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ryverbind · 1 year ago

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Faceless Fixation (Sal Fisher): The Composer [28]

My favorite analogy to use in times of uncertainty comes from my dad. He once told me, "We're just two little frogs on a lone lily pad, floating down some hidden bayou in the swamps of New Orleans, Ducks. And that's okay, because at least we have each other."

It stuck with me throughout most of my life. When the depression was really rough, when the anxiety hit its peak, I'd scribble that line in notebooks. In pencil on my walls, erase the words when I felt whole again. Etch it onto my arm in pen, then scrub away at my skin for hours in the shower that same night.

For that reason, I feel like we can attach ourselves not only to people, but to words too. Which is why I find myself debating going and writing those words again and again and again in the emptiness of my apartment.

The week leading up to Ash's departure to Anaheim flew by. She and I unpacked, organized, and lazed about our home without seeing Sal, Larry, Todd, or Neil all that much.

That was fine, she and I preferred to figure things out on our own anyway.

The issue came with the moment Ash left in the early morning on Friday, after we'd had Sal and Larry over the night before.

I was left to my own devices, which meant all I could do was think about how much I've been drowning in myself. For months.

What's weighed on me most is Sal. I was never supposed to like him— it was never supposed to be more than simple attraction. I feel like I've failed myself and dragged Sal into something he wants nothing to do with. Feeling this way seems so cruel. He's his own person, he has his own shit to deal with. Why did I let it get this far?

For the entire day, I've sat here and told myself— scolded myself— that I need to calm things down and I need to get over this. Not just for me, but for him. Situationships, friends with benefits... those types of things do not end in relationships. They don't turn into happily ever afters. Me and Sal are nothing alike— I wouldn't even dare consider a relationship but if my feelings go far enough, I just might start to.

There needs to be some separation for myself. I need to put some distance, but I just don't want to. I genuinely like being around him.

Oh, this is such a clusterfuck.

I lay on me and Ash's couch, staring out of the huge windows that lead to the balcony as the sun goes down. It's evening. The silence is loud around me, messes with my senses. I keep thinking I see things out of the corner of my eye and every creak or crack of people moving around above or below me sets my heart racing.

Ash informed me that she'd be back by tomorrow morning, which is fine. I streamed for a few hours, ate dinner, then did some shopping to snuff out my Sal-centered thoughts, and then the unsettling quiet. I just didn't realize how anxious I'd get about being here alone once the moon took the sun's place in the sky.

It's not my first time being alone. When I lived with dad, I was alone most of the time. But this apartment is still unfamiliar to me. Being in a new place that doesn't quite feel like a home yet is perturbing.

The sky grows a little too dark for my liking, so I grab the remote and turn on the TV, flinching when the volume startles me. Anything to suffocate the silence that lurks around the dark corners of this room though.

I glance over my shoulder, making eye contact with the dark hallway that looks back at me. Shadows dance around the edges of the vignette, mocking my fear. I'm worried that if I watch for too long, I may really see something staring back.

And I thought my tiny, barely there feelings for Sal were scary. All that needs to be done to reset my mind is put me in an empty room, I guess.

Turning my gaze back to the TV, I try to focus on The Crow. All the gothic notes and emotional aspects try to distract me... but I quickly learn that even my favorite movie and Brandon Lee's ethereal beauty can't steal me from reality.

I'm restless. I can't stay here a moment longer.

Sighing, I sit up and gaze at the hardwood floor. Dad's not home-- I could go back to my old apartment, but that's a fifteen minute drive. That's a last resort. I would go to Todd and Neil's, but they're over in San Francisco to watch Todd's favorite musical.

That leaves me with Larry.

Can I bear to be in Sal's presence with all the turmoil in my head? I don't know, but I can't figure it out until I try. Not to mention, knowing him, he'll be locked up in his room anyway.

Me and Sal's conversation last week made me feel a bit more secure. I know things can continue the way they have been and I don't have to worry about anything else, I just have to work on getting past exactly how much I feel now. The fact that we had to had to have that conversation at all is embarrassing-- even if he told me that it was okay. It feels so stupid to me now that it's all over. It feels even more ridiculous that I apparently haven't learned a thing and still want to put distance between us.

I stand up and grab my keys from the kitchen counter before shutting off the TV. Then, I'm out the front door like a bat out of hell. The quiet was overpowering me-- having such a big place is so eerie when it's just me.

In my diluted panic, I make it to Sal and Larry's apartment in record time-- hoping and praying that they'll let me stay.

I pick up my pace once I reach their floor, bounding up to the door and knocking. Each corner feels like it's leering, hiding evil that lurks everywhere I go. It's unbearable and I just can't be alone.

That, or maybe some depraved part of me just wants to Sal.

Chewing on my bottom lip, I tap my foot against the carpeted floor and try to pretend that I've got it together. I do anything to get rid of the adrenaline rushing through me. Readjust my mask, pick at invisible lint on my shirt, crack all of my fingers, look up and down both sides of the hallway stretching around me. It feels like I wait for hours even though it's merely seconds until the door opens.

My eyes snap upward, gazing into the eyeholes of Sal's prosthetic. He holds it against his face with a hand, the straps dangling at the sides. It's clear I've caught him off guard.

"Vi?" He asks, tone suggesting he's both confused and alert by my sudden presence. I watch him glance down the hallway the same way I just did.

When he looks back at me, he has an eyebrow raised inquisitively.

"Uh," I choke out, remembering that I kind of have to tell him why I'm here. "Is Larry here? I wanted to hang out. The, um, silence is... loud." I rush to explain myself, knowing full well that I don't have to explain myself to anyone.

But Sal looks like he gets it though, his gaze softening in understanding as the words leave me.

"Larry isn't here," He tells me forthright. My heart drops at the news. "He went to Anaheim with Ash. Didn't she tell you?"

I hum bashfully, embarrassed at myself and the circumstances as I shake my head.

"Sorry for bothering," I say with a sigh, trying to hype myself up to brave the quietude and darkness.

A beat of tense silence passes between us as I build up the mental strength, already feeling like I'm rotting in the lonely apartment back upstairs.

Then, Sal mutters, "You can stay if you want, so long as you don't mind me practicing. And don't make me regret inviting you in."

I watch him watch me, both of us hesitant and unsure. But what's more unbearable than being around him (which hasn't been all too bad lately) is being alone.

I clear my throat lightly then look down at my feet, nodding. "Okay, thanks."

I may come to regret this.

Sal leads me into the apartment, his slightly taller figure blurring as I take in the living room and kitchen I helped unpack just a week ago now. To replace all the boxes and uncertainty is a kind of clean organization that I just know Larry had nothing to do with.

Sal spruced up. It's orderly, uncluttered, and so him. It works because Larry isn't much different.

The climbing living room walls have various band, tour, and festival posters, records, guitars, a bass, signed drum covers. It's a metal-head's dream. There's just a little touch that screams 'this-is-the-house-of-a-streamer,' which happens to be the multi-colored LED's on the ceiling. But I'll give them a pass for that one.

Regardless, it's nice. And the kitchen, while not completely decked out, is doctor's office-level pristine.

I purse my lips, feeling a little apprehensive. This might be the first time Sal and I have been in each other's presence without a plan for sex or something related to it. We're just... hanging out. It's weird, but I'm desperate enough to put up with it at this point.

Sal's out of my way already, settled on one of the black sofa's with his flashy red guitar nestled on his lap and a laptop in front of him. Oh, and the prosthetic is gone.

My eyes train onto his pretty face. With all of this moving, I've hardly been able to see it. As crazy as it is, it's kind of been killing me. This recent revelation of mine has led to this insatiable urge to look at him constantly. I thought it was bad before, when this was all just a meaningless crush, but now...

I swallow past my raging thoughts. I've had enough to think about today.

Following Sal's lead, I plop down onto the adjacent, larger sofa-- right in the middle of it. I stare at the dark television and subtly gaze around the room in search of a remote. I'll be damned if I sit here with him in silence like this. Once again, I would much rather hot box in a car full of Larry's tamale farts.

Sal's head tilts upward in my peripheral so I look at him. He looks at me, his azure eyes surveying me before leaning over to a little table between the sofa's. He grabs a remote, then an Xbox controller and tosses them to me.

"You can play something if you want. Just switch to HDMI 2," he offers, turning his attention back to his guitar, strumming a quiet note. His brows furrow and he bites down on his bottom lip, shakes his head lightly. Those hypnotizing cerulean locks fall past his shoulders and shield his handsome face from me. His hair has grown in the past few months, hanging at least an inch past his shoulder by now--

--and that is not the point of why I'm here.

I murmur a quick thanks and lean over to grab the controllers, switching on the TV and finding my way to Sal and Larry's shared console.

There's a selection of games on here, some I've played, others that are on my TBP list (like TBR, but instead of to-be-read, it's to-be-played).

I hover around the Resident Evil 4 remake. For the past few weeks, I've been telling myself I'm saving up for it. I brought it up to Ash a couple days ago and she gave me a funny look then proceeded to remind me that, with my streaming career, I have around $4,000 in my bank account right now. I don't need to save for once, I can just get it.

Except I panicked and said I have to keep all my money in case of an emergency... so having disposable income is still new to me and I have no idea how to handle it.

I click on the game, biting down the excited grin that tries to build on my face.

I start a new game and nearly crap myself, doing my fangirl job by raving over the updated graphics and Leon's lore-accurate hair color.

For about an hour, Sal and I don't even spare glances at each other. It's nice, chill-- just two... acquaintances... in each other's presence without having to talk to enjoy their company. I play RE4 and he strums away on his guitar. A couple times, I become entranced by the melody he plays. Each time he plays longer, it starts to come together. Around the second time he played more than a couple notes, I realized he was composing. Creating a tune. Whatever you want to call it.

While a musician myself, I've mostly worked on covers of songs. I've only tried to write my own music a couple times and even then, I realized it was tough work. Watching Sal now-- how long it takes him to come up with all the notes and lengths for just one chord-- I do not envy him, but I do admire him. He's putting a lot of work into it, clicking away on his laptop when he finds something he likes.

Each second of him working on his music steals me away from my game though. I start getting antsy, missing infected people even if they're right in front of me in the game. Hell, I walked Leon into a wall two minutes ago.

I grit my teeth as I navigate through the village, heart beating out of my chest with every corner I turn because a horde of zombies is going to be on me any second now.

I need to be prepared, need to get all of these questions out of my head.

"You're making a song?" I ask Sal, staring at the screen in front of me with my knees pulled up to my chest.

Sal hums in acknowledgment, distracted by whatever he's messing with on the computer. "Yea. Has to do with that Twitter leak." His voice is soft, hoarse. I'm shocked he even answered me with how focused he is.

Ah, yea. That leak. Ash and I didn't hear from Sal or Larry for two days after they rushed out of our apartment. When they finally popped up yesterday to help us with some more unpacking, they briefly mentioned something about 'damage control' and 'whistleblowing bastards.' Don't know how that has anything to do with whistleblowing, but those were Larry's words, of course.

I nod lightly, dragging Leon to a ladder. "I take it you don't want to give me the drama on that leak?" I guess, stealing a glance his way. Damn his pretty hair and equally as pretty face.

As I'm glancing, he shrugs, bright eyes darting across his laptop. The color of his irises is enhanced by the blue light of the screen-- I hate him. "There's not much drama to give," he murmurs, clicking on something. Then, he sits back, his eyes snapping to me. "The leak was the bridge to this song. I've been fixing it up and messing around with it. I had a producer with me a couple weeks ago, he took a picture of my screen. The back of my head was in it and it inevitably got out. What are people supposed to think when this is the title?"

He flips the laptop to me and I lean forward, squinting my eyes to look at the screen. There's a lot of graphing and multicolored lines that look overwhelming as hell-- but I focus in on the bold words at the top of all the mess. "DAC COLLAB."

I pinch my lips together in a guilty smile. "Ah, so that's the mess. That fucking sucks," I tell him as he pulls the laptop back to him.

Tongue in cheek, he tilts his head to the side as if to say 'whatever.' He at least seems unbothered by the whole thing now. "It is what it is. It's going to be released at some point anyway. North was going to make an announcement next month when we'd made a little more progress. Damn asshole at that studio just did the job for us, I guess." He seethes a bit on the last sentence, brows pinching together.

I hum contemplatively, eyes trailing over his hands as they press into his guitar before I look back at my game. "I wouldn't let it bother you too much. You still get to make the song, still profit from it."

A tiny grin pulls at Sal's lips. "True," he says nonchalantly.

Silence builds around us, our conversation having fallen off rather than ending. We're still learning. Awkward moments have to come along here and there.

Doesn't stop me from getting killed within the following moments though. I'm so stressed about making things work with him and me... I shouldn't have started the damn game.

"I'll make you a deal," Sal suddenly pipes up when I get mauled a second time.

Growling frustratedly to myself, I pause the game and turn to him, waiting for him to continue.

He shakes his hair out of his face, letting me see all of him. He sets his elbows on his knees, showing off the veins in his forearms and the map of tattoos that trail up his skin just to disappear beneath the sleeves of his shirt.

I take a fortifying breath.

"Come listen to this and I'll help you past this part." He juts his chin toward the TV before looking back at me.

I shrug. Why not?

"Okay," I accept his proposal, scooting down the sofa toward where he is. His tattooed fingers type away on the keyboard before he turns the laptop so we can both see the screen.

"My taste is a little harder than what Dark Autumn Complex usually puts out, but I think we're getting somewhere," he tells me and for a moment, I wonder why he's trying to explain the music to me before I've even heard it. Is he nervous?

I simply nod my head. If I say something, he may get even more freaked out. I'm fighting for my spot on earth right now, man.

He presses the space bar then leans back, letting me listen.

I flinch when I hear the opening-- he wasn't kidding. It's similar to what the band usually does, but there's something sinister and death-metal-ish about the instrumentals. Sal seems to have a lot of control over the sound here. The double electric guitar, and heavy bass from a literal bass but drums too says enough. It's veering off the path that DAC usually takes.

Just because it's a little different doesn't mean it isn't damn good though. It's really good. Sal's cooking up a five course meal on his laptop here.

"Life slips by In the blink of an eye, Dripping through the gaps In my hand which saps This eternal time lapse Of brutality.

Prophesy each of my regrets; My mistakes chosen by the oracle. A fool making bets With possibilities so rhetorical."

I grin at the lyrics, at the sound, everything. I look over at Sal and he has a little smile on his face too, his expression so heavenly when his eyes meet mine.

"This is--" I start to say, but Sal cuts me off.

"Shut up. Listen," he whispers. So I do.

"An artist of malice-- My muse of persuasion. Drink from my crimson chalice, Submit to the composer's pervasion.

Aren't we friends? This anguish and me. Gaze through the rose-tinted lens, Ignore the razor blade's sharp plea."

I blink, the smile falling from my lips in record time. Just days ago, Sal asked me that question. 'Aren't we friends?' There have been so many coincidences with this band. So many, in fact, that I genuinely thought Sal and North were the same person at one time.

There's more to this than what I've been told.

"You work close with them, don't you?" I ask, tuning out the rest of the song for now. If he tries to shut me up again, I'll shove a finger down his throat.

Sal doesn't look at me as he chews on the inside of his cheek. And-- wait... is he... blushing?

"Caught that, huh?" He asks, pausing the song but still refusing to look at me.

My eyes widen at his admission. "What exactly do you do with them?" I ask quickly, leaning back a little bit as a thousand and one theories pop into my head. Is he going to tell me that he is North? That he's been hiding behind that name all this time?

And if he is, would I finally tell him that I'm Lexi?

If North is Sal, a lot of things are going to change.

Sal's tongue swipes along his bottom lip. "I write every single one of their songs," he says, nodding to himself. "They put it together, make music with it."

Oh. I got ahead of myself again.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding as my body suddenly grows warm with shame. It's time I put that theory to rest.

I furrow my brows though, thinking back on the lyrics. "Look," I start warily, "I don't want to seem full of myself or crazy or anything, but I swear--"

Sal shakes his head, his dimple forming on his cheek as a bashful smile grows on his lips. "You're not crazy. I hate that you correlated it, but... there are a few lyrics inspired by some of our interactions. When things make an impact on me, I usually incorporate them into my songs." Now it's my turn to blush. I need a moment to process, but, fuck, Sal keeps going. "For example, 'Wherein Christine Daaè Becomes Her Own Phantom' is about Ash. And then a couple lines in some other songs, like the one you heard in this one and 'Falling through like fingers in fishnets---' those were about you."

I gape at him. This genius made of multitudes and art and misery and physics. I don't know what to say, so I stupidly spit out, "Ash has an entire song about her? You gonna write one about me?"

As soon as the words come out, I narrow my eyes and internally scold myself. Not the time to joke, y/n. Not at all.

Sal strums a note on his guitar, in a completely different world as he mumbles, "Who says I haven't already?"

My head snaps to him and a full on, rainbow infested panic attack starts up. He was so serious, ditched all of his reservations when he said that.

At my silence, Sal glances up inquisitively. He takes one look at my face and his eyes widen a fraction. "I'm joking. You aren't that important for me to write a whole song about. Don't take it so seriously."

Do I snap at him for that or feel relieved?

I choose to glare at him instead and switch the subject. "North has a really nice voice," I say a bit too cheerily. Sal notices and I watch him stifle a petty laugh. "It's very melodic, goes well with the band's sound."

"Don't tell him that," Sal snorts, something a bit bitter taking the place of his previous amusement. "His ego's already huge as is."

Ash had some serious heat on North, and now Sal's looking like he has some not-so-good opinions too. Is North really so shady? What is it that everyone's so on edge about?

I recall the time Ash went on a rampage about North incessantly flirting with me and how she mentioned that he isn't exactly known for being in relationships, that he may not be what he portrays himself as.

Sal seems to be pretty open tonight. Maybe I can finally start to understand what the issue is.

I open my mouth but fail to get a word out. I contemplate saying anything at all, nerves consuming me at the prospect. But North isn't here, it's not like he's going to find out we talked about him.

"Is he really..." I start softly. "Ash hinted that he may not be the best person?" I settle on, peeking at Sal through my lashes.

Sal watches me, eyebrows drawing together and jaw working as he searches for what to say. I wait patiently, happy that he's at least thinking about answering me.

"Are you considering cutting off our arrangement to be with him?" He asks genuinely, nothing but seriousness portrayed in his expression.

All the air leaves my body. I hadn't thought about ending things with Sal for that reason, not even once. Plus, North and I haven't talked in a while. After Ash freaked out, I pretty much put the situation on the back burner. "No," I reply quietly. "It's just curiosity at this point."

Sal's expression softens and he blinks at me, holds me in his gaze before sighing heavily. "Everyone has their own shit to work through. He's no different. He has a lot of baggage though, lot of issues. He's told me a thousand times before that he doesn't think he'd be able to handle a relationship because of his problems." He pauses, grimacing as he fights for the right words, clearly not wanting to disrespect is friend. "North is a bit of a hit or miss. I can't predict how he'd be with you."

He sends me a devilish look, teeth on display in a stunning smile as he adds, "Definitely can't tell you if the sex is good or not. He wouldn't let me hit."

I shake my head at him and roll my eyes, a blush forming on my cheeks. "I did not ask for that last bit," I tell him pointedly.

Sal chuckles, standing up from his spot on the opposite sofa to sit beside me. I watch him with questioning eyes, my body falling into a frenzy because, oh God, Sal's close. Arms. Tattoos. Fingers. Neck. Face. Teeth. Mouth. Hair. Veins. Ravenous. Gnawing at the bars of my enclosure.

Yikes.

He grabs the controller I'd been playing Resident Evil with and that's when I remember that other half of our last minute agreement.

"Figured I'd give you one last little push to keep fucking me and not him," he says as if that statement holds no weight, gesturing toward me with the controller.

I hate when he says 'fuck' because it's always so unironically seductive. I know he's just playing around, but that glint in his eyes and the smirk-like tilt of his lips tries to tell me otherwise.

I snatch the controller from him and unpause the game, grumbling, "I already said I'm not interested in him."

I walk through all the steps I'd already done, having to restart the entire village scene due to my repeated fuck up from last round.

Sal doesn't reply to me, he watches every move I make on the screen and I focus as best as I can. The last thing I want to do is embarrass myself, but I get wrapped up in the same exact spot again, fighting off more of the infected than I can handle.

Leon's body drops to the ground again and I stomp down the overwhelming urge to walk through the TV screen and beat Leon's dead body myself.

"I see what the problem is," Sal pipes up beside me, his tone screaming 'Physics Graduate' with how... scientific he sounds. I bet he conjured up a fucking hypothesis for this. "Come here," he says, linking a finger through my belt loop and tugging me toward him.

I nearly choke on air when my shoulder squishes against his and he leans closer, grabbing my arm closest to him and pulling it so that I'm holding the controller between us.

He moves his hands so that they wrap around mine and over the controller. He can move my thumbs any way he wants with this position-- but now I'm suffering the consequences. His hands are rough and warm on me, his fingers callused and brushing over mine with a perfect plan set in place. I can hardly breathe because, technically, Sal's holding my hands right now. And my body is pressed to his. If he listens a little too hard, he'll hear my heart slamming in my chest.

My body is completely rigid against his. Sex doesn't even involve closeness like this. My entire brain has been completely detached and rewired in mere seconds. Everything I thought has been reversed and I could... totally bed him right here, maybe?

"Are you going to restart or do I have to do that for you too?" Sal rasps humorously. His voice is so near, so clear. I want to look over at him so bad, see the dimple on his cheek because I can hear his smile, but I keep a level head. My eyes stay trained on the TV as I press start.

After all, when a cool, slow-mo explosion happens in the movies, the protagonist never looks back to watch.

I am the protagonist. I am the fucking protagonist. Iamthefuckingprotagonist.

"Okay, so this is where you're going wrong," Sal says in my ear, his tone suggesting he's much more focused now. His thumbs press into mine, moving Leon around the village much more easily than I could. Doesn't mean he's better than me, he just isn't running on fumes like I am. Sal fumes. I'm suffocating in him, it's all his fault. I am a good player, I swear I am.

I let him direct me, slowly beginning to relax in this soooo not-embrace. His arm, pressed against mine, acts as leverage for me to rest. He seems to lean against me more at some point too, the both of us more worried about getting Leon through the village than about how we slowly warm up to each other and this proximity.

"I don't know if we can get it with me guiding you like this," Sal says a tad urgently when the chase scene starts up, his thumbs working quickly with mine. At some point, I was able to start predicting what moves he'd make, so we seem to be more in sync now. "But we'll try. We have to get through the first wave, then we're going to shoot that damn church bell."

I furrow my brows. "Like the first game?" I gasp, "We can still do it here?"

Sal snorts, manipulating my fingers to shoot someone heading our way. "Of course we can. Watch and learn."

I do watch, and hell, I learn too. It takes maybe five minutes for Sal to get me through the part I'd been stuck on since I got here. The moment he gets the shot on the bell, it rings through the city and evokes deep satisfaction within me-- especially when all the citizens start piling at the church.

I smile at the screen, Sal's hands still wrapped around mine as the famed cut scene starts up.

"Where's everyone going? Bingo?"

This time I look at Sal because we said that line in unison. We said it together. At the same time. He looks back at me with wide eyes and an astonished grin, like he's barely holding back crazed excitement.

Something catches Sal's eye as we watch each other for a short moment, reveling in our shared interest and achievement. He looks up and past me, smile softening as he lets go of my hands.

The controller is suddenly so heavy without him holding it up for me. It slowly drops to my lap as he stands, walking back over to his respective couch.

I swallow, biting down my yearning for his missing presence. He was warm, he was stable. And that admission only reinforces that fact that I really need to put some much needed distance between us before things get way too real.

I look down at my lap for a moment, reminding myself that everything's going it work itself out. It'll be okay.

Things go back to the way they were before we started conversing today. Sal plays his guitar and tweaks things on his laptop, I play Resident Evil. Only difference now is that we're both progressing through our tasks.

And you know what, it's really nice. I thought this would be a mistake, I thought this would make things so much worse-- well, things are worse, but not in the way I assumed it would be.

But I'm actually having fun. The best part is neither of us need to talk to enjoy ourselves right now. A dynamic like this one is rare.

"You need to go."

The words are abrupt, make me look up. Sal is placing his phone down beside him and pulling his guitar strap over his head.

Is this some kind of prank? Is he just trying to get our old bickering going? I was just thinking about how nice things were and he cut it off like he read my mind. He had this icy monotone to his voice that I haven't heard in a long time.

With a wary smile, I try to play along. "You're stuck with me, buddy. You made the mistake of inviting me in."

"I'm serious, y/n. I need you to leave." He nearly cuts me off, the words rushing out in what almost sounds like a panic.

I look at him closer, leaning my head down a bit to peek past his curtain of hair. His face is so stone-like, one would think he had faced off with Medusa. My eyebrows pinch together as I finally click into the veiled tenseness around us, my realization making everything that much thicker.

"Are-- are you okay?" I ask softly, a trickle of apprehension going down my spine. I don't know how to approach this. Clearly, something's wrong and he's trying to play it off. What do I do here? Things were going fine.

"Get out." The words are like a slap to the face, so aggressive and loud that I flinch, the controller tumbling off my lap and onto the floor.

My racing heart only increases its speed as I freeze up and just stare at him. I'm frightened, something I definitely don't want him to see but I can't help it, especially when he looks up at me with a glare so menacing-- the same glare that was always hidden by his prosthetic months ago. Until now.

I force myself to breathe and think.

Okay, he wants me gone. I can do that. All I have to do is walk out the door and I'll be out of his hair. Hell, he might even apologize about this later. My brain nags at me though, says that behind the anger in his expression is fear and sadness. Says that he doesn't need to be alone right now-- he needs someone.

This switch in him was so random, so fast. It feels wrong to think that I was the cause or that he's suddenly freaking out because I'm here. There's something deeper; the problem now is whether he'll let me find out what's going on or not. Should I even try?

Utterly split on what to do, I slowly stand to my feet, never breaking eye contact with him. His excruciating glower softens a little, showing off a glimmer of relief that further proves my thoughts.

I fight past the fear he suddenly evoked, overwhelmed by how pained he must be to have a sudden reaction like this. He helped me when I had a hard time, so shouldn't I do the same for him?

As if to confirm my thoughts, Gizmo comes veering into the room. He talks and talks, skittering over to Sal and climbing up his chest. That's when Sal finally looks away from me so he can run his tattooed hand over the cat's orange fur.

My heart drops to the pit of my stomach. There is something wrong. Gizmo's presence says it all-- he did the same thing for me when I was anxious.

"Sal..." I say gently, hovering in my stance. I hold my hands to my chest, stuck on what decision to make. I don't know what to do. I'm torn between his wishes and mine. "Do you need to talk about something?"

"No," he bites out. "What I need is for you to get the fuck out." He gently moves Gizmo and stands up. I gulp, watching as that threatening aura of his grows closer and closer with each step he takes. I match his pace, taking steps backward. He herds me to the front door of his apartment, stopping when my back hits the doorknob.

I gasp at the feeling of metal digging into my lower back, using all my might not to back down and cower as Sal towers of me; every inch of his face curled with malice and rage and anguish. His dark brows are furrowed to hold up that glare of his, his light eyes darkened by the negativity roiling around in him. His marred lips set in a frown that just doesn't suit him at all. It's all so unlike him.

This isn't who I've come to know. No matter how scary he is, I just can't, in good conscience, leave him like this.

I take a shaky breath and stay stock still. Stand a bit taller to match his energy. I say a silent prayer that I don't end up on the evening news before I jump into the river crawling with snakes and alligators.

"I don't feel comfortable leaving you like this," I declare, making sure my voice is confident to show that I won't back down despite how unconfident I am.

He looks away, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth as if to bite down his instinctual reaction before he addresses me again.

He's trying. He's trying so hard not to scare me off for good-- that's why he wants me to leave now. I see it-- I see through him.

The gears work and click together in my mind. He doesn't want to be alone, he doesn't want to suffer with no one to hold him up when he's low. He's just so focused on boxing up his secrets, keeping them hidden from everyone that he won't rely on his only option. I really can't leave him now, can I?

"You can talk about it if you want, or you don't have to. But you don't have to be alone, whatever it is," I try to console him gently, moving to the side so he can see me in his peripheral. But my movement just makes him squeeze his eyes shut. My heart stutters upon realizing I'm not getting through to him, he isn't hearing me.

"Don't say that shit like you care!" he nearly explodes, voice rattling in my ears. "You don't understand anything. You don't know a thing about me."

He's looking at me again, desperation swimming in his ocean gaze, hiding away from the rage taking over his expression. His eyes rove over my face, sizing me up, waiting for the moment I bite back or walk away.

"I know I don't know anything," I tell him softly, making sure that my expression is open and, fuck, caring. Because I do care. "That's why I'm asking you to help me help you. However way is better."

"I don't want your fucking help," he hisses, eyes narrowing. "I don't want your fucking pity. I want you gone."

I open my mouth to passively fight him on that decision, but he interrupts me before I can even get a word out. "You can't spew this bullshit at me. Like you've lived a day in my life and you know what's it's like to be me. You don't, and you never will if it's up to me." With each word, pity, guilt, and anger builds within me. He's suffering and he won't let himself feel even an ounce of reprieve. Instead, he's trying to push everyone away. He's the type of asshole who probably thinks he deserves to be alone. "I don't want you here, nor do I need you here. Go coddle someone who needs it and get off my fucking case."

I clap back at him the moment he finishes. "Well, maybe you do need help! Maybe you do need my fucking pity! Have you thought about that?" I snap, gesturing to him with a hand. Why can't he just accept this? Get help? Let someone take it so he doesn't have to bear it all? "I don't need to be you to get it, Sal. I don't even need to be me to get it because I see it. You think you can hide it all, carry it all, but you clearly fucking cannot." I scrunch up my face to accentuate my words, trying to get it across to him through the parts of my face on display, the thing that supposedly captures his fascination so much. "It's seeping off of you like oil; doesn't even soak into you. You don't wear your heart on your sleeve, you wear your feelings. I don't know what the hell's going on, but it doesn't take a genius with an IQ higher than yours to see that you're in pain."

Sal doesn't let up that harsh scowl, but I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. And then he blinks. Then he's turning his back to me, walking away from me and toward the kitchen while running a hand down his face.

My heart physically feels as if it's cracking in two, but I grip onto the bit of clarity I have left after literally yelling in his face. I take a hesitant step toward him when his head tilts down, his hair falling around him.

I wet my lips, ponder what to say now. How to approach this with my fingers quaking as each quiet second passes.

"Let's..." I whisper, heaving a troubled sigh. "You don't have to tell me, but maybe talking about it will relieve you, even if just a little." I chew on the inside of my cheek, tiptoeing around the topic, making sure I'm gentle with him now that he's backed down. "And if you really don't want to talk about it, you don't have to. We can watch a movie, play a game. Whatever you want."

The tides are shifting. With each offer that leaves my mouth, something about us changes. With how much I live to loathe change, I find that I don't fear it the way I did before. Not if the change is with Sal. Not right now when this man is nearly falling apart in front of me and pretending that he isn't.

"I need--" his voice cracks and my heart does the same. He's holding himself together with wet glue right now. What the fuck is going on? "I need to talk to Ash," he tries again, his voice a little more stable this time, though still soft and reserved. "But I can't. She's busy."

I bite down on my bottom lip. I know he doesn't want to talk to me. He said it himself; he would never tell me his secrets. But I don't think either of us have much of a choice.

"I'm not Ash," I say delicately, taking one more step toward him. There's still so much distance between us, I don't know how to get to him. "But whatever you say will never leave this room. Once it's out, I'll forget it ever happened if that's what you want."

He doesn't move, doesn't speak. He's heavily contemplating, weighing his options.

Still silent, he jumps into action, moving to a cabinet in the kitchen. He opens it, pulls out a can of peaches. I watch his every movement as he opens the can then grabs a fork from a drawer.

I don't push him to speak, I let him figure out what he wants to do. He doesn't quite face me, but he turns so that his back leans against the counter, all while he bites into a colorful peach slice that's hanging from his fork.

He chews while staring unblinkingly at the emptiness in front of him.

"She messaged me."

My eyebrows draw together in confusion for a moment, but I think about what he's said before I ask him to be more specific.

She. She. I only know of two women regarding Sal-- one being Ash, and the other...

I hold my breath as I realize. It's the woman who hurt him. I shift my weight, expression slackening as I try to find a solution for him. My mind starts swimming with ways to drag him from the depths of his agony.

Ash told me that if I ever had strange messages and suspected it to be that woman, that I should let her know. And if this woman is harassing Sal, we could take it to police and maybe, hopefully, they could do something about it.

"And I don't know what to do," he continues helplessly, his sweet voice melodic with despair as he looks down at his can of peaches.

I watch him, collecting myself to approach him as rationally as possible. Then, I close the fated distance between us and walk over to him. I stand before him, about a foot of space between us. He doesn't look up.

"Here's what we can do," I start tenderly, trying to be as soft as possible while being a stable foothold he can use to climb out of this mess. "You don't have to look at it again," I continue, my gaze never leaving him even though he's almost completely hidden from me. "If you trust me with it, I'll take your phone, log in, screenshot the message. Then, I'll block her-- no response because she does not deserve it. I'll send the screenshot to myself then send it to Ash from there. It'll be out of your hands at that point. Me and Ash will handle the rest." Me and Ash because I want to sink my fangs into this bitch too.

Sal sets the can on the counter beside him, rubs a hand across his forehead. His fringe is wild, his hair sticking up in different directions until he runs a hand through his hair, his black nails clashing against a sea of cerulean blue. "Okay," he says, the word so quiet and raspy that I nearly miss it.

I wait just a moment, eyes glued to him. "Okay," I repeat. "I'm going grab your phone."

I backtrack to the living room, picking his phone up from the couch where he'd left it. I flip it so that the screen is facing me and see an Instagram notification. I don't read it just yet, but I slide up on the lock so that he can type in his password.

When I'm back in the kitchen, I stand in front of Sal and hand him the phone. Fork hanging from his mouth, he quickly types in his password then hands the device back to me.

It's open to the message. I know I'm doing this for him, but I'm afraid to look too much in fear of seeing something he doesn't want me to see. The last thing I want to do is betray his trust when he's finally given it to me.

"Do you want me to read it or just get the job done?" I ask him.

"Just read it. It's inevitable either way," he mutters dejectedly. That tone makes me frown worriedly. I'm already on the precipice of falling into complete heartbreak. His reaction certainly doesn't help. Still, I take the screenshot before glancing over the text:

@zoxbby112: 2 fucking years? sexual assault? you've got to be fucking joking you pathetic piece of shit. i TOLD you no one was going to believe your dumb ass and you still went and did it anyway. you're literally a dude, if you didn't want it you should've pushed me off or smth. everyone says no in the heat of the moment asshole. you liked it, you just need to play the victim since no one else is ever going to want you and that ugly fucking face. you're lucky i even still fucked you after getting that piece of plastic off you. fucked up my entire life. making yours a living hell is the only revenge i'm willing to get.

I have to grip onto the counter to stop myself from crumbling to my knees upon realizing just how this woman hurt him. It was sexual assault. She assaulted him.

"Oh, Sal..." The words slip past my lips, unbidden and broken as I take a shaky breath.

I blink past the sudden tears in my eyes and shake my head as I block her account then delete the message, navigating my way through his home screen and to discord. I send the message to myself then grab my own phone, making sure to save the screenshot. I go back to his, deleting the photo from our messages and his camera roll so he never has to see it again.

I don't know what to do. I don't know how to feel. So much of me wants to be angry, but all I'm feeling is throbbing pain and overwhelming guilt. I feel like my organs are being harvested from my body, like my skin is slowly being peeled away from my bones. All because I have no idea what to do for him, I don't know how to make it better. I don't know how to fix it for him, and I don't think I can.

"I'm..." I start to say, my voice hoarse.

"Please don't tell me you're sorry," he says quietly, stabbing his fork into another peach.

I tilt my head, biting my tongue as I place his phone down beside him. If I were in his situation, I wouldn't want to hear sorry's anymore either. God, more than anything I just wish I could go back in time and save him from that.

"You know," I say instead, so much emotion ravaging me whole that I don't know how to stay standing on my own. The only reason I'm still up is for him. "I don't know much about physics, but I did like biology. And something my teacher taught me is that skin renewal takes seven years. So in seven years, you'll have brand new skin, and, um, it won't be the same skin you had when..." I trail off, going completely blank while trying to give him something to look forward to. Everything is so pathetic that even my brain can't cooperate.

Sal's head snaps up to look at me like he actually understood what I was yapping about. His pretty blue eyes glisten with unshed tears, but he still looks at me, face completely expressionless.

I match his gaze, waiting for something. Anything. But then he cracks a pitiful smile, snorts softly-- shows me as much humor as he can muster up. Wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand.

I feel each of my damaged cells rebuilding themselves again at his shift in character. My heart beat becomes a little stronger, my breath more even and not so shallow with torturous anticipation.

"My skin will be untouched in seven years," he laughs, albeit humorlessly, but it's something.

"Yea, that's what I was getting at," I confirm, rubbing my arms and looking down at my feet.

Still standing beside him, I glance up just as he bites off half the peach slice on his fork. He gazes back at me, his eyes bluer than any sky I've seen, expression softer than any lingering touch of his.

I feel heat gather along my cheeks when he tilts the fork toward me slowly, offering me the other half of the peach. He looks like a cornered bunny, giving the fox hovering around him a peace offering. It's an apology and a thank you, reinforcing the trust that I handled with as much care as possible.

This fruit means something to him. I haven't an inkling of understanding on the offer, but if it matters to him then it matters to me.

I gently pluck the fork from his fingers, bite off the other half of the peach then hand the fork back.

Turning, I lean my back against the counter and stand beside him, both of us looking into the empty living room in front of us. We don't talk, we don't share a word. But we do pass that fork back and forth. He takes a bite of a peach, I finish it off. It goes like that until the can is empty, and then we both just kind of... stand there.

He pushes off the counter with a soft grunt, dumps the remaining syrup into the sink, washes it down the drain, then he walks over to me. He just stands there and looks down at me with the gentlest expression I've ever seen on him.

I stare back at him, dumbfounded as my mind races for explanations. So much is different now, I didn't think it could possibly change any more but I'm slowly learning that I keep severely underestimating Sal Fisher. Neither of us can make up excuses for this.

I quickly fit the puzzle pieces together though and realize he's right in front of me because I'm blocking the trashcan. What only solidifies it is that a little upside down smile quirks his lips upon seeing me connect the dots.

Now, we move the the awkward, embarrassment stage that comes with deep connection. Yea, making friends really sucks, especially when I want so much more than friends.

What?

The unwarranted thought flies out of my head as Sal braces a hand on the counter beside me when I don't move, caging me in as he bends forward. His face passes right beside mine and his hair brushes my cheek, making a chill run up my spine.

His body heat encases me like a warm duvet on the coldest of winter days, his scent wrapping around my soul, squeezing tight, comforting. He's so familiar now, it feels so normal being close to him like this. So much so that I ache to hold him right here for hours. Forever, even.

Maybe it's the dim lights in the kitchen, the dark night filtering in from his balcony windows. But when he moves backward, he doesn't go far.

He hovers near me, his hand still pressed into the counter beside me. He's close, very close. Closer than he's ever been, I think.

I map the curve of his lips, my eyes drifting to where the deep scars elongate and change the shape of his mouth, dragging up his cheek and to his eye-- the eye that I can clearly tell is a prosthetic now that he's so close. It looks so similar to his real eye that I genuinely couldn't tell the difference before.

"You have freckles," I whisper upon noticing them, my voice barely above a whisper. Before I can stop myself, I lift a hand between us and gently run my fingertips over his skin, tracing every little light spot along his nose and cheeks.

His eyes glance back and forth between mine in my peripheral vision and at the same time, a light pink dusts his cheeks that I'm so focused on. He swallows, licks his lips. Unable to form words.

He opens his mouth, almost like he's thinking of saying something, but he doesn't. He simply lets out a breath, delicately holds me in his gaze.

I let my hand drop between us, marveling at the feel of his soft skin beneath mine. I don't want to make him uncomfortable though, I'm already ogling him enough as it is.

At the realization that I really am looking at him so hard, I tilt my head down, dropping my gaze. After what that awful woman texted him tonight, I doubt he wants to be looked at like this. Picked apart, observed. The point of this is to help him, not point out everything he probably hates about himself. Though, there really is nothing to hate. The me from a couple months ago would passionately object to that statement, but that's past-me for a reason.

Things change. I changed. Sal's changed.

My breath catches in my throat when his hand presses against my cheek, using the leverage to tilt my head up again. To look at him.

My heart leaps in my chest and I'm unable to breathe when I notice his dilated pupil, feel his thumb gently rubbing my along my jawline. His eyes track his digit's movements, but I can't even be bothered to look away from him. I'm bewitched by his fascination with me, haunted by the calm expression on his face, the wonder in his eyes.

His thumb drags down from my cheek and to my mouth, skimming over my top lip, then the bottom. I feel skittish, burning to move some part of my body to release the energy pent up inside me.

His tongue runs over his bottom lip, entranced by my own mouth.

And if he were to actually try to kiss me this time, I wouldn't stop him.

A low hum spreads throughout my entire body upon acknowledging our situation and the tension that's suddenly filled the air. It's a tingling in every limb, down my spine, up to the very tips of my fingers and toes. I feel him everywhere even though he's only touching my face. I can see him so well, so easily. The slightly darker shade of his left eye and the golden flecks of stardust in his right eye. Pretty. So pretty.

"So pretty," he murmurs my own thoughts. Something about the way he says it, so unguarded and adoring, makes me think I wasn't supposed to hear it.

I don't know how to reply or if I even should. I simply watch him like I have been all night, feeling oxygen and rationality leave me with each prolonged second of this somewhat embrace of ours. We've found ourselves like this more than once today, could we possibly escape it again?

I feel so light and heavy at the same time, thrumming with energy but weak. The feeling of his skin, so cool against my flushed skin, is enough to have my mind racing but to make my body completely freeze. I'm stuck. There's so much... so much that I want to do with the way he's looking at me this way, but I can't make myself do it.

I don't quite realize how close we've suddenly gotten until his nose bumps my mask's. A quiet gasp leaves me and his eyes dart up, gazing into mine.

He's fighting himself and I can tell, the quick scrunch of his eyebrows gives everything away.

Things are really about to change-- again. As if they hadn't already.

There's something startling about the way his eyebrows draw together again, but this time in a pleading way, like he's silently willing me with his mind to pull away from him. Begging me to put a stop to his internal madness. To change his mind. His doe eyes look a little scared and a little dedicated– two very different emotions that just so happen to go hand-in-hand for the moment.

The way he's looking at me... it's been so long since anyone has looked so pleasurably torn up over wanting me so badly. And not in a lustful way, but in the way that forms bonds. Connects us so intimately without the goal of chasing an orgasm or being able to get something out of the situation. The way he's looking at me screams curiosity and a need to sate it so bad that he's not fighting the battle he wanted me to pull him away from moments ago. He's just slowly giving in and trying to convince himself that he's not.

I'm no better than him in this moment. My hands are balled into fists, my entire body frozen and awaiting whatever it is that's going to come next. My fingernails bite into my palms and my heart drums against my chest, wishing he'd move closer.

I didn't think it'd be this way. I didn't expect to crave him so badly, to miss the feeling of his lips on mine without ever having felt it before. It's excruciating to yearn for him in this new way and hope that he doesn't back out before I can even feel him.

As if he read my mind, he's moved so close that I can feel his breath on my chin, his top lip brush over mine.

I suck in a choking breath and hold it, praying this isn't all a dream.

"Aren't you scared?" He whispers quietly, his mouth skimming over mine with each syllable. His words echo in my mind, his tone caressing my thoughts, coercing me into falling into him and never getting up again.

"No," I whisper back, shutting my eyes and waiting. It's scarier to look at him and fear that he'll move away. Almost as if to lock him into place, I grip onto the hem of his shirt.

He goes quiet and I feel every one of my neurons lighting up with anticipation when his forehead presses against my mask's.

"Push me away. Something," Sal whispers, the words so quiet and pained that I don't dare open my eyes to observe his current state.

He knows. He knows this is exactly what he told me wouldn't happen, but now it's about to. And we should be realistic, think about the consequences but I don't want to. I just want to feel him, have him near. I want to be selfish.

I lick my lips, forgetting he's so close. My tongue swipes over his bottom lip and I hear it-- feel it when he steals a breath that tries to escape him.

"I can't," I answer him hoarsely, unable to raise my voice for him to hear me better as I squeeze the fabric of his shirt in my fist. Every bit of me aches to touch him, to feel his skin on mine but I can't muster up the courage, not when this entire situation is in his hands right now.

I won't choose for him today, not with what brought us to this. If he wants me, he can take me.

"Please." His word comes out in a broken whisper, so full of yearning that a little whimper escapes my mouth.

"Please," I mimic him, entranced by the featherlight brush of my lips over his. I can't keep doing this. I can't... "I can't think. Do it."

He lets out the most pitiful sigh I think I've ever heard in my life, and then leisurely presses his lips into mine. It's slow, soft, careful. He holds himself there, suffocates in the sensation just as I do.

Everything I thought I had lost so long ago comes rushing back into me. Excitement, life, a want for more than basic necessity. And for once, I don't feel bad. I don't feel guilty for wanting Sal as much as I do.

I place a hand on his stomach to remind myself that this kiss is real, that he's truly standing in front of me.

My touch was the trigger, I realize, when his other hand moves to my other cheek, pulls me closer to him. He tilts his head a bit as his jagged lips part against mine, softly welcoming the slanting of my mouth against his.

My throat feels as though it's clamped shut as I move a hand to grab onto the base of Sal's neck, my fingers wrapping around the collar of his shirt. I'm completely enraptured by the feeling of his mouth on mine. I feel like I'm going to faint, my heart beating so quickly, so vigorously that I can hear my blood pulsing in my ears. There's so much emotion that I've bitten down and hidden for so long regarding Sal. It's all coming out now.

Our lips move slowly, passionately. There's no rush, no heat. It's just feeling. Every movement, every moment of his lips sliding so delicately against mine, every ragged breath, every tightening of his hands on my face or my fingers bunching into his shirt. The feeling of our noses occasionally brushing against each other, plastic against damaged skin, and his chin skimming over mine just a bit. It's beautiful and so passionately smothering. The quiet morphs to mimic the simultaneous quick pace of our heart beats.

I feel the rapid beating of his heart like a drum right in the center of my chest where we touch, becoming one despite the heavy, loathsome origin story we were granted with. I'm sure he can feel just how much he's affecting me, his hand drifting over my neck and two fingers pressing against my pulse point like he did the first time we were together.

As sadistic as he is, I think he's only checking because he can't tell where his heart beat begins and where mine ends.

Sal's lips close over mine again, the feeling eliciting a shiver that threatens to take over my entire being. I return his kiss, desperate to be closer to him in any way possible while my hand trails from his shirt to his cheek, brushing over the soft, scarred skin.

He presses me against the kitchen counter, his hands beginning to roam past my face and neck as things gravitate from sweet to intense.

Our kiss becomes aggressive, his teeth biting into my lips and quiet breaths and whimpers passing from him and to me. He makes me feel crazy, filling me with exhilaration that courses through my blood quicker than adrenaline ever possibly could.

Sal moves backward and I move to follow, but then his lips leave mine.

I open my eyes, blinking up at him with barely an inch of space between our faces.

He stares at me, looking like I've just torn him to pieces and hid every bit of him away and now he has to play eternity-long hide-n-seek.

But beyond that, his lips are flushed and kissed, his cheeks tinged pink and hair a mess-- when did I touch his hair? His eyes look a little brighter though, a little less haunted.

"Uh," he voices shakily. "Heat of the moment?"

He doesn't even sound like he believes himself.

The statement still makes my hopes deflate dramatically though. I chew on the inside of my cheek and force myself to look him in the eye as I lie to his face. "Yea," I rasp, taken aback by the sound of my voice. "Yea."

He watches me closely, never moving farther nor closer. As the seconds pass, he seems to sober up, the terrified look in his eyes slowly fading away.

If he decides this was a one time thing, at least I got to taste him once. At least we got one moment, one kiss. It's what I wanted and it's what he wants.

Sal interrupts my thoughts, whispering, "You know..." One of his hands painstakingly and slowly trails along my side, making my skin erupt with goosebumps. "I think we're still in the heat of the moment," he continues darkly, gaze falling to my mouth.

I don't let shock take control, I only try to control the smile that tries to quirk my lips. "I think so too," I whisper back, looking down at his teeth that bite into his lower lip like he's barely holding himself back.

As soon as he hears my response, he doesn't bother holding back. He smashes his lips onto mine and engages the two of us in the same dangerous dance we made the mistake of beginning earlier.

-------

A/N::::: BEEN HOLDING THIS ONE IN THE DRAFTS FOR A WHILLLLLLEEEEE I CAN'T BELIEVE IT'S FINALLY TIME-- LIKE I ACTUALLY CAN'T BELIEVE IT WHAT THE FUCK AM I GOING TO WRITE AFTER THIS

jk >:3

yea so as much as i adore this chapter, it also scares me because i feel like it moves way too fast (totally hasn't been nearly thirty fucking chapters ahahhaha). so yea, PLEASE let me know how we feel about this and what could have been better!

psa: i'm going to be starting student teaching august 1st, and college has me going to lots of meetings which means things are about to get VERRRYYYY busy for me… busier than they've ever been :( but!! i think things will be okay. lately, i've been teaching myself to fight through the lack of motivation and write any time i get even an inkling of yearning for it. exactly why y'all got this chapter so soon, actually! i saw something about how stephen king writes 5,000 words a day and i've been building to that! so while i won't be able to freely write as much as i know i'll want to, i'll still be writing. you guys know the drill though, even if it takes me a month or two to get something out, WINTER BREAK IS IN DECEMBER WHICH MEANS I CAN BEAT Y'ALL UP WITH CHAPTERS!!!

as always, i love you all SO much. more than you'll ever know. things have been tough on my mental lately and i'm going to be going through a HUGE shift in my life, but… that's okay cuz I know I'll always have you guys. thank you for being the most stable, non-toxic, and reliable things in my life! y'all going in my will fr

have a wonderful morning/day/evening/night my babies <3

p.s. when i wrote this note, i had just posted this chapter to wattpad-- which was about a week ago. the huge shift in my life had involved a six year relationship that i ended yesterday. i am incredibly torn up and shaken by this, but i believe it needed to happen for my wellbeing as well as my growth as a person. I know it's not necessarily an important thing to add to this note, but i want to give a reason just in case this healing process causes a prolonged absence for me. i am completely dedicated to faceless fixation and even today i've thought about what i want to write next, but i need to put some focus on myself instead of running away from my problems. thank you guys for being wonderful, i love you all so much!! until next time <3

#sal fisher #sally face #larry johnson #ash campbell #todd morrison #travis phelps #enemies to lovers #sally face fandom #sally face fanfiction #fanfic

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eoieopda · 2 years ago

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i need to start this off by saying that the sandman series by neil gaiman is one of my favorite things ever written, so the fact that this exists — and you wrote it — and it has yoongi — is sure to fuck me right up, my good bitch.

i will then say that reading this on a very dreary day feels extra fitting, especially with all of the storm imagery and (even better) all the hazy comfort that comes after the — well, you know — attempted murder.

below the cut, i will stop saying and start shrieking.

i am always such a slut for symmetry, circular phrasing, bookends, etc. so my brain went brrrrrt with these: “it begins with rain” / “it ends in darkness”

this part made me want to sob: “No!” you bark back, cutting him off and shooting to your feet. “I am a person-” / “You are a woman!” he roars, making the high priest flinch.

oh, would you look at that! this comparison also made me want to SOB: And your mother was going to let him do it. The woman who had brought you into the world screaming and bloody was going to pass you off to a man, even if it meant that man dragged you kicking and screaming to the altar.

this is the most fucking yoongi thing of all time: “You’re welcome. Are you hungry? You’ve been asleep for nearly a day.” like!! swerving right around someone’s gratitude and being like, want some brunch? i made it.

two weeks per month? make it four, and we have a deal, boongi.

“I have things to do.” “Like what?” “Not give tours.” I’M CACKLING.

their exchange about her praying to him and him appearing like it’s obvious, duh, is giving “you came” / “you called” energy — which is my favorite fucking thing.

“No one dreams the way you do.” He says this firmly. Confident. Fierce. “I believe there is nothing you wouldn’t be able to find here.” BRO!!!!!!! GET SOMEONE THAT BELIEVES IN YOU LIKE DREAM BOONGI DOES!!!!!

“Is this what you dream of?” he whispers, eyes remaining closed. “Being under me, like this?” AS A MATTER OF FACT, IT IS. oh, i’m sick, hali. sick!!!!

“Why aren’t you breathing?” great question. i would love to tell you, but i also can’t breathe, soooooo

the sprinkles of humor in here are so endearing i just afashddhfkglak: “Who said you can eat my grapes?”

“Yoongi tears his lips away and looks down at you, eyes so dark and blown out that you think he might devour you, swallow you whole in one bite.” GOD OF KIRBY SWALLOWING

narrator voice: this is the part in the reading process where jade went fully insane

DANGLY EARRING MAN BUN YOONGI GO FUCK YOURSELF

i need to be sedated. are you KIDDING? re: He hums and it sounds like disapproval. “I think your dreams are far more indulgent than that.”

omfg their whole conversation about indulging, and his earrings, while he has to scold a lil dragon like a bad dog i’m losing it

FUCK

i’m so excited to go snort part two up my nose. i need it in my blood stream.

Gods of the Dark | One | myg (m)

☾ Pairing: Dream god!Yoongi x f. human!reader

☾ Summary: Don’t ask for help in the dark. It’s an old tale you always heard whispered among the people of your village. But when you find yourself dragged kicking by the man you’re to marry, you have little choice but to beg for help long after the sun has set. The god who answers your pleas promises to save you, but every deal comes with a price.

☾ Word Count: 21,606

☾ Genre: Fantasy, angst, strangers to lovers, smut

☾ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

☾ Warnings: Sexist and patriarchal society inspired by medieval europe, a lot of world building and discussion about theories/concept of dreams, discussions of morals and ethics, world building, angst, intense fight scenes, mentions/light depictions of an abusive family, discussions of gender roles and forced marriages, attempted murder via drowning, a physical fight between a man and a woman in the middle of a storm, sexual dream sequences featuring making out, biting (light), grinding, reader having flashbacks of trauma, a lot of thoughts about reader's terrible parents, a sort of power imbalance in the sense that reader is in Yoongi's realm as a part of a deal.

☾ Published: July 9, 2023

☾ A/N: It's finally here! This was originally supposed to be two giant chapters, but I cannot manage my time in a way to write to ~40k chapters and also fit all of this in a way that is not overwhelming or feels like it makes sense, so I have chosen to do this in 4 chapters of roughly 20k words! Thank you to everyone who has hyped me up for this idea, helped me work out some ideas, or listened to me struggle to write this because I was so unsure about the chemistry between Yoongi and reader at first. I am really excited to be writing this and have taken this in quite a different direction than the original idea when I had when I watched the Lilith MV, but that's okay. I heavily draw on inspiration from the Lilith MV, the song Possession of a Weapon by Ashnikko, The Sandman by Neil Gaiman, the movie The Witch, The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by V.E. Schwab and the original myth of Hades and Persephone (where I got the deal/living in Yoongi's world idea from).

Special thank you to my amazing beta team who really helped make this fic what it is and make sure it was legible: @theharrowing and @here2bbtstrash

☾ Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

Tuck a knife with my heart up my sleeve

Change like a season

It begins with rain.

White sheets of it beating against the window in a gentle murmur, a soft leak in the corner of the kitchen dripping into the metal bucket your mother has set out. The storm brings a cool wind with it, blowing in on the back porch where your father rocks back and forth in his chair, watching the deluge.

Shivering, you throw another log into the fireplace, pulling your shawl closer as orange embers spark and crackle, drifting up the shute. The smell of burning cedar grows and you smile, sitting down in front of the licking flames and holding out your hands to warm your palms.

Behind you at the kitchen table, your mother pulls a thread and needle through a dress she’s been working on, stitching purple flowers into the sleeves. You wonder if she’s making it for the neighbor's daughter, a girl a few years younger than you to be wed soon.

Mother makes some of the best stitching in the village, her practiced hands etching artful flowers and vines and designs on the sleeves and skirts of most of the village women. She’s tried for years to pass the craft on to you, but your fingers aren’t nearly as nimble and your eye for art is sorely lacking.

What you lack in art you make up for in stories, though. Head in the clouds, swimming in worlds, places and things you’ve never seen. Lives and people who only exist in your mind, entire fantasies with more colors and sights and smells than your tiny little world contains.

You’d write them down if you could. Writing and reading is not a woman’s craft, though, and you know better than to press your father on the subject any further than you have in the past. A terse word from him and your raw knuckles after being forced to do the wash alone for weeks kept you from bringing up the topic of learning to read and write ever again, especially when you remember the sting of his slap when you pushed too far.

Still, you have your mind. You have the ability to dream up worlds and twist fantasies together, to daze off and pretend that you’re somewhere else. That you’re living another life.

You have the days where you finish working at the inn early, sitting in the corner of the room with hard bread and cheese, listening to the town’s storyteller whisper tales and myths to the children of the village.

For now, it will suffice.

When the rain finally slows in the late afternoon, it’s cloudy and cool outside, the perfect temperature for a walk. Pulling on a pair of linen pants and a tunic, you creep toward the door, hoping to avoid the attention of your parents as they begin to prepare dinner in the kitchen, their movements methodical and silent.

Carefully, you slide boots on your feet. As you reach for the front door, hidden from the view of the kitchen, you hear your mother call your name. You pause, closing your eyes and grimacing as you call back, “Yes?”

“Where are you going? It’s wet and cold outside.”

“Just for a short walk.”

“You’re going to catch a cold,” she protests. Her steps move near you. You pull the door open and step into the wet air, eager to get away from her. “Come help us with dinner.”

“I’ll see you shortly, the weather is lovely!”

Before your mother can come around the corner and pin you with her disappointed stare, you’re down the slippery steps and sloshing into the yard, mud and grass sucking at your steps as you hurry. You hear your father yell something like dammit, girl but you can’t be sure, the sounds of birds and the bugs swallowing his curses as you rush through the front yard.

The world is covered in a layer of fine mist, tree boughs heavy with rain as they drip drip drip onto the forest floor around you. Thick, gray clouds hide the sun still. Thunder rolls in the distance, promising more rain through the night. You don’t mind, diving into the darkness of the trees on a well-worn path through the woods.

Water floods the path up to the ankle, soaking your boots. You grin and kick your feet as you walk, watching the ripples flow outward. Water mosquitoes dance on top of the surface of the flood and you note little tadpoles swim by, confirming that the river by your house is flooding up over the bank and washing into the mainland.

This is common most summers. Your house is out of the way from the town, almost a thirty minute walk. This far north, you’re only ten minutes from the edge of the slow-moving river that floods yearly turning the land around your property into a marsh.

It’s your favorite time of year. A heron startles as you wander through the trees, shaking its white wings and shedding water as it hurries away on long, thin legs. You spot a snake swimming through the reeds, rushing away from you once it senses you sloshing through.

Closer to the river, you pause. It’s hard to tell where the embankment dips down with it flooded. You can see where the flood moves faster, powered by the depth of the river and the overflow from the lake up north. Leaning against a tree, you look around this world of water.

It seems alien. Trees block out the sky and are reflected in the surface of the flood, giving the illusion that you stand between two worlds, two dimensions.

What would that be like, you wonder.

According to the high priest in town, there are other dimensions. There are the heavens for the gods of light and love, who bless the world with fire and harvest and rain and oceans, who protect the people and who will absolve you of all sin and greed if you pray to them hard enough and accept them as your patrons. Who will love you only if you are devout.

You don’t believe in them for a second. If those gods of love and light do exist, they are not entirely good. They have never answered your prayers, have never saved you from pain or from sorrow. You have begged the gods to give you a new life, to let you leave. To let you go somewhere far away.

They have been silent. They were silent when your father beat you after the first time you rejected a marital match. They didn’t help you when he burned all your materials when you tried to teach yourself the shapes and sounds of letters.

So you stopped praying to them.

There are other gods, of course. Other places for the wicked, dark gods full of trickery and greed, who seek only to fill the world with sin and deceit, who desire to make humans suffer and lose themselves in hedonism and debauchery. Those gods have a place too, the dark underworld for those who should be punished and reminded what it is to be full of sin.

You’ve never prayed to them either, too afraid of what it would cost you. But you wonder if they answer or if they too watch the world from a mountain so high that they cannot bother to help those who need it.

Still, you wonder what it would be like to walk between two worlds. To see one reflected in the other, to fall face first into the cool water only to surface in another place, almost an exact replica of where you’re from.

It would be nice. Perhaps there you wouldn’t be a disappointing daughter who has turned away every suitor in the village, much to your father’s rage. There, you would be allowed to pursue reading and writing. You’d have the agency to sail the world and see the ocean for the first time, to feel the freezing spray of the seas on your face while you hunt the coast for something lost.

Always something lost.

In all of your fantasies, you’re looking for something. Sometimes, you’re not sure what it is you’re looking for, you just know that something needs to be found. Other times, it’s a specific object or a person, something that, deep down, you know represents the thing you desire to find most: freedom.

A small school of fish swim by your feet. They can’t be any larger than your pinky finger, scurrying along before they’re swept up in the suction of the flowing river. Sighing, you push off the tree and begin to head back home, swatting at your bare arms where gnats bite at your sweaty skin.

Dark presses in as you walk back. You had stayed in the woods later than you intended, mind drifting far off among the sounds of the world around you. A cool tingle slides down your neck as you walk, water breaking around you.

You pause. It’s the same feeling that you get whenever you spend far too long in the woods and the sun goes down. It feels like there’s someone there with you, just at your back. Slowly, you turn to look over your shoulder but there’s no one there, just the warm press of something you can’t see.

When it happened the first time, you’d been so afraid you ran home. Now, though, you smile and look down at the ground as you keep walking. The presence, whether it’s real or something you have made up in your head, is always comforting. Always there, a gentle press of feeling.

There are candles burning in the windows and an owl hoots in greeting when your house appears. Inside, you kick off your shoes and rush to meet your parents at the silent dinner table. Both of them look up at you, your mother’s mouth pinched, eyes weary. Your father’s gaze is thunderous as he picks up cutlery and begins to cut into his potato in saw-like motions, his knuckles going white.

You sit down without a word, bow your head to pretend to pray. Your mother clears her throat, drawing your attention. “It’s after dark. You missed your prayers.”

It doesn’t matter. You weren’t going to pray anyway. But the way your parents look at you makes you drop your eyes down to the table, their expressions alarmed. Were you really about to pray after the sunset, when the benevolent gods were no longer listening? The only gods available to you now are dangerous. Violent. Tricky.

Dinner is dry and too heavily salted. Still, you don’t complain. Somewhere in the world, you’re sure that there are wonderful feasts being held. Plates and platters of honey-glazed meats, roasted pheasant and charred filets. Whipped sweets and colorful confectionaries, dripping fruits and sugary drinks.

None of those places exist anywhere that you’ve ever seen, but you like to imagine them as you chew your way through an oppressively silent meal. He says nothing, but you can tell your father is angry once again. Just as well, he at least keeps it to himself through the meal and says nothing when you’re done.

“I’ll do the dishes,” you offer quickly when your parents finish. It’s an olive branch and they know it. They accept anyway, letting you gather plates as the soft hush of rain begins again.

Rain washes out the night. You can’t see anything beyond the water that runs off the roof over the back porch as you dip your rag into warm water, scrubbing at the plates before setting them to dry in the stack next to you.

Frogs croak, their loud voices blending together into the roar of the rain. Every now and again, lightning flashes above and thunder shakes the sky. You feel it vibrate through your ribs and you smile, inhaling the charged air.

“... doesn’t have a choice!” You turn toward the open doorway. You can’t see your parents but the window is open to their room, voices coming in and out of the rain. “... force her! I’ve had… and he’s already agreed.”

You frown, stopping your scrubbing to lean further, straining your ears. “This won’t go well,” your mother says.

“I don’t give a damn! It’s already done, woman. Enough.”

The rest of the conversation is drowned out by thunder. You frown and turn back to your task, trying to piece together what they’re talking about. You think back to your mother stitching the dress before dinner and think perhaps they’re gossiping about the neighbor again. She wasn’t happy that she was being married off and everyone knew it.

Still, she’s doing it. She’s stronger than you. It’s hard to imagine going through with something you don’t want, to live a life shackled to another person who doesn’t love you. Whose only purpose is to coexist with you and reproduce. To run a household and get through each and every day, the same as last.

It’s hard to say if your parents are in love. They are tender, at times, but you can’t ever point out a moment that your mother or father seem truly happy. Content isn’t the same as happiness. Not really. While they work together well and seem to have struck up a balance after the years, there’s nothing in the way they move through life that seems joyful.

You had asked your mom if she was happy once. She gave you a funny look and said, I have a roof above my head and food on the table. How could I not be?

Her response puzzles you still. To live is not to be happy. Being alive is just that - being alive. A bare minimum. But truly being happy is something else. At least, that’s how you understand it. How the heroes and characters in stories and tales live their lives, fighting for happiness.

Later that night, you forget all about their whispers behind the sheets of rain. You’re tired and the storm is soothing, making you dream of a far away land where there are two armies entrenched in war, battling for their kingdoms and lighting the sky with storm magic.

Another dream. Another fantasy.

In your dream, a soft mouth meets yours. The kiss is slow, tongue dragging against yours, tasting of something sweet, mouth warm. It smells like clove and cinnamon, and though you don’t open your eyes to see the mouth that slides against yours, you know you are safe.

It ends in darkness.

Dusk has settled around your home like a funeral shroud. Your father has been gone all day, your mother flippant when you ask about his whereabouts. Your mother is a painted picture of anxiety: mouth pinched, darting eyes that fail to meet yours, and hunched shoulders. It makes your palms sweat, the way she avoids you in the house.

Rain comes down in patterns again, bands of storms floating by and turning the world gray. You don’t have to go to the inn with the road flooded, so you spend the day at the window instead, watching each storm flash by, listening to the frogs and watching the birds pick through bug-filled waters between each deluge.

When the sun begins to set, you find your mother standing near the window, looking through wet glass as she chews the corner of her lip. She wipes her hands on her dress, not picking up that you’re standing in the doorway watching her.

The gown she has been stitching for the past few days lays on the table. It’s a beautiful thing, bursting with intricate flowers on the sleeves and the skirts. You don’t enjoy dresses - much less the kind for marriage - but you admire the careful needlework.

“It’s a good dress,” you tell her. She startles from where she stands at the window, whirling around to face you. “One of your best.”

“Yes. I-” something crosses her face that’s unreadable. “Would you try it on for me? I want to make sure I got the sizing right.”

You shrug and pick it up. It’s not the first time she’s used you for sizing and you’re sure it won’t be the last. You just hope that she doesn’t make you stand on a stool for hours to place pins in the skirt, mapping where she needs to take in the seams and make the fabric fold.

The material is a little scratchy when you put it on. It’s snug across the chest and a little bit long at the wrist, but the material ripples over you like water. Outside of your room, the sound of your father’s voice echoes. He sounds more jovial than usual, laughing loudly - another voice is with him.

Frowning, you work the buttons on the side of the dress to secure it shut, pulling the fabric into place. It isn’t often that your father has guests over, but you can assume it’s one of his friends he has over for dinner. You make a sour face at the thought that perhaps it’s Mr. Laudermill and his son Nathaniel again, a family your father has tried to pawn you off on before.

The list of people your father has tried to get you to marry is astounding. It’s become a joke in the town, a game of who will he ask next? At first, there were plenty of families who offered their sons to make the union. Now, after how vehemently you have protested for your right to pick your husband yourself, it’s you who is rejected when your father makes dowry offers.

It seems - much to your advantage - that the men of the town and even the neighboring villages grew tired of the girl who liked to say no. It gives you small satisfaction to know that sheer inconvenience has earned you freedom alongside your mother’s unwillingness to force you.

Still, the Laudermills are a little persistent. Not your father’s favorite option he has ever brought up, but it was one that didn’t say no.

You enter the main house with minor trepidation, uneager to spend the evening sighing at Nathaniel’s terrible jokes and attempts to win you over. You wonder if it’s sheer pride that brings him back this time, upset that he cannot beat the town's little conundrum. The unconquerable conquest. You get the feeling that’s why he and his father visit for dinner sometimes, Nathaniel’s pride unwilling to back down from the challenge.

You’d respect him more if he had more admiration for the word no.

Nathaniel and his father are in the main room of your home, speaking in laughing tones to your father. Your mother stands near the open back door, hands wringing together. There is another person in your house that you don’t expect, though. The village’s high priest nods his head along with something that your father is saying, wrinkled hands clasped in front of his robes.

Time seems to slow down. You take in the tight expression on your mother’s face, her eyes drifting over to the priest who is dressed in ceremonial purple robes, an air of professional courtesy about him. He’s nodding to Nathaniel who is speaking now, and it’s when you really look at him, dressed in nice linen pants, a long sleeved shirt and an ornate vest, that you put the pieces together.

Too slowly do you react as your father turns to you. His smile is forced and his gaze is burning with warning when he gestures. “There’s our bride!”

The word sinks in like a blade. Right between the ribs and up, its point poking dangerous at your heart as your blood begins to roar in your ears. You’re frozen to the spot, staring at them from the threshold of your room. You can feel your pulse throbbing in your neck, your hands shaking.

“You look beautiful,” Nathaniel says, grinning. It’s a genuine smile, a proud one. Something that says finally. “I’m so glad you’re ready, after all this time.”

“I… what?”

In a moment of razor-sharp clarity, you remember the conversation your parents were having last night, soft words whispered under the cover of the storm. You remember something about forcing her and someone having already agreed.

No. No. Nonononononono.

You don’t realize you’re speaking out loud as you back up into your room, the horror settling in as the rain begins to tap on the roof. Your mother looks crestfallen but remains silent as your father’s smile tightens and his face reddens.

When he says your name, it’s full of warning. The back of your legs hit your bed and your weak knees buckle. You sit down with a huff and shake your head. “You can’t do this,” you whisper. You can’t find your voice, can’t work your throat louder. “You cannot make me marry.”

“Of course I can,” your father hisses. His smile drops and in its place is something dangerous. Horrific. The villain of all your dreams and epic fantasies. “I have given you more than enough time to choose. You have not. As the man of this house-”

“No!” you bark back, cutting him off and shooting to your feet. “I am a person-”

“You are a woman!” he roars, making the high priest flinch. “Your purpose is to grow up, get married, mind the household and provide an heir! You are the only fiendish woman in this entire forsaken village who seems to misunderstand this!”

“It is not my purpose!”

“It is, and you will fulfill it!” he hisses. “You will marry this man before the gods, with my blessing and the witness of the priest.”

Behind you, thunder rolls. The rain comes down harder. Frogs croak loudly, bracketed by the sound of the trees bending with the weight of the wind. Your heart pounds in your chest as you stare at the people before you. Your mother with tears in her eyes, your father with fury in his face, the priest with disappointment and Nathaniel. Nathaniel with glee. With a grin. With a smirk.

“I won’t do it,” you whisper.

Before they can argue, you turn on your heel and leap onto your bed. Your father and Nathaniel rush at the doorway, their steps pounding behind you as you crawl through the window, your ribs slamming on the sill as you lean face forward. Rain soaks you immediately, your hands gripping the sill as you haul your middle half over the edge, intending to just flip down into the mud.

Hands yank at your legs and you scream, a feral sound ripping through your lungs as you kick backward violently. You’re yanked back toward your room viciously, rib cage aching where you slide on the concrete frame. With another savage kick, you make contact and hear a loud shout before the hands drop from your waist.

Pushing harshly, you throw yourself the rest of the way through the window, falling the few feet down to land with a splash. Your father is screaming inside the house but you’re already slipping to your feet, whatever he says drowned out in the rain.

You don’t even think. You run, hands picking up the wet-leaden skirts on your dress as you tear off toward the woods. Water rushes around your ankles as you go and you hear commotion at the window as someone clambers through. You don’t dare turn around as you rush to the line of trees, unafraid of the dark but terrified of the slamming footsteps behind you.

It’s impossible to be fast in the flooded woods. You wince as your feet get cut up on rocks and sharp sticks that you can’t see. You trip over roots and kick solid things as you slog forward, biting back a cry as you try to flee.

“Get back here, you wretched bitch!” Nathaniel screams behind you.

It never occurred to you that he could say something so violent. It spurs you forward, mud and water sucking your feet down and making your flight sticky and slow. Rain pelts down between the leaves, the storm lighting up the treetops with purple flashes every now and again. Thunder shakes their branches and rumbles through your feet, the water rushing higher and higher.

Nathaniel slams into you at the waist. You scream as he takes you down, his weight on top of you. Your scream is cut off as your mouth fills with water. You swallow in a panic, body thrumming with alarm as you choke, nose full of water, eyes burning. You can hear the dull roar of water, the swish of your tangled limbs on the floor.

Clawing at him, you feel your nails rip down soft flesh and hear a muted yell. He lifts his weight off of you and you sit forward, breaking the surface and gasping for air, retching. Your lungs and nose burn as you gasp for air, fighting to get a breath in.

Nathaniel is on you again, his hand going for your hair as he digs his fingers in hard, yanking at your scalp. Your hands fly to his wrist and you scream again, pulling at him, trying to free yourself. Tears smart your eyes from the stinging pain as he yanks hard enough that you think he’ll tear you right apart.

“Fucking ungrateful,” he barks.

Your feet slide in the mud as he uses your buoyancy in the knee deep water to haul you back toward the house. You twist in his grip, mewling in panic and pain as you work to get your feet under you and fight back. You let go of his arm and throw a weak punch at his ribs. He grunts but doesn’t let go, even as you twist, hands shooting to the ground, digging through soaked earth and weeds until you feel the hard, rough shape of a rock.

Grabbing it, you lift your hand from the water and bring it down hard on Nathaniel’s wrist. He screams and lets go of your hair. Your fingers ache from the blow but you don’t waste precious minutes, scrambling to your feet and sloshing away from him again. He’s already gripping at your dress, fingers ripping at the fabric to get a hold of you.

Desperation claws at you and you scream for help. You don’t know if anyone else is out here in the dark of the woods but you don’t care. Bleeding, in pain, and terrified, you tear through the water, the rock clutched in your fingers, rushing in the dark as Nathaniel gives chase.

“Please!” you scream at the dark. “Anyone, please!”

A thread of thought slivers through you about the gods. Praying to the gods has never gotten you anywhere. It didn’t make your father let you read. It didn’t get you out of your town. It didn’t save you from this. The supposed gods who rule with light and love had never heard you and you had long stopped believing in them.

But you’d never prayed to the gods of the dark. The gods who only listen to words whispered after the setting sun.

“Please,” you beg, turning your head to the dark sky. Lighting flashes and thunder rumbles. Cool wind brushes against your face, wind that feels like it whispers I’m listening. “Please,” you scream again. “Help me, I’ll give you whatever you want. Help me!”

Nathaniel takes you down by the waist again. You gasp for air this time as your face slaps the water with a sting. The current is rushing faster here, pulling at you. Deeper. Colder. You’re close to the river, and you feel the suction of the force of the flow tugging at your body as Nathaniel digs his fingers into the meat of your arms.

This time, he doesn’t pull you with him. He holds you down, shoving you deeper and deeper until you realize that he’s no longer interested in bringing you back. You kick at him, you tear at him. You slam his wrist with the rock again but his other hand grabs yours, wrenching the weapon away from you.

Your lungs are screaming and water is rushing into your nose as oxygen escapes you. His grip is firm and you begin to panic. All you can think is help help help help. Please help.

Bubbles escape your mouth as you’re forced to breathe out again. You’re running out of time and pain starts to build in your chest. You feel the way your lungs squeeze, needing air. You let out more air and press your lips tight, desperately trying not to inhale.

Breathe in, your instincts scream. Breathe breathe breathe breathe.

Agony. You’re in agony as you open your mouth in a final cry, unable to form the words. Unable to scream and ask for a higher power that you only believe in at this moment to help you.

Water fills your mouth. You swallow it whole, feel it go down as you begin to spasm.

You’re going to die.

And then Nathaniel’s hands are gone. It takes you a moment to realize that there’s no crushing grip on your arms and in the brief moment of realization, you barely manage to push up. To break the surface and vomit, water coming out of you in a stinging, horrid mess. Your stomach turns and you feel your chest squeeze as you choke.

The storm is still raging around you, water pulling at you and pressing you into the rough bark of a tree. Blinking tears from your eyes, you look around but it’s too dark to see. You can hear Nathaniel looking for you, screaming your name in the dark.

The back of your neck tingles. There’s a feeling in the air behind you - that sliver of breath that you often sense when you’re out in the woods alone just after dark. Like something or someone is there with you, just behind you.

“What is it you want?” a deep, dark voice whispers. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end and you feel chilled to the bone. The voice is like none you’ve ever heard, sensual and dizzying.

“Want?”

“You asked for help.” The voice switches to your other ear and you don’t dare turn around to find the speaker. “What do you want?”

“What can you give?”

The voice chuckles. The sound makes you shiver, your eyelids fluttering. The voice purrs, “I can give you anything you dream, little lamb. Tell me: what do you want?”

You think about it. Lightning lances through the sky and for a brief moment, the world is a flash of silver. You see Nathaniel in the light, a few feet away from you. He’s bloody and heaving, his eyes snapping to where you hide against the tree.

“Freedom,” you gasp as the world falls to darkness again. “I want freedom.”

“What will you give me?”

“What do you want?” you beg, hearing Nathaniel move toward you.

There’s a soft hum and you feel lightheaded at the sound. “Your time.”

“My time?”

“Your time in exchange for freedom, little lamb. Better hurry, this offer is about to expire.”

Nathaniel screams in a rage. Sloshes closer to you. Your heartbeat quickens. You can feel it in your chest, hear it in your ears, your pulse throbbing as he nears.

“Okay,” you whisper, voice coming out shaky.

“Then tell me you accept.”

You take a deep breath. “I accept.”

There’s a brush at the nape of your neck, warm and soft. Though you’ve never been kissed before, you think that it’s the press of lips, intimate and barely there. Something inside you flickers to life, like a new instinct that has opened its eyes for the first time. You’re aware of another presence, a soft buzz that presses down on you as it stands up next to you.

Thunder rolls and you feel someone brush by you. A hand touches your cheek almost fondly, fingers dragging along the curve of your jaw. Blinking slowly, you lean into the touch, seeking its comfort. You don’t know who it belongs to. All you know is that just the feel of fingers on your skin has your stomach flipping, your toes curling.

The hand drops from your face and you immediately miss the contact. Opening your eyes, you see another flash of lightning. There’s someone standing in front of you dressed in black, slick with rain. You can’t make out anything much, just the shape of a man in a dark cloak.

A god. You know he’s a god, whoever this savior is. You know that something has heard your screams in the dark and has come to give you what you wanted. What you begged for.

“She is no longer available to you,” the god announces to Nathaniel. It’s not the same whisper as a moment ago, but a deep, raspy voice. Dark. Demanding. “She’s mine.”

“That’s my betrothed,” Nathaniel answers, though it comes out like a question, his voice trembling. “I– she belongs to-”

“Me,” the dark god assures. A loud clap of thunder makes you flinch. “Goodbye, Nathaniel Laudermill.”

Nathaniel screams. You don’t know what happens. There’s just his shout of terror in the dark and a roll of thunder that shakes the trees and rattles the earth. You feel the vibration in the water from the unearthly thunder before you realize that this sound, this trembling, is the wrath of a god.

The sound fades and the shaking stops. You feel more than see the god in front of you turn to face you, a sweeping warmth as he bends down. You cannot make out any features, your vision swimming with bursts of color in the lack of light.

“You’re with me now,” he assures you. “And you should not be afraid.”

Gentle hands reach out and cradle your face. You’re suddenly tired, every pain in your body weighing you down like stones, pulling at you until you’re closing your eyes and succumbing to the heavy exhaustion.

The last thing you remember is your whispered name on reverent lips.

You’re dreaming. Your eyes are closed in this dream but you feel light and warm. Fingers brush over your cheek, soft and reverent. You hear a gentle, deep humming, a pleasant melody. It smells like clove and cinnamon, making you drift further into the dream. You lean into the hand cupping your face and hear a deep chuckle before drifting off into nothingness.

The first thing you notice is the smell of clove and cinnamon. It’s a soothing scent that sends your heart fluttering as you roll over. The blankets wrapped around you feel divine, soft with a high loft that feels like you’re wrapped in clouds. The mattress is decadent, sucking you in further as you settle in on your side, inhaling deeply.

Then you remember hands tearing at your legs. Ripping you by the hair. Water filling your lungs and throat. The flash of lightning and the cold rain as you were dragged under a flood again and again.

With a gasp you sit up in bed, heart hammering. You still as you look around, mouth dropping open at the opulent room. The bed is the largest thing you’ve ever seen, on a low platform swimming with charcoal colored sheets and pillows. The headboard looks like polished obsidian, glinting in the low light provided by dozens of flickering candles.

Stone walls make up the room, rough rock with sconces of flickering flames. The room is sprawling with a sitting area a step down from the bed, decorated with chaise lounges, a coffee table and high-backed chairs situated in front of a fireplace. Flames crackle on a log, orange light dancing across the room. On either side of the fireplace are bookshelves that stretch up to the high ceiling.

Across from the bed are open double doors where you can see a magnificent bathroom. From your vantage point, you can just make out sinks carved from a hewn rock and what looks like a trickling waterfall sluicing down the wall.

Turning to the left, there is a set of glass doors, a balcony just on the other side. It appears to be nighttime outside, thousands of stars glittering through the glass and the largest moon you’ve ever seen suspended in the sky like a lone coin.

Carefully, you peel back the covers. You’re still in the wedding dress your mother made you. It’s stained and tattered and bloodied, making your stomach flip uncomfortably as you look down on it. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you place your feet on the stone flooring, expecting it to be cold to the touch.

It isn’t. Warmth radiates from the floor through the soles of your feet, making you sigh, tension bleeding from your shoulders as you close your eyes for a moment. Though the aches and the pains from being scratched and hit and torn down are gone, you wince as you recall them.

Your parents were going to force you to marry Nathaniel. You don’t know how you missed the signs before, how you thought that there was any other path. With your elbows pressed to your knees, you hang your head in your hands, pressing your eyes shut and taking another shuddering breath.

This time, a sob slips out. Somehow, you had tricked yourself into thinking that your parents would abide by your wishes to make your own choices. Foolish, you realize. Your father had not grown complacent. He had been biding his time, waiting to strike.

The smallest viper has the greatest sting.

And your mother was going to let him do it. The woman who had brought you into the world screaming and bloody was going to pass you off to a man, even if it meant that man dragged you kicking and screaming to the altar.

Disgust curls in your stomach and your hands turn into firsts, pressing against your closed lids and making bursts of colors flash in your eyes. Split down the middle, one part of you mourns the loss of the parents you thought that you had. The other is an open wound, festering with a hateful infection at the very thought of them.

The sound of the door opening catches your attention. Your heart leaps as you sit up straight, dropping your hands into your lap as a man slips through the large double doors near the sitting area. Your breath catches in your chest as he sweeps into the room, looping his hands behind his back as he sets his dark eyes on you and approaches.

He’s the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen, you think. Inky hair falls into his enigmatic eyes. His skin is deep gold, a contrast to the all-black blouse that he wears tucked into black pants. You see the open collar of his shirt revealing a patch of tan skin and an elegant throat, but it’s his face that shatters your mind.

The man - or god, you think - has a square, masculine jaw offset with a delicate mouth the color of rose petals. His nose is straight and wide and would look ridiculous on anyone else. On him, it’s the perfect balance, his cheekbones high and angular, cutting the roundness of his nose.

“Good to see you’re awake,” he greets. The man stops at the edge of the step that leads to where the bed sits higher than the rest of the room. You stare and stare and stare at him, unable to process words as he grins at you. His voice is dulcet and warm, but not the voice that promised to save you. “How do you feel?”

“I…” you rasp out and you shake your head, unable to think of anything else.

His mouth quirks and he nods. “It sounds like you had a terrible time. How about you take a well-deserved bath and get out of that terrible dress? Sorry to have left you in it, I was under strict instructions not to invade your personal space.”

“Yes, please.” You hesitate. “Where am I? Whose instructions?”

“You’re somewhere safe with someone who wants you to remain safe.”

“Where is safe?”

He gives you a secretive smile as he nods toward the bathroom before turning on his heel and striding away. On unsteady feet, you follow him. It helps that the floor is warm, giving you the strength you need to make it down the two steps and across the stone toward the bathroom.

“I don’t think I’m the right person to answer your question,” he admits. “I’m just here to help you get settled. My name is Taehyung, by the way.”

“Taehyung.” You say the word, familiarizing yourself with the shape of it as you enter the room and stop.

The bathroom is far more luxurious than you realized from afar. There is a waterfall running down the black rockface between two basins, trickling into a little fountain that drains on the floor. To the right side of the bathroom is a large body of steaming water.

Herbal scents fill the room as you near the edge of the dark surface of the water. It reminds you of hot springs in a cave near the southern villages, a place you’d only heard of but never seen. It’s massive, surrounded by a smooth, stone edge. There is a corner full of what appears to be salts, soaps and herbs alongside flickering candles.

Opposite the hot spring is a giant glass window that overlooks mountains and lush greenery. From the window, you can see the entire world of wherever you are stretched out in the most dazzling and wonderful display. You can’t help but feel as though you’re somewhere that belongs in the epitome of night.

“How deep is that?” you ask, turning to Taehyung with a wary expression as you gesture to the body of water.

His expression softens. “Waist high when you stand in the middle. There is a ledge that you can sit on all the way around. It’s incredibly safe and very warm. I can stand just outside the door if anything goes wrong.”

“Okay.”

Taehyung points to a stack of clothes resting on a stool near a cabinet full of towels and jars of things. “Those are for you to change into. The towels are for you to dry off, of course. Anything in the bathroom is yours to use.” Taehyung must sense your hesitation, because he gives you a soft smile. “You’re safe here. I promise.”

“I’d feel better if I knew where here was.”

“Bathe. Relax. Then I’ll take you to him.”

Taehyung does not give you a chance to ask to whom he refers. He strides out of the room and the door swings shut seemingly on its own. You blink a few times at it, standing in the middle of the warm bathroom in a daze.

Spinning, you look around the room and find yourself drawn to the window. Up close, you realize how high up you are. It’s a bit dizzying, and you look down at the ground only to see that there is a garden bursting with purple and blue, neat rows of flowers that stretch until they meet a line of trees.

A world of mountains unfolds beyond the window. You’ve never seen mountains but they are larger than you could have ever imagined, snowcaps stark against the night sky. It’s mesmerizing and a little too big, so you turn away from the window and head for the steaming basin of water.

Peaking over the edge, you can see the bottom. It doesn’t look that deep, but your stomach twists as you pop the buttons on your dress. Your fingers feel stiff and disjointed as you work to undress. You look down at the ripped threads and the dirty fabric and think about how much time your mother spent stitching it.

Suddenly the dress feels suffocating and you pull hard on the garment, popping buttons from the threads and sending them clattering on the floor. You shed the dress and kick it away from you, stripping off your undergarments and lowering yourself to the edge of the water.

A sigh leaves your mouth as you slide your feet and legs in first. The water is hot, though not scalding like you expected. Closing your eyes, you remain sitting on the edge for a moment, letting your calves soak and muscles unwind, fingers gripping the edge tight.

Taking a deep breath, you slide forward a little, firmly placing your feet on the ledge Taehyung spoke of. For a moment, your fear spikes. You feel it sharp in your chest and you squeeze your eyes shut, gripping the edge of the basin. With a few deep breaths, you carefully slide down to the ledge proper, sinking in the hot water to the chest.

“I’m not going to drown,” you whisper to yourself. The words come out shaky and you’re not entirely sure that you believe them. “I’m not going to drown, I am not going to drown, I am not going to drown.”

You repeat the mantra until you believe it, your fingers grasping the edge of the stone seat as you try to relax and melt into the water. It takes a while, but you finally grow too tired of remaining tense, taking a deep breath and gaining the courage to relax.

Gently, you rest your head against the edge of the basin. Heat seeps into your skin and you feel the anxiety bleed out of you, your tensed muscles unwinding. You hadn’t realized how clenched up you were until you let go, and your body sags a little bit in the water.

Time slips away. Thankfully, your body doesn’t hurt the way you anticipated that it would. Frowning, you press your fingers into your skin where there should be bruises and pain. There is no evidence on your skin that Nathaniel laid his hands on you the night before - the day before? You’re unsure how much time has passed, only that there is an eerie absence of your wounds.

Turning your head, you look at your dress discarded on the floor. There’s certainly evidence of a struggle spattered all over the fabric, but it makes you wonder if the god who answered your prayers has healed you.

A god.

The thought comes to you in a snap and you stare down at the water, eyes unfocusing as you try to recall the details of what happened. You remember screaming for help, the sound of your desperation ripping through your mouth. You don’t think you’ve ever screamed like that, terrified and wild. You remember thinking about the gods, begging them to hear you, willing them to listen.

Water had been filling your lungs. Crushing out air. You remember the rush of the stream around you as it pulled at your fighting body. Nathaniel’s hands gripping you and holding you under viciously, fingers like claws as he tried to drown you.

Then you surfaced and choked, completely shrouded in darkness…. And you remember that quiet voice made of smoke and shadow. Thinking of it now makes you shiver, despite how hot the water is. The voice had promised you freedom in exchange for time and had taken you to wherever this place was.

You open your eyes, unsure when you had even closed them. Glancing around the room once more, you decide there is no way that you’re anywhere close to home. You’ve never seen anything like this bathroom before, a feat of what appears to be architecture and maybe magic.

Soaps and salts line the edges of the bathing pool. When you feel brave enough, you dart across the middle like a minnow, trying not to think about how you nearly crossed death’s bridge in a shallow body of water not long ago.

Unscrewing lids, you smell each of the glass bottles of liquid, humming in delight. You settle on a hard bar of soap that smells like lavender and mint. It feels good to scrub your skin raw. You imagine that you’re washing away all of the memories of Nathaniel’s fingers on your skin and the scratchy dress your mother made for you.

Fingers and feet pruned and skin feeling stripped of a top layer, you reluctantly exit the bath. The towels are the softest thing you’ve ever felt. You run the fabric between your fingers, tilting your head up at the sky and sighing. Wherever this dark god has taken you doesn’t seem so terrifying, yet it puts you more on edge, these luxuries.

The clothes Taehyung left out for you fit well enough, though it’s obvious they are not your exact measurements. He’s provided you with soft, black pants and a loose, black tunic with intricate designs that look like clouds on the sleeves and collar.

You hesitate when you’re ready to leave the bathroom. So far, it seems that whatever bargain you’ve struck with this god has been in your favor. But you know you’ve made a deal in a moment of fear, and you’re not entirely sure what you’ve agreed to.

Time.

Though you’re nervous, you can’t stay hidden in the bathroom forever. Nudging the door open, you peek around the edge, gaze sweeping the room as you look for Taehyung. He’s standing in the sitting area, face toward the flickering fire. He looks both terrifying and beautiful, hands linked behind his back as he watches the flames.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” Taehyung calls without turning around. “I mean it when I tell you that you’re safe.”

Slipping through the door, you walk toward him, regarding him warily. “Still,” you answer. “I don’t know where I am. Are you even human?”

He does look over his shoulder then, flashing you a wicked grin. “I’m not.”

Taehyung’s answer doesn’t put you at ease, but you’re unsure what to do. Wordlessly, he gestures for you to follow him as he heads through the door and out of the room. For a moment, you hesitate. What would happen if you refused to leave the room? Is your deal with the god already in effect? What are its limitations?

You can answer none of the questions you have, so you follow Taehyung, hoping to find answers soon. Except as soon as you step out of the room, you think you might have even more questions.

The halls are dark and lit with flickering torches, casting an orange glow up to the cavernous ceilings. Though you’ve never been in a castle or seen one, you have an idea of how grand they are. There is no doubt in your mind that this is a castle, the halls resplendent and sweeping with artwork and fabric and statues.

In front of you, Taehyung walks jovially with his hands linked behind his back. He hums a tune you don’t know, but it sounds smooth and warm. You follow behind him, casting your gaze around as you walk, trying to remember which turns you take and what paintings you pass.

You reach a tall, closed set of wooden double doors. Taehyung raps his fingers against the door, looking over his shoulder at you with an excited grin. Your stomach flips and you wipe your palms against the bottom of your tunic. Your hands feel shaky and you twine them into the fabric, willing them to stop.

Taehyung must hear someone on the other side of the door, because he opens it and steps in and to the side, gesturing for you to enter. You take a deep breath and walk by him into the room, stopping immediately as you look up, your mouth falling open.

It’s a library grander than you could ever imagine. Your town had quite a small library at the church that belonged to the high priest, but this is something beyond your wildest dreams. The ceiling stretches higher than your imagination, filled with floating lights and stars - the entire night sky is stretched above you in swirling constellations of purple and blue.

Three floors make up the library, each lined with books and windows that look out into the evening. You can see sprawling gardens beyond the tinted glass, but it’s the shelves of books that catch your attention. Stepping into the room further, you slowly spin, looking at the sheer amount of volumes that line the walls. There are multiple seating areas with rich, velvet blue armchairs and couches, tables full of books and papers and ink bottles and maps.

Your throat tightens as you look at Taehyung, your mouth wobbling. The urge to burst into tears has never felt greater than this moment. You never imagined that you could stand in a room with so many books, and the desire to pull one off the shelf and delve in is cut short by the single, glaring fact that you don’t know how to read them.

Distracted by the books upon entry, it takes you a moment to notice another presence in the room. You feel a tingle at the back of your neck, one that draws your eyes toward a long table near the fireplace. It’s the same feeling you had when you were saved from Nathaniel, an awareness that buzzes along your skin.

A man stands in front of the table, watching you with dark, feline eyes. He’s beautiful. Otherworldly, really. His round features remind you of the moon, but it’s the sharp eyes and the careful pout of his mouth that draws you in. He looks both delicate and dangerous, and you notice the quirk on his lips as he watches you watch him.

He’s in all black. Black pants tucked into black, knee-high boots, and a black, long-sleeved shirt. There’s a layer of necklaces around his neck and you can see shapes and runes that are unfamiliar to you. The same runes and shapes are on the rings on his long, delicate fingers, folded in front of him.

This is the face of a god. You know it in the way that there’s something ancient in his eyes and in the way he glows from within. His power is tangible, a crackling energy pressing up against every nerve in your body.

“How are you feeling?” his voice vibrates right to your core. Soft and dark like you remember it, though a little rougher now. Gravelly. He studies you, unmoving. “Hopefully well-rested?”

“I feel…. Better.” Finding the words is hard in his presence, especially under the scrutiny of his gaze. You want to dart out of the room and hide, but you also don’t want to leave the library without exploring. “I think I should thank you?”

It comes out as a question and he smirks a little. Your stomach flutters at the sight; he raises a brow. “You’re welcome. Are you hungry? You’ve been asleep for nearly a day.”

The door shuts behind you and you startle, whirling around to see that Taehyung has left you. Your nerves fray further and you turn back to look at the god watching you. Behind him on the table, you realize it is a feast of sorts. Roasted meats and poultry, platters of fruit, plates of cheese and neatly arranged crackers, steaming pans of vegetables and things you cannot identify.

He notices. “You must be starving. Come. Eat.” When you don’t move, he sighs. “I didn’t save you just to harm you.”

It’s true enough. You carefully approach the table, eyeing him as he unclasps his hands and pulls out a chair for you. When you hesitate, he arches a dark brow again and you feel yourself grow warm in the face, muttering your thanks as you hurry over to the chair and sit down.

The god’s presence is buzzing. He doesn’t touch you, but it’s like you feel him anyway, just an inch away from you. He helps you slide your chair in and gives a deep, contented sigh before he moves toward the opposite end of the table, taking the dull hum of energy with him.

Across the table, he sits. His gaze finds yours again as you stare at him, finding it difficult to look anywhere else. Even with the smell of a divine meal, your attention on him is a fixed point. If this bothers him, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he leans back in his seat, casual and confident.

“Have what you like,” he offers. “I don’t know what you enjoy and I didn’t want to pry.”

The table is full of options. You chew the inside of your cheek. There is glazed duck and roasted ham, creamy looking potatoes and sauced vegetables. Your stomach growls and twists painfully as you stare at your choices.

“The duck is good,” he offers gently. You glance up. He nods towards the dish in question. “Sorry, it’s probably overwhelming.”

“A little,” you answer, but take him up on his advice and go for the duck. “Where are we?”

“In between.”

You frown as you plate different foods, fingers sticky as you do. You’re hyper-aware of him watching you and you try not to look up, feeling your hands quake as you add roasted veggies to your plate. “What does that mean?”

“Exactly what you think it does. We’re at the in-between of all things. Not a solid place in your sense of understanding. It’s not a physical manifestation of a land mass, but it is a world that contains physical things.”

“A… dimension?”

“Exactly. This is my domain.”

“And what… are you?”

You look up at him then. His lips twitch at the corners and he tongues the inside of his cheek. “A god. But you already knew that.”

“Wanted to hear you say it.”

Silence falls between you as you pick up a knife and fork, cutting carefully into your meat. You pop it between your lips, sighing when the duck melts on your tongue with the taste of honey and something else. You sag in the chair, not realizing until now how tense you had been to this point. The food sends a wave of warmth through you and the god watches as you take a few bites, patient as you eat.

“This is fantastic,” you say, glancing at him as you reach for a glass of water. “The flavors are like nothing I’ve ever had.”

“I assure you that all things here are like nothing you’ve ever had.” You hum in agreement, taking another eager bite. You cannot imagine anything in the real world tasting this succulent. You almost wonder if perhaps this is all a dream. “You didn’t pray before you began to eat.”

Your chewing pauses. He’s bemused, giving you a sideways grin with his brows raised. You swallow thickly and say, “Praying never got me anywhere until recently. Why did you help me?”

“Because you asked.”

“You didn’t have to, though.”

It isn’t a question. He answers anyway. “I didn’t.”

“So why did you? The other gods have never helped me.”

“The other gods aren’t me.” His voice is soft and lethal, raising the hair on your arms. “We are not all the same, and you’d do well to not make any further comparisons moving forward.”

You lower your gaze. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Gods are fickle beings. We are quick to offend and slow to let go. You don’t know any better and are thus forgiven.”

“What do I call you?”

For a moment, he hesitates. You think he isn’t going to answer just as he says, “Yoongi. You can call me Yoongi.”

“Is that your name?”

“It’s one of them.”

“How many names do you have?”

He chuckles. It’s a delightful sound and you smile, watching him lean his head back against his chair, looking up as he shrugs. “How much time do you have?”

Time.

Suddenly, you remember that you aren’t here on this god - Yoongi’s - good graces. You’re here because you called for someone in a moment of need and he agreed to help you, but at a cost. Your time. He had asked for your time, and a sense of anxiety tiptoes its way up your spine as you think about the ambiguity of his deal.

Swallowing harshly, you shift back in your seat. The food in your stomach feels a little heavy, far too rich for you to eat more than a few bites. You’ve only ever known your parents’ staples of meat, bread, cheese, and root vegetables.

“When you saved me,” you begin. “You made a deal with me.”

“I did.”

“My freedom in exchange for my time.”

His eyes are glittering as he watches you, completely still. The fireplace next to you crackles. It makes shadows dance across his face, giving him the appearance of something wild and untamed. Your heartbeat quickens as you watch him, this godly being, as he stares you down.

“That was the deal,” he finally hums. His head cocks to the side a little. “I don’t usually discuss business over dinner.”

“I’m done eating.”

He huffs but doesn’t seem annoyed. “Perhaps tea, then? It will help settle your stomach.”

You narrow your eyes. “How do you know that my stomach needs settling?”

“I know a lot of things.” Yoongi rises and gestures to the chairs directly in front of the fireplace. You stand, following his lead. There’s a quiver of energy in the air and you pause, turning to look back at the table to see it’s completely bare, no trace of anything left. You whip around to look at Yoongi as he sits in a wingback chair. “I can do a lot of things.”

A steaming cup of tea sits on a wooden table next to the chair you sink into. The cushions are soft, swallowing you in and making your muscles melt. The cup is warm when you pick it up, steam curling off the surface. Sniffing, your eyes flutter as you inhale the smell of mint.

“What are you the god of?” You open your eyes and look at him. Both of his feet are planted flat on the floor, his arms resting on the arms of the chair. He looks a little stiff, more so than he did at dinner. Orange firelight reflects in his inky eyes. “You’re a god of the dark.”

“There’s no such thing,” he scoffs, and you frown. “Your concept of gods is skewed. There is neither good nor evil, light nor dark. There are just gods.”

“So it doesn’t matter who you pray to?”

“We don’t need your patronage. If we did, we wouldn’t be gods, would we?” You’d never thought of it that way. You sip your tea, letting the warmth and sharp mint bloom in your mouth. “We’re beyond the simple classification that mortals use to understand and organize what they think our intentions are. I have been classed as both good and evil, light and dark, benevolent and malevolent.”

“But surely there are things that are inherently evil, even among the gods.”

“Of course there isn’t. Evil is a point of view. It is a word used to define the feeling one has when the opposite of their desire occurs.”

“I… guess that makes sense. But isn’t something like murder wrong?”

“Are you not the villain of the duck you ate today?” You blanch. Yoongi looks smug as he gestures vaguely with his hands. “Are you not evil for calling down the wrath of a god on Nathaniel Laudermill?”

“He was going to kill me.”

“You rejected his hand in marriage. You did the opposite of what he desired. I believe in his eyes, you are the evil. Is Death evil for doing what he was made to do?”

Yoongi’s words make your head spin. You gulp a mouthful of scalding tea before setting it on the table next to you, your mind reeling. The realization that you’re sitting in a library with a starry ceiling arguing over morals and the concept of evil with a god who has saved you from certain death makes you giggle.

He seems surprised by your sudden outburst, raising his brows as you cover your mouth, your fingers pressed to your lips as you try to contain your sudden mirth. “Sorry. This seems absolutely insane. I’m arguing over the word ‘evil’ with a god in a realm that is everywhere and nowhere at all. It feels like perhaps I’m dreaming.”

“You’re not. Though your dreams are dizzying and far more colorful than anyone else I know. You should be proud of them.” You furrow your brows. How does he know what you dream of? Before you can ask him to clarify, Yoongi says, “You wanted to discuss the deal.”

“Oh. Right. What did you mean by wanting my time in exchange for my freedom?”

“It’s simple. I want you to spend two weeks each month here.”

Yoongi’s words sink in as you look at the window behind him. Outside, the world is sinking into what you think might be night. The sky is swimming with stars and constellations, stuck in a perpetual twilight of sorts. You’re reminded that somehow, Yoongi is like the moon and the night itself, especially when you find his dark gaze on you as he waits for your response.

“Why?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I’m often very alone. It would be nice to have some company.”

“That’s it? You just want me to hang out in exchange for saving me?” He nods. “That seems too easy.”

His lips curve upward. “Maybe I’m very annoying.”

For some reason you think it might not be true. You think of all the things that you’ve heard about the gods. Yoongi tells you that everything you know about them is wrong, but you know that the gods of the dark are tricksters. They are experts in the art of luring mortals in, and you wonder if that’s what he’s doing now.

“Does it have to be consecutive weeks?” you ask, trying to bide time to collect your thoughts and work out his intentions. “Or can it be a collective?”

“Consecutive.”

“What… what happens when I go home? With my family.”

Yoongi’s face grows stormy. You shift in your seat. “You’re under my protection,” he says after a moment of deliberation. “You’ll bear a mark that protects you. No one will force their will upon you again.”

“Can you?”

He shakes his head, long hair brushing the tops of his shoulders. He looks haunting in the firelight, but beautiful. You avert your gaze, fixating on the books in the room instead. “You have my word, I will never control you. I promised you freedom, that includes me.”

“But I have to be here. I can’t escape from that. Is that freedom?”

“You made that decision of your own free will. It’s your words that bind you here, not mine. While you’re here, you are able to do whatever it is you desire. In fact, I encourage it.”

“Wording is really important to you, isn’t it?”

He chuckles and inclines his head, fingers tapping the arm of his chair. “It is. Consider the first day of your deal already spent. You slept most of it off while you healed.” Yoongi stands, drawing your attention to him. “Sleep more,” he insists gently. “Tomorrow, I’ll give you a tour.”

The thought of a tour - and seeing Yoongi for more days - thrills you. Taehyung appears at the doorway as Yoongi escorts you out. He wishes you goodnight and lets Taehyung take you back to your room, though you feel his gaze and presence as you leave.

It isn’t until you’re back in your room that you realize you never asked Yoongi how long your deal is supposed to last. It occurs to you that while he has given you a sort of freedom, perhaps he has taken something from you after all.

Tall trees surround you. Above them, you can make out a swirling sky of stars and planets and several moons, so bright that it turns the forest a shade of blue. The woods around you are familiar, and there’s a well-walked path just ahead of you that leads to the river by your home. You’ve walked among these trees and creatures hundreds of times, but never with a sky like this.

Crickets chirp as you walk through the woods now. Grass tickles your bare feet, the earth soft and damp beneath you. It smells like fresh rain, but there’s no flood or mud as you navigate by instinct.

It’s peaceful out here. How many times have you come here to escape your father’s rage? How many times have you sat, back pressed against a tree, watching the light fade from the world until it was too dark to see where you were going? You always managed to get home safely, even with the lack of light.

The river rushes a few yards ahead. You pick a spot to sit and watch, beneath the cover of leaves. The sound of running water and the smell of rain on the wind lulls you into a trance and you close your eyes, resting for a while.

Here is where you find peace. Where you dream.

Awareness creeps up on you and you open your eyes, looking upward as you sense someone approaching. Yoongi stands next to you, onyx eyes gazing at the river. He’s in black clothes like before, his hands tucked into his pockets. You smell clove and cinnamon, making you dizzy. Power radiates off of him but it feels warm and safe. Like the night air itself comes from his existence.

“Am I dreaming?” you ask him. He looks down at you, an obsidian strand of hair falling in his face. He nods, giving you a gentle smile. “This is often where I go to dream.”

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

Yoongi doesn’t answer you. He looks back to the rushing river, his face becoming unreadable. He looks like he’s somewhere far away, lost in his thoughts. Absently, he says, “Your dreams are my favorite.”

“What do you mean?”

“They are bright, full of life and color and sound. You dream the way people create art, the way people create worlds. It is rare to see such magnificence among the sleeping.”

“I just…” you shrug. “Think of places I would rather be.”

Yoongi looks at you then and his face is shadowed, full of thunder. “You’ll never be forced to live that life again.”

“Do you promise?”

He opens and closes his mouth, narrowing his eyes a little before shaking his head. You feel a smile tug at your mouth, endeared by his microexpressions. “Yes, little lamb. I promise.”

You wake with a start, sitting up in bed and looking around. The room spins as your brain tries to catch up with your body, your physical and mental awareness completely out of sync as you swivel your head, drinking in the unfamiliar room and the soft sheets that smell like clove and cinnamon.

For a moment, you forget where you are, and adrenaline surges through you. Your fingers twist in the sheets as you ground yourself, memories from the day before slotting into place. Letting out a long exhale, you relax, flopping backward in the opulent bed, your heart rate slowing down as your panic bleeds out of you.

You’re in Yoongi’s home. In a place that is somewhere in between - whatever that means. The god has told you on multiple occasions that you’re safe and have nothing to fear from him and for some reason…. You believe him. Maybe it’s naive, but you can’t erase the feeling that Yoongi is being honest with you, that he has good intentions.

Perhaps it’ll get you into trouble one day. For now, you cast off doubt and peel yourself out of bed, trailing to the windowed doors that lead to the balcony beyond. You try the handle and are delighted to find them unlocked. Slipping through the doors, you’re met with warm, balmy air. It smells like petrichor, the breeze kissing your skin gently.

Like before, the world seems wrapped in permanent twilight. There is no sun in the sky, but a vast stretch of swimming stars and the largest moon you’ve ever seen. In the distance, dark mountains loom over you, their peaks capped in snow and wreathed in mist.

Forest stretches out toward them in a vibrant shade of green. There’s a settee on the balcony along with a table and chairs. Leaning on the stone railing, you look down to see colorful gardens and a large pond full of vibrant fish.

All of the radiance makes you smile. You’ve never seen colors so rich, and you’re unable to recall if your world was this vibrant. The garden below is bursting with violet and cerulean, the flowers unfamiliar to you. Their fragrant smell wafts up to the balcony, a hint of sweetness in the air.

A roll of thunder catches your attention. You look to the east, noticing that one of the mountains in the distance is darker than the others. Lightning crackles in the sky around it and the mist is heavier there. You think the trees are darker too, though you can’t tell if they’re gray or if it’s the shade from the swollen thunderheads drifting over them.

Behind you, the door to the balcony opens and startles you. Whirling around, you find Taehyung leaning against the frame, mouth curved upwards in a sideways grin. “When you didn’t answer the door I got worried.”

“I thought I was safe here? What is there to be worried about?”

He shrugs. “Maybe you took a dive off of the balcony.”

“What is that place?” you point to the thundering, shrouded mountain. Taehyung looks where you point, his smile dropping as he stares at the looming peak. “By the look on your face, somewhere bad.”

“Bad is a relative term.”

You scrunch your nose. “You sound like Yoongi.”

“Already familiar, are we? Cute.” He pushes off the door frame and beckons you inside. “Ask Yoongi about it on your tour.”

“Are you not coming along?”

“I have things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Not give tours.”

If it weren’t for Taehyung’s playful tone and glint in his eye when he casts you a glance, you’d think you were bothering him. Instead of getting angry, he drapes himself on one of the couches by the fireplace, long legs dangling off the arm as he lounges.

Today, he’s in charcoal colored pants and a red, billowing shirt that shows off the smooth, tan skin of his chest. A dangling earring catches your attention as he leans his head back, silky hair shifting. If Yoongi is made of moonlight, you think that Taehyung might be made of sunlight: golden skin, warm energy.

“By all means,” you mutter. “Hang out.”

“This is my home first, human. I shall do as I please.”

You make a sound at the back of your throat and roll your eyes, walking toward a large, polished wardrobe made from dark wood. It smells like fresh cedar when you pull on the brass handle, opening the door to reveal tunics and dresses, all hung neatly.

Rich silks, velvets and cottons greet you. You run your hand over the materials, amazed at how soft they feel. They are far better quality than your mother ever had access to. Your heart squeezes when you think of her, and you shake your head a little as if to physically dispel thoughts of your family out of your mind.

Facing them seems like an impossible task. You know that you’ll have to eventually. Two weeks with Yoongi in this strange world seems like a long time, but you’re not sure if it’s nearly long enough to mentally prepare to go back and face them after what’s happened. Will they still be angry? What will they say? Will they have been worried about you all this time?

There’s no way to know the answer. So instead, you pretend none of that exists. For once, you have stumbled into a dream and adventure like you’ve always wanted, and you intend on playing the part.

An emerald shirt catches your eye. It’s made of a silky material, supple when you rub the sleeve between your fingers. It’s plain, save for the laced string at the throat to cinch and tie it off. You grab a pair of black, cotton pants as well, the fabric just as soft as the sheets in your bed.

With Taehyung humming on the couch, you let yourself into the bathroom to change. You appreciate that the floor is warm wherever you go barefoot, and you quickly slide out of your clothes from the previous day and into the new ones. The measurements are a little off, but more than manageable as you pull the tie closed at your throat. Glancing into the mirror, you can’t help but smile a little.

You look so different. The shirt belongs to someone adventurous, you think. Perhaps a pirate or a huntress riding atop her horse through the woods. You slide your fingers along the material, its softness inviting and magical.

Two weeks. You’ll be here for two weeks with Yoongi, a god who has been alive for hundreds of years, if your conversation from the night before was anything to go off of. It feels surreal and you’re a little nervous, but more than that, you’re excited.

Suddenly, the world is full of possibilities. No marriage to tie you down, no power held in your parents’ hands.

“Gods you’re slow to get dressed,” Taehyung announces when you enter the room. He sits up, appraising your outfit. “Green looks good on you.”

“How many are there?” he cocks his head at your question, peeling himself from the seat. “Gods and goddesses, I mean.”

“Pfft. Hundreds.”

“Hundreds?”

“Maybe thousands, I don’t really know. There’s basically an infinite amount of universes. All anyone mostly cares about are the Eternals, the gods who remain the same no matter what name or history mortals assign to them.”

“Eternals?”

“Mhmm.” Taehyung leads you into the hallway. His hands are tucked into his pockets as he strolls leisurely. You follow beside him eagerly, looking up as he seems thoughtful. “Gods are hard to define. They are great beings with massive power. Some gods do the same thing, some don’t. They come from the infinite amount of worlds to which they are native, and somehow make it into mortal history. But the Eternals have always been here, always known. They do not change.”

“Who are the Eternals?”

“Life, death, chaos, time, pathos, dream and fate.” He makes a face then. “Fate and chaos are hard. They work in direct opposition to one another. It drives time insane, naturally.”

Seven Eternals. It makes sense, from a logical standpoint. Every world must have life and death and the passing of time. Where there exists a living thing, there exists a vessel of emotion and dreams. In all worlds there is the potential for chaos disrupting fate.

“Yoongi is an Eternal?”

Taehyung glances sidelong at you, smug. “Yes, Yoongi is an Eternal.”

“Why do you look at me like that when I say his name?” Taehyung doesn’t answer, instead smirking as if he’s enjoying a private joke. Your fists close and open as you swallow down a demand to tell you what he finds so amusing. “Which one is he?”

“Have you no guesses?”

That makes you think. Recalling the night before, you remember the way Yoongi looks: dark eyes swimming with something magical, a soft and raspy voice, the way he appeared in your dreams.

Though your dreams are mesmerizing and far more colorful than anyone else I know. You recall what he said about your dreams, the way he leveled his gaze at you, full of meaning that you didn’t understand.

“Dreams,” you say, certain that you're right. “He’s the Eternal of Dreams?”

“He isn’t of dreams. He is Dream.”

You’re unable to clarify Taehyung’s emphasis on Yoongi being a deity of dreams as he opens the door to the same library as before. This time, he doesn’t knock. When you step inside, you realize it’s because the room is empty. Yoongi is nowhere to be seen, though pale light filters in through the windows. It’s still forever twilight outside, yet a little lighter. It feels like morning, even if it does not entirely appear to be morning.

Behind you, the door shuts. You turn to see Taehyung has left without another word, leaving you entirely alone in the captivating space.

Without hesitation, you walk to the nearest shelf housing rows and rows of books. The spines range from muted browns and neutrals to bright reds and rich blues. Velvet books, leather books, canvas, silk. There is no shortage of materials making up each one, letters painted, printed or stitched down the back of them to denote what they are.

Each one breathes a world of possibility as you drag your finger along the shape of them. You wonder how many worlds and histories are scribbled away in the pages of this room, the very idea of it overwhelming.

Trinkets and objects you’re unfamiliar with line the shelves as well. Your fingers trace their shape and you wonder what they are. One object in particular catches your eye in the corner of the room. It stands on three metal legs and has large, interlocking rings that spin lazily in some unknown pattern. The rings are hammered metal and appear to have markings engraved on them.

The device slowly spins of its own accord. Upon inspection, there seems to be nothing else responsible for its motion except magic or science that is beyond you. You can see that there are seven metal rings and different markings on each of them, but you cannot guess what the engravings read.

“It represents the balance of the Eternals. Taehyung mentioned you had a vague starting point as to what I am.”

Yoongi’s deep voice makes you leap and screech, spinning on your heels to face him. Your hand flies to your chest and you can feel your heartbeat rattling wildly. Yoongi stands a few feet away from you, hands linked behind his back and eyebrows raised at your reaction.

He’s dressed similar to the night before, though a little more casual. His black pants are tucked into knee high boots, and his black shirt is loose fitted with silver stitching around the collar. You notice that it’s in patterns of stars and moons, furthering your confirmation that Yoongi is associated with dreams in some manner.

Yoongi’s long hair is pulled half out of his face today, tied away in a bun. The rest of his hair brushes the tops of his shoulders as his inky eyes regard you patiently. His curiosity makes you feel warm all over and you drop your hands to your sides, fingers twitching.

“How so?” you ask. You turn back to the device. “What does it run on?”

“Our energy. Each ring represents a member of my family. The speed at which they turn represents the balance among us. When the speed is off, the balance is off.”

“What causes the balance to be off?”

Yoongi steps closer to you. You hold your breath as he does it, but you can feel his presence like a buzzing vibration at the back of your neck.

His voice is softer when he answers, “A number of things. Sometimes some of us aren’t always performing the way we should be. Other times, we’re overperforming. Or fighting, really, as siblings are wont to do.”

“I don’t know what that’s like.”

“You’re not missing much. Especially when your siblings are as ancient and never ending as you are.”

“How… old are you?”

You look at Yoongi to see he’s standing next to you now. He looks at you, face impassive as he lifts a shoulder. “How old is the earth? How old is existence? It’s hard to say.”

“Where do you come from?”

“Chaos was first. Life and Death were next, twins born of the sudden whims of Chaos. I was next, for Life often dreamed. Time was always there, though no one knows if Time or Chaos came first. Pathos and Fate came later.”

You nod, though you don’t fully understand the scope of how old and fathomless the existence of things like chaos and time and dreams are. It makes your head spin, trying to conceptualize the thing next to you who looks very much like an ordinary man being something so ancient and primordial that he precedes human existence entirely.

“You’re overwhelmed,” he notes, a bit of amusement in his voice. “I don’t blame you. The best way to understand it is that I am a living concept that can never be destroyed, so long as there exists something to dream about.”

Crossing his arms in front of him, Yoongi clasps his hands and gives you a slight smile. He has a pretty smile, you realize. Delicate and almost shy. It makes your heart flutter and you mentally chastise yourself for thinking that a being of eternal dreams can possibly be shy.

“How about a tour? Our deal is that you’ll spend two weeks a month here. I’d love for you to feel like this is a place you can be familiar with, if not something akin to a home.”

“Home?”

His smile grows. “If that word ever seems fitting, sure.”

Home. The word makes you think about what home means to you and suddenly you feel a pit form in the bottom of your stomach. Flashes of a flooded forest, lighting lancing across the sky, hands gripping you tight and shoving you under the water.

“Um,” you clear your throat. “So a tour.”

Yoongi’s eyes glitter as he grins and turns, using a hand to gesture to the wide library. “This is the main library, but we’ll end our tour here. Let’s go through the gardens first, it’s nice weather.”

Yoongi starts without you, leaving you to stand staring after him as he goes. His gait is smooth and confident. He presses on a pane of glass that you realize is a door. A breeze teases the loose pieces of his hair, carrying the familiar scent of clove and cinnamon toward you.

For a moment, you stare after him. Yoongi being a deity of dreams makes so much sense in this moment, stepping into the twilight, face tilted upward slightly as though he’s soaking up the sun. He looks radiant. Tranquil. When he turns to look at you expectantly, his rose pink mouth quirks sideways.

“Right,” you say, hurrying to follow him. “Outside is where we start.”

When you pass him, you get the sense that Yoongi wants to tease you further. Instead, he says nothing and leads you into the gardens. A cobblestone path leads from the door through wisteria trees, their amethyst leaves swooping down and filling the air with sweet fragrance.

Up above, the sky is a mix of blue and purple, thousands of stars twinkling. There is a stone bench near one of the windows of the library, but Yoongi leads you away from the palace and down the path under the trees. The air is crisp and pleasant, cooling your anxious, sweat-slick skin.

Yoongi links his hands behind his back. “This is the library garden,” he informs you, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “It’s mostly wisteria trees, which are my favorite to walk through when I need to think.”

“They’re unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

“Much different from the woods outside of your home.”

“You know the woods outside of my home?”

“You called me there, remember?” You blanch at the memory, but if he notices, Yoongi says nothing. “Besides, I’m familiar with the woods that surround your home. Your village pays homage to my brother.”

“Your brother?”

He hums. “Life. Perhaps they don’t know that it’s him they pray to, but they do.”

Taking a left, Yoongi leads you on a looping path through the massive wisteria trees. They’re larger than anything you’ve ever seen, their bows sweeping monoliths of purple, trunks thick as boulders. A strange creature sits on the branches of one of the trees, making you stop and stare.

A tiny, carnelian creature sits on a bough, bright against the lavender background of the leaves. It has four legs and scaled feet, sharp talons cutting into the bark as it keeps its balance in the tree. Small wings are folded on its back, bony limbs with paper-thin skin between them, a lighter red than the rest of its body. A long tail snakes around the branch, holding the creature in place as its long neck extends, head tilting to look at you curiously.

“Is that a dragon?” you whisper, staring at it.

You’ve only heard them described in stories, but you don’t really know what they look like. It has scales like a lizard and it blinks two large eyes at you, entirely black. There are small horns on its head, and a forked tongue snakes out as it tastes the air.

“She’s a fey dragon,” Yoongi hums, looking up at the creature with a smile. “And she’s not supposed to be in the trees here, are you?”

A puff of smoke curls from the dragon’s nose as it huffs, making you take a step backward. Yoongi lets out a deep laugh that makes a tingle rattle down your spine and your toes curl. The sound is like smoke and velvet, heady in the air.

“She won’t hurt you,” Yoongi assures, shaking his head to continue walking under the dragon’s branch. “She’s a pesky little thing, but she is incredibly sweet. Fey dragons are much smaller than their firedrake cousins and less dangerous than their basilisk relatives.”

With your eyes cast upward, you hurry after Yoongi, keeping your gaze on the large lizard as you run under the branch. Her dark eyes follow you, unblinking and fathomless. The hair on your arms stands up and you can’t help but feel that despite the dragon being small and what Yoongi calls harmless, it is incredibly intelligent.

“There are dragons here?”

“There is everything here.”

You frown, finally turning away from the dragon as you leave it behind. “That’s confusing. Everything as in…?”

“When you dream, you have limitless potential. You can go anywhere, be anything, see any creature. Dreams even invent things that do not exist in the natural world. Creatures, stories, songs, words, plants. The possibility for creation in a dream is limitless, and this place is the essence of dreams. It is me.”

“So you are this place and the place is you?”

He seems thoughtful before nodding. “More or less. This is a dream realm as much as it is a collection of ideas, thoughts and hopes. Everything that every living creature has ever dreamed about walks these lands.”

“Even nightmares?”

Yoongi pulls up short and whips his head at you. You bite the inside of your cheek, unable to meet his eyes under his severe expression. In the distance, you swear you hear thunder. An apology springs to your lips, but before you can give it, Yoongi nods sharply once and begins walking again.

“Nightmares too. Do not speak of nightmares here, lest they come searching.”

You think about Taehyung telling you that you were safe but being concerned when you didn’t answer the door earlier that morning. A chill seeps into your bones as you rejoin Yoongi on your walk, his pace not as relaxed now.

“They come searching?” you try, a little curious, a little afraid.

“Yes. They are different from dreams. Unpredictable in a way I admire and dislike.” He glances sidelong at you. “They have a mind of their own. You are safe with me always, but it’s best practice to not think of them while you’re here. This world has a way of manifesting.”

For a few moments, you walk in silence. You let your questions fall silent as you look around. The two of you exit the wisteria trees to see a large pond. A single, massive wisteria sits on its western edge with a bench underneath it.

The surface of the pond is dark and smooth, reflecting the swirling stars in the sky. Yoongi leads you around the mirror surface and points out the mountains in the distance that you could see from your windows.

“Mountains of Sleep,” he tells you. “It is where all beings who are ready for their eternal rest come to dream for the remainder of their existence. They are also called the Mountains of Divinity, for there are hundreds of divine immortals among their peaks.”

“Really?”

He nods. “Not all beings rest here. Some prefer their own planes and resting grounds. But this existed before those places, and has long been used for the tired and the weary who are ready to retire.”

“Are they dead?”

“No. The dead cannot come here.” He hesitates. “When they do, it is because they are not a dream.”

You get the sense that Yoongi is talking about nightmares again and you shiver as he takes you around the pond. “Don’t let anything in that body of water convince you to go swimming. They won’t intentionally hurt you but they don’t understand the concept of human life.”

“They?”

“They don’t have a name. They are water-folk who were dreamt up by someone once. I admire them and they’re beautiful and wicked smart, but they’re a bit cheeky.”

“I’m starting not to feel as safe as you said I was.”

Yoongi stops and frowns. He lifts a hand as though he’s about to touch your arm before he thinks better of it and drops it at his side. You realize you’re disappointed that he did before mentally kicking yourself, feeling a little ashamed to be so affected by a god. You’re sure Yoongi gets it often, but it makes you feel silly nonetheless.

“You are safe.” He lowers his head a little, catching your gaze. Though his eyes are midnight black, you swear you see the stars above reflected in their dark pools. “But there are rules everywhere. This place has them just the same as your home did. You were relatively safe there, but there were rules.”

“And then I broke them and Nathaniel tried to murder me.”

“Nathaniel was dealt with and will never touch you again.” Thunder rolls in the distance and your heart flutters at the vehemence with which Yoongi says this. “The misdeeds of your family cannot chase you here.”

You don’t press Yoongi on the matter. Instead, you let him proceed with the tour, keeping your questions to a minimum as you wonder what Yoongi meant by Nathaniel being dealt with. You recall the soft, susurrated voice against your ear when Yoongi found you. The gentle brush of something like a kiss to your neck. The rage and power as he stepped in front of you to face Nathaniel when the deal was done.

It does not require much to make an assumption about Yoongi’s meaning.

The yards of his palace are sprawling and full of color. Gardens with flowers he doesn’t know the name of but said a little girl had dreamed them and he liked them so he made more. Butterflies with colors you didn’t know existed flitting from plant to plant. Fruit orchards with the ripest, reddest apples you’ve ever seen.

And the palace. It is the only word you have for it. The building is several stories tall, hewn from dark stone with at least five different towers. Starlight glitters in the windows as Yoongi guides you up the stairs toward the massive double doors that lead to the main entrance of the castle. On the door handle are two wrought-iron griffons with proud faces.

Without a touch, the doors open on Yoongi’s arrival. You wonder if the building responds to his presence as the door swings open for the two of you. Inside, the foyer is as magnificent as the library, a lush purple carpet rolling over stone floors.

In the center of the room is a massive spiral staircase. Looking up, you see that it goes all the way up the floors of the palace, dizzying circles of floor after floor. Yoongi explains there are other ways to go all the way up to the top throughout the castle but this is the easiest way, though he assures you that by the third floor you’d be out of breath.

Each room Yoongi shows you is opulent and warm. Rich, deep wooden furniture, paintings with dark splashes of amethyst, scarlet and gold. Rooms for tea, rooms for painting, rooms for music, rooms for dancing. Yoongi has a room for everything, sometimes occupied by strange little creatures that hide when you walk in or curious things that lift their heads when they see him.

No one else besides Taehyung seems to be there, though. You come across felines, little balls of light that bounce around Yoongi excitedly and light him up like a burst of flame, a little furry thing that you think is a fox but in a shade of shocking sapphire, and a massive wolf with eyes like ice that blink apathetically at you as you walk by. But never once do you see another person. Even Taehyung seems to be amiss.

“Does no one else live here?” Yoongi takes you through another room empty of people and things. “It’s so empty.”

He takes his time to answer as you leave the room and move into the hallway. It’s hard to tell which way you’re going, but you think that you’re headed toward the library again. Your legs ache from going up and down the stairs on an endless tour of rooms, and you’re eager to be in the library once more.

“There used to be,” Yoongi says slowly. “But people don’t tend to do well in places that they don’t belong.”

“So you’re all alone here?”

His smile is sad. “I have Taehyung.” He pauses before he adds, “And now you.”

I’m often very alone. It would be nice to have some company. You think of Yoongi’s words from the night before and suddenly you’re filled with sadness. Sadness for this ancient being, who seems so gentle and quiet. Who lives alone in this giant castle with all of the world’s dreams around him and no one to share them with.

Swallowing thickly, you nod. “How do you know I belong?”

“Pardon?”

“Do I? Belong, I mean. You wouldn’t… have me here if I wouldn’t do well, right?”

“No one dreams the way you do.” He says this firmly. Confident. Fierce. “I believe there is nothing you wouldn’t be able to find here.”

“Do you always know what I dream about?”

“No. But you dream… loudly. Colorfully. Sometimes it’s hard to ignore. I don’t like to pry, though.”

“Can you see everyone’s dreams?”

“Mhmm. I even make some.”

This catches your attention and you reach out and grab his wrist, stopping him. He glances down where your fingers touch his skin, your fingers buzzing where you’re connected. You flush with warmth and drop your hand, clearing your throat at how forward grabbing him was.

Yoongi is smirking when you ask, “Can you show me?”

“One day, yes. For now, the end of the tour and lunch.”

At the mention of lunch, your stomach rumbles. His grin spreads into a full smile and Yoongi leads you back to the library. Again, the doors open without his touch and as you pass them, you study them for any sign of an auto-opening mechanism but find none.

Yoongi’s magic appears limitless. You remember the food disappearing from dinner, the swell of power as Yoongi agreed to save you, and his sudden appearance as you were drowning. You know nothing about the god of dreams or what he’s capable of, but you’re awed at how easy it comes to him.

“This is the main library.” Yoongi turns around to face you, sweeping his arms out on either side of him. “There are two others: one in my room and one located in the dream tower.”

“You didn’t show me the dream tower.”

��I’ll show you when you’re ready.”

Unsure what ready means to Yoongi, you look around the library. Same as the night before, the shelves are crammed full of books and scrolls, so much paper and ink that it makes you lightheaded with excitement. It still smells of lemon and wax, though as you pass Yoongi to go to a shelf, you’re overcome with clove and cinnamon again.

Trying to ignore the shiver that merely walking by Yoongi gives you, you brush the spines of books once again, feeling their potential under your fingertips.

“You always have access to this library. You can read what you like.”

A pang goes through you and you drop your hand. Without looking at him, you mumble, “Thank you, but I can’t read.”

No response comes. You stare unseeing at the books before taking a breath to turn your head and steal a glance at Yoongi. You expect some sort of amusement or perhaps pity, but his face is unreadable, jaw working.

“That’s okay,” he finally says. “We will teach you. After lunch we will make a schedule to help fill your time here. Reading and writing lessons will be a part of that.”

Your heartbeat quickens. “Do you mean that?”

“Do you want to learn?” You nod your head eagerly. He grins gently. “Then we will teach you.”

Yoongi’s eyes are dark as he presses forward. Your breath catches in your chest as you lay back, looking up at him with your lips parted, heart hammering in your chest. He settles his waist against you, the weight of him pressing you into your bed as you lay back.

He is so beautiful that it puts you in a daze, staring up into his face as he leans over you. His hair is pulled back, but a few dark strands hang loose. His mouth is stained red with wine, making you want to lean forward and taste his lips and feel their softness.

Tentatively, you reach a hand up and brush the loose strands of hair out of his face, tucking them behind his ear. You don’t stop touching him, though, hand cradling his flushed face. His eyes flutter shut and he leans into your palm as you cup his cheek, thumb sweeping back and forth.

“Is this what you dream of?” he whispers, eyes remaining closed. “Being under me, like this?”

Dreaming. You realize you’re dreaming. You jolt and suddenly, you’re alone.

“Your handwriting is terrible,” Taehyung admits, looming over your shoulder. You grip the quill tighter, nearly snapping it in two. “But you learn unbelievably fast. How many of these letters do you think you have consistently memorized?”

Taehyung is in charge of your writing lessons today and you already want to kill him. It’s been five days of your new residency in the House of Dreams, as Yoongi calls it, and you’ve quickly learned that Taehyung is equally charming and playful as he is outright vexing.

Instead of turning to give him a very harsh poke in the arm with your quill, you scan the shapes in front of you. There are twenty-six of them, all awkwardly slanted and misshapen where you’ve used too much ink or not enough. Using a quill and ink feels alien to your hand and your fingers struggle to remember the proper way to hold it as you draw your letters.

“I think most of them,” you answer slowly, mentally sounding out each word on the page in your head as you go. “But there are a few of them that confuse me. The lowercase ‘d’ and ‘b’ I find nearly impossible to recall and ‘v’ and ‘u’ are rather frustrating.”

“Whenever you see a ‘u’, think of it as having a scoop. Sc-uuup.” Taehyung points to a ‘u’ on the page and mimics the scooping motion. “Might be easier to associate the sound scoop with ‘u’ even though the word itself doesn’t have a ‘u’.”

The desperate look you give him makes him laugh as you struggle to imagine why a word with a ‘u’ sound doesn’t actually contain the letters. You’re saved from Taehyung’s maddening - but helpful - instruction as Yoongi walks into the library.

“You’d better not be laughing at her again.”

Taehyung steps away from you and bows his head toward Yoongi. “I’m laughing with her. We’re just sharing amusement over the hypocrisy of letters.”

“Yeah,” you deadpan. “It’s hilarious.”

Today, Yoongi is in a deep, amethyst colored shirt. It’s laced at the throat with the familiar moon and stars that he has stitched on much of his clothing, and his hair down and long, slicked back and tucked behind his ears. As always, he’s in dark pants and boots today, the sound of them clicking on the stone floor as he nudges Taehyung out of the way to peer over your shoulder.

You tense. Being around Yoongi for the last five days has been intoxicating. It is bad enough that you get distracted during your lessons by the way his voice rumbles when he speaks and the way he chews his lips when working on his own things while you study. It’s worse that now he invades your dreams, whispering in your ear and hands wandering over your curves, sinful mouth brushing over your skin and leaving you to jolt awake in bed covered in sweat.

The very idea that Yoongi knows what you're dreaming of drives you to the edge of insanity. He’d promised he preferred to avoid your dreams, but you wonder if he knows. Knows that you have developed an insatiable habit of fantasizing about his hands, or about the tone of his voice.

Gripping your quill tight, you hold your breath when he leans over you. He’s not touching you, but he’s close enough that you feel the heat of him and smell him, cinnamon and clove making your eyes flutter. If you didn’t know he was the god of dreams, you’d mistake him for the god of lust, if that was a thing.

“Why aren’t you breathing?” You peer upward to see Yoongi looking down at you. If you tilted your head back just a fraction more, you’d be pressed against his chest. Even from upside down, his moon-pale face and cosmos eyes make you want to scream. “Are you alright?”

“Nervous that I’m not performing well.”

His face softens. “You’re a quick learner. Don’t worry about progress and pace.”

“But what if I lose it when I go h- back.”

Home. That’s what you were going to say. But the idea of home is terrifying. You don’t know what waits for you when you go back. You don’t know what splitting time between two worlds means. You don’t know what you’ll do when you have to spend two weeks there before coming back to Yoongi.

Five days in Yoongi’s realm has been enough to make you feel like this has always been your life. You fit into the daily routines of Yoongi and Taehyung better than you imagined, and though you still sometimes get lost in the House of Dreams, you discover that you’re adapting.

There’s always something new to discover, an adventure around the corner. You like learning your letters and the sounds that they make. You love studying the maps in the library and tracing the distances between countries you can’t name and have no idea where they are.

Most of all, you love exploring. Rooms upon rooms of objects both normal and magical. Creatures that roam freely around the palace - including a clever little fox that has taken interest in following you around as you take breaks from studying by walking around the grounds.

While Yoongi’s home doesn’t feel like it belongs to you, you’re more afraid to go back to your mother and father than you are to go near the pond at the edge of the wisteria garden.

So you avoid thinking of going back.

“You’ll practice while you’re there,” Yoongi says, as though it’s the easiest answer in the world. “You have to practice every day.”

“My father won’t- he doesn’t…” You shake your head, unable to get the words out. That your father would strike you to the ground if he found you with books again. “I can’t bring anything back with me.”

“Sure you can.” You glance at him to find his expression is firm. “I told you, you’re under my protection. Things will be very different for you when you go back.”

“How?”

“It’s… difficult to say.”

Yoongi offers nothing else. You become hyper aware of how close he’s standing to you again and you look down at your letter practicing. With a shaky hand, you dip the quill into the ink, lifting it from the inkwell and letting the excess drip before bringing it over to the paper.

When Yoongi makes no move to leave, you inhale deeply to steel your nerves and continue tracing. He’s content to watch you as you work. If he knows how distracted this makes you, he doesn’t let on. Perhaps he has no idea that as you scrawl a shaky letter ‘k’, it’s Yoongi who consumes your thoughts.

Even in your waking hours it seems you’re not rid of him.

Most of your study sessions are like this, Yoongi watching you so closely that it makes your quill bleed too much ink. He is a passive teacher, letting you come to him with questions instead of correcting you constantly like Taehyung does. Even now, when you hesitate on the next letter of the alphabet, Yoongi doesn’t offer his help. Lets you figure it out.

You dip the quill in ink and continue.

After you finish the last shaky letter, you set the quill down, flexing your fingers open and closed. Yoongi makes a satisfied noise and steps away. You turn to see him walking toward the table by the fireplace, which is where you have started to take all your meals. Already, there are platters of food and drinks. Taehyung sits in a chair, plucking a grape from a plate and popping it in his mouth.

“I didn’t invite you,” Yoongi grumbles as he takes a seat at the head of the table. You push yourself up from your chair, legs aching from sitting so long. “Who said you can eat my grapes?”

“Ugh, I’m tired of eating alone.”

“Let him stay, Yoongi.” The god looks at you with a glower, bottom lip jutted out slightly. It’s so cute that you can’t help but burst into laughter, hand flying to your mouth. “Sorry, I think you just pouted.”

“He did.” Taehyung grins and leans back in his chair. “He wants you to himself.”

Yoongi hisses Taehyung’s name, shutting down the teasing immediately. You glance at Yoongi shyly as you sit down but he doesn’t meet your eyes, choosing to laden his plate with food instead. You can’t imagine why Yoongi would want you to himself, especially when all you do is ply him with questions.

Still, a little bit of a thrill goes through you as you start loading your plate, your gaze drifting toward the deity again as he bites into a strawberry, the juice running down his chin. Your eyes track the movement as his tongue darts out, catching the drip before it escapes too far.

Yoongi’s mouth is hypnotizing and it takes you a moment too long to realize he’s watching you stare at him. Quickly, you grab a cup and bring water to your lips, gulping the cool water and glancing up at the ceiling, feeling embarrassment bloom like warm liquid through you.

When you put the cup down, you swear you see Yoongi smiling.

Hungry lips suck at the tender flesh of your neck. You gasp, feeling your toes curl in pleasure, head spinning. Yoongi’s teeth scrape against the sensitive skin, the drag of his rough tongue soothing over the bites driving you mad. You let out a soft moan, eyes squeezing shut as you writhe under him.

Yoongi’s large hands pin yours above your head, your fingers tangling in the sheets as he continues to ravish your neck with his hot mouth, tongue and teeth. His hips roll over you and you whine, feeling his hard-on pressing against you.

Your parents would kill you if they knew you were here like this, trapped under a god of the dark as he sucks on your pulse point, mouth moving upward to nip your ear. Your chest is heaving and you can’t get enough breath, overwhelmed by the scent of cinnamon and clove, by the way his mouth pulls sounds from you so easily.

Yoongi tears his lips away and looks down at you, eyes so dark and blown out that you think he might devour you, swallow you whole in one bite -

“You’re dreaming of me again,” he whispers. “I don’t know if you mean to be dreaming of me, like this.”

You startle, realizing this isn’t real, and the illusion fades.

Twilight skies stretch above you. It’s warm outside, but the night air is cool against your skin, making you shiver as you sit down, folding your legs criss-cross.

“Are you cold?” Yoongi asks, sitting down on the soft grass next to you. You shake your head, eyes fixed on the low table in front of you that's filled with platters of meats, cheeses and crackers. You eye a glass bottle of red liquid that you think is wine, mouth watering. “Are you sure?”

“Promise, the wind feels nice.”

He looks doubtful as he sits down next to you, a healthy amount of space between you.

Tonight, Yoongi has insisted on a late night snack outside under the stars. He seems eager, verging on giddy as he glances up at the sky before reaching for the bottle of red liquid and popping the cork.

After nearly two weeks in the House of Dreams, you’ve learned that this world is forever twilight, lit up by dreams. Here, day and night don’t exist in their truest forms. There are always millions of people and creatures dreaming at every moment of existence, not limiting Yoongi’s world and power to times of day and night.

The twilight is beautiful. You’ve grown accustomed to the purple tint to the world, the way that it gets just the barest bit darker outside during certain periods, as though even in a world where night and day don’t exist, there are still two separate halves of time.

Yoongi passes you a glass. You bring it to your nose and sniff, delighted at the scent of cherries and something else. It’s certainly wine, though you wait for him to pour himself a glass to sip any.

Earrings dangle in Yoongi’s ears tonight. Each lobe has a small, thin chain with a moon charm on the end that’s studded with sapphires, catching the moonlight as he sets down the bottle and sits back. His hair is pulled half-up, half-down again, leaving his full face in view as he looks at you and gives you a gummy grin that scatters your thoughts.

“Chaos is moving through the sky tonight,” Yoongi informs you, glancing upward. “When she does, she’s beautiful to see. She doesn’t do it that often, but she’s passing us by on her way to do whatever it is she does somewhere. I wanted you to see.”

He holds out his drink and you grip yours tight, raising your glass to clink with his like you’ve seen people do at the inn in your village. He turns away from you, bringing his wine to his lips to sip. You follow suit, tentatively tilting your glass.

Sweet cherries bloom on your tongue and you hum in delight. It isn’t just cherries you taste, though. There’s a lush sweetness too, edged with spice, filling your mouth with warmth. You look at Yoongi as you sip and see him watching with a closed-lipped smile, eyes searching your face.

“You like it?”

You nod and set the glass down. “It’s delicious.”

“You like sweet things.”

“And you like salty.” He raises a brow in question. “You’re always going for the salted meats at dinner. And you have salted pork right there,” you point to the meat and cheeseboards. “Do gods get dehydrated?”

“We do not. I didn’t realize you were paying so much attention.” You shrug, picking up your wine to take small sips again. “Anything else you’ve noticed?”

Everything, you want to say and don’t. You’ve noticed so many things about Yoongi, all of them coming to mind at once. But you don’t want to reveal just how much you’ve watched him over the last two weeks, paying far more attention than is proper.

You could tell Yoongi how you’ve noticed that he wears seven necklaces exactly, each with a different symbol charm on them that you think corresponds to the seven Eternals. You could tell him that he has the habit of closing his eyes and tilting his face upward, like he’s absorbing moonlight. You know all of his favorite breakfast items, specifically crispy bacon and sugared strawberries.

And there are other things you could tell him, like in your dreams his lips are soft as sin, his voice low and sultry. You could admit that most nights you feel his grip on your waist and that when you study his hands during your lessons, you can’t help but already know the shape of them.

Perhaps two weeks back in your village is exactly what you need to get the ridiculous fantasy of this eternal being from your head. You don’t think you could bear the shame of him knowing exactly what living in the in-between realm has done for your imagination in a very unexpected way.

“You like bacon,” you offer as an answer. “And sugared strawberries. In the evening, whiskey is your favorite. It smells a little bit like honey, but still spicy. And you must work in the dream tower often at night, because the door to the tower smells like clove and cinnamon and you always smell that way.”

Yoongi’s brows shoot up. You hide your expression with your glass of wine, taking a long draught. It hums in your veins, warm and rushing like nothing you’ve ever felt before. When you lower the glass, Yoongi watches you with an intense expression. You meet his gaze, suddenly unable to look away.

The air feels charged as you stare. His eyes dip down to your mouth a single time, then back up to your eyes. The breeze moves strands of his hair and you smell the hint of clove followed by cinnamon, just as you always do when he’s near. Your heart starts to staccato as the silence presses on.

A little shriek cuts through the tension like a knife. You flinch and turn around, looking at a red blur of movement burst from the wisteria trees. Tiera lands with a squawk, the fey dragon huffing as grey smoke curls from her lungs. She ignores you entirely as she normally does and skips over to where Yoongi is sitting before she settles next to him, curling like a cat and laying on her tail.

Yoongi laughs. “Hello, Tiera.” The dragon chuffs and lets out another puff of smoke. “Are you not going to say hello to our friend?”

When the dragon pays no attention to you, you roll your eyes. “She hates me.”

“Dragons are capricious. She’s been with me for over a hundred years.”

“Not very mature then, is she?”

He chuckles again as you pluck cheese from the platter and pop it into your mouth. You’re delighted to find it’s soft and garlicky with a hint of rosemary as well. “She is still a child in dragon years.”

“And you let her be a glutton.”

“You could be too.” Your chewing slows and you swallow the cheese hard. You wait to see if he’s teasing you, but Yoongi watches you with a placid expression. “Dreams and desires are intertwined, you know. Desires come from dreams. It is in my nature to be indulgent.”

“I’ve never really been indulgent in my life.”

“Do you want to be?”

“What?”

His mouth twitches. “Indulgent.”

“I think this is indulgent,” you gesture to the food. “And you’re teaching me to read and write. That is more indulgence than I could ever dream of.”

He hums and it sounds like disapproval. “I think your dreams are far more indulgent than that.”

He knows. You think he’s going to say something, to ask about the way you dream of him. Instead, he says, “When you return, we’ll work on your indulgence. There is no shame in wanting things, you know?”

“I don’t know. How could I?”

Light flashes above your head. You break eye contact with him to look up and gasp. The sky is full of shooting stars, hundreds of them, maybe thousands. The world lights up as you see rainbows streaking across the sky, bursts of colors and explosions of brilliance shooting through the sky.

Your mouth hangs open as you watch, mystified into silence. You’re sure this is what Yoongi meant when he said Chaos was passing by, for the sky becomes a cacophony of color and stars and light. You blink your eyes, stunned by the display. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, your heart hammering with excitement as you watch it, legs crossed, head tilted up.

The stars begin to slow and there are less bursts of color, until finally, there is just a shimmering wake of stardust and pink simmering in the sky. You look at Yoongi, utterly speechless, to find him looking at you. His eyes reflect the night sky, full of constellations and stardust, glittering in the dark depths of his irises.

Yoongi’s eyes are as wonderful as the display above, but you don’t say that.

“That was beautiful,” you breathe. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

His eyes don’t leave you when he hums softly in agreement. “It was.”

Tiera shuffles next to Yoongi, drawing your attention. She snakes her long neck out, tongue tasting the air as she eyes the meat on the table. Yoongi hisses at her and taps her nose in chastisement, earning an angry croak as the dragon shuffles back to her napping position.

The rest of your evening is spent snacking in companionable silence. Yoongi doesn’t talk much unless he’s answering your hundreds of questions, but tonight, you have none. You’re comfortable to just look at the world around you, the wisteria branches dancing in the breeze.

In the distance, you hear thunder. Your eyes follow the sound to the same dark peak with lightning crackling through the mist. You’ve yet to ask Yoongi about that peak in particular, but you think you know what looms there. You remember Yoongi talking about how there are nightmares in this realm too, and you’re not eager to ask what that thunderous mountain holds.

Yoongi doesn’t divulge, either. He watches you as you regard the peak and says nothing. Perhaps even the Eternal of dreams is hesitant to speak of that place, which is a good enough reason for you not to press him further on it.

When your stomach is full and you’ve had another glass of wine, you lay back in the grass. Your limbs feel heavy with drink and your world is tilted on a slow-rotating axis. The buzz in your veins feels pleasant, though your thoughts are a little sticky like honey and they run together, untamed.

Careful to keep his distance, Yoongi lays back in the grass with you. His face looks up at the sky, but you look at him. His features are so delicate and soft, nose and cheeks so round. His face don’t make sense in your head, so severe and terrifying yet gentle and innocent at the same time.

“You’re staring,” he says eventually.

“I’m indulging,” you tease back, loosened up by wine. “You said I can indulge, so let me stare.”

“What is there to indulge in?”

“Your… earrings.”

That makes him look at you, a brow quirked. “My earrings.”

“Yes. Very shiny. Very dangly.”

“Shiny and dangly?”

“Is there an echo out here?” you demand, frowning at him. “Yes, I am indulging in your jewelry!”

“Would you like some earrings?”

“My ears aren’t pierced.”

“Well then we’ll pierce them.”

“Well,” you grump. “Don’t you have the answer for everything?”

He smiles then, that rare gummy smile that makes you shut right up. “I told you. I’m indulgent. Anything you want, all you need is to ask.”

Rolling your eyes, you bite your lip to hide your smile at his words. It is insane to you that this ancient being is laying in the grass next to you telling you to only ask what you want. You don’t know what you want, but you do know that this feels like a dream. That you’re not really here, and that you’re going to wake up tomorrow and be in your bed at home.

Dread fills you at the thought of going back to your parents. In a way, you want to see them. They’re your parents and there is… unfamiliarity without the sound of your mothers needle stitching through cloth. You could do without your father entirely. The rage inside of you when you picture his face is difficult to quell and is often followed by terror.

Yoongi has told you that you will be safe when you return. You believe him. There is no reason not to. But more than anything, you’re terrified about what comes next. Living between two worlds is something you remember dreaming about that one day in the forest, looking at the way the world was reflected back on the mirror-calm surface of the water.

Now that you have access to two worlds, you don’t know what to do with the other that has brought you nothing but suffering. And yet, you still want to see what is there. You’re not ready to leave it entirely without knowing.

“Are you afraid to go back?”

Yoongi’s question is soft. You don’t hesitate to answer, “Yes.”

“You won’t be alone. All you have to do is dream of me, and I will come.”

You hesitate then ask, “Do you know any time someone dreams of you?”

“It’s like hearing someone call my name, but I never answer. My business is in creating dreams, not invading them. People like you are able to spin up dreams on your own without my assistance. I help those who cannot.”

“That sounds like a lovely job.”

He hums. “It’s not without its stresses. I talk a lot about the nature of dreams, but there is more to me and to my job than that. Perhaps we will leave that for your next visit, yes?”

You nod. “Okay.”

“Come on,” Yoongi sighs, heaving himself upward. “It is late and in the morning, you must return.”

“Touch me,” you beg him, straddling Yoongi’s lap. His head rests against the back of the couch and he looks up at you as you run your fingers through his hair. It’s softer than you imagined, sliding like silk between your fingers. “You told me to ask for what I wanted. Touch me.”

“Anything,” Yoongi agrees. His hands skim up your thighs, warm and rough. He squeezes your flesh, making you moan as his hands continue their worship. Yoongi grips your hips tightly, kneading your flesh as he pulls you closer to him. “Anything. Everything. For you.”

When you wake up, you’re confused. The roof above your head is wood and thatch. The mattress beneath you is thin and lumpy, sweat sticking the sheets to your legs. Rolling over, your vision blurs until it comes into focus once more, revealing a tiny room with just a bed, a wardrobe and a closed door.

Your room. Well, your room in your parents’ house, you realize with a panic.

You shoot up in bed as terror claws at you. Did you dream it all? Was it not real? Nothing in your room has changed and the windows are open to the cool air. Grey clouds drift in the sky and you can smell the petrichor of oncoming rain in the distance.

Rushing to your bedroom door, you rip it open, your heart threatening to burst with how hard it’s beating. You don’t know what you’re looking for or what you expect to find, but the idea that you have just woken up from the most vivid, wonderful dream is so maddening that you need anything to tell you it was real. That it wasn’t in your head.

Your mother is sitting at the kitchen table stitching. She looks up when she hears you. She looks different, leaner and narrower than you ever remember, her greasy hair tied low at her neck. Her hands pause their stitching as she stares at you, stricken.

“What day is it?” you ask her. The day you had been attacked had been a seventh day. You remember that clearly. “Tell me what day it is!”

Instead, your mother screams in sheer terror.

#hali 🍤#fic rec #series rec #myg #yoongi angst #yoongi smut #yoongi fantasy

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