spun around, and darted away into the night.

Sleep did not come that night.

Nor did the angel, ever again.

--

She saw him.

She tried to touch him.

Never in all his centuries had Minho experienced such a thing, and were he not on such frosty terms with his mother, he would have turned to her for advice, for he found himself utterly confounded.

A mortal girl saw him.

Had a part of him somehow broken? Was she not mortal after all? Had there been some cosmic imbalance that simply happened to allow for the veil between worlds to thin with comically inopportune timing? Minho had no answers, and knew his frantic worrying would produce none. Thus, he resolved to a plan. The way he saw it, all attempts made so far had depended on his stealth and gentile as Eros, God of Love. Therefore, perhaps a different approach was called for; an approach that would put him in direct contact with the girl that he might work her out— he would have to if he hoped to curse her and appease his mother. Working in the shadows had earned him nothing but a headache.

It was time to step into the light.

--

The Oxford university cafeteria was not a place one went to eat their lunch.

No; the cafeteria was a grand old affair more fitting the pages of Hogwarts, and was treated as such. A hub of activity for passing students that would meet between lectures or seminars to spread the campus gossip like Burberry-clad town criers. It amused you to play a small part in it; you would listen when the girls from your house clucked and fussed over the slightest thing that, if nothing else, distracted from the general stresses of undergraduate life. Ever aware of the way you carried yourself—mother had made sure to drill that one down since birth—you received all news with a complacent smile, unaffected.

Such was the plan today— to pass through on your way to your next class, touch base with the latest triviality, and carry on your day. Yet as you stepped into the high-ceilinged cafeteria and looked around, something struck you as distinctly different.

The whole place was abuzz, humming with chatter and the excited exclamations. Students gathered tightly around the benches and tables, those newly arrived being swarmed upon by peers that sought to be the first to tell them the great news: news you would soon come into possession of.

“Hey!” Your good friend and classmate, Gina, called to you. “Over here!”

You rushed to her, backpack tight to your shoulder. “What on earth’s going on?” you asked. “Half the student body must be here.”

“Girl, you haven’t heard?”

“Haven’t heard what?”

“Oh my God—” She turned to the girl behind her, tapped her shoulder. “She hasn’t heard yet!”

The girl gasped. “You haven’t?! Everyone’s talking about it!”

“Talking about what?”

“I can’t believe you haven’t—”

“Gina.” You pinned her with a stern glare. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Gina drew closer, her voice no lower despite the closed distance as she said, “There’s a new student.”

“A... What? Is that it?”

“He’s not just any student,” she added.

“I heard his biological mother owns Gucci,” a nearby girl added.

“I heard he’s a self-made billionaire,” said another.

“You’re both wrong. He’s the Dean’s son,” Gina tutted.

You held a hand up, head spinning. “Wait. Time out. All this fuss is over a new student?”

“Gucci heir.”

“Billionaire!”

“Dean’s son—”

You rolled your eyes at the objecting chorus. “Whatever. He’s still just a student.”

Gina shook her head. “You clearly haven’t met him.”

“I don’t need to meet him.”

“Oh yeah?” Gina stared over your shoulder. “That’s too bad, because you’re about to.”

You followed her gaze, as did every other student present. The cafeteria burst into a fuss of noise, whispered elation and an air of giddy delight that infected even you with the way your heart pounded indiscriminately. Through a convenient gap in the crowd you looked across to the gently swinging double doors where a person had just entered: a man. A man that met your eyes as soon as yours did his, through tinted sunglasses that utterly failed to conceal the liquid mercury beneath. Under your skin bloomed a molten wanting unlike anything hitherto felt, and in the next breath, a dizzy spell of desire. Mid-length hair the colour of onyx and skin near unsettlingly flawless, it felt merciful to look away from him; to right yourself and steady your feet. Leather jacket tight about his broad shoulders, the man grinned and with no more than a single stride attracted to him the swarm of students that each sought to introduce themselves and make friendly, Gina included. At home amongst the chaos, the man took it all in and with apparent gratitude, unphased by the riot he incited. It took all possible strength to turn and briskly cross the cafeteria, the more distance put between you and them, the better.

Outside and with the summer sun offering a calming warmth of clarity to your head and shoulders, you diverted from the path to the lawn and stopped near a willow tree for breath. It had been all too much. All too reminiscent of your own experience as a naïve Fresher— how the ‘hottest girl on campus’ had been so violently hitched to her pedestal.

“Hello.”

With a shriek you whirled around: there he was. Sunglasses removed and sitting backwards on his head, silver pools of liquid metal pinned you from under strands of thick black.

“Wh— What?”

The man smiled; white, dazzling. “I said hello.”

“Hello?”

“Isn’t that what people say when they meet for the first time?”

You shook your head, scrambling for sense. The shadow of the leafy canopy above danced over the grass, disorienting. As though nature itself responded to his very presence as your peers did.

“But this...” You swallowed, summoned the nerve to look at him. “This isn’t the first time we’ve met.”

--

Minho’s ichor ran cold— a first for a man whose heavenly blood was perpetually warmed by divinity.

“We’ve never met,” he said flatly, as much to convince himself as her.

In truth, he thought she’d be purged of the memory of that murky evening by now, humans so fickle in their recollection. It had been over a week ago. She blinked, the dazzlement in her eyes such that it made Minho wonder if his mortal shell was sufficient in containing his glorious beauty.

“I know you,” she muttered. “I know your face.”

Minho’s heart throbbed.

“I thought it was a dream, but—”

Seeing an opportunity, he leapt at it. “Funny,” he smarmed. “People do like to tell me I’m the stuff of dreams.”

And just like that, she appeared to snap to herself. She grimaced and turned away, starting over the lawn.

“It’s rude to walk away from someone without even asking their name,” he said, keeping up with her.

“I already know your name.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. It’s all anyone in the cafeteria was saying.”

He laughed. “You sound upset about that.”

“Not nearly as upset as I am about being followed.”

“You could always ask me why I’m following you.”

She stopped abruptly and huffed, “Why are you following me, Minho?”

Never had a mortal addressed him by human name— it felt somehow more intimate than the acts he’d indulged in a hundred times or more.

He cleared his throat, stood tall. “You’re the student superintendent for Goodhart, yes?”

She cast a wary eye over him. “I am.”

From his pocket, he retrieved a small, silver key with a wooden tag attached. The number on the tag read ‘307’.

“I’m moving in,” he beamed.

It was her turn to laugh; melodic and bright. Somehow cutting. “Goodhart is a girl’s only house,” she said.

“It was.”

“Excuse me?”

“It was a girl’s only house. Up until about six hours ago.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Cool. You don’t need to. I just need you to show me to my room. It’s this way, right?”

He started off over the lawn, hands in jacket pockets, thoroughly pleased with himself. With a little luck (and maybe an offering or two to his mother), things would continue to go according to plan. He’d have this mortal worked out and trussed up in love with a snake before teatime.

How pleased Aphrodite would be.

--

It was all so wrong.

How was it that a centuries-long tradition could be so readily abandoned for the sake of a rich boy that apparently possessed more connections than the London underground?

Walking briskly down the halls of Goodhart—halls that you had come to love for their quirky colourings and touch of lived-in neglect—you nursed the mortification that swirled about you. It didn’t help that every girl you passed looked on Minho with abject delight and warm welcomes; he was already at home in a place he had no business calling home.

You pointed down the third-floor hall from the top of the connecting staircase.

“Your room is down there,” you said. “On the left.”

Minho hummed. “Cool. Let’s go.”

“I have a lecture.”

You spun on your heel and started down the stairs, only for the man to jump into your path.

“Don’t you have to give me some kind of induction?” he pressed. “As the superintendent, it’s only right you tell me where the fire exits are.”

A hot whirl of irritation barely suppressed the urge to tell him where he could stick his fire exits: you forced a smile instead, and nodded.

“Right. Sure. This way, then.”

Heading down the third-floor hall with him in close pursuit, you began upon a cold realisation. Perhaps the onslaught of emotion had befuddled you enough that you completely missed what was easily the most horrifying thing of all this: room 307 was next to yours.

Minho was your neighbour.

You stopped outside 307’s door. “This is it.”

Minho grinned. “Excellent.”

He took the key from his pocket and unlocked it, stepping inside what was a typical space for university accommodation. A modestly sized room with nothing more than a desk and bed supplied. It fell to the students to make it theirs, so to speak. The white-framed window looked out to the summery lawn, just as yours did. He strolled inside, hands in his leather jacket pockets, peered out of the window and inspected the ceiling, the bed and then you. 

“Fire exits are at both ends of the hall,” you quickly said from the door. “And there’s an emergency escape connected to 301. Got it?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“There’s no curfew and, uh,” you cleared your throat. “No rules on who you can bring back and such. Just remember you’re not the only one who lives here.”

He scanned you coolly. “I’m well aware of that.”

“Good. Well, then.” With a curt nod, you went to leave.

“You’re 306, aren’t you?”

You stopped short, seized with disbelief. “What?”

“You live next door,” he repeated. “We’re neighbours.”

“H— How do you even know that?”

Minho shrugged. “Am I not supposed to know?”

Confounded, you were lost for words. He strolled leisurely around the bed.

“You’re popular on campus,” he said. “I hear people talking about you.”

“Really?” You scoffed. “I’m shocked you could hear anything beyond what everyone seems to be saying about you.”

“It’s funny,” he continued, ignorant of your remark.

“What is?”

“That they say so much about you without actually saying a thing.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Well,” he sighed, perching on the bare mattress. “They say you’re beautiful. Gorgeous, even. That you’ve got an ass to die for and a killer smile.” He raked his gaze over you. “You’re the hottest girl on campus.”

“They can say what they want, I really don’t care. I’m used to it.”

“Right. But it’s all so... vapid. Don’t you think? There’s no substance to it. Seems to me like not a single one of them actually know you. They just know you for what they see. They’re not interested in peering beneath the tight ass and lovely smile.”

You stared at a patch on the brown carpet.

“Is that their fault, or yours?” he asked.

“I’m done with this conversation,” you snapped, turning back to the door.

“I heard about the Fresher’s ball.”

You stopped and swallowed, heat warming your face. “The Fresher’s ball was a mistake.”

“Yeah. You would say that. Getting so drunk you made out with the entire rugby team?”

“That’s not true,” you snapped. “I got drunk, yes, and I know I made a fool of myself, but nothing like that happened. It’s just a nasty rumour.”

Minho shrugged. “Not for me to judge, darling.” He pursed his lips, then added, “Regardless, your peers seem to adore you. The way you look, anyway.”

“Are you done? I don’t know who the hell you think you are but my life is not a soap that you can just tune into for your own amusement. I don’t care what people say about me; I never have.” You turned away from him. “Leave me alone.”

And with an abrupt slam of his door, you left his room to rush to your own. In the solitude and quiet and after deep breaths taken to ease the dreaded panic that had begun to sink in, it was to your own irritation that tears pricked and streaked your cheeks. Nothing he had said was new; you were aware enough of the reason boys smiled at you and girls flocked to you, somehow hoping your acclaimed ‘beauty’ might rub off on them in however shallow a manner. Such had always been the way of things, ever since you were young. Overfamiliar uncles cooing at your pretty face, jealous aunts shunning you. High school friends lost to petty crushes that turned eyes on you, strangers that stared and whispered. You had hoped for a new start with the chapter of university, and for a while, things had been better. You’d been just another student of low profile, had kept to yourself, had protected your peace.

All until the damn Fresher’s ball.

One moment of weakness and indulgence in excess had ruined it: all eyes had a reason to turn to you as you revelled and danced with more suggestive intonation than you would ever have otherwise dared, and they hadn’t turned away since. Rumours abounded of your state and activity after the ball, ranging from those Minho had heard and of far more explicit affairs, none of them true. Unwilling to dig to the root of the whispers, you simply turned away from it, choosing above all else to carry yourself the way you had always done under lustful eyes: with quiet dignity.

Who was this man to throw all that in your face? To so brazenly trample on your boundaries? Whether Dean’s son or Gucci heir or self-made billionaire, it was clear he possessed an appalling level of entitlement, and was someone to be avoided. Just what he hoped to gain from such rash treatment of a stranger, you couldn’t be sure, but promptly decided it was not worth your energy to work out.

You would carry yourself the way you had always done.

--

The mystery of Minho’s identity prevailed for longer than you cared to acknowledge.

He hefted his wants around campus with reckless abandon, and by now it was certain that you were the only one mourning the all-female occupation of Goodhart House, for the other girls were nothing but pleased by the male addition.

Indeed, neither an eye was blinked nor a question asked as to his means of securing a place at Goodhart, much less Oxford on the whole. The man seemed to don the shroud of myth— every word passed around and about him painted a thrilling picture: he was everything the students wished him to be and more, for never once did he deny a rumour. An image forged in gossip is one susceptible to warping, and if Minho played into that, it was lost on the student body. Rather, he was welcomed with more abject favouritism than you had ever witnessed; you might have drowned in the second-hand embarrassment of your peers if not for the glowering contempt you stewed in upon for the fact that the detestable man was now your neighbour.

And yes, you were self-aware enough to admit a pull of attraction that you kept as close to your pride as your dignity. You’d rather be seen dead than join the gaggle of groupies that worshipped his every move and hung on his every word.

Thus far, you had done a stalwart job of avoiding him. A fortnight with no run-ins had confirmed that, inasmuch as you could tell, you had no classes together nor crossover seminars, no reason to interact. Yet through all this, the glimpses you would catch of his jet-black head and the trill of his laughter from next door provoked an unease: what was this familiarity you felt? Why were you the only one that seemed to notice how his eyes shimmered with the light of a cosmos?

Best to put it out of your mind, lest your mind put out of you.

On the Friday evening you nursed your well-loved copy of Wuthering Heights, contemplating between long paragraphs just what Heathcliff’s redeeming qualities were intended to be. While all for reading between the lines, it seemed to you that any virtue of character should not be so difficult to find.

Situated comfortably on the inner sill of your bedroom window and looking out, it was another fair night. The moon hung bright and clear over the distant woods and town of Oxford, the sky utterly clear of a cloud. Perhaps it had been a cloud that night, that you saw. A cloud in the form of an angel, sent to you by sleep deprivation and an overdose of caffeine.

A knock on your door drew your attention; supposing it would be one of the regular girls stopping by to regale you with their Friday night antics, you rushed over and threw it open.

How your heart seized in your chest.

Eyes of mercury assessed you from under damp raven strands.

“Good evening,” Minho said.

Too bewildered to much reply, he breathed a soft laugh at your dazzlement.

“May I come in?”

“What?”

“Can I come in?” he asked again, emphasising a glance into your room that reared a bout of self-consciousness.

“N— No. Go away.”

“I come with offerings,” he said, tapping the plastic Tupperware box tucked under his arm that had somehow gone unnoticed. “Fudge brownies. A little birdie told me they’re your favourite.”

You folded your arms defensively. “Did they now?”

Minho cocked a brow. “They were wrong?”

“N— No. I suppose not.”

He grinned, utterly disarming. “I feel like you and I got off on the wrong foot, so to speak,” he said gently. “I’d like to start again. Get to know each other. Clean slate. We’re neighbours, after all.”

“I don’t think—”

He held the Tupperware box up. “Please?”

You huffed an indignant sigh.

Might have to strangle a birdie or two.

--

Minho had no experience with human narcotics.

Indeed, the closest divine equivalent was the concoction of ambrosia, and that—if the Sky Father’s behaviour was anything to judge by—induced the sort of buzz that mortals gained from an excess of wine. There was no substance in heaven or on Earth that could so impact the Gods the way he had seen man-made narcotics impact humans; though he desired no such extremity tonight. He had simply taken the advice of those keen mortals that surrounded him, given when he had subtly enquired as to the real nature of his target: “She’s uptight, man. Super hot, but uptight. She needs to relax, smoke a little. It’ll help her unclench. Man, can you imagine her high? No, yeah, I know she doesn’t smoke, but like— She likes brownies, right? She always buys those little fudge ones from the cafeteria. I’d love to see her eat a moon cake. I bet she’d get totally wild, just like that one time at the ball.”

Thus, a plan emerged.

Stepping into her room was the first hurdle overcome: he had been fully braced for a door slam to the face. Instead, he found himself pleasantly surprised, and then somewhat concerned, for it was clear by now that that not even his mortal disguise could completely conceal his divine appeals from her. Where other mortals saw a dark and handsome man, she saw beyond it. The way she stared and how her heartbeat quickened told of it all. Worse still that he seemed to respond in kind— but no, he could not even entertain it. His visit carried a purpose, and that was to get to the bottom of what made her so special.

“Nice place,” he said as he looked briefly around, not to impress discomfort upon the girl.

“Thanks. It’s the same as every other in this building.”

Minho chuckled. She was possessed of a sense of humour, at least.

“You were reading?” he asked, idly flipping the cover of Wuthering Heights that sat on the bedside table. He hadn’t read it himself, but recalled the sister Muses’s boasts from the time of its inception: what promising devotees they claimed those Bronte’s would be.

“Yeah.”

“A touch on the heavy side for a Friday night, no?”

She shrugged, arms wrapped around herself. “I like it.”

“You read a lot?”

“I mean; yeah. English Lit student.”

“Ah. A romantic, then.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“All arts students are romantics, darling.”

He sat at the foot of the bed, Tupperware box in his lap, quietly pleased with how her heart sounded to have skipped a beat at the endearment.

“Join me?” he asked, tapping the space at his side.

She cleared her throat and swallowed, moving stiffly to the desk where she pulled out the chair. Minho watched in amusement, but did not contest. He snapped open the Tupperware box to the velvety rich scent of chocolate, humming in delight: a deity he might be, but just as susceptible to the serotonin of indulgent food. Neatly sliced brownies sat on paper towel, and he offered the box to her first. She eyed it warily.

“They’re just brownies,” he lied.

A purse of her lips and she contemplated something: whatever it was, it quickly passed.

“Thank you,” she sighed, dipping into the box and retrieving the topmost brownie.

“You’re welcome, darling.”

Minho helped himself to one, wishing almost that he could join the girl on the trip she was about to take. It’d be fun to witness, nonetheless. With inhibitions lowered and her true state of mind brought to the forefront, he’d surely discover what it was that blessed her so. What it would take to make her fall in love with the most horrible thing he could find. What he had to do to—

“Mhm.”

A small but sure groan of appreciation made Minho’s fine hairs stand on end: he paused his own consumption to watch her, her face aglow with warm delight. Chocolate on her lips begged to be illicitly removed; Minho swallowed, yearning thrumming under his skin.

“Is this why everyone on campus adores you?” she asked after a moment.

“W— What?”

“You bribe them,” she said, pointedly glancing to the Tupperware box.

Minho scoffed. “I don’t need to bribe people into liking me. It comes naturally.”

“Does your modesty come naturally too?”

“You know; you’re awfully abrasive with me. Did I do something to offend you?”

She shrugged, took another bite of brownie. “No. You’re not that powerful.”

He smirked. “Then what is it?”

“I suppose I just don’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

“You.” She licked her lips. “Nothing about you seems real. There are so many rumours about you and you don’t deny or correct a single one.”

He quirked a brow. “You think I should?”

“I think anyone that puts any value in their identity should, yes. I have a past. A home. I know where I came from and who I am. If I heard people saying otherwise, I'd want to put them right about it.”

She licked her fingers, one by one, the sweet and tempting chocolate coating her tongue. Minho crossed his legs.

“Tell me about them,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Tell me about your past. Your home. Where you came from and who you are.”

“We weren’t talking about me—”

“We are now.”

She blinked, swallowing the last bite of brownie and, once again, darted her tongue out over shiny lips. Minho followed the movement of it slowly, wondered how sweet she’d be to kiss, drew his attention back to her eyes where she, too, had been watching him. She cleared her throat abruptly.

“I, uh...” She shrugged a shoulder. “Well. I was born in a small village. There was nothing much to do growing up, so I read a lot. Too much, my mother used to say. She never really understood why I liked it, and I never really had the energy to explain.”

Minho nodded. “What did your parents do?”

“Mum was an artist. A sculptor, mostly, though she did paint too.”

“And your father?”

“I never knew him.”

“Never?”

She shook her head.

“Your mother didn’t tell you anything about him?” he pressed.

“Nothing I could have believed.”

“Such as?”

“It’s not even worth talking about—”

“Humour me.”

She hummed. “Well, she... I mean, you have to understand that Mum wasn’t a well woman. She had strange beliefs. Acted oddly. It got worse as she got older. Towards the end, not a thing she said made sense. She told me that...” She hesitated.

“Go on,” Minho encouraged.

“She said that my father was a god. As in; an actual god. He pursued her relentlessly, apparently. Sent her gifts and showered her with affection. Was obsessed with her. Eventually she caved and fell in love with him, then they made me, but he had to return to... wherever the hell he came from. I don’t know.”

Minho’s palms grew clammy; he set the Tupperware box on the bed. “I see.”

“I told you; she was completely delusional.” She stood and reached for another brownie, breaking a piece off and popping it into her mouth. “The story changed every time. Sometimes he came to her as a man, sometimes as a snake, or a stallion. For all her berating of my reading, she had a wicked imagination of her own.” She swallowed the brownie piece, broke off another. “I’m pretty sure he was just someone from the village. I really don’t care either way.”

Minho did not hear much of what was said after— he couldn’t over the rush of ichor that deafened him. It could not be true: it made no sense to be true.

“As for who I am,” she continued, oblivious. “I’m nothing special.”

“I very much contest that.”

She scoffed, breaking off yet more brownie and eating it. “You don’t know me even nearly well enough.”

“I’d like to,” he said.

She eyed him. “Why?”

“Why not? Can't we get to know each other?”

“Alright then,” she smacked her lips, set the brownie chunk aside and dusted her hands against each other. “Your turn. Dispel the illusion for me.”

Minho chuckled. What earlier cold dread had settled on him began to thaw.

“I could just feed you a pack of lies,” he said.

“You could.”

He held her gaze, the dim moonlight streaking her features.

“Swear that you won’t,” she muttered.

 Swear? To swear was to forge an oath; to forge an oath was divine. Under normal circumstances he would shy away from such a hefty obligation, but this...

“Alright.” He nodded. “I swear.”

With a slight smile, she asked, “Where’s home?”

“Far from here.”

“Where do you come from?”

“I was born in the mountains.”

“You swore you wouldn’t lie.”

“I’m not.”

She pursed her lips. “Okay... Who are you, Lee Minho?”

“I am the God of Love, sent to Earth by my mother Aphrodite to curse you for being too beautiful.”

She blinked, her shoulders drawn tight. A moment of tense silence passed, and in the next instant, she burst into laughter, doubling over herself on the chair. She cackled and guffawed until she cried, and Minho found himself not only enraptured with the sound of her joy, but elated at being the cause of it. If indeed, he truly was.

“It’s a zero for originality,” she whimpered on a laugh. “You can’t just steal my stories like that and twist them!”

Minho watched in amusement.

“Also— you promised no lies. That’s an even bigger zero.”

She picked up the last chunk of brownie she’d set aside, pushing it past her lips with a giggle that carried for long minutes as she chewed contentedly. She swallowed and sighed, brought her legs up to cross under her, swivelling gently in the desk chair.

“Imagine being the God of Love,” she mumbled. “Must be bloody awful.”

Minho hummed. “You think so?”

“Yeah. For sure. Imagine being surrounded by love all the time— every second of every minute of every day.” She shuddered dramatically. “Couldn’t be me.”

“But you are surrounded by love,” he said. “It takes many different forms, you know. Friends, family, faith.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Fornication.”

She coughed suddenly, looking anywhere but at him. Endearing warmth pooled under the simmering yearning that resided in Minho; how much longer he could keep it wrested, he wasn’t sure.

“I imagine being a God of Love to be great fun,” he said. “I imagine they might get into all sorts of mischief.”

“I don’t like mischief.”

“Everybody likes a bit of mischief.”

She shook her head. “Not me. I’d much rather—” She yawned. “I’d much rather live a quiet life.”

Minho hummed, watching as she wilted on her seat. She sat bolt upright on feeling herself sag, blinking rapidly.

“I don’t, uh...” She put a hand to her forehead. “I don’t think I feel very well.”

“What’s wrong, darling?”

“I...” She slipped her legs from under her, made an attempt to stand that ended futilely; Minho quickly rose and caught her weight. To restrain what burned in him; what the God of Love so easily took when the urges presented, was a goliath task.

“S— Sorry,” she mumbled, and tried to move from him, only to stagger once more.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “Want to lie down?”

“No. I just—” She gripped his arms tightly, let herself lean into his strong frame. The thin cotton of clothing under her hands seemed to fascinate her; she released the grip and, transfixed, began to stroke softly, her touch wandering from bicep to shoulder to chest. Minho hoped she could not feel the way his heart throbbed under her hand; she looked up at him, eyes glassy and rounded with adoration.

“You are... so pretty,” she mumbled, touching softly his cheek, his jaw. “So, so pretty.”

Heat flared under his skin, singing what sense he possessed.

“I thought you—” She grinned lazily. “I thought you were the angel. It came to me, you know. Right to my window. It was the prettiest thing I've ever seen. Then I saw you.”

He sucked in a sharp breath; much more praise and the swelling in his groin would not be so ignored.

She cupped his face with warm hands. “I don’t really like you. But I do like you. You make me—” She narrowed her eyes, blinked slowly. “You make me want to do things I’ve never even thought about before. Bad things.”

“Bad things?”

She nodded, then pressed a finger to his lips. “I’ll never admit that to you, though. Just so you know.”

The already abused thread of Minho’s self-control frayed and worried; he gently removed her hand, took her wrists in hold. To remove himself was the wise thing to do; she was not herself, and he was not so virtuous as to resist much longer.

 “It’ll be our secret, then,” he said.

“Mhm.”

“Why don’t you lie down for a bit, darling? You’re not feeling well.”

“I’m fine.”

“Of course. Just try it. For me.”

She shook her head, about to protest when in the next instant, a sallow and sickly look of panic came over her.

“I— I think I’m going to be—”

And with a short, retching heave, she threw up over Minho’s slippers, sweats and the rest of the brownies in the open Tupperware box.

There was hardly a shred of grace to be found in the rest of the evening, the responsibilities of caregiver taken on board. Minho cleaned both of them up, set the girl to bed with surprising lack of resistance on her part, and once sure that she was free of cramps and convulsions, retired himself to the roof of Goodhart.

Wired and utterly unable to sleep, he watched the constellations until he could think without the red mist of lust impeding him. In doing so, the cold realisation he had earlier felt on hearing her mother’s story returned to him. He would not have entertained it had the finer details not rung so true to a certain Olympian King and Cloud Gatherer’s famous behaviour. Indeed, it would certainly explain her invulnerability to his arrows and her uncanny intuition as to Minho’s nature: not much would escape a daughter of Zeus.

But then; if true, how had it gone unnoticed by Aphrodite? Surely she would know of the girl’s lineage. Surely all Olympians would know, for Zeus made no secret of his bastards and indeed, cultivated a long line of offspring from mortals, demi-gods, minor deities and nymphs all, much to Hera’s (equally as famous) wrath.

He would think on it, he decided. If nothing else, he was further along in working her out than he had been several hours ago, and with no thanks to the moon cakes. A stupid idea, to attempt to relax her through such unpredictable means in the hopes she might talk or reveal some mystery.

He would apologise tomorrow. Perhaps find her a gift.

All for the quest, of course.

--

You awoke feeling distinctly like a beaten piñata.

Your head throbbed steadily and a nausea lingered, rolling dangerously on your attempt to get up and out of bed. Trudging to the window, you threw it open and gulped in the fresh mid-morning air, warmed by summer’s sun and redolent of the nearby woods, earthen and faintly floral. A musk hung about your room; not one that was generally familiar to you, but it was reminiscent of the night before; of a sudden drowsy warmth and hands touching things they most definitely shouldn’t have. With a grimace and under the chill of mortification, you got dressed and tried to make presentable, quietly leaving your room and heading next door.

A deep breath preceded your soft knock: for a moment you thought it too soft to be heard, but it quickly opened to reveal a shower-fresh, modern-day Adonis— not even your sickly state could perturb the way you stared. A wet towel was slung over his sloped shoulders, the twisted ends hanging over curved pectorals. The rest of him was entirely naked, his skin still wet and catching the gentle light of the morning that shone in streaks through the half-drawn blinds. Dripping, dark strands framed rosy, handsome features. Veined biceps flexed as he held the door, and following the line of his body, you saw a wave of slight abs, svelte waistline, shapely hips, a fine dusting of hair that crept from his groin to his navel; a happy trail, so delightful as to make your mouth water.

As for what hung between his legs— well, it seemed to you on first glance that he possessed three of them.

Minho cleared his throat, apparently as mystified as you.

“H— Hi.”

“Sorry—” You snapped back to yourself. “Jesus. Sorry. I, uh— I’ll come back.”

“No, don’t. Just give me a second?”

He quickly disappeared, though left the door ajar, the sounds of rummaging and changing heard. When he reappeared, he was mercifully clothed in sweats and a black shirt.

“Come in,” he said.

“I... I really can come back if it’s a bad time—”

“It’s not. Come in.”

Compliance came courtesy of his authoritative tone, and in stepping into his room, you were surprised to see it so sparse. Aside from the wardrobe and larger than average bed, there was nothing that denoted even an ounce of personality; no posters, no books, no belongings. Nothing to suggest it was even lived in at all, if not for the presence of the man himself.

“I haven’t had time to decorate yet,” he said intuitively.

You nodded, though quietly doubtful, and wandered to the open window where at least you could call on the fresh air to keep you grounded. While clothed, he was no less dazing to be around.

“I just wanted to—”

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Not great.”

Minho, holding position at the other side of the room, looked downtrodden.

“Nothing a few paracetamols won’t fix, I'm sure,” you added lightly.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“What? I’m the one that should be apologising, I behaved like a—”

“You have nothing to apologise for. You were only like that because of me. It’s my fault.”

Confused, you watched as he came closer, raked a hand through his slowly drying hair.

“There was, uh...” He licked his lips. “There was marijuana in the brownies.”

Dumbfounded, you could only blink.

“I thought they might loosen you up,” he continued.

“Loosen me up?”

“It was a stupid, ridiculous idea. I know that. I’m so sorry. If I'd known how badly you’d react to it—”

“You drugged me!?”

Minho flinched. “I... I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”

“That's what it is, Minho. You drugged me. You fed me drugs without my knowledge or consent. I’ve never taken any kind of drug, let alone eaten it. You—” Too enraged to find the words, you gesticulated wildly. “Fuck. You.”

Storming past him with a succinct shoulder barge, Minho caught you by the wrist, an earnest apology on his gorgeous face.

“I’m so sorry, darling. It was never my intention to hurt you.”

A wave of bitter resentment accompanied the heat; you snatched away from him, summoning your courage.

“I’m not your darling.”

He caught your other wrist, persistent.

“You could be,” he said.

“Let me go—”

“You like me."

A concoction of embarrassment and want swam around you. “Looks like you can’t keep a secret, either,” you muttered.

And with that, he released you, his silvery gaze dropping in something finalistic; something defeated.

“Stay away from me,” you said flatly.

He did not stop your third attempt at exit, nor did he call on you for the rest of the day.

Nor the rest of the week.

--

It was difficult for a God to experience guilt.

Minho, being a creature of compassion and with love built into his very existence, found that it tarnished everything he hitherto enjoyed about the mortal world. As though being forced to swallow his pride and admit that he had made a mistake was not bad enough, there was the added realisation that he had acted detrimentally to his own quest— she would not even look at him, let alone allow him to get close enough to make amends, to lower guard, to give him opportunity to strike.

And so ensued a cold war of sorts, her avoidance of him going to such lengths as to involve her temporary removal from Goodhart House to stay with a friend on the other side of campus. This ‘Gina’—the girl upon whom she’d imposed—struck Minho as a fickle creature, susceptible to gossip and vapid trends and student body politics insofar as their theatrics. Not a good influence, he ultimately surmised, but nonetheless his target appeared fond of her. Trusted her. To that end, Minho saw an angle. A new opportunity. One that he somewhat wished to have happened upon before he decided on the use of narcotics, but hindsight would do him no good now.

It was as Gina left her last class of the day that Minho sought to introduce himself.

“Hello, darling.”

He was met with the typical starry-eyed wonderment, the blushing and quickening of heartbeat that all betrayed her delight at being so approached by trend #1— if Minho played into that, he was no sorer for it. Neither was he spoiled for choices, which posed his reasoning for offering to escort her to her dormitory, whereupon the worst simply had to happen.

On the stone steps of the grand, old building waited his target, her beauty seeming more so dazzling since he had been denied the sight of her. On seeing him, however, she rolled her eyes and muttered a curse, storming towards her friend.

“What the hell are you doing?” she hissed at Gina.

“Lovely to see you too,” Minho smarmed.

Gina startled, seemingly offended. “What is with that tone? I know you two aren’t on the best of terms—”

“The best of terms? He drugged me, Gina.”

“Right, so you keep saying, but like...” She glanced at Minho fondly, then shrugged. “He hasn’t drugged me.”

Dumbfounded, she stared at her friend, then at Minho. What pain he saw there perplexed him— it shouldn’t have felt like a betrayal, for there was nothing so intimate between them to betray.

“Minho was actually just offering to take me out for drinks tonight,” Gina said. “You can come if you want.”

“No way.”

“Alright, well, I’m not going to stand here trying to convince you. We’ll be at Cherub’s if you change your mind.” With that, Gina whirled on the spot and started off. Minho lingered.

“Aren’t you going with her?” she snapped.

“You should come.”

“And third wheel your date? No thanks.”

“There’s enough of me to go around,” Minho grinned, more amused than serious.

“What a gentleman you are.”

“I like to think so.”

“Do you like to think you’re the kind of gentleman that drugs the dames before he has his way with them, too?”

Minho flinched. “That’s not how it was. I just wanted to—”

“Loosen me up. Because I'm such an uptight bitch. Yeah, I get it.”

“No. Because you confound me. That’s all.”

She almost laughed, clutching her books so tightly the skin of her knuckles drew thin and tense.

“Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds? It makes no sense—”

“Come for a drink with me. I’ll make it make sense.”

She huffed a deep breath. “I can’t. I have plans.”

Minho quirked a brow. “With Heathcliff? How exciting.”

“It— It’s infinitely more exciting than spending a second longer with you, actually” she stammered.

Minho laughed. “That’s simply not true, darling.”

“How many times; I’m not your darling.”

“But you want to be.”

“Oh my god.” She spun on her toe, marching back up the steps. “I’m going inside.”

“I’ll see you at Cherub’s, then,” he called.

“Leave me alone, Minho!”

“Never,” he whispered as she shoved into the building.

And suddenly, things looked up.

--

Not your finest moment, to tiptoe into a bustling Cherub’s with your proverbial tail between your legs, dignity waving you off at the door.

He said he’d make it make sense: that’s what you clung to the entire way here, for there was so much about him—the things he did and said—that didn’t add up. You imagined what it might be like to understand him instead of loathe him as you peered between gatherings of students in search of him and Gina. About as typical a student union bar as one might imagine, Cherub’s was home to beer-soaked carpets and sticky seats, outdated seventies décor and mismatched lighting. Cheap and (not so) cheerful, it did just the trick for instilling a quick buzz, yet its nearness to accommodation meant that said buzz devolved to debauchery more often than not.

Heathcliff was, you rather thought, far more exciting.

You had vowed after the Fresher’s ball never to drink unless circumstances were dire enough to call for it, and so your detouring to the bar should have said something as to the state of your nerves, whereupon you ordered a vodka and tonic. With a weak smile at the tender, you gratefully took the almost-cool glass, a sip of the fizzy concoction neither unpleasant nor particularly enjoyable. It would take the edge off, in a moment.

“Drinking alone?”

The voice behind your ear startled, the glass slipping from your grasp only to be caught deftly by another, not so much as a drop spilled. Minho smiled warmly, ever radiant against the surroundings. Almost unsettlingly so, for all near eyes were trained to him, and in turn, you.

He brought the rescued glass to his glossed lips, a perfunctory sip followed by a sharp grimace. He set it on the bar and slid it away, out of reach.

“Excuse me, I paid good money for that—”

“My condolences,” he sighed, raking slim fingers through silky, dark strands that framed shadowed eyes of liquid silver.

He flagged down the tender with a wave. “One pornstar martini and a Glenfiddich, straight. No ice. Make the martini virgin.”

“A virgin pornstar martini?”

“I am a collection of paradoxes, darling.”

Your heart pounded; hopeless as it was.

The drinks arrived promptly, and Minho took them in hand.

“Where’s Gina?” you asked, realisation of her absence coming perhaps a touch too late.

Minho smiled. “Come on.”

He led you through the student bodies and to the rear of the venue, where a booth table went unoccupied. A folded piece of A4 card with ‘RESERVED’ scrawled on it adorned the polished table; you poorly stifled a laugh.

“They reserved a table for you? At Cherub’s?”

Minho nodded, sliding into the opposite seat and setting the drinks down. “I asked them to, yes.”

“It’s a student bar, not a five-star restaurant. Honestly. Who are you?”

Minho settled, a serene smile on his lips. “I believe we’ve had this conversation.”

You rolled your eyes. “Right.” And took the cocktail glass. The pink concoction finished with a half pomegranate slice smelled sweet and fruity, yet distinctly lacked the tang you wished it had.

“This didn’t have to be non-alcoholic,” you weakly complained.

“Mhm. Well. I’ll not be guilty of the same thing twice,” he replied, swirling whiskey around his own short glass. “Besides; you don’t strike me as a drinker.”

“Do I strike you as the drug taker?”

Minho’s gaze fell. “No.”

You hummed and sipped your drink. In truth, giving him a hard time was beginning to lose its novelty. Not only did you wish to move on from the whole thing, but it was getting harder to withstand the clear guilt in his mesmerising eyes. Whatever his intentions had been, they most certainly were not malicious, which ought to count for something, you thought.

“I’m still sorry,” he said.

“I know.”

“I’d very much like to make it up to you.”

“How?”

Minho opened his mouth to speak, but in place of his alluring tone came a high-pitched screech of your name; you startled and looked to Gina, who was barrelling towards the table.

“You came!” she cried, shoving hastily into the seat beside Minho; he scooted aside as best he could, but was already trapped. She linked an arm through his, settled into his side, utterly at home. She looked you over incredulously.

“I didn’t think you’d show. You know; I actually can’t even remember the last time I saw you out,” she said, her thick, glossed lips sticky with reflective residue.

You forced a smile. Ignored how their apparent familiarity made your stomach twist. “Yeah. Me neither.”

“I’m always telling her she should get out more,” she continued, this to Minho. “It’s like she’s allergic to socialising.”

“I’m not allergic to it, G. I just prefer to—”

“Sit in and read, I know. Hey— I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. You do you, babe. I just find it funny that the only time you actually make the effort to come out is when you know a hot guy is going to be around.”

Your face flamed with heat— why did this martini have to be so horribly prudish? You stared into it, adequately mortified, for she wasn’t entirely wrong in her observations, and that only raised questions as to your character too difficult to answer in the light of day. Or grunge of bar, for that matter.

“You’ve got it all wrong, darling,” Minho intervened lightly. “I insisted on her coming so I could buy her a drink in apology for the... incident. The timing happened to be right for her. That’s all.”

Gina rolled her eyes. “Sure. Whatever.” She unlinked her arm from his, fanned out the ends of her short hair from the collar of her leather jacket. “I’m going to get a drink.”

She planted a brief kiss on Minho’s cheek, and slid gracefully out of the booth. Your heart catapulted to your throat, where it stayed until Minho spoke.

“We, uh—”

“I don’t want to know,” you quickly said.

“There’s nothing to know, darling. She’s just... exceptionally forward.”

“Don’t call me darling—”

“I call everyone darling.”

“I know,” you hissed. “Why do you think I feel so bloody stupid that it makes my heart race every time?!”

A moment of comprehension crossed you both, and where your realisation of emotional confession brought him to a slow smile, it brought you to cold despair.

You stood quickly, gathering yourself. “I shouldn’t have come; this was such a bad idea—”

A swift grip on your wrist stopped your panicked exit.

“Don’t leave.”

“Minho—”

“There’s so much I have to know about you,” he said, pinning you with a softening gaze. “So much that I don’t understand. So much that infuriates me, so much that intrigues. You’ve caused me so much trouble, but even so, there’s something that I... Something about you that makes me just—”

“Everything okay over here?”

Gina’s flat question javelined the moment; you looked to her, saw her unimpressed eye trained to where Minho held you still. She upturned her lips in a sneer, the three drinks in her hand trembling.

“You couldn’t just let me have this, could you?” she snarled at you.

“Gina—”

“Every single fucking time, it’s you. It’s always you. Every boy I've ever liked or that’s ever shown any interest in me— They always fall for you. It’s like you can’t stand to see me happy.”

Gutted with guilt and confusion, you snatched your wrist from Minho.

“It’s not what you think, at all. We were just—”

“You might be beautiful on the outside,” she spat. “But inside, you’re a fucking monster. Everyone will see that one day.”

Minho rose from his seat. “That’s enough,” he snapped, glowering. “She takes no blame in this. She takes no blame in anything you accuse her of. It’s her fate to—” And he stopped himself short, as though stumbling back from a precipice. He straightened himself and took a deep breath.

“It’s not her fault,” he said acerbically.

Gina pursed her lacquered lips. “Right. So, it’s yours then? That's what you’re saying?”

Minho shrugged. “Perhaps I manoeuvred in such a way as to ensure you got me close to her, yes.”

Your gut turned over with hot nausea.

“What does that even fucking mean?” Gina balked, anger wrinkling her. “Sometimes you talk like you’re from a different planet, I swear to God.”

Minho sniffed, then smiled. He licked his lips, and said plainly, “I used you to get to her, darling.”

Gina’s jaw slacked, then tightened. It seemed she understood, this time, and perhaps you saw the next thing coming from a mile away: she swore and brutally tossed the three drinks she held straight at Minho, soaking and swilling his head, face and chest with sticky, sweet alcohol. The man took it well, for all his surprise, and swept his hands down his face stoically.

“You two are made for each other,” she hissed, and with that, turned tail and stalked away.

All eyes in near vicinity watched in tense silence as you, unable to even think beyond the molten mortification of it all, did much the same. Perhaps Minho called after you, and perhaps a small part of you wished to stay and console him, yet the larger part of you seethed with disappointment, for he had once again demonstrated himself to be less than half the man you ever wished to be so attracted to.

Minho, for all his obvious and daunting appeals, was not a good man.

--

Minho was starting to believe that the Fates had something against him.

Every attempt he made to get close to her ended in unmitigated disaster, and as if that wasn’t headache enough, he was now forced to acknowledge that what burned in him when he thought of the mortal girl was not simple curiosity: he craved her.

This called into question everything he knew: his quest, his mother’s wishes, his own existence as the God of Love, for as has been established, the God of Love loves all. He does not fall in love. Until he does.

 Perhaps it would simply be easier to out the truth of it all. Yes, it would shatter her mortal logic and push her to the limits of her comprehension, but what was the alternative? To continue wresting his own desires until such a time as he imploded? There was only so much one could take, even for a God, and Minho felt the tether of his patience rapidly diminishing.

Whatever he decided to do, he could not do it under these circumstances. He would have to, once again, make amends. Somehow.

What small silver lining there was to this whole mess came in the form of her moving back to Goodhart House, presumed discomfort between she and Gina resulting in such separation. Minho knew well what part he’d played in that, but in truth, couldn’t bring himself to feel entirely bad about it.

Two nights later—he had learned that mortals valued their space—saw him timidly knocking on her bedroom door, an uncharacteristic bout of nerves swirling about him. Moments passed before she answered, her vacant expression drawing grim on the sight of him.

“What do you want?”

The afternoon sunlight streaming through the window appeared to halo her, a warmth resonating from her person and within her room that set upon Minho a steady yearning; he could take her in his arms so easily, make her feel things no mortal man could.

Instead, he licked his dry lips, and from behind his back, produced the object he’d been concealing. She glanced at it, brows knitting together.

“What the hell is that? A twig?”

“I couldn’t find an olive branch.”

Just like that, the subtlest of curves to her lips ignited hope. She quickly reset herself into a deep-set frown.

“You’re an idiot,” she said.

“I am.”

“Gina and I aren’t speaking because of you.”

“I know.”

“You used her.”

“I did.”

“I mean; why did you have to be so—” she huffed. “You could have been nicer about it.”

“She knew what was happening,” Minho shrugged. “Sugar coating it would have only wounded her further.”

“You can’t just use people, Minho.”

Minho quirked a brow. “But it worked, didn’t it?”

“What?”

“It worked. You’re talking to me again. You’ve done nothing but talk to me since the minute you saw me with her, in fact.”

She dropped her gaze, wrapped her arms around herself. “You let her believe you liked her.”

“I do like her,” Minho replied.

“Oh.”

“Just nowhere near as much as I like you.”

A small puff of breath from her sweet lips seemed almost to indicate disbelief, and Minho supposed that until now, he’d made no such clear indication of his feelings. Suggestion and vague inference, perhaps, while he tried himself to understand what he battled with, but such roundabout behaviour was not in his nature.

“I like you a lot,” he said softly.

She shook her head. “Stop.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“It’s not— I don’t know. I can’t do this.”

She moved to shut the door, but Minho caught it quickly, stepping inside.

“You won’t even give me a chance to explain?” he pressed.

“I can’t. You don’t get it. Gina likes you. She was so upset about the whole thing, and you’re just— You don’t care at all. If anything, you seem proud of it. I can’t be with someone like that.”

Minho crowded her, for while her mouth said one thing, her body said another. Against the near wall she shrank, the rampant thump of her heart so alluring as to draw him near until barely a foot of space rested between them.

“You’re lying to yourself,” he said. “You claim that you can’t be with someone like me, but you know it as well as I do, darling; there is no one like me. I am the epitome of what you’ve always craved, and pretending otherwise will only push you to madness.”

“Minho—”

“As for the girl,” he interrupted softly, still so near. “She was a means to an end, yes. And you are correct; I am proud that my course of action bore fruit. I would do the same thing again, given a choice.”

She shook her head. “That’s the problem. I told you already; you can’t just use people.”

“I can do whatever I damn well please, and so should you. You have that right.”

“Not if it hurts other people.”

“And what of hurting yourself? Why sacrifice your own happiness for someone that doesn’t value you? Calls you names? Thinks you no more than a heartless monster? You might consider her a friend, but I assure you darling, she holds no such fondness towards you. Who do you think it was began the slanderous rumours that circulated after your Fresher’s ball?”

Pain flashed in her watering eyes; a truth that perhaps she had always quietly known brought to the surface.

“This abstinence from me only serves to hurt you.”

She cast a contemptuous glare cast up at him. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” she snapped. “You don’t know the first thing about me or what I'm feeling.”

Minho pressed in close, strong arms either side of her head. He hummed softly, “I hear how your heart cries out to me. See how your womanhood swells the closer we are; I only wish you’d give it to me, darling. I’d take such good care of it.”

He felt a shiver barely suppressed as she relented, melting by the second. Words of honey in her ears warmed her from within; Minho might die if he couldn’t taste.

“I wish to undo you and put you back together, one delicious, wet molecule at a time,” he said gently, nosing her soft lobe, then along her jaw. Her breaths devolved to soft pants, each one redolent of sweet nectar that further maddened him. “I’d defy the heavens themselves if it meant I could spend a single night with you.”

--

Minho had once said that arts students were hopeless romantics: he seemed none removed from the vagaries of waxing poetic himself.

You would have given it more thought if not so tightly strung with desire for the man that had, by some cosmic or divine will, worked his way into your bedroom. You knew nothing about him— that much had not changed. Neither had it changed that you detested how he carried himself, how he seemed so aloof to the most basic of kindnesses, how confidence and self-assurance came so naturally to him while it constantly evaded you.

It made no sense that a man like him could desire a woman like you, yet here he was, in your space, hot and firm, whispering such sweet and magical words as to make your head spin and your heart throb.

“Your desire for me is so strong, I can taste it,” he said breathlessly; a statement of fact offered as such, and you weren’t of the mind to deny it.

“Will you admit it?” he pressed. “Return my sentiments?”

Your weak nod told it. “Yes.”

He drew his lip between his teeth, a quick glance cast down your frame. “Am I permitted to touch you?”

“Yes.”

He held a cautious hand over your heaving chest. “Here?”

You nodded; his hand swept to your tummy, still at a hover. “Here?”

“Y— Yes.”

He hummed, then held over the curve of your waist, no contact made and yet electricity flitted between the inches. “Here?”

“Anywhere,” you breathed, defeated, a wreck. “Touch me anywhere. Everywhere. Please.”

Minho grinned, the silver ripple of his eyes flashing smug victory. A hand under your chin tilted your head back to present wanting lips, and when he kissed you, all else faded from existence. Near painfully soft was the first explorative brush, the man inclined to feel out your acclaimed desire— when you curled a grip to his shirt, he indulged you deeply, locking plush lips with yours and taking what he—unbeknownst to you—had already decided was his to covet. Bursts of white-hot delight rendered you breathless and dizzy, and when he broke off, you thought only of more.

“Swear to me that you’ll be mine,” he said, voice a thick and husky rasp.

“Minho...”

“Swear it,” he pressed. “Or this goes no further.”

The quiet promise was made in all but an instant, “I swear,” but even tight in his arms it was akin to stepping from a cold and slippery cliff; you felt to be falling, rescinding all control and handing it to this man that you knew nothing of, but craved like water to a dying man.

With a groan of delight, Minho swept you from the wall and about to the bed, where he laid you down and followed your form. Having no such experience with intimacy save for what the pages of your novels told, your expectations were none. The wanton urges held dominion, your chastity looking on in resigned approval as he smothered your neck and throat with attention, lavished your body with his touch, stripped you of all that hindered his touching your skin. In the warm light of the late afternoon, you laid naked beneath him, bared and as vulnerable as ever a soul may be. Minho looked at you, his gentle eyes seeming more so infinite with the awakening of intimacy; soft, patient hands canvassed your skin— waist, hips and thighs. Gentle, moist lips worshipped you at fingers, toes and lips, such reverent attention that swelled your heart to near bursting.

“You’ve never laid with a man before?”

A giggle bubbled out before you could stop it. Minho cocked his head questioningly.

“S— Sorry,” you mumbled. “No. I haven’t. But…” You hesitated, wondered on the timing, then asked anyway. “Did you have to ask me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like a nineteenth century suitor,” you laughed.

Minho grinned and shook his head, seemingly embarrassed. “Sorry,” he chuckled. “I forget sometimes.”

You ran your hands over his. “Forget what?”

For a long moment, he merely admired how your fingers slotted together. He opened his mouth as though to speak, but instead took a deep breath, and smiled once more. “Nothing.”

His kiss this time was insistent, but gentle. The exchange soon forgotten, work was made of stripping him, the act itself seeming dreamlike the more of him was revealed. Skin smooth and flawless, the complexion of which was so deep and rich a healthy glow, it made you shy to touch it. Clothing removed and tossed aside, the naked sight of him was entirely reminiscent of something— something you could not quite put your finger on, but that nagged at the back of your mind.

He returned to you, all silken warmth and firm in the right places. Between your open legs he settled, your inhibitions melting with his attention— kisses and careful touches, each one further devolving until he could no longer exact patience. He touched you where most you ached, assessing your every expression.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered, lips to lips, soft ministrations over your naked centre eliciting groan after whimper. Slow and controlled, he rubbed you, then parted you to run a finger through the wetness. He shuddered and drew tight, a firm kiss pressed to your mouth.

“So beautiful,” he mumbled, wet digits circling you once more. “You’ll make the perfect companion.”

Too far gone to give much consideration to the perplexment his words instilled, you could only cling to him and wave the ride of euphoria as it flooded you, one molten lash after another. Was it normal to be so immediately aroused by so minimal a touch? Normal to feel like body might split from soul after only minutes of such stimulation?

“Don’t fight it. I’ll guide you through it, darling.” He kissed your bared throat. “Mhm, just like that. Give yourself over to it—”

“Ngh, Min, please—”

“Yes, fuck.” He quickened his motions, a gentle but rapid flurry of sensation against your throbbing centre. Thighs parted wider still for yet more of what he gave, you writhed in desperation, panted like a possessed creature, gave in to what he beckoned out of you. With a cry of delight and no shred of a complex, you trembled violently through the orgasm, felt yourself coming undone on the man’s fingers. Minho hummed and kissed your cheeks, your chin, your forehead, ever patient until the violence had subsided and only your tender panting remained. He ran a soft, light finger through your dripping sex. 

“You’re ready for me,” he muttered, and closed the gap between your bodies.

Spent but still yearning, it seemed almost too natural to open to him and trap him between your thighs. Minho smiled as though with pride, angling himself just so that the formerly observed ‘third leg’ could be seen from your laying position— a most intimidating sight, but one that had you clenching around air. Minho took himself in hand, the girth such that even he struggled to maintain a whole grip. A slow drag from his base and over thick, smooth shaft to blushed tip, and he sucked in air through his teeth, let slip a gravelly groan.

“Can you take me, darling?” he asked softly. “All of me?”

Your weak nod in place of words seemed somehow to dissatisfy him, but all the same, he kissed you tenderly. Tracing the line of his body with trembling hands as he aligned himself, the breaching prod stretching you, you drew tight with a gasp. Minho hissed and the silver of his eyes swirled intensely, each inch that he sunk seeming to exacerbate it; pebbles to rock pools.

“S— Slowly,” you pleaded, the warm soreness of his entrance only just beginning to turn dull ache. “Please.”

“I have you, darling. Trust me.”

Fully sheathed and with his hips cradled tightly to your body, he began to move a slow pace. Such bizarre sensation to feel so thoroughly full, almost sated, on the brink of being driven mad.

“Okay?” he breathed, weight on his arms to better assess you.

You nodded. “Yes. K— Keep going.”

Drawing his lip between his teeth, he maintained the motions, the mattress beneath you creaking its rhythmic complaint. Transfixed to where your bodies connected, Minho’s attention diverted, you explored the curious shimmer to his skin as he moved— perhaps it was the fading sunlight, the evening rolling in with its tricks. It seemed as though tiny rivers of silver moved beneath his skin and through his veins, each one snaking beautifully up his arms, over his shoulders, down his chest to— His chest. How had you not noticed it until now? Amidst the otherworldly perfection there sat the smallest of blemishes, faded purple and gently rounded. Proof that he was indeed real, for over the latter minutes you might have begun to doubt it.

Heart pounding and rapidly approaching yet another crisis of heavenly delight, you brought your middle and index finger together, and by instinct, pressed them to the spot that was now not only familiar to you, but that joined the fragmented pieces of puzzle.

It was a perfect match.

Minho, seemingly oblivious, grunted your name, his rhythm now devolved to a frantic rut. He collapsed atop you, held your warmth close, the smooth drive of his thickness made blissfully easy by the second orgasm he gifted that in turn brought on his own— he shivered and clung to you, words of praise and nonsense both flitting from his bitten lips.

The afterglow was as intense and intimate as the act itself, for Minho gently attended to you, putting you together as he so expressed a wish to. He kept you near to his side, curled up, and whispered stories that you soon forgot in contented, restful slumber.

What you would not soon forget, however, was the truth newly discovered.

The angel had returned to you.

--

Minho now profoundly understood what it was the mortal poets clamoured so desperately to capture.

It was with alarming clarity that he realised he had undertaken his duties as the God of Love with no real concept of what love actually was or could be— such a spectacular thing could not be wrested into something simple; something bite-sized and digestible. All his life he had been casting his arrows and looking on warmly as mortals embraced and made love. He heard their romantic declarations and loving promises with the sort of fond understanding a parent might have for their babbling toddler, and gave it no more consideration than that.

How naïve and foolish he had been. How much he’d missed out on! He dreaded to even think of it now, and cursed his aloofness to the power of what he so easily commanded. Love, he had realised, was the whole point. Powerful enough to fell entire kingdoms, but gentle enough to soothe the most septic of wounds. Wondrous and warm yet cutting and cold, the faces of love were mortally unpredictable, and therein laid its allure.

Minho looked to the future; he had failed in his quest, that much was without question, and could not return to heaven if he wanted to. His mother’s wrath would be terrible, and he was aware enough of his own strengths to know that a conflict with Aphrodite would sign off on his demise, blood or not. And all of that was without the terrible considerations of what she might do to his beloved.

There was nothing for it. He had to do something, and there was no way around it being drastic.

No way around any of it, now that the God of Love was in love.

--

Had you been informed several weeks ago that you’d be engaged in an illicit affair with a man you started out detesting, you’d have cried insanity.

Still; that was the truth of things, and waking next to him after what constituted your first night with any man was not half as terrible as you might once have believed. You had marvelled, mostly. All over again. That he had wanted you at all was mystifying, but when he awoke to find you right where he’d left you, he had proved his want all over again.

A week continued just like this, with not so much discussion as heated, stolen moments. You pleaded that what you were doing be kept under wraps, for the attention he commanded was not something you sought. Begrudgingly, he had acquiesced, but made it known that one day he would show you off to all who came within distance.

This night, he reposed under the stream of pale moonlight that shone through your window; following exertions you had slept straight through the evening and to the small hours. The smooth curve of his lean back disappeared beneath your sheets, his muscled leg hung out and over the bed. Plush lips utterly relaxed and face framed by silky strands of raven black, it struck you once again just how—while unthinkably beautiful—very normal he looked like this. Only when he opened his eyes and mouth did it become clear that he existed on a plane above and beyond other simple people, and while unsure of the finer details, the quirky qualities he possessed had begun to vibrantly outshine those things about him that once irked. He was boastful, yes, and terribly proud. He spoke before he gave much (any) thought and had little regard for consequences, both for himself and those around him.

But he was the very spirit of adventure. Thrillingly spontaneous and occasionally reckless, he dragged you out from under your books and away from your comfort zone, making it so that he instead became a security blanket, for wherever he was, there was safety. The wild promises he made ranged from a lifetime of wealth and happiness with him to taking you around the world. Well intended, of course, but ultimately too fantastical to ever truly believe. Whatever this was and for however long it would last, it wasn’t so wrong to enjoy it.

Led by the hand of desire, you reached out to touch him. A gentle trace down the slope of his shoulder and over the curve of his smooth back, firm under your fingers. You thought of the first time you touched him, before you’d even spoken so much as a word to each other. How he seemed the most beautiful creature your dreams had ever chanced to conjure, for that was what you’d believed him to be— a being born of pure gold, floating on magnificent white wings.

But this man was no dream. He was something else entirely.

A soft murmur of breath, and Minho’s eyes cracked open slowly. Calm pools of silver looked upon you, stirring with love. He smiled softly.

“Who are you?” you whispered.

His smile faded, yet he did not move. He blinked sleepily, slowly.

“You know who I am,” he said quietly. “I told you.”

“The God of Love?”

He nodded, just barely.

“Sent here to curse me for being too beautiful?”

He nodded again.

“By your mother?”

“The Goddess Aphrodite.”

The room was silent. There was no urge to laugh. No stroke of cold disbelief. No terrible fear or suggestion of mockery or anything other than a wave of acceptance, bathed in cold, silver light.

A God.

He was a God.

“Why me?” you whispered.

Minho puffed a soft breath through his nose. Amused, perhaps, by your immediate acquiescence.

“I’m nobody,” you added.

He lifted his head from the pillow, propped himself up by elbow. “Do you truly believe that, or are you being modest?”

You blinked at him, the truth of it in your eyes. He sighed gently, took your hand across the bed.

“You are the most beautiful woman to ever have lived,” he said quietly, running his thumb over your knuckles. “Kind of heart and exquisite of soul, you outshine everything and everyone around you. You were born of a God—”

“What?”

“So I suspect, anyway. I intend to find out for certain. But I do not think your mother was entirely mad with her stories.”

You balked at him. “You’re saying she was telling the truth?”

“Perhaps. A version of it, as she remembers it. Mortal memories are ephemeral things. Regardless, your beauty is divine, and that cannot be disputed.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not,” he chuckled. “Had you lived several thousands of years ago, it would have been you that all of Greece warred over and that the Trojans bled to defend. You are fated to be revered and worshipped for your beauty, more so than even that of my mother’s. This is why she sent me. To shoot you with my arrows and curse you to love something so foul it would disgrace you and push you into a solitary life.”

You swallowed over the disbelief— for all your readiness to hear him out, you found yourself stumped.

“You are invulnerable to my arrows. You see beyond the veil of my mortal disguise. You were able to touch me in my true form. Only divine blood could grant such boons.”

“How do you know I'm invulnerable?” you asked, and on his torn face saw the obvious truth of it. You mumbled a quiet, “Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Talk about a lucky escape.” You tried to laugh, though it was a bittersweet reveal. He was only doing as instructed, you supposed. Things were different then, too. He didn’t know you. Didn’t love you.

Keen to change the subject, you did just that.

“Your mother—”

“Aphrodite.”

“R— Right. Aphrodite.” You cleared your throat. “Why would she want to curse me like that? If what you’re saying is true, it’s hardly my fault.”

Minho shrugged. “The Olympians care little for semantics. I love my mother, but she is as susceptible to vanity as anyone. It wouldn’t be the first time that jealousy has driven her hand.”

“But—” You leaned into him. “This is the twenty first century. Things like that don’t happen anymore. I mean; revering and worshipping, or whatever.”

“Don’t they? What are celebrities and influencers if not modern-day Gods? Politicians if not modern-day kings? Wealth and fame might no longer be measured in cattle and heroic deeds, but it is as attainable today as ever it was, and the power it bestows can be terrible. Armies rallied at the tap of a button. Lives ended at the publishing of a post. Times are different, yes, but fundamentally, mortals will never change.”

An element of truth to his words, you shrunk back against the pillows, head spinning. To suppose that it was all real was one thing— to suppose that it was all happening to you, was another.

Minho kissed your hand softly. “Don’t fret, darling. You are perfectly safe with me.”

“How can that be true? You just told me that Aphrodite has it in for me. That Aphrodite is real. That all the Gods are real.”

Minho hummed. “It’s a lot to absorb, I know. But it is fact. As the world changed and mortals developed beyond what even we predicted, we were lost to them. They turned from us. Nobody prays to us anymore. There are no sacrifices or festivals. Our names are told in stories and that is our legacy. We—our flesh and blood and everything that makes us—are myths.”

He whispered the last word, a sadness in his eyes that tugged insistently at your heart. You leaned back to him, pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“You feel real enough to me,” you mumbled.

Minho smiled slightly. “I am glad of that.” And turned into you, a palm on your cheek bringing you back for a firmer kiss. With a soft gasp that turned moan on the sensation of his slick tongue slipping into your mouth, you fell willingly into the hazed content that the God of Love seemed so exclusively able to invoke. Dragged across the bed until tucked underneath him, he shadowed you from the moonlight, raven locks tickling your cheeks. Keen hands slipped down your body to tenderly part your legs, the suggestion of his arousal prodding thigh until he, quite familiarly and with a chaste kiss to your throat, sunk inside you. Clinging to his broad shoulders and moving with the man, for you had come to know the paces he enjoyed, Minho filled you gently and slipped away with each controlled thrust. Silver eyes told a maelstrom of truths and sadnesses that his long years of life had portended, and by the gradual incline of coming undone at his ministrations, you saw them all. He watched your descent into euphoria, and you saw them all— the lovers, the souls, the stories, the worlds that had been touched by Eros’s arrows, generations of lives built on their enchanted tips, civilisations birthed and ended by the snap of his bow string. An existence spent between heaven and Earth of unspeakable loneliness propelled by gratification of servitude brought you to hot tears amidst the release of crisis.

And you saw that he would have been alone in perpetuity, were it not for you.

--

Minho had a plan.

The beginnings of a plan, anyway, which he thought ought to count for something.

He could not call on any of his aunts or uncles for aid without alerting Aphrodite to the state of things, and so he turned his thoughts to what he could do. The things he possessed. After only moments of consideration, he broke into absurd and near hysterical laughter. How foolish he had been, once again! How could he forget?! Of all the things to slip his mind and fall into obscurity!

He had a palace.

Eros’s famed sky palace of jewels and gold— that was what he possessed. That was where he could go, for it was too removed from heaven for Aphrodite or any of the other Gods to be bothered making the journey. They would be left alone there. It was perfect.

The idea had come to him at high noon— a most inconvenient time for ideas to spring upon one. Unable to bear a second’s delay, he burst out of Goodhart and sprinted across campus, drawing heads and attention from all he passed. When he reached the lecture hall, he swept from room to room, offering breathless apologies to the bewildered occupants for his intrusion on finding her in none of them, much to his irritation. It stood to reason that the last he checked should be the place he found her: she looked up from her notebook, mortification freezing her from neck to forehead.

“Excuse me.” Minho flashed a dazzling smile at the Professor, who for all his usual nettlesome temperament, stood flabbergasted.

He strode confidently across the hall and through the projector’s beam, his shadow casting over the bullet point analysis of Austen’s pathetic fallacy. All eyes followed as he approached her and made quick work of closing her notebook, plucking her pen from her hand and grabbing her backpack.

“I’ll just be taking this one,” he said to the Professor, taking her wrist with a gentle tug.

“What the hell are you doing?” she hissed, the eyes of her peers scalding her back.

Wordlessly, he stole her from the lecture hall, and said not a thing until they were out of the building and on the sun-warmed lawn, where he yanked her into a strong embrace.

“M— Minho!”

“I have it worked out, darling,” he said excitedly. “I have it all worked out!” He relinquished her to arm’s length, her flustered state inspiring urges that he swallowed down. “I know where we can go.”

“Go?” she repeated, confused. “Why would we go anywhere?”

“We can’t stay here. We spoke of this last night. My mother is—”

“You said you’d protect me from her. You didn’t say anything about needing to go anywhere.”

“I thought that was implied, darling. I assumed you understood.”

“Understood what?”

“That yes, I will do my utmost to keep you safe, but not even my power can match that of Aphrodite. If she discovers my betrayal, she’ll stop at nothing to hunt us down.”

The fluster of her condition gave way to dreaded realisation; Minho saw it in her eyes, the panic.

“There is one place we will be entirely safe,” he quickly said. “Somewhere she nor any of the other Olympians can set foot.”

“Where?”

“My palace.”

“P— Palace?”

Minho nodded in earnest. “Yes, darling. It is protected, its gates open only to me. We will want for nothing there. We can be together, undisturbed.”

She looked around, as though lost. “But I...” Her voice was weak. “I can’t just leave everything. This is my life.”

“I am your life now, darling. There’s nothing here for you.”

“Nothing here for me?” Her features drew tense and she stepped away from him, shrugging off his touch. “You're saying all this is pointless? Everything I've tried to achieve is worthless?”

“N— No, I simply mean that—”

“I know what you mean. I have no-one to miss me if I should disappear.” Her bottom lip trembled, she wrapped her arms around herself. “And what if I stayed? Would all those worshippers you promised me show up? Would I have something then?”

Minho’s heart ached impossibly; how careless he had once again been. One would think him used to the fragility of mortal hearts by now.

“It’s too late,” he said sorrowfully. “My love for you is a betrayal to my mother. If you stay, she will subject you to terrible punishment before anything ordained for you ever happens. If you come with me...” He reached out to her tenderly, a hand on her trembling shoulder. “If you come with me, I can spare you that fate. You do not have to engage with me or love me in return, but I hope that you will at least allow me to make reparations for taking you away from all you know. I can give you a most beautiful life. I can show you such things as your books will never describe. I can dedicate myself to you, soul and all, and be whatever you wish me to be.”

Tears streaked her cheeks, each one a dagger to Minho’s composure.

“You will never be alone again,” he whispered. “This, I swear to you.”

--

Why were you even thinking about it?

The earth-shatteringly handsome God of Love—Eros himself—loved you. He wished to take you away to his sky-dwelling palace, where he would serve you until your mortal days gave out. He wished to dedicate himself to you. How many women could claim to be on the receiving end of such implacable devotion? How many women turned away from it, especially when the love was reciprocated?

Thus you asked yourself the question again— why were you even thinking about it?

The conflict that raged within you was that of head and heart. On the side of romance and such emotion as brought you to tears, your heart cried out. ‘Go with him,’ it pleaded. ‘See all that he’s promised you. Take a chance on the extraordinary. Be the main character, just this once. You can never go back to life without him now— how it hurts to even imagine it. Only immovable darkness is left in place of such radiant light, and his light is what you must stay in forever. You love him, foolish girl. Go with him!’

On the side of reason and familiar doubt that was in some ways easier to hear, your head told other truths. ‘Run from him,” it commanded. ‘It is madness to believe any of this. What you saw that night was a hallucination; you were overtired. Overworked. He lies to you. Recall what he did to you. He plays on your vulnerability and would have you tripping over yourself for some impossible fairytale that cannot be real. It cannot be real. Screw your head back on, foolish girl. Run from him!’

With a night spent alone you hoped to come upon some form of clarity, but instead spent the long and empty hours tossing and turning, floating between despair and joy. You were at a crossroads, and the next decision you made would forever change the course of your life.

Go, or stay.

Live, or suffer.

Love, or mourn.

--

By the guiding, formless hand of the West wind, Zephyrus, Minho always found his way to his sky palace.

It would be a fruitless task to try to explain, in mortal terms, just where the palace was located. Not even Minho could, had he tried. That was why he needed gentle Zephyrus. Rather, it existed on a plane between those of heaven and Earth, in a pellucid sky of cloudless wonder that cycled through dreamy days and starry, moon-filled nights. The palace seemed always as though to be drifting along, warmed by streams of hot, shimmering air that kept it afloat. Its jewel-encrusted and gold-plated high walls caught the brilliant peaches and pinks of sweet Eos, Goddess of the Dawn. A reflective moat of the clearest still water kept the palace enclosed, magnificent fish and regal sea creatures having made their homes there. Great birds with feathers of virgin white and onyx black soared the length of the battlements and swooped through the palace arches, attracted by the glittering structure. It mattered not how many times Minho visited. It always took his breath away.

He looked at the girl bundled in his arms, her eyes still tightly closed, her head still buried in his chest. His white wings enclosed her safely, kept her from Zephyrus’s inherent chill.

“Won’t you look, darling?” he asked softly.

“No.”

He stifled a chuckle; how endearing she was.

“This would be one of those wonderful things I told you about.”

She cracked open one eye, just barely.

“You’re perfectly safe,” he assured her.

With a swallow and a timid nod, she turned her head out to the view, and Minho saw immediately how her eyes welled up with tears as they caught the rising light. He dared to imagine Eos might be making a special show of things, just for them, for the sky was ablaze with a rich and vibrant beauty the likes of which he’d never seen. Oranges and deep pinks melted into variegated crimson, the horizon seeming as though to glow. The palace was iridescent with life, it walls and towers reflecting and refracting the dawn in such a resplendent spectacle of colour, Minho was sure she would never forget this moment.

She maintained silent awe until Zephyrus had safely escorted them to the palace steps: the West wind twirled and whirled around them, hugging her warmly before departing, much to her delight. She kept close to Minho as the joy wore off, her fear of the near edge demanding it, yet it was her resolve that warned her from holding his hand, from taking comfort.

Such were her terms.

Such was Minho’s pain.

--

Take a chance on the extraordinary, your heart had said.

So it was that ‘extraordinary’ fell catastrophically short of describing what it was you now looked at: an opulent crystal palace at home in the sky, a testament to all things fantastical and impossible. The majesty of it was almost enough to take away from the inherent unease of being so high up; if this was even high, for it hadn’t escaped your notice during the journey that you hadn’t so much travelled up as through. Through what, you were surely unqualified to say, but what was certain was that this place was so removed from what you knew to be true of physics and gravity—indeed any temporal rule—it was pointless to think on it too much.

Minho had indeed promised to show you incredible things, oblivious that he himself was one of them. His feathery wings closed on his back, his raven hair fluttered in the warm breeze. He led you up the crystal steps to a vast arched gateway manned by—you rubbed your eyes—floating spears?

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said intuitively. “They will do you no harm. They’re here to protect us.”

As you passed by them, adequately mystified, the spears hopped and jerked as though in salute, their steel tips polished to a fine, sharp edge. Over the glass drawbridge he took you, a river of water so clear running beneath, you could see every pore of your own reflection in it. Creatures swum in the calm currents, fish and eels and octopi, their scales and skin of such stunning purple and deep green, it amazed you to look at. As you approached the tall and gilded palace doors, they opened before you, a swarm of floating brooms and mops and hat stands and trolleys and all other manner of furniture descending upon you with swift elegance.

On your fright, Minho held a hand up. Everything stopped, and sprung to attention in a neat, formal line.

“Darling.” He turned to you. “These are our attendants.”

You blinked at him; your head was beginning to hurt.

“They are invisible to our eyes,” he added softly. “It was my wish that we be left to our own devices. Entirely undisturbed. Just the two of us.”

“So there are... people? Holding those?”

Minho nodded. “Of a fashion, yes.”

You looked around him to the patient line, where mops fluttered and trolley wheels spun in anticipation. You weren’t sure you wanted to know what ‘of a fashion’ even meant.

“I would have had us here alone, but the palace takes some looking after,” he said. “Not to mention your own needs to be attended to.”

“I can look after myself. I don’t need—”

“Please.” He moved as though to take your hand, but stopped himself short. The strength with which such a small thing smarted seemed ludicrous, yet you held no grounds for complaint. He was only doing as instructed.

“I would like to make sure the very best care is on hand for you. Allow me that,” he said quietly.

At your small nod, he turned away, wings unfurling gently as he entered his palace. The peach light that so radiantly streaked the sky haloed him and made him a breathtaking vision. Was a God truly so different from an angel?

The palace interior was as extravagant as the exterior, its vast halls encrusted with sapphires and aquamarine, pearls and diamonds, emeralds and topaz all trimmed with gold. Wall sconces of blue flame bathed all in a glorious light, the high ceilings finished with intricate murals so lovingly painted, it made your heart ache to simply look upon the heavenly scenes they depicted with Eros at their centre.

Escorted dutifully by the same two floating spears that had seen you inside, Minho guided you through the winding halls. He held them at the door he had led you to with no more than a look.

“These are your private chambers,” he said once inside. They were homelier than what you’d thus far seen, finished with soft furnishings, blankets and comforts and a more natural tone of light offered by long windows and an open fire. It was the fire that you were in the midst of admiring, when a dainty teacup flew up and in front of your face, bringing you to a shriek.

“Your attendants will keep you here,” Minho laughed. “Forgive them. They’re excited.”

The teacup rattled on its saucer, as though in agreement.

“It has been some time since anyone’s resided here,” he added.

Residing here. You were to live here. In this place between places, with a thousands-year old God. It seemed that only now this fact began to dawn on you, for a chill realisation swept over and extinguished the bewilderment that hitherto kept you together.

Minho watched you carefully, distance maintained as he stood at the door. You looked through the grand window, out over the endless sea of multicoloured sky.

“You promised me an answer,” he eventually said.

Your heart sank.

“I know.”

“Will you give it?”

You chewed your inner cheek, tracing the lines of wispy cloud that floated by.

“I have shown you the palace,” Minho said. “I have respected your boundaries of affection, despite how it pains me to act as though we are no more than friends. I have revealed my true form to you. I have done everything you’ve asked.”

“I know.”

“And so? Is your mind decided?”

Exasperated, you turned to him. The God of Love with so sorrowful a look of distress on his handsome face, it made you want to weep.

“My mind has been decided all along,” you said simply. “How could I ever say no to you?”

His silvery eyes lit up. “You mean...?”

“Yes,” you laughed. “I’ll stay.”

Without a second thought, the God of Love on his great, white wings surged across the space and caught you in his strong arms. He braced you against the pristine glass in an embrace of ignited passion, the gasp you emitted was devoured by his hungry mouth.

“How you infuriate me,” he mumbled between kisses, the slick of his tongue wetting your lips. “You have no idea the depth of the madness you would drive me to.”

“I needed time,” you breathed. “To get my head straight, to process it all.”

“I know, darling. I would have given you all the time that time itself possessed if I could.”

You kissed him gently. “Liar.”

He grinned, and with a low chuckle enclosed you in his magnificent wings, the feathers reaching around and curling under you to lift you from the ground. Poised on them as the most comfortable of elegant chairs, the God so close in your space and stood between your open thighs, it became soon apparent the type of mood that descended on him. An inferno of want tainted the silver of his eyes, his deep, gold complexion shimmering with the lust that made Eros so feral as to tear your shirt open and relieve you of your jeans, all that he might touch your skin— finally. Secured in the space of his heat, helpless but to succumb, the dainty cloth that hovered about his hips was torn away to reveal the intimidating girth of what he offered, sprung proud and hard. Lightheaded and too aroused to think much of consequence—you weren’t strictly here alone, after all—you clung to the slope of his shoulders as he aligned himself and with a sharp intake of breath, steadily sunk inside you. Groaning through the sensation of fullness, your delight was caught by his mouth on yours.

“You were made for me, my love,” he whispered. “It is you and I, until the end of time.”

“Minho—”

“Hush, dearest girl. Let me pleasure you the way your tender heart so deserves. Let me serve you as I crave to. Nothing makes me feel so alive as when you allow me inside you like this, sweet thing. Feel me, darling. Feel all of me.”

Sealed with a kiss, the God of Love thrust himself upon you, the slick drive made so much easier by your own steeped arousal. Yet it was not simply lust that brought you to gasps and the stinging tell of tears— to accept such pure and unconditional love, to accept that it was offered so readily, to accept that a creature so objectively perfect as him could be possessed of affection for you— sky palaces and jewels and divine landscapes could not compare to that impossibility.

So it is, the start of your new life.

So it was, in years to come, that the Goddess Aphrodite forgave her errant son and welcomed the mortal girl, gifting to her immortality on her wedding day.

So it ever shall be, that the tamed Eros and his beloved spend their sun-warmed, endless days reigning over love’s intricacies, granting to mortals the divine bliss they themselves found in one another.

One precious heart at a time.

thus marks my last offering for the skz tropes collab! i really hope you enjoyed. this was by far my favourite of the bunch. if you could be kind enough to comment or even buy me a coffee as thanks for the 20k read, i would be super grateful. mica x

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 >

𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙖 𝙣𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙? 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚 ♡ >

𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙘𝙠 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙠𝙯 𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 ♡ >

[writeingdocs]

𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐁𝐨𝐱

☆ Genre: Domestic, angst, fluff

☆ Warnings: Really vague arguing

☆ Request: Idea from one of you guys ~

☆ Characters: Chan, Y/N, Noah, Sky

☆ Word Count: 1.8k

Y/N stared at Chan in mild annoyance. Usually completely understanding of the man's difficulty in expressing his innermost feelings, Y/N wasn't one to berate him for his shortcomings. She had always been the sort of person to softly encourage him, her gentle eyes making sure he felt comfortable enough to be vulnerable with her.

And Chan usually was comfortable enough to share things with her. But recently he had started to keep things to himself again with the thought that he was suddenly becoming too much trouble for his wife. But the thought had only resulted in backfiring on him, and his wife too.

“What do you think I am? A mind reader? You can't expect me to know exactly what you're thinking at all seconds of every day,” Y/N was exasperated as she hissed her at her husband.

Chan scowled. “Well, no. But I mean … why do I have to say it out loud? I gave you enough hints.”

“Because that's how communication works!” Y/N exclaimed. “You tell me how you're feeling, and I do something about it to make you feel better! Don't hint things at me. But oh no, Christopher Bang doesn't talk. He still bottles up his entire life inside of him like some sort of fucking memory box … “

From the kitchen, Noah snorted with quiet laughter. Sky giggled beside him, her eyes wide as she watched her parents argue with each other in the hallway.

“A memory box,” Noah chuckled. “That's funny.”

“Mama is right though,” the ten year old whispered to her brother. “Daddy always hides his feelings.”

“I think he just doesn't want to cause anyone any trouble,” Noah mused. “Like … he cares too much.”

Sky wrinkled her nose. “You're the same, you know.”

Noah stuck his tongue out at her just as Chan's voice alerted them both.

“I don't know why you're so mad,” Chan's nostrils flared. “It's not like it affects you.”

“Not like it affects me? Christopher … of course it affects me. You're my husband, I should know these things … “

Chan was growing agitated. “I just don't see the point in burdening you.”

“For goodness sake … how many times do I have to tell you that you're not burdening me?”

Noah and Sky shared quiet glances with one another.

“They're weird,” Sky commented in a hushed tone. “Their fights are weird. They don't even yell.”

“I think they yelled once,” Noah grinned. “Remember when dad stayed up all night working for like a week straight?”

“That was yelling?” Sky's eyebrows shot up into her hairline. “They don't know how to yell. Well. Unless there's a weird bug in the house.”

Noah started to laugh as he peeled the skin off of a tangerine. He half the fruit and placed one half into his sister's hand before carefully detaching the strings of his own segments. “It's because they love each other,” Noah said softly. “They fight, but you can tell how much they're still head over heels for each other.”

Sky faked an expression of disgust. She went a touch further and pretended to gag before shoving the entire half of the orange into her mouth, and Noah started to laugh at the antics he had gotten used to.

“That's disgusting,” Sky commented through a full mouth. And then, “I want what they have one day.”

Noah's face darkened. His mind suddenly brought up an image of someone he didn't want to think about, and he visibly blanched. “Yeah. Me too.”

Y/N and Chan fell quiet all of a sudden. Curious, Sky craned her neck around to catch a glimpse of them.

“You're not going to get out of this by trying to kiss me,” Y/N said after the pause, and Noah and Sky burst into a fit of hushed giggles. It sounded as though Chan was protesting feebly, the small argument only making both children laugh even more.

“No,” Y/N snapped. “I'm mad at you. I'm going to go make dinner.”

“Fine!” Chan huffed. “Stay mad. As if I care.”

Noah's lips twitched. “He definitely does care.”

Sky watched as her mother appeared in the kitchen. Her eyebrows were creased but upon seeing her wide eyed children, she couldn't help but burst into laughter.

“Spying on us, were you?” Y/N asked as she kissed Sky's cheek and ruffled her fingers through Noah's hair.

“You and daddy need to kiss and make up,” Sky said.

Y/N giggled. Her nose turned pink and she was sure she could hear her husband laughing in the hallway.

“Your daddy tried,” Y/N hummed as she pulled a saucepan out of a cupboard. “But I didn't let him. Because I'm stubborn.”

“Like me,” Sky giggled. “You and daddy don't fight properly.”

Raising an eyebrow, Y/N began to wash her hands. “What do you mean?”

“She means you're too … calm,” Noah explained. “You don't yell. Like other parents.”

From the hallway, Chan couldn't help but smile as he listened to his children. He felt a pang of satisfaction bloom inside of him at that moment as he realised he had potentially reached some of his personal goals a long time ago. Chan had always wanted to be the type of man who had complete control of his emotions; he knew too many men who resorted to loud outbursts of anger and violence when things didn't go their way. And perhaps it was something he wasn't as good at controlling in his earlier years - but hearing his children's words, Chan was unable to keep the growing smile off of his face.

“Yelling doesn't solve anything,” Y/N was saying when Chan zoned back into the conversation she was having with Noah and Sky. “It creates a level of angst in the house which I really don't like.”

“What's angst?” Sky asked.

“Kind of like … anxiety?” Y/N explained. “An uncomfortable feeling. Makes everything feel heavy and like you can't breathe.”

Noah bit his lip. “Is that what your house was like when you were a kid, mum?”

Y/N paused for a moment. Her knife had begun to waver over her onion and she blinked hard, convincing herself the sudden prickle at the back of her eyes was purely due to the onion's fumes.

“Yes,” Y/N replied simply. She laughed then, trying to keep a light tone despite the memories that had been dragged out of her brain. “But … I guess I'm grateful for it. Without those bad experiences I wouldn't be here, you know?”

Noah continued to pick the strings off of his orange. “Sorry for bringing it up, mum.”

“Don't apologise,” Y/N tutted. “You know you can ask me anything.”

Not paying attention to Noah and Y/N's small conversation, Sky sat up on her stool again and tried to peer around the far wall. “Where did daddy go?”

Y/N smiled as she turned around again and slid her diced onions into her pan. “Probably sulking in the corner.”

“I am not,” Chan called adamantly through a bark of taken aback laughter. He then cleared his throat. “I'm not here.”

Sky started to giggle. She jumped off of her stool and ran out of the kitchen and into the hallway before jumping on top of her father. It wasn't long before she dragged him into the kitchen where she promptly sat Chan down at the breakfast bar, his lips twitching as he stared at his wife's back.

“What are you cooking?” Chan asked nonchalantly.

Y/N cleared her throat. “Dinner.”

Chan grinned widely. He winked at his children before slipping off of his stool and creeping up behind his wife. His smile growing, Chan slid his arms around his wife's waist and hugged her softly.

“Baby … “ Chan hummed as Y/N immediately retaliated by trying to shake him off. She hid the smile on her face however, instead looking the other way as Noah and Sky giggled in the background. “I'm sorry for being a memory box.”

At that, Y/N let slip a tiny snort of laughter. She masked it by coughing loudly and instead reached for a wooden spoon, brandishing it infront of her husband's.

“Don't tempt me, Bang,” Y/N said. “I will use this. Go sit down.”

“Oops,” Chan mischievously slipped a kiss onto his wife's cheek before returning to his children who were watching him in amusement.

“Mama isn't actually mad at you,” Sky told her father helpfully.

Y/N turned around. She frowned at Sky who plastered an innocent expression onto her face.

“Is that so?” Chan hummed loudly. “I think she looks pretty mad. What do you think, Noey? Is your mama mad at me?”

Noah smiled. “I think she loves you.”

Y/N grinned as she stirred her bubbling pot.

“Stop discussing my emotions,” Y/N said pointedly. It caused her family to laugh and she shook her head as she continued to potter around the kitchen.

It wasn't long before she sat down beside her husband, opposite their children. Their food steamed and wafted the savoury scent around them in heavy clouds, and Chan's stomach rumbled loudly as he picked up his chopsticks.

Without saying anything, Chan reached for the largest chunk of meat in his bowl. He sandwiched it in-between his utensils before leaning over and delicately placing it onto the top of Y/N's food.

He smiled happily at his wife before picking up his first mouthful.

Y/N's lips twitched as she stared at the meat he had given her. She had purposefully given him the biggest piece in the pan, and now her eyes watered as she realised they were both passing it around to each other - a gentle way of conveying just how much they loved each other.

“Promise me you'll stop keeping everything to yourself,” Y/N pointed her chopsticks at her husband. “And I'll forgive you.”

Chan grinned widely. “I feel like you forgave me a long time ago, though.”

Y/N glared at him. The man started to laugh and he gently leaned into her, his eyes crinkling as he nuzzled his nose against her cheek.

“Okay, okay,” Chan hummed. “I promise. I'm sorry. I just hate making you worry … I want you to be happy all the time.”

Sky pulled a face of distaste. “You know, I'm really happy that you both love each other. But daddy, if you continue being sappy I'm going to throw up all over my food, and yours.”

At that, both Chan and Y/N burst into laughter.

“Sorry baby,” Chan picked his chopsticks up again and dug into his food. “I'll save it for later.”

“Good,” Sky grumbled. “Save it for when I'm far, far away from here.”

A large smirk on his face, Chan leaned over and playfully squished Sky's face with a single hand.

Liked this fic? Support me by leaving me a tip! :] and also reblog, it motivates me to write more ~

Tag list ~ @koos-euphoria @raethethey @hotmesshapa @manonblackbeak-trash @hendsernoodle @stanskzseungmin @ateez-babygirl @dalamjisung @dinosdawn @cookiemonstermusic258 @strwbrryfroyo @gazelle-des-pres @qtieskz @stigmvta @necromancersupreme @super-btstrash-posts @changlix-mp4 @exonations @changboobies @jeyelleohe @rae-blogging @planetdemon @dani41 @jumbocircus @octalalica @velvetand-roses @foivetimesacharm @waverzzzzzzzz @peachy-flxwr @elizabeth11moreno @lenfilms @xhazmania @starshine-moon @snow-pegasus @bbychannie97 @laylasbunbunny @americanokisses @bluechans @bellamuerte1987 @meowmeowisdaname @chanssmiles @minunivers @septicrebel @bangchans-angel @spacegirlstuff (let me know if you wanna be added or removed)

[writeingdocs]

Hi there! I saw you did a “Secretly dating Chan” fake text fic…. Would you mind doing one for Lee Know as well? I love your work and it would mean a lot if you could do it

Secretly dating Minho

A/n: I am not really happy w this but i have been stuck on it for a month and multiple people have asked for Minho, so I'm doing my best

Warning: mentions of sex, plenty of cursing

Masterlist

[writeingdocs]

📱skz texts — they tell another member about finding you asleep with their skzoo

| including. bang chan, lee know, changbin, hyunjin

type. requested

warning. none

a/n. i loved this concept 🥹 and writing from the members pov was so fun too!! i made sure to write the members name above the texts to avoid any confusion hehe hope you enjoy sweets xx

maknae line

bang chan

lee know

changbin

hyunjin

#helpp i can’t stop laughing at hyunsung’s convo 🤣😭

[writeingdocs]

Stay (A/F) :: k.m

Synopsis: Sometimes distance doesn't make the heart grow fonder.

Pairing: Kim Mingyu x GN!Reader

Word Count: 3.6k

Genre: Angst and fluff.

Warnings: Allusions to online bullying but nothing is explicitly said. Arguing, crying, cursing.

You could feel tears welling up in your eyes the longer you stared down at your phone. The endless stream of hateful words - tweets, Instagram comments - every social media profile people could find of yours had been flooded the few days, technically since people figured out that you and Mingyu were actually dating, and you weren’t just some random staff member that seemed to always be around him for work reasons.

You hadn’t said anything to any of the guys about the comments and messages you’d been getting, and you certainly hadn’t said anything to Mingyu about them because you already knew how he was going to react once you did, but it was obvious to the guys that something was going on with you, and it wasn’t anything good.

The first one to truly notice it was Mingyu, but when he asked you if everything was okay, you told him that you’d been a lot busier at the company with different things- it wasn’t a total lie, you had just been promoted so it wasn’t much of a stretch for him to believe it. Then when the news of your relationship started appearing in the headlines of certain sites, both of you were stressed out and worried about a thousand things at once.

The next person to figure out something was wrong with you was Wonwoo. Since Mingyu and him lived together and you were over at the dorm all the time, with and without Mingyu, it wasn’t hard for Wonwoo to notice something was different with you. Sometimes when you weren’t really focused on anything, he would notice a far off look on your face or how sometimes you just acted a little more distant than you meant to before quickly covering it up with a joke or a flippant comment about something else.

Then slowly, one by one, the rest of the guys started noticing the way you were distancing yourself from all of them. They would constantly invite you out with them like they always had but they started noticing that you were declining more and more, saying you were too tired that night, or how you just wanted a quiet night in after such a busy day.

It got to the point that Seungcheol had suggested not inviting you for a bit, so you stopped feeling bad about telling them no every time, something he knew you did because he heard you say as much to one of the stylists that you were friends with one day after they had invited you to lunch with them that morning.

He didn’t mean to eavesdrop on the conversation, but he had been looking for you to talk about something that was part of their group schedule for the day, and as he turned a corner he saw you and once of their stylists standing a little ways away talking and he could tell that you were trying not to cry as you told her how awful you felt about how often you told them no to their invitations anymore.

“I barely see them outside of this stupid building anymore,” You sighed, wiping your eyes quickly. “I haven’t even slept at the dorm in almost a month because it’s easier to just go back to my apartment alone than to be there with Gyu. And I feel like screaming every single time I tell any of them no for something.”

The stylist frowned softly, as Seungcheol watched her rub your arm, “Then why do you keep saying no?”

He watched you give her a gut wrenchingly sad look, even from where he stood down the hall from you, he could see your eyes turning red as a tear rolled down your cheek. “You know why, Soo.”

Seungcheol hated seeing the look on your face, hearing the sadness in your voice, so he backed up a little bit around the corner and started walking around it like he hadn’t been listening, and headed straight for you with a giant smile on his face.

He pretended like he didn’t notice you wiping your face the second you saw him coming towards you, and his heart broke slightly when he saw the smile you plastered on your face as soon as his eyes met yours.

“Cheol! Hi,” You grinned up at him, as he stopped in front of you.

He offered you a quick nod, then one for the stylists, too, “Hi, Y/n, Sooyung-Noona, do you mind if I borrow them for a moment?” He asked her, “I just have a question about our schedule for today.”

The stylist smiled at him and nodded, giving you a soft look, too. “Of course, Y/n, if you have anything else you need, come see me later, okay?”

You nodded at her words, mouthing a quick thank you to her before she smiled at the both of you and turned away, heading back into the room you had pulled her from earlier.

Seungcheol waited until the door had closed behind her, before he easily pulled you into a tight hug, obviously catching you off guard by the surprised noise that sounded from you.

“What was that for?” You asked him softly, once he’d stepped back again.

“Your eyes are red; you’d obviously been crying about something.” He mumbled softly, lying softly as he looked down at you, “Figured you could use a hug and since Gyu isn’t here, I’m good in a pinch.” He smiled sweetly down at you.

You huffed softly, silently hating that he had noticed you crying, but also thankful that he hadn’t pressed about why. “I just feel bad that I keep saying no, every time you guys ask me to hang out with you all.”

He shrugged, still smiling at you, “Don’t worry about it. You’re incredibly busy, sometimes even more than we are. I feel bad that you have to keep saying no. When your schedule opens up a little more, tell me, or Gyu and then we’ll figure out something for all of us to do together, that sound okay?”

He let out a quiet sigh of relief at his understanding and nodded, “That sounds great. Maybe I’ll treat you guys to something this time, yeah?”

He let out a laugh and shook his head, “Not a chance, but nice try.”

You laughed softly at his words, and rolled your eyes, knowing none of them would ever let you pay for anything around them before you asked him what he had a question about.

That had been almost 2 months ago, and you still had yet to tell him or Mingyu that your schedule was never so busy that you couldn’t put something aside for even a little while to hang out with them once and a while. You didn’t think you were going to for a while, either. Mostly because you wanted to wait until all the comments and messages either died down, or they stopped bothering you as much, and since neither had happened yet, you didn’t want to go out to eat somewhere with the guys and have someone get more pictures of you with them. The last time that happened, the flood of messages you got still gave you nightmares.

You closed out every app on your phone and locked it, staring at your distorted reflection on the black screen and reached your hands up to your eyes to wipe them, then your phone started to ring.

My Heart❤️

Mingyu.

And it was a video call. You were happy the lights in your room were dimmed so he wouldn’t be able to see you that well as you answer the call, throwing up the same fake smile that you’d given Seungcheol all those weeks ago.

“Hi, baby!”

His beaming smile filled your chest with equal parts warmth and cold- warmth from love and the cold from the decision you’d made not even an hour ago.

“Love of my life,” He grinned at you through the phone. “Would you be so kind as to let me in, sweetheart?” He asked, “I’ll be at your door in a minute and my hands are pretty full.”

You froze, staring at him through the screen, “What?”

He gave you a quick confused look before his eyes focused back on where he was walking, “I know it’s kind of late, and very last minute, but I wanted to come see you. I feel like I haven’t gotten any time with you in weeks. Like proper time, and I thought tonight would be a good time since I know you’re off tomorrow and I’m also technically off tomorrow because I have an open schedule.” The words continued to pour out of his mouth, and quickly. “I’ve just really been missing you and you used to love when I’d come over unannounced when we first started seeing each other, I thought it’d be a nice surprise, ya know?”

You could tell he was almost at your door, so you couldn’t stall him or tell him it wasn’t a good time at the moment, so you quickly pushed yourself out of your bed and rushed towards your front door, while you hung up the call without saying anything, your eyes seeing the multiple notifications about more messages you’d gotten just since answering the phone call.

A thousand thoughts shot themselves through your mind in a panic, Was he followed? Do people know where I live now? Is someone going to try breaking into my apartment now when I’m not home- or worse, when I am?

You quickly unlocked the security lock and pulled your door open, just as he was stepping up to it.

He was frowning when you met his eyes.

“Why did you hang up?”

You didn’t reply, just grabbed two of the bags from his arms and turned to walk them into the kitchen while he pulled his shoes off before following behind you.

You heard your phone go off again – more messages.

“Baby?” He called softly, walking into the kitchen behind you.

You simply hummed, starting to pull things from the bags before he grabbed your hands and tried to get you to look up at him.

Another message.

“What’s going on,” He asked. “You always stay on the phone with me until you open the door.” You could hear the confusion in his voice as you continued to evade his stare, until he gently grabbed your chin and made you look at him.

The worry in his eyes broke your heart, and you could feel yourself trying to pull your hands from his before a sob clawed its way from your throat as your phone went off again, and again, and again.

The worry in his eyes flooded the rest of his body as he tried to calm you down, attempting to wrap his arms around you as you cried, yelling at him to let you go while trying with everything you had to push him away from you.

“Hey, hey, hey, what is going on? Y/n, please, calm down and talk to me, baby? What happened?”

You continued to struggle against him for a moment before you all but finally collapsed against his chest, tears streaming down your face.

He held you as close to his chest as he physically could, softly shushing you as he moved his fingers through your hair, as he mumbled gentle words, telling you it was okay, and that you were okay.

After a couple moments, when you’d finally calmed down enough that you were just softly hiccupping into his chest, he let out a soft sigh and tilted your head up, so you were looking at him. He gently cupped both of your cheeks and wiped his thumbs across them, trying his best to get rid of all traces of the tears that had tracked your face.

Then he offered you one of the softest smiles and easily leaned down and pressed his lips to your forehead. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Before you could even open your mouth, your phone sounded off from the counter again. You squeezed your eyes shut as you pushed away from him again, putting at least 2 feet between you. “I-I think you should go, Mingyu.” You whispered.

“What, why?” He asked, his voice no higher than yours.

You could feel the bile rising in your throat as you lied to him, “I don’t- I don’t want you here.”

His eyebrows couldn’t get any closer as he stared at you with an incredulous look. “Why not,” He asked. “Did I do something?”

You quickly shook your head, “No, of course not.” You told him easily.

He tried to take a step towards you, but you took another step back, and watched his face fall as soon as you did. “Then why?”

You could see his eyes beginning to slowly fill with tears as you both stared at each other. “Because I don’t.”

He shook his head, making the tears fall as he did, “That’s not an answer, Y/n. If I didn’t do anything wrong, tell me why you don’t want me here.”

You just kept shaking your head, “I just don’t Mingyu, I don’t-“

Another message.

He groaned, glaring at your phone on the counter. “Why is your phone blowing up so fucking much,” He yelled, reaching for it.

“No!” You panicked, yelling at him not to touch it as you quickly moved to take it from him before he could unlock it.

You stopped moving- almost frozen, watching as his eyes quickly filled with more tears as he scrolled through the hundreds of messages you’d gotten just tonight. The soft light of your phone screen lit up the tears in his eyes in a way that would be poetic, were it not so heartbreaking knowing the horrible things he was reading about you.

“Mingyu, please,” You cried, but unable to say anything else.

Finally he looked up at you, and you could feel your heart breaking into a thousand different pieces.

“Why didn’t you say anything,” He whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me this was happening?”

Your eyes trailed along his face as you tried to put into words what had been going through your mind this whole time. “How could I? What was I supposed to say to you?”

He dropped your phone back onto the counter and wrapped his arms around you, his voice cracking as he whispered that he was sorry.

You shook your head, trying to look up at him, “You have nothing to apologize for, Gyu. You couldn’t have known- I didn’t want you to know.” You cried, cupping his face. “I thought I could distance myself from you until it stopped, I thought that the space would help it not hurt so much but I was wrong. I was so wrong. I’m so sorry, baby.”

You buried your face into his chest as you both cried; Mingyu because he had no idea that this was the reason you’d been so distant lately, and you because you felt so terrible about having put him through it.

“Don’t give me space. That’s the last thing I ever want from you.” He whispered to you, doing everything he could to pull you even closer to him. “How did I not know you were dealing with this?”

You sniffled, “I blocked everything about our relationship on your phone so you couldn’t see it.” You admitted. “Every key word that I could think of that would let you see any of this stuff. Because I knew how you would react to it, and I didn’t want to put you in that position.”

He cradled your face in his hands, his cheeks streaked with tears, “That should’ve been my decision, sweetheart. Whatever position it would’ve put me in, should’ve been my choice. I’m your boyfriend, I’m supposed to protect you from things like this.”

For a long moment, you both stood in your kitchen, his arms wrapped tightly around your body as you both slowly started to calm down. The silence between you was broken every few seconds when your phone would ding once more from the counter and after about the fifth or sixth notification, Mingyu let out a deep, heavy sigh before grabbing your phone again.

“What are you doing?”

He quickly glanced at you as he scrolled and tapped away on your phone, not offering you an answer.

“Gyu, what are you doing?” You asked again, a soft lilt in your voice as the panic slowly started rising in your body at the pure angry look that had settled on his face.

“I’m doing what I should’ve done in the beginning.” He told you, pulling his phone off the counter as the text tone he’d set for you went off a number of times before he’d gotten it unlocked and pulled your tread up.

You looked down and saw that he had sent himself a bunch of screenshots of messages that people had sent to you before he handed your phone back to you. “I blocked everything on your phone, like you did to mine. And now, when someone comments on your stuff for everything, I’ll get a notification, too. And if it’s negative in any way, I’ll send it to the company.”

“What are they going to do about what people are saying about me,” You asked. “I’m not an Idol, what gets said about me doesn’t matter.”

A look flashed in his eyes, “It matters to me. And I’m going to make it matter to the company. I will not let anyone say shit about you and get away with it, and if I have to start suing people, or make the company sue people, I’ll fucking do it.”

A feeling filled your body, and your eyes began to fill with tears. Mingyu’s eyes softened before he gently cupped your cheek, “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

You barely shook your head, sniffling softly as you quickly wiped your face, “Other than the fact that I feel like an idiot for having thought it would be better to not tell you about this in the first place, nothing.”

He let out a soft chuckle just as you collided with him in a tight hug, “You’re not an idiot, my love.”

You laughed softly, “No, for this, I was though.” You looked back up at him, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I just- I thought that I could handle it on my own, and that eventually it would stop, and things would be okay again. But then it didn’t stop, it just seemed to get worse the longer it went on.”

You sighed and shook your head, “And I don’t want you to think that I don’t trust you or anything, because I do, with everything I have in me. I didn’t want to burden you with this, because you’ve been so stressed out about all the performances and filming you guys have been doing lately, I was trying to not add more stress to your shoulders.”

“There is nothing you could do that would add stress to my life,” He smiled, his eyes flitted across your face for a moment before he let out a soft sigh, cupping your cheek again and gently rubbing his thumb along your skin. “I love you,” He said easily, like he’d said it a million times, but it wasn’t- it was the first time either of you had said it to the other.

Your eyes widened, and before you could even open your mouth, he continued.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you for a couple weeks, but you kept skipping out on spending time with me. And telling you over the phone or in a text wouldn’t do. Not for the first time.”

You chuckled, feeling your cheeks hurting from how much smiling you were doing.

“I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t say anything to me and were dealing with this on your own, when you never should’ve had to deal with it to begin with,” A solemn look flashed through his eyes as he stared into yours. “I hope that you know there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that you can’t tell me, or talk to me about. Part of being your boyfriend is hearing about everything you’ve got going on, the good, the bad- all of it. I want to know it all, even when it’s painful.”

You nodded, blinking a couple times to try your best to clear the tears from your eyes before they fell. “I’ll try to be better about talking to you about things. But all of that applies to you with me, too, ya know. There is nothing that you can’t tell me, or confide in me about.”

He grinned, “I know.”

You smiled back at him, “Good, by the way, what was that thing you said a minute ago? Something you’d been wanting to tell me for a while?”

He chuckled, then gave you a look, “That first time thing?”

You simply nodded, smiling widely, “I think it was three words.”

“It couldn’t possibly be when I said, I love you, could it?” He teased.

You grinned wider somehow, “Yeah, that!” You giggled before setting your chin on his chest and looking up at him. “Say it again?”

He sighed softly, “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Gyu. So much.” You whispered back, before moving slightly to connect your lips to his in a soft kiss.

One he hummed gently into as he pressed you closer to him, splaying his hands across your back before he slowly pulled away, “So, do you still want me to leave?” He teased gently.

You giggled, shaking your head, “No, I want you to stay. For as long as you want to tonight.”

“Sleepover?” He asked, wiggling his eyebrows with a wide grin that made you laugh.

“Sleepover.” You grinned.

[writeingdocs]

pretty kitty | lee minho

fluff | 707 words | no warnings

If hybrids exist in this world, you are convinced your boyfriend would most definitely be a cat.

Cats love Lee Minho, and he loves them just as much. Your affection for him increases tenfold whenever you see him tenderly caring for any feline within his sight. He’s the kind of person who would carry extra cat treats in his pocket even when he was only going on a walk around the neighbourhood. He prepares Soonie, Doongie and Dori’s food bowls with such immense attention to detail every mealtime, and the cats have made a habit of eagerly waiting for him to come home to the door every evening. And your personal favourite: how gentle he is with his cats, always talking to them in soft voices; that’s how much he loved and adored them.

Naturally, you’ve noticed that your boyfriend seems to have picked up on some of his fur children's habits. His jaw widens first when he yawns, eyes forming into the cutest crescent moons as he does so. He shies away from physical touch, but bumps his head on your shoulder when he craves your attention. His arms reach outwards whenever he stretches after waking up from sleep.

Even now, he slowly blinks to show you that he is actively listening to you, reminiscent of his feline counterparts. His concentration breaks briefly when he notices a cat sleeping on the park bench, stopping to bend over and pet the sleeping calico. You couldn’t help but giggle at how he tilts his head, confused as to why you started laughing mid-sentence.

“Pretty kitty.” You mumble, kneeling next to him. Minho watches as you reach over to scratch the cat’s chin. The cat lets out a subtle purr at your touch, eliciting a smile from you.

His signature vanilla scent enveloped you as his arm slings around your shoulder. Minho pulls you closer to him, causing you to practically fall into him.

“That’s not right,” he starts the exact moment you yelp in surprise. “I’m your pretty kitty.”

“Minnnn” you whine, “you’re gonna scare him.”

“Good.” He hugs you tighter, nuzzling his cheek into yours. “You should only pay attention to me.”

“Jeez, what’s gotten into you?” Laughing, you leaned into his chest. The cat must’ve gotten sick of the PDA happening right in front of him, choosing instead to disappear into the bushes behind. “Min, the cat ran away!” Oh, how difficult it was for him to resist pinching your cheeks.

Instead, he turns to plant a sloppy kiss on you. He throws his head back, whole body vibrating with laughter when you over-exaggerate wiping away his affections. “I miss this. It’s been a while since it’s been just the two of us.”

It’s true; the two of you had been so preoccupied with work lately, to the point that the only time you got to see each other was through brief video calls late at night. Today was the first proper date you had been able to go on in a month, and Minho was determined to keep you all to himself.

Humming in reply, you stood up, pulling your boyfriend up with you. His grip on your hand tightened as he stuffed your intertwined hands into his jacket pocket. As if transported into a romance drama, a gust of wind blows through the very park you stood in. Cherry blossom petals flutter about, with a few of them even getting caught in Minho’s fluffy hair. You reach up on your tippy toes to extend a free hand moving up to brush them away. Minho takes this chance to grab it by the wrist, tilting it to press another kiss on the inside of your palm.

“I’ve missed you too, my pretty kitty.”

His ears tinged as pink as the flower petals floating about. Half his face hidden by your hand, his shining eyes stare back at you with all the affection in the world. One day, he thinks. One day he’ll permanently make you his.

But for now, he notices how the chill of the wind causes you to shiver, prompting him to pull you even deeper into his chest. “There’s a cafe nearby that Jisung recommended. Shall we go?”

“Yeah, i’d like that.”

[writeingdocs]

"also, the kids miss you!" minho says, suddenly louder than before, as though you don't have him on speaker. you're choking on your soup as you rush to take him off of it, waving him off to the coworkers who are giving you confused looks around the cafeteria. "you should come see them soon before they forget your face--"

he's off speaker and you're raising the phone to your ear as you speak up to them, "i don't have kids!" before you're speaking to minho again, "honey, you can't say it like that--"

"you don't have kids?" minho says. "ah. i'm telling them you said that. poor doongie will cry...."

"you were on speaker," you say in a hushed voice. he was, because you chose to sat far enough away from your coworkers that they wouldn't pick up on the conversation... until minho decided to raise his voice. "and now my coworkers think i'm neglectful." you'll explain to them later about the cats, minho's children, that eventually became your kids, too.

"they should, because you are." yet you can hear the way he's chuckling a little, and you know he's softly smiling at how easy you can be to tease. "maybe you'll come see our kids now."

all because you haven't seen him in several days. this past weekend you were off on a friends trip to celebrate one of their birthdays, and work has kept you busy since. the most you've seen of minho is getting to video call with him while he was walking home from work.

you just roll your eyes and smile to yourself. "i'll come there after work," you say. "tell the kids i'll be there."

he chuckles softly to himself: mission accomplished. "i will. travel safely."

[writeingdocs]

after the curtain falls. lmh

lee know x gn!reader — spring was a season welcomed by all. what a pity that the notion of ‘all’ exempted you.

genre/s — angst, fluff, its just hurt-comfort, university au • 2.9k words

warning/s — break-up aftermath, profanity, commitment issues, minho gets called a bad bf (sorry), there's a twist i swear !

note — its quite literally been a year since i last wrote a fic so i would love to know how the quality of my writing is !! feedback is greatly appreciated 🫶

2024 ⓒ starseungs on tumblr. do not steal, repost, or edit.

Spring was never supposed to be this lifeless.

It was a season of new beginnings, where growth is celebrated and life is nurtured back into full bloom. A time of bright colors and freshly scented air floating all throughout the expanse of space, bringing soft smiles of comfort towards anyone who takes it in. Springtime was welcomed by all.

What a pity that the notion of ‘all’ exempted you.

You didn’t know why your spring was so vastly different from the others near you. You’d like to think that your winter started off just as normal as everybody else: watching the crisp fallen leaves on the ground get replaced by a fresh coat of snow, feeling the familiar prick of the icy season’s breeze on your skin as your body tried to suppress a giggling shiver, as well as seeing puffs of steam come out of every warm breath you took, reminding you that despite the cold weather, you still held a warmth inside of you.

Just who would have known that your spring would be the complete opposite, with your heart frosted over despite the rising temperatures? But somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew exactly why. You would never want to catch yourself admitting it, but maybe it was the way your winter ended in a snowstorm of emotions.

It wasn’t every winter that someone had a fight that could completely shatter an intricately built mosaic. It also wasn’t every winter that you would watch your other half walk out of your life without so much of a single falter.

You knew so damn well that it wasn’t every winter that you could get your heart broken.

Perhaps that was why you allowed your heart to get glazed over by ice. After all, it was the only thing keeping it together without requiring you to spend too much effort. Sure, it melted a bit every now and then, but it was easier to freeze liquid than it was to achieve the complete opposite.

It was for the same reason that you found solace in the springtime evenings, where it resembled even half of the winter that was keeping you human. The dimmed atmosphere of the surroundings was able to neutralize all the parading palettes of color, leaving you with a monochrome wonderland that was much more comforting to the eye.

The walk back to your dorm building wasn’t anything special. It really wasn’t supposed to, nor did you expect something to happen. You had just gotten over the hurdles of coursework back in the school’s library when you decided to call it a day, peacefully trek back to your dorm room, and get to sleep the hours away until duty calls. That was how your evening was supposed to go.

Except it didn’t.

When you first saw a figure more or less passed out near the lower steps of your dorm building, you were visibly concerned. Why wouldn’t you be? At this time of the day, it would be dangerous to just leave yourself undefended in public. That, and who in their right mind would be willing to snooze away amidst the midnight breeze?

That was enough for you to start a little jog toward them. Was this person locked out? Were they drunk? Should you help them? All sorts of questions popped into your head as you got closer to the steps the figure took as their bed for the night.

And yet all those same questions vanished into thin air the moment you caught a glimpse of the person’s face.

“—Minho?”

His name came out of your lips so frail, as if any stronger, and the scene before you would shatter into nothingness, telling you once again that it was all in your head. That you had wished to see him again.

It was almost comical just how fast the sight of him brought back the familiar prick in your eyes—the tears fighting the crisp blow of the wind to keep themselves at bay. This wasn’t how your evening was supposed to go.

Granted, the fight between you was a petty one. Well, not more so petty than sudden since it literally blew up out of nowhere. It started off with a question about commitment. Arguably simple one of where you saw each other in a few years. You had gone first after you asked, rambling happily about graduation and living together. Minho chuckled along with your plans, and to you, he even seemed glad to hear them.

Yet, when the topic of marriage was brought up, his smile immediately turned blank.

Of course, you noticed his drastic change of mood right away. What kind of significant other would you be if you didn’t? But when you reached out to ask him what was wrong, he merely brushed it off as being tired.

Except that both you and him had done nothing but lay around the whole day.

Maybe you, too, had a fault in all of this. You prodded him more about the topic, not knowing you were agitating a ticking time bomb running out of time. If you only knew, then it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he eventually exploded, spitting out that he wasn’t too sure about marriage.

In your view, that would have been fine. You were willing to talk it out; perhaps he had other plans for the both of you that would settle just fine in yours. There was no way you’d pressure Minho into doing something he didn’t feel like doing. You had too much love and respect for him to do so.

It was in an unfortunate turn of events that you had to find out the sentiment wasn’t shared in the same way you did, as when he slammed your room’s door shut after expressing that it wouldn’t work out, he took a piece of your heart with him that left you incomplete on the days that followed.

And yet, there he was again. Marching into your life like nothing ever happened.

In a blinding flash of hot white fury, you marched up to Minho’s peaceful figure, blissfully unaware of the chaos headed his way. Your body shook in the repressed burst of energy, trying not to lose yourself in public despite the area devoid of people. After reaching him in less than a minute, you saw no hesitation in leaning down to wake him.

“Minho,” you grasped at his right shoulder, trying to shake him out of slumber. You saw the action as intense in a way that was borderline frantic, not a care for the state of the joint you had grabbed. After all, why would you? Yet, while you’d like to believe you did a great job at expressing your displeasure, a small voice pestering at the back of your mind begged to say otherwise.

It was a mere whisper—directed at the act you just committed, one that shouldn’t even bother you in the slightest. Yet, it did. So painfully so.

That kind of gentleness isn’t reserved for a heart swirling in rage.

The slight squeeze in your heart at the notion only made you grit your teeth further in displeasure. Curse your damned heart for keeping its fondness for the man before you. The same man who was still up in dreamland while you were fighting your own war at the present. You clicked your tongue in building irritation.

“Wake up, or else I’m leaving you out here to freeze.” With one last shove, Minho finally came back to Earth.

You watched as he fluttered his eyes open, ignoring the warmth that seemed to spread over you once you got a glimpse of his big almond eyes. Minho sure took his sweet time to process his surroundings, causing you to purse your lips in uncertainty when his gaze lingered on your figure towering over him a bit too long with an unexplainable emotion.

“Hi,” he mumbled slowly, a small smile ghosting on his rosy lips. “Even in my dreams, you never fail to look so lovely.”

Cold air filled your lungs as you sucked in a breath at his words. You hated the way he easily melted the ice that you had covered your heart in. Without even meaning to, Minho had already managed to tear down the first layer of protection you had set up to keep yourself sane. There were a lot of things you wanted to tell him back, but you held your tongue. This wasn’t the right time.

Nor would that time ever come.

“It’s not a dream,” you opted to inform him of what was left of the goodness in your heart, partly feeling guilty for his disoriented state. “Get up, Minho. It’s cold out here.”

“You’re—what, wait!”

Minho scrambled frantically from his seated position on the dorm building’s steps, clumsily finding his balance to get up. The rush of suddenly standing after a nap came over him like a wave, causing him to stumble with a groan as he let the blood that came up settle. You sighed at Minho’s efforts, turning back around to continue your way towards the entrance.

“You should go back home.”

“I won’t!” He replied in haste, pure desperation seeping over his words. “Not again. Not when I spend every passing hour regretting that I did back then when I clearly shouldn’t have.”

You felt your world still at what Minho had just said. Did you hear it correctly?

“Please, Y/N.”

Minho’s footsteps echoed in your mind, telling you that he was moving closer. But your body had yet to listen to the warning bells you had set off, keeping you still in the same place you had stopped in. You surprised yourself with the small whimper that escaped your lips after feeling warmth radiating right behind you.

“Can—can I hug you?”

And just like that, the dam broke as the first fits of sobs spluttered out of your body in waves, barely getting contained as Minho wrapped you with his arms firmly. You turned to face him just to throw weak punches at his chest. “I hate you so much!”

“I know,” he said, hugging you tighter, as if you would disappear the moment he eased his hold. “I know you do.”

“Do you know how hurt I was? How could you just leave me like that!”

“I don’t know,” Minho answers again, completely giving in to your inner turmoil. He let you dampen his hoodie with your tears without any reference. “I was stupid.”

“So stupid!”

“Very stupid,” he repeats your words without hesitation, finally pulling back slightly to see your tear-stained face, gently wiping the fresh drops that escaped with his thumb.

You cursed the way your body naturally leaned into his touch. You disliked the way his voice soothed your running mind from the horrors it placed upon yourself. You hated the way you felt comforted by his presence, the same way he hurt you with his absence.

And most of all, you despised the way you couldn’t bring yourself to stay mad at him.

“I’m sorry,” Minho said heavily, visibly trying to keep his own tears at bay. “I know that won’t fix all the things that happened, but I still wanted to let you know.”

You exhaled shakily.

“I—I won’t force you to accept my apology,” he continued. “But please—God, Y/N. I don’t think I’d be able to handle you telling me to go home and never fixing us. I wouldn’t survive in this world without you by my side. I promise I’ll do better for you. I’ll reflect on what I need to, just—”

Minho breathed in deeply.

“Give me another chance.”

The two of you breathed in unison for the first time in weeks.

“Cut!”

“Nice,” Jisung’s squeal of joy could be heard throughout the wide space, carefully fumbling with his video camera to watch the scene’s replay. “That was a great take!”

Seungmin groans at the noise level. “Seriously, would it hurt you to keep it down? Some people are already asleep,” he scoffs, really not wanting to deal with a complaint filed against them this late into the night.

The younger of the two only juts his lower lip forward into a childish pout. “But it’s only midnight. We’re in university. Who gets to sleep that early in university?” Seungmin only bites back a retort after sensing genuine confusion in Jisung’s tone.

“Whatever,” he grumbled.

At the sound of their bickering, the late night’s breeze didn’t seem to be as frosty as it was a few minutes ago. You distantly hear Seungmin and Jisung continue to talk, now finding themselves in a heated discussion about the next scene. A light chuckle was heard coming from the man still holding you.

“Well, I’m glad that they’re having fun,” Minho comments, greatly amused at the duo. You felt his gaze drop down towards your head, still resting on his shoulder. “Feeling okay?”

You could only nod at his query, too exhausted from enacting the scene that just finished. He hummed at your non-verbal approach to answering, running a hand through your hair to soothe your dropping emotions.

“What’s going on in that pretty little mind of yours?” You let out a soft giggle at his wording before snuggling yourself closer to his figure. Minho lets you do your thing with a smile.

“Let’s not ever do that.”

“Do what, love?” He asks, requesting that you elaborate. You listened to his heartbeat thump calmly before speaking up.

“Break up,” you said, the thought leaving a bitter taste on your tongue. “I don’t like the feeling. It hurts.”

Minho laughs again, but this time it was aimed at you. “Well, of course it’s going to hurt,” he says with a light tone. “You’re going to be losing me!” You slapped his arm in annoyance.

“You are such an ass, Lee Minho!”

“Ow—hold on!” He chokes out in between chuckles. Minho takes hold of the hand that was assaulting his arm, slipping it into his own and entangling both of your fingers. You couldn’t help the heat that washed over your face at the intimate action. Minho seemed satisfied with your reaction. “If it makes you feel better, it’s going to hurt me too.”

You pull away to raise a brow at his statement. “Why? Since you’ll be single?” Minho pretends to think for a second.

“I mean, I guess?” You shot him an icy glare at his admission, but the tender smile he gave back at you made your angry facade falter in an instant. It looks like on-screen you had the same issues with their own Minho—both being undeniably weak when it came to them.

“Stop giving me that look,” you sigh amidst a smile you were suppressing.

“What look?”

“That look,” you say, almost in a breath as you struggle to chase the words out of your mouth. “The one when you look at me like I’m the only person in this world.”

It was a look you’ve seen too many times. One that he would give you both at the most intimate of moments and the most random of times. You see it when you wake up in the morning to him already awake beside you; you saw it when you squealed in joy after winning a prize from those rigged claw machines in the arcade across town; and you see it especially when he sees you waiting outside his class’ building after an extensive lecture, holding two cups of coffee for both you and him. It was from those times that you realized—it was Minho’s gaze of unfiltered love for you.

Minho pulls you back into his arms, still unable to let go of his endearing grin. Your head finds its way back into the crevice of his neck, finding home in it once again, like second nature.

“That’s because you are the only person in my world.”

“We beg to differ.”

Minho could only roll his eyes at the eerily synchronized voices of Jisung and Seungmin, leaving you to crumble into fits of laughter. He scoffs before replying, “If I lose my beloved darling, then you guys are losing an actor.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be trying to salvage your relationship if you stopped being such a shit boyfriend!” Jisung bites back at Minho’s threat.

“What, so you would rather watch us be all lovey-dovey in front of you? I didn’t take you for that kind of person, Jisung.”

“Seungmin, he’s fighting me again!”

“What am I, your mom?”

The night continued on in blissful laughter and amused smiles, finally fitting for the season of spring. Even with the chilled breeze of the evening air, the warmth exuding from the four of you would remain, defrosting the ice you had layered on your heart for the scene given to you. Deep in your mind, you knew that this was really how your night was supposed to go.

That as much as you loved creating little scenarios for your friends’ films, you’d always prefer the life you had after the curtain falls.

mastertag 🔖— send in an ask if you want to be added ! 🫶

@fairyki @hysgf @euncsace @comet-falls @starlostseungmin @ameliesaysshoo @hyunverse @djeniryuu

sorry for anyone tagged that didn't want to be !! i used my old mastertag from a year ago for this fic. i'll be creating a new one soon, so kindly just tell me if you want to be included still 🤍

[writeingdocs]

cat walk

pairing: lee minho x reader ft. soondoongdori requested?: yes; 100 followers celebration genre/warnings: established relationship, fluff, i am only using my own cat experience, lowercase intended, slightly unedited word count: 935 note: thank you @infinity-tiny for the request. i definitely took some creative liberties with it but i hope you still like it ♡

if anyone had asked minho what he thought he’d arrive home to on a seemingly normal friday evening, he probably would’ve described his typical welcoming committee consisting of you shouting out a “hey min!” from somewhere in the living room or kitchen, and, if he was lucky, his cats poking out from their usual hiding spots to greet him. 

it most certainly wouldn’t have been this, yet here we are. 

minho’s hand hasn’t even released the front door handle before soonie’s pleading eyes bore holes into his soul. the cat’s large body is draped comfortably over your shoulder, but minho can tell that soonie would rather be literally anywhere else than where he currently is.  

the sound of rustling diverts minho’s attention towards the ground next to your feet. doongie’s sprawled out form rubs against a pair of shoes strewn to the side of the entryway as he noisily meows at the sight of his owner’s (father’s) figure barely stepping past the threshold. 

minho flicks his eyes back up as soft clicking noises reverberate around the narrow hallway, watching the final child hesitantly making his way towards your free, outstretched hand holding his favorite treat. 

“what are you doing?”

dori’s cautious steps halt at minho’s voice, making you quietly groan out in frustration.

“hey min, happy to see you, now shhh for a minute please,” you hastily whisper, gaze focused on the brown tabby. the soft clicking resumes and dori finally comes close enough for you to scoop him up in your arms alongside his older brother. 

you whirl around to face your boyfriend, who at long last has properly entered the house and closed the door. a radiant grin illuminates your face at the sight of him. if minho’s being honest, it tugs at his heartstrings a bit. you missed him and you’re so happy to see–

“hold soonie and dori for me, will you? i need to grab this bag real quick,” you rush out, not giving him much of a choice as you’re already transferring the two cats into his arms. 

okay, so maybe not. 

minho watches you jog over to a bag he didn’t see at the end of the hall, laughing at the tiny slip in your footing when you turn around to come back towards him. you plop down next to doongie, giving him a quick pet before fishing in the bag and pulling out a leash and a cat-sized reflective vest.

hold up. 

“you didn’t,” minho blanches, watching you put doongie’s head and paws through the green vest’s openings, hooking the leash to the rings that are now attached to the cat’s back.

“i did. soonie,” you reply, reaching up for your next (unwilling) participant. minho crouches down next to you, reluctantly complying with your demands. 

“you’re going out now?” he questions. poor soonie is not as cooperative as his younger brother, and it takes everything within minho to not save him out of pity for what is to come. 

“yes, they’re more frisky in the evening—dori—so i thought ‘why not?’”

“but it’s dark outside,” minho tries to reason, passing you the final feline. it’s of no use, you are too far gone. 

“that’s what the reflective vests are for. duh,” you counter, rolling your eyes with a fond smile as you let dori leap out of your hold. “there, don’t they look ready for the outdoors?”

the cats are all sprawled in different positions on the floor. soonie still looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, doongie is preoccupied with swatting the bag now, and if dori could make himself any smaller, he would turn into a perfectly shaped ball. 

no, ready isn’t the word minho would use. 

you must see the hesitance still lingering behind his eyes because  this time you sift through the bag to retrieve a human-sized reflective vest and pull it over your sweatshirt. 

“if it makes you feel any better, i’ll be wearing this the entire time with them to be extra safe. please, please, please let me try this,” you beg, looking at him with your best imploring eyes. 

minho has to give it to you, you’ve gotten better at this. you must’ve been practicing after the last time he told you “no” to something he can’t even remember at this point. 

he lets out a sigh at your unwavering gaze, finally giving in to your pleas. “...did you at least get me one?”

“of course i did, who do you think i am?” you scoff lightly, digging through the bag and extending your hand towards him with his very own green reflective vest. 

as minho slips on what, in his opinion, is the ugliest vest he’s ever seen in his life, he can’t help the smile blooming on his face growing wider. although this may be one of the weirdest methods (and he means it) you’ve used to get the family all together, he can see the commitment and energy you put into making sure everyone would be safe. 

you don’t need to know right now that he tried this years before he met you and that the cats will give up entirely about ten steps away from the walkway. he’ll let you discover that on your own. 

and as you call “hurry up, let’s go!” to him halfway out the door with soonie and dori in your arms, doongie trailing slowly by your feet trying to bite the loose leash dangling in front of his face, minho knows he wouldn’t trade this for the world. not when he has the ones he loves most all in one place.

────────────────────────────────────────────

liked this work? want to let me know how i did? please like, comment, and/or reblog; they are greatly appreciated my asks are always open ♡

taglist: @linospuddin @linocz

#this is too cute esp reading this after lee know posted that adorable pic of soonie on ig im 😭

[writeingdocs]

[2:06 AM]

☀️Feelbokkie M.list☀️

genre: fluff drabble

pov: 2nd person

description: just as quite day with you, seungmin, and your kids...until it's suddenly not so quiet.

pairing: dad!Seungmin x gn!reader

warnings: none

word count: 475

©feelbokkie (2023) — all rights reserved. reposting/modification of any kind is not tolerated.

You sit on the porch of your house. It warm air swirls around you, blowing in your hair in the slight breeze. Your son Haneul lays on your chest, resting his head. You're not sure if he's just being really quiet while being comforted by your touch as he watches his older sister and dad or if he fell asleep. You're a little too scared to even check. Your left hand gently strokes his back while your right hand holds a book, both of your legs propped up on the patio couch.

Seungmin and your daughter Hei-Ran stand in the yard. They've been in the sun for the past couple of hours playing with Seungmin's baseball equipment that they found while playing hide and seek. Until now, they've been practicing catching and tossing the ball. You have to admit, your daughter is showing a lot of talent for her age. Seungmin was practically bouncing with joy after her first pitch and when she caught the ball when he threw it at her. Like a puppy happy to see its owner after a long day.

Now you set your book down when Seungmin walked, practically skipped, past you earlier with a bat. You watch carefully as Seungmin coaches Hei-Ran on where to place her hands. The bat is a little too big for her, but she does her best to follow his instructions. Seungmin kneels behind her, placing his hands over hers, and mimics a swing with her, letting her get a feel for the motion.

After a few more faux swings Seungmin stands up and lets Hei-Ran do a few on her own. When he's satisfied, he grabs the baseball and his glove and stands in front of her. He goes through the motions of an actual pitch before carefully lobbing the ball to her. She manages to hit the ball back at him. Both she and Seungmin drop their respective equipment and jump up.

"Did you see that?" They ask in unison, speaking loudly.

"I did. You two should do that away from the house though." You reply, worried about the ball breaking something in the house.

"It's fine, she's still learning." Seungmin reassures you as he picks up the ball yet again.

The two of them do a few more pitches and swings. After watching them for a few minutes you, feeling a bit more comfortable with their ability, decide to go back to reading.

Crash!

Your head quickly turns in the direction of the crash only to find the window to your kitchen broke.

"Hei-Run!" Your daughter jokes. Seungmin puts a hand in front of her and asks for a high-five.

"Kim Sky Seungmin! Kim Soleil Hei-Ran! My window!" You shout after covering Hanuel's ears.

"It's okay, she'll buy us a new house when she goes pro!" Seungmin says excitedly.

—

Buy me a coffee?

—

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[writeingdocs]

nonchalant bf | kim seungmin drabble

pairing: kim seungmin x reader

synopsis: seungmin as your boyfriend who just wants to cuddle but is too shy to say it.

genre: established relationship, fluff

word count: 0.8k

a/n: writer’s block is a bitch so i decided to finish up this seungmin drabble. anw live laugh seungmin

seungmin was never big on affection, especially with physical touch. it’s not that he was uncomfortable, per say, he just didn’t see the appeal in it. sure, he wouldn’t mind holding hands with you or kissing your cheek goodbye, but he would much rather show his love through acts of service.

you seem to agree with him too as you only ever hug or kiss him occasionally. so imagine his surprise when he caught himself suddenly longing for your touch during a random friday night.

it was one of your weekly movie nights where you both watch the cheesiest romance movies you could possibly find on the internet and make fun of it. it was nothing special, really.

except you were looking extra adorable tonight with the blanket wrapped tightly around your body that seungmin couldn’t help but stare. are you wearing makeup? is it because of the hoodie you stole from him earlier that makes you look so small he wants to absolutely cuddle you to death? or are you doing this on purpose just to drive him insane?

“oh my god they’re so stupid! it’s so obvious they like each other— ugh why do they keep denying it?” you huff in annoyance, cheeks puffed out in the process. this snaps seungmin out of his delusional thoughts of you and he glances at you, watching as you angrily cuss out the main characters on the screen. he so badly wants to pinch your cheek, maybe even kiss you. if only he was bold enough to do so. you would definitely think something was wrong with him if he did that. yes you were dating but seungmin was always known to not be the first one to initiate physical touch, he wasn’t about to ruin his reputation now.

you don’t notice that your boyfriend was not paying attention to the movie anymore, but you do notice his lack of response to your comment. you shift your head to face him, only to see that he was already staring intensely at you. you’ve never seen seungmin stare at you so intently that it’s making you nervous, already feeling the heat rise up to your neck.

“uhm—min are you alright?” always with that damn nickname. seungmin felt his heart skip a bit, and he quickly looked away from you, not wanting you to witness his flushed cheeks.

he was sure you caught a glimpse of it regardless, but luckily for him (or unluckily, depending on how you look at it), you are about as dense as a rock when it comes to him. thinking back to all the times you’ve unknowingly made him flustered, he felt that it was unfair that you had such an effect on him, yet you seem to be already used to his presence.

all of a sudden the little space that was between you both vanished, as if there had been no gap in the first place. seungmin grabs the blanket you had wrapped around you and places it around him as well, making it so you are now sharing it. this startles you. you’ve cuddled before, as rarely enough as it is, but this was different. a good kind of different because this time, it was him who did the first move.

you know he’s not fond of physical affection, so you welcome this rare opportunity of him being intimate with literal open arms and slowly wrap them around his waist.

“is something wrong, min?” you ask gently. the shitty movie is no longer a source of entertainment but rather just background noise now as you bury your face further on seungmin’s shirt.

he hopes you don’t notice the abrupt increase of his heart rate just because of that one simple action.

seungmin clears his throat, feeling shy despite the fact that he should be used to this now. “nothing’s wrong. i was just a little cold, don’t worry.”

”oh? then you should've said so earlier! i was hogging the blanket all by myself.” your eyes held guilt and although he felt bad for lying, he couldn’t control the slight giggle he let out. you were just too cute in his eyes.

”you looked like a perfectly shaped burrito, i didn’t want to ruin it.” seungmin teases, pinching your cheek as your frown deepens even further, but your eyes no longer carry guilt in them. instead they soften as you continue to hold eye contact.

you realise then how long his bangs have gotten, with it almost covering his eyes. so you reach over to move it away, before swiftly stealing a kiss in the process.

you pull away giggling and quickly went back to rest your head on his chest. you weren’t able to see seungmin’s expression, but knowing him, in spite of his nonchalant attitude, you were sure it had affected him.

and you were right. as soon as it registered in his brain what happened, seungmin felt the warmth in his cheeks spread all the way to his ears. he had not expected it at all. this was like his first date with you all over again.

”i know you just wanted to cuddle, but since you’re so cute i’ll let it slide.”

seungmin was never one for physical affection, but he thinks he could get used to this.

[writeingdocs]

how about, fake text with bf! skz when they get baby fever👀👉🏻👈🏻

bf!skz when they get baby fever.

✰ pairing : bf!skz x afab!reader

✰ genre : fluff (just skz wanting to have a baby with you)

✰ warnings : subtle mentions of sex and pregnancy, lmk if i missed one.

✰ notes : i am NOT taking requests, i just want ideas for ot8 headcanons, you can send one anonymously if you want! i'll post them while writing a few of my wips. also, thank you anon for sending me one and i also thank @l3visbby for changbin’s idea mehehe DO NOT FORGET TO REBLOG, COMMENT AND LEAVE TAGS after it! thank you so much <33

✰ tags : @notastraykid , @ameliesaysshoo , @l3visbby , @reignessance , @lix-ables , @skzfelixlove , @rachabreathing , @hyunverse , @minluvly , @sleepyleeji

masterlist | taglist.

chan ─── lee know

changbin ─── hyunjin

han ─── felix

seungmin ─── jeongin

©️ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐌𝐈𝐍 , 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒.