#and deciding killing was the better option

[cosmicmunsonwrites]

teachers pet pt. 2

brothers best friend!rafe x thornton!fem!virgin!reader

cw — minors dni, kissing, handjob, oral (m receiving), reader is very innocent, stereotypical girly room and such

summary — after going on your date, you decide its time to learn more.

authors note — part one can be read here! please request and interact <33 edit: y’all this lowk escaped me… its kinda long :)

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

do not copy or post my work anywhere else.

enzo had done everything right. he picked you up from your house, opened your car door for you, offered to buy you food or get you whatever drink you wanted, everything you hoped a man would do for you someday.

you felt yourself smiling at all times and laughing at each of his jokes. it was going perfect. until it wasn’t.

you were currently in enzo’s room, sat across him on his bed like you had been with rafe last night. except this time, you didn’t feel nervous. there were no butterflies in your stomach. nothing. you liked him though, you knew you did.

and when his lips finally hit yours, his lips were chapped and the kiss itself was sloppy, wet, and gross. your body cringed at it. he wasn’t slow or delicate with you, he was just slobbering all over your mouth. you could feel the cold air hitting the glob of spit he left on your chin.

he didn’t taste like your favorite fruit like rafe did. no, he tasted like whatever his last meal had been. it made you want to gag. and his face wasn’t shaved clean like rafe’s was. he had a slight stubble that made your skin itch. it was almost guaranteed that’d you breakout tomorrow.

he didn’t make you feel like rafe did. he didn’t pull any noises from you, didn’t ask if you were okay with what he was doing or anything. it didn’t sit well with you.

and when he tried to pull you into his lap and squeeze at your bottom, you made up some excuse about how your stomach hurt and you wanted to go home. he was dumb enough to actually believe you.

even when he offered to drive you home, you still called rafe to come pick you up instead considering your brother was out with ruthie and probably would’ve killed you when he found out where you were. and he came. he always did.

“how was your little date?” he asked, one hand slung over the wheel while the weight of his other arm was placed on center console. if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was jealous.

you shifted in your seat slightly, gaze fixed on what was passing through the window. “it was fine.”

he glanced at you and noticed your unreadable expression. “what happened? wasn’t everything you dreamed it would be?” his voice was teasing.

it pissed you off. so you shrugged. “not really.”

something about your short answers was putting him off. his hand came to gently pat your thigh, trying to get your attention back on him. “seriously, what happened?” he asked. “he do somethin’ to you?”

you shook your head. “no, the date was good.” the heat of his hand resting on your skin made you shiver.

he gave you a slight nod and pulled into your driveway. “so what was wrong with the kiss?”

“he didn’t kiss like you,” you admitted, too tired to keep going back and forth with him. “it was all sloppy and gross.”

if you were looking at him, you would’ve caught the smug look on his face. “that right?” he asked, his voice smooth and low. “why’d you call me instead of letting him drive you home? thought you liked him.”

“i do,” you snapped back. truly, you just wanted to spend a little time with rafe. also the fact that enzo had made you slightly uncomfortable. “i just wanted to get home fast and you were the best option. i didn’t expect you to give me an entire interview though.”

he smirked and chuckled under his breath. “jus’ checking on you. making sure he didn’t put his hands on you or anything.”

your gaze sharpened at him. “can i go now?” you asked bitterly.

his hand retracted from you leg, making your skin feel oddly cold now, and he turned his car back on. “go ahead.”

a scoff left your lips and you opened up your door, stepping out. “thanks.” the door shut, a little harder than you would’ve liked, then you headed towards your front door.

as always, he waited for you to get inside then drove off towards his own house. annoyed was an understatement of how you were currently feeling.

and when enzo texted you the next week, saying he enjoyed your time together so much so that he wanted to do it again soon, you didn’t feel excited. no butterflies, no blushing, no kicking your feet, nothing.

you still said yes for some reason. maybe it was the idea of him wanting you. or maybe it was that you could use this as an excuse to get rafe to teach you some more.

so you waited patiently. you began painting your fingernails and toes a pretty shade of pink, fixing up your hair, and putting on some black flare leggings with a baby pink cropped t-shirt.

topper and his two best friends finally arrived around 7 pm, pizza boxes in hand along with cases of beer and a bottle of hard alcohol. you came down the staircase, watching curiously.

rafe was the first to look at you, his eyes scanning up and down your body then smirking to himself and turning back to whatever he was doing.

then your brother finally noticed you. “hey,” he called out. “if you want something, help yourself before its all gone.”

you headed over to where the food was. and of course, rafe was standing right in front of it. your eyes wandered over to where the other two boys were, finding that they were completely enamored by the baseball game going on.

so you slide between rafe and the countertop, your backside pressed flush to his front, leaned up and forward on your tip toes to grab a slice. the action made you press into him further.

and when you stepped out from the position and glanced up at him, he was already staring down at you. his eyes her dark, lips slightly parted, and his chest rising and falling a little quicker than it should’ve. you grinned to yourself and headed back up to your room to eat.

a couple of hours had passed now. from what you’d gathered, ruthie was over, which meant toppers full attention was on her. this gave you an idea. you pulled out your phone and found rafe’s contact.

you:

wyd

three dots appeared almost instantly.

rafe:

watching a movie

you:

where are the other three?

rafe:

top and ruthie are in his room

kelce is sleeping

you began to smile, knowing your plan would work. your fingers hovered above the keyboard for a second as you thought.

you:

come to my room

i’m bored and i need help

you set your phone down almost immediately, a little embarrassed and scared of what he was gonna say. except you didn’t get a reply, only a soft knock at your door before it was being pushed open and rafe was entering.

he glanced around the walls like he hadn’t been inside multiple times over the years as he walked over and sat on your bed, already getting comfortable. “so. what’d you need my help with?”

“i have a date with enzo soon,” you blurted out, fidgeting with your fingers.

his eyes rolled. “are you fucking serious?” he asked, though there was no real bite in his words. “i thought you didn’t like it the last time.”

you shrugged. “i liked the date. he just wasn’t a good kisser.”

“and that makes you want to go further with him?” he asked, brows furrowed. his tone was almost teasing. “shoving his tongue down your throat and all over your face really turned you on?”

a look of disgust flickered over your face. “no. that’s gross, rafe,” you mumbled. “i guess i just like that he wants me. it’s nice to have someone like you for once.”

he sighed and shook his head. there was no way you were being serious. “sweetheart, i’m sure there’s a hundred other guys that want you. i can think of at least five who like you,” he replied. “you don’t need to lower your standards for some dude who doesn’t know what he’s doing just to feel something.”

“so you’re saying i should go for someone like yourself who knows what they’re doing?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

a smirk grew across his lips and he leaned further back into your bed. his eyes never left yours. “all i’m saying is that you should explore other options. i get it, i really do. you like the guy and want to be ‘good for him,’ whatever the fuck that means, but you shouldn’t have to think like that about the dude you’re trying to date. they should be grateful to have the opportunity to teach you shit like that.”

you swallowed the lump in your throat and glanced down at your hands. hearing this, especially from rafe who never really gives a fuck about anything, made your stomach turn. “i just don’t want to embarrass myself.”

“i don’t think it’s embarrassing. if they can’t accept the fact that you’re a virgin, what else are they not gonna accept about you?” he asked. “he’s a fuckin’ loser if he makes you feel like you’re not good enough. and if the next couple of dates are only gonna consist of you going to his house to do shit, i think that tells you all you need to know about him.”

you let out a soft chuckle. “wow. i didn’t know you felt so strongly about all this,” you half-teased. part of it warmed you heart that he cared so much.

rafe shrugged, that same lazy grin returning across his lips. “you’re a beautiful girl. you’re smart, funny, loyal,” he complimented. “you’re stupid if you think you need to settle for some douche who doesn’t see that and only wants to get in your pants.”

you let your body fall back dramatically, your head hitting the pillow and your hands resting over your bare stomach. as much as you hated to admit it, he was really making you think about your choices.

“but hey, i’m not here to be your dad. just your teacher,” he butted in when he noticed your mind going a mile per minute. he always noticed things like that. “so if you wanna keep going, that’s up to you.”

a deep sigh left your lips as you thought. even if it wasn’t for enzo, you still wanted to learn. just in case something were to happen. “i want to.”

his chin was now propped up on his the palm of his hand as he watched you intently. “what’s today’s lesson?”

you internally gagged at thinking about having to say it out loud. “i wanna know how to please someone.”

rafe wanted to laugh at how awkwardly you said it, like saying it too loud would get you locked up for life. but for you, he didn’t. he just nodded and sat upright.

he motioned for you to come closer until you were sitting right in front of him. “relax,” he stated, noticing how tense you looked. “you don’t have to be perfect, there’s not an instruction manual or anything for these things. just feel it out. we’ll just go slow.”

you took a much needed deep breath. “okay.”

he flashed you a soft reassuring smile before his hand found the small of your back to pull you a little closer and the other came up to cradle your jaw. “just kiss me to start. go slow. exactly like i taught you. let your hands roam, ok?”

you nodded and leaned in slow enough to let the tension build. he met you halfway and pressed his lips to yours, soft and gentle. it made you smile.

your hands started by running over his buzz, the short hair tickling your fingers before slowly trailing down to his shoulders and resting there.

the hand that was on your waist began to pull you forward until you were seated in your lap like the week prior. you felt fireworks in your stomach again.

you pulled away breathlessly. “did you lock the door?”

“mhm,” he hummed and kissed you again, like the time that his lips weren’t on yours was physically painful.

you chuckled against his lips and let your hands trace down his chest and to his stomach. they tugged at the bottom of his shirt. he took the hit and pulled away briefly to pull it over his head.

part of you thought you might be drooling. you’d seen him shirtless countless times but something about being this close to him felt different.

his lips were back on yours like he couldn’t get enough and your nails were gently scratching over his abs, making him groan softly and his body shudder. once the surge of confidence flowed through you, your hips began to move slowly.

you could feel that he was already hard beneath you and you’d be lying if you said the friction wasn’t making your underwear dampen slightly. carefully without breaking rhythm, you crawled off his lap and rested your hands on his thighs.

“what do i do now?” you asked, big eyes looking up at him.

he thought he might be in heaven right now. it was almost unreal to have you like this, sitting between his legs with your hands so close to wear he needed you most. it took him a second to gather his thoughts. “jus’ start over clothes. over my pants, boxers, whichever you want. and whenever you’re ready, you can go under it.”

“can you guide me?” you questioned shyly. truthfully, you were terrified. rafe would never judge you. ever. but you still wanted to be good. to actually please him.

he nodded, his pupils blown wide with something other than lust, his cheeks and lips a pretty shade of pink. “whatever you want baby,” he mumbled, his voice low and smooth.

his lips were back on yours, his movements a little more passionate as one of his hands rested just above your knee and the other grabbed yours from his thigh and gently brought it over himself.

he aided you in slowly palming over sweats, feeling the imprint of him. it made you clench your thighs. you’d never done anything like this, never felt a man this intimately, never even watched porn and seen one naked.

you could hear his breath quicken a little and his thigh tense under your other hand. the two of you stayed like this for a minute or two, just working him over his pants while his tongue danced with yours.

once you began to feel a little more comfortable, your hand dipped under his waistband and over his boxers. soft little whimpers and occasional moans slipped past his lips when your hand began to repeat the motion he’d just taught you slowly over the thin fabric.

he felt huge and thick. you were certain he was more than average. when your friends would talk about the guys they’d hook up with, they never described one being this big.

he pulled away from your lips for a second, his eyes closed and his forehead resting against yours. “fuck. you’re doin’ so good,” he mumbled, a little out of breath. the hand that wasn’t on you was by his thigh, squeezing the sheets in his fist. “doin’ okay?”

“mhm,” you responded. “i’m ready to do more.”

a smile graced his lips, a little sense of pride surging through him. “tell me what you wanna do, sweet girl.”

normally, you would’ve died from embarrassment from what you were about to say. but the noises you were pulling from rafe made you feel a little more confident. “i wanna taste you.”

he closed his eyes again, the hand that was on your thigh subconsciously squeezed a little. he felt like he’d just died and actually went to heaven.

once he gave you the go, you laid on your stomach between his legs to make yourself comfortable while he sat up against your headboard in nothing but his boxers. him resting against the pink flower vines behind him accompanied by the fairy lights made you giggle to yourself. this tall, muscular, beautiful man in your pink bed surrounded by flowers and soft yellow lighting.

“what’s so funny?” he asked playfully, a smile of his own on his lips.

you shook your head quickly but still smiling like an idiot. “nothing.”

he returned the infectious grin, but was immediately cut off when you started palming him over his boxers again. he muttered some instructions as he tried to hold back his noises of pleasure and helped you take off his boxers.

you froze. he exceeded your expectations. part of you was expecting to be grossed out but you were so unbelievably turned on. an almost uncomfortable knot formed in your stomach at the sight of him. it made you want to do things to him that would be concerning to the rest of society.

“we can stop if you want,” he said, breaking the silence. “just say the word.”

you shook your head a little too quickly. “no. i wanna keep going.” you followed the instructions he’d given you moments ago and took him into your hand. he was warm, heavy, and thick. your heart was beating out of your chest and you could only hope he didn’t notice your shaky hands.

leaning down towards him, you licked from base to tip, sending a shiver up his spine. your hand followed and slowly stroked the length of him.

he brought his hand down to yours and closed it around him slightly tighter. “just a little more pressure,” he suggested, closing his eyes and tipping his head back when you followed the instruction as you pumped him again and licked at his tip. “oh my fuck.”

your heart swelled a little at that. your lips came to press a few soft kisses to the sensitive skin before slowly taking him into your mouth. the moan he let out was heavenly. you wished you could’ve recorded it.

rafe adjusted so he could look at you again, one of his hands coming down to collect all of your hair and hold it away from your face for you. “so good baby. doin’ so fuckin’ good for me.”

you moaned around him, making him twitch in your mouth, and took him a little deeper. your hand took care of whatever you mouth couldn’t. his hand in your hair gripped it a little tighter while the one that was still holding onto the sheets was practically white from squeezing so hard.

once you began to get a little more sure in your actions, you started to move a little faster. you could see him abs flexing and a pretty blush creeping up his neck.

back when you were in your dorm with your roommates before summer break, you’d remembered them talking about things like this. something about how their secret weapon was to massage their balls to get them to finish faster. hearing it then used to make your entire body cringe. thinking about it now though, what harm could it do? it was just rafe, he wouldn’t judge you. so you did exactly that.

rafe was sure he was dead and in heaven now. he didn’t want to overwhelm you so he intentionally left that little step out. but having you do it on your own? he was done for. he’d never come this quickly. if you knew any better, he’d be extremely embarrassed.

it wasn’t even just the physical pleasure. it was you. the way your eyes hadn’t left his unless they closed momentarily, the way they were glossed over, your soft hands and lips, your perfectly painted nails, everything about you.

his muscles tensed and he tugged on your hair a little tighter. “fuck, sweetheart. makin’ me feel so good,” he praised. “‘m gonna come.”

you’d also heard from your roommates about how they always swallowed, how it turned on their boyfriends like crazy. you never really understood what that meant until right now. and you were determined to do the same.

“you can— shit,” he stuttered, moaning when you pulled off of him to breathe. “you can stop if you want.”

your hand sped up just the tiniest bit. “don’t want to,” you mumbled, kissing the underside of his cock repeatedly. “unless you want me to.”

he closed his eyes once more, trying to find it in himself to not come at this very second. “whatever you want, angel.”

you loved that he gave you so much control.

so you took him back into your mouth and began to work him a little quicker while your free hand gently massaged his balls. it wasn’t much longer until he was shooting ropes of warm liquid onto your tongue. it wasn’t like anything you’d ever tasted but you surely didn’t hate it.

after a couple moments of panting and rafe coming down from his high, he grabbed your hands and gently pulled you back into his lap. his lips immediately found yours with soft pecks. “you did fucking amazing,” he mumbled against your neck, laying more kisses to it. “i’m so proud of you, pretty girl.”

he so badly wanted to give you a fat hickey so everyone else would stay away. so enzo would get the fucking hint and leave you alone and he could have you all to himself.

hi guys i hope you’re enjoying!! i’m planning to make a couple more parts and maybe turn this into an au??? lmk if you guys are interested

teachers pet taglist —

@sublimepenguinpeach-blog

[stars-in-a-jam-jar]

Random ass completely unsupported Deltarune thought:

Kris is of course an obvious Chara parallel but consider Ralsei as the Frisk parallel.

Rattling like a maraca, biting off chunks of drywall, think about it, think about it in terms of how Undertale is about how your choices matter and you have the world shaking power to be kind and patient and understanding with people while Deltarune is about how who you are and what you feel matters and you have no power except the bloody hard earned knowledge you dredge out of the depths, and both games then turn to you and say 'You better use that power wisely'. One needs to be used wisely because it is so cosmically truthful and moving that just the act of either giving or withholding it Will Mean Something, while the other needs to be used wisely because of how precious little of it there is and how tangled and trecherous its acquisition was so to use it poorly is tantamount to sin.

The idea that the light and dark worlds must be saved through great pain and sacrifice and loss, and Ralsei thinks the only way anything could ever possibly change it is to be so kind the world has to acknowledge it. Has to believe in it too. He is also the character most openly burdened with knowledge. In that same way, the only way to free the monsters from the undergroud is to be so all encompassingly compassionate and loving and kind that you bring Asriel back to himself for just one moment. Frisk is the one character we know next to nothing about.

Kris walking on eggshells and taking great precautions to keep this Thing pulling and puppeting them around from destroying the lives of their loved ones like they know it can. They feel it. They feel how little control there is. They feel exactly where the limits are and they are rules lawyering to hell and back like they're outlining a contract with the devil. (You turn the knob, you shut your eyes, there's a code here *proceeds to rip their soul out so You Can't Have It*)

Think about that, really think about that in the context of how Undertale's narration is clearly in Chara's voice and Chara spends basically the entire game completely concealing Frisk from the player. Only when Chara completely trusts the player at the end of the True Pacifist Route are we privileged to learn Frisk's name. Chara is the one who gives the player options, Chara is constantly holding Frisk's hand (because they've decided there's nothing better to do, because Frisk is holding on, because they actually really care about this kid, the possibilities are endless and nuanced), and if you fuck up bad enough, Chara will Fucking Hate You and present you with an ultimatum: You can either get the fuck out and die and they'll have control of the narrative without you, or you can keep playing but give them the final narrative control so they can find a way to directly punish you for your transgressions. They call themself a demon, which makes sense because they are the one punishing you in this hell of your own making. You made your fuckin' bed, they're just the one tucking you in and putting the fun toys away.

The way Ralsei says that your choices matter but he as an individual with thoughts and feelings doesn't matter. He's another one of the toys in your toybox and he wants the Castle Town to be a lovely loving vibrant place where you can just relax and not think about things and will gladly burn himself out and use himself up completely if it means you're happy. He's not real, you shouldn't worry about him, you shouldn't feel bad for treating him badly it's just also nice to be nice to everyone on principle so he'll always encourage you to be nice to others and he'll always be nice to you even when it hurts and hurts and hurts and surely inevitably kills him. Which connects ALARMINGLY CLOSELY to the No Mercy Run, especially in conjunction with the Weird Route Vignette game. She was used up. You were used up. It's me! Chara! (Frisk was used up.)

Not to mention the fact that Kris being as disenchanted and disillusioned with the Dark Worlds as they appear to be definitely plays into how they interact with and are implied to think about Ralsei, because they are foils and neither of them knows it despite their otherwise overwhelming joint awareness. Where one lives with the horrifying truth that the stories and the metaphors are bruisingly real and Coming For Them so nothing can surprise them anymore and they must be prepared for everything, the other lives with the reality that he is Less Real than the things he cares about most and there is nothing to be meaningfully done about this except go stuffed and smile and wave at the world outside. On Ralsei's end, this means Kris is hard to understand but easy to love because they are bigger and stronger and More, but for Kris, it makes Ralsei easy to clock and predict but difficult to actually care about because he isn't a threat and he doesn't exist out in The Real World he's just another thing to keep track of. Both of them warp and twist around their own lived realities in attempts to not be crushed under the weight of their own internal darkness because what else is there to do? Curl up and die??? That's not a meaningful choice, they're gonna do that later anyway!

Chara, like Kris, cannot make meaningful choices on their own, but they can open up the world for Frisk by being on the journey. This is the thing that makes Chara and Frisk's relationship function so differently from Kris and Ralsei's because Chara is dead when the story starts and the body being piloted around is not theirs, so they are not working under the same existential pressure Kris is. The stakes for them start out as lower and become Everything as they walk with Frisk through this place that was their home, whereas the stakes from the top for Kris are Everything and that is not about to change, but something about Susie (specifically Susie and not Ralsei) cracks their world open and opens them up to the possibility that it's not just promises and predetermination. Maybe they have their own power of determination. Maybe. They're still too scared to use the word. (A certain power fills you.)

Unlike Chara, Kris cannot open up the world for Ralsei despite being More Real because the thing that opens up the world isn't knowledge of how things are, it's hope for how things could be. It's not about being 'real' or 'powerful' and therefore worth caring about, it's about it's about how giving a fuck is essential to existing and there is no such thing as caring too much, only running out of the energy to do so. And oh how low on energy Kris Dreemurr is— lower than Chara who is younger and has had time to rest between their death and their attachment to Frisk.

Chara loved their community more than life and their own soul; they loved the monsters so much they were willing to die and kill to give them the sun back. Of course they would hope Frisk and the player could do something, anything, for the monsters they love so much. Of course Chara keeps Frisk company, of course Chara wants to believe in Frisk's strength of character, of course Chara wants to protect Frisk and becomes furious beyond consolation when you use them up.

The thing that makes Ralsei strong is his overwhelming devotion to his own principles. His determination to be kind to others. His conviction that it is good and correct to treat others well. But this is not Undertale. This is not a universe that rewards good behaviour on principle. Ralsei has to build Castle Town himself. Ralsei has to make his choices alone. Ralsei has to go where Kris goes. Ralsei cannot change the prophecy because all of the power his kindness brings is mostly spent reinforcing itself under the crushing weight of his own existence. Kris is too burdened to help and too scared of what caring for someone- something like Ralsei would do to them. They have other things going on and they can't even play piano anymore.

This doesn't have a thesis I'm just kind of shaking this idea by the neck.

[shineesbackbitches]

Hung Up

౨ৎ summary: “You’re fine, Honey," Seungmin murmured. "I’ve got you.”

You couldn’t suppress your trembles or the quiver of your mouth as his warm lips grazed your forehead, little puffs of his breath diffusing across your skin.

If you’d had your wits together in the moment you would have voiced the response pounding in your head, chest, and esophagus.

That’s what I’m afraid of.

౨ৎ pairing: Seungmin x Reader

౨ৎ genre: married AU, angst, smut, series, peachesndreams

౨ৎ word count: 13k

౨ৎ warnings: Reader thinks Seungmin is trying to kill her, misunderstandings, kind of a When the Phone Rings AU but like also not really, accusations of infidelity (there is none), attempted murder, planning murder, brief mentions of injuries and death, confident Reader (as she should!), social events again, discussion of divorce, oral (fem receiving), Minho bullying Seungmin for the sake of the unit

౨ৎ author note: look who tf came through once again! Me, myself, and I! (my editor. my editor came through.) Happy end of the month besties! I had a two week vacation where I took a chainsaw to this part because the writing was just not writing and then I decided to never look at it again. I'll post my chapter two comments in the middle of the month and possibly write a bonus at some point once I can stand to look at the document for Hung Up again! Thank you all for waiting for this last part! Enjoy! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

⏮ previous

The universe seemed to be on Lee Minho’s side, because not even a week later, Seungmin’s office was hosting a dinner at an upscale restaurant for all employees and their significant others. It was one of those ‘optional but we’ll never forget it if you don't show up’ events, and Seungmin’s eyes drooped under the weight of the exhaustion of it all as he relayed the details. If he wasn't actively praying for your demise, you’d probably feel the slightest shred of empathy for the deep bruises marking his under eyes. You really couldn’t recall a time when he’d looked as beaten down as this, and you had to give yourself credit where credit was due.

That picture of your underwear drawer you had sent to him was diabolical work. But by now, you had no other option than to target his pride, and what better way to instigate a divorce than by insinuating his wife was being intimate with someone else? The burner phone had nearly combusted with Seungmin’s relentless calling, then vibrated right out of your hands with the rapid-fire barrage of messages he sent. The rage had been visceral— glacial, even.

He’d cursed your existence, demanded you prepare well for the few remaining hours you had left on earth, and threatened— then promised— to eradicate your entire family lineage. Of course, this was all directed at your burner identity. He'd never be this outwardly hostile to you, too committed to his game of playing the fond husband.

Now, as Seungmin leaned against the doorframe of your room, you noted the typical intense edge to his inky gaze was missing as he followed your every move while you settled down for the evening. Instead, the contours were melancholic, slumping with the corners of his mouth and the rest of his bones under his loose-fitting black t-shirt. He couldn't seem to resist letting his attention flick over to your underwear drawer every so often, his sullen expression amplifying every time he did.

“They’re so obsessed with us, they can’t go a week without spending a magical, romantic, intimate night without us.” You teased, casting a playfully sultry look over your shoulder at Seungmin. His expression remained stiff, troubled as he swallowed.

You had already slipped into a long-sleeved black sleep shirt and had fixed your hair for sleep. Your skincare had absorbed, a supple sheen spread evenly over your face and down your neck, glowing under the dimmed light of your bedside lamp. Perhaps it was a little vindictive of you, but you floated over to the chest of drawers he was so fixated on, perching on top. In your peripheral vision, you reveled in the tension curling his fingers into fists as you crossed one leg over the other. You slipped your fingers into the top of your long sock that hugged the flesh just above your knee with the intent to slip it off. The wide neck of your shirt slid off one of your shoulders. Before you could push the fabric below your knee, Seungmin crossed the space between you in long strides and settled on his knees before you. One of his large hands halted your movement, the other bracing itself on the ledge of the dresser. His jaw clenched, the tension in his high cheekbones severe as his lips pursed into a thin line.

For a moment, with the angle of his head, you thought Seungmin was staring at your legs, but then you followed his line of vision to the middle drawer— your underwear drawer. Upon closer inspection, you noted that his waterline and the tip of his nose were stained an irritated shade of dusty pink. Your eyes trailed from the gentle curve of his nose bridge to his pronounced cupid bow that ever so slightly trembled. Kind of pathetic. Unfortunately, he was also kind of hot when he was troubled.

Seungmin’s glossy, tormented eyes flickered up to your face, again searching for something.

You betrayed nothing.

A shaky exhale filled the silence and he moved your hand to rest at your side. Then, he slipped his long fingers into the edge of your sock and slowly, gently peeled it down your leg. Once the sock was removed, he gingerly flattened his lips into your skin just below your knee, heat blossoming under his touch. His large hand cradled the back of your calf, his thumb rubbing rhythmic lines as he unfolded your legs. Seungmin tugged your other sock off with the same attentive care, another kiss planted to your knee. Your chest constricted traitorously when he angled his cheek to relax against your inner leg, and you were grateful to already be seated as his humid breath whispered up your thigh.

You knew you’d have crumbled under his sleek, devoted, watery gaze, his pupils blown wide and all-consuming. You’d have allowed him to pull you into the dark currents with no concerns about ever resurfacing.

Carefully, languidly, you lifted a hand and swept your fingers through his short, dark hair. Your nails lightly scraped against his scalp, his eyes fluttering closed and a shiver vibrating through his kneeling form. He shifted his cheek to apply more pressure into your overheated inner thigh and sighed blissfully, like he would have been content to just melt into you this way.

He was so infuriatingly convincing.

Like, so infuriatingly convincing that an entire forty-eight hours later, you were still thinking about him kneeling loyally between your knees while at the extravagant company dinner. Seungmin’s office hadn’t cheaped-out either, booking an upscale steakhouse located right up against a river.

Seungmin sat beside you, still in his standard work suit, indifferent but contributing to the conversation nonetheless to appear engaged. The appetizers weren't out yet, and you already wanted to be excused from the gathering. You were already regretting wearing a classy, just-teasing-the-line-of-scandalous, mid-thigh-length black dress that left hardly anything to the imagination. Not because you didn't look drop-dead stunning (of course you did), but because you had been seated on the upstairs balcony. At night. Right next to a river.

It was fucking freezing, and not even your shamefully heated recollection of that charged moment with Seungmin was enough to curb your shudders. Worse, you were still so bored.

That was until the vacant seat next to you was occupied by one fashionably late Lee Minho. Well, not really fashionably— like everyone else, he was still dressed in his work suit, but then again, he could afford to be basic with his blessing of a face. The gleam in his eyes was positively wicked when he spotted the empty seat beside you as he stepped onto the balcony. You wiggled your fingers sardonically at him, and his face split into a ferocious grin as he neared.

“Is this seat taken?” His voice was as gentle as you remembered, and his wide eyes twinkled with mischief.

“Not at all,” You smiled genuinely, batting your lashes. Then, just to toy with him: “So lovely to see you again, Mingyu.”

His chuckles erupted from deep inside his chest, high-pitched and giddy at your teasing as he slipped into his seat. He leaned closer to you and joked, “Please, as if you could ever forget this handsome face for a fourteenth time.”

You were about to giggle and continue the banter, but your chair was abruptly yanked in the opposite direction, the legs of your chair screeching obnoxiously against the ground. Your head whipped to stare at the offender who just gained the attention of every pair of eyes at the table with the grating noise, and you came nearly nose-to-nose with your husband.

Seungmin’s expression was schooled into something neutral, and he was already playing the incident off by shrugging his suit jacket down his wide shoulders. He wrapped the heavy material around your back, pulling it snugly over your chest. His residual body heat seeped into your skin, and his fresh, pleasantly spiced, expensive cologne lightly tickled your nose.

“Better?” He murmured, but he was using that tart tone that he always addressed you with in public— the one that unsettled your stomach and extinguished your appetite— and you knew he was making a statement instead of asking a question. At this point, the others were appeased by Seungmin’s contrastingly stony doting and returned to their conversation. Seungmin took this moment to glower something ferocious over your head at his officemate, all sharp angles and cutting undertones.

If you could have stalked over to the railing and tossed his jacket over with a flick of your wrist, you absolutely would have without hesitation. He didn't want you, but he couldn't stomach the concept of you happy with someone else, was that it? That was the only thing that made sense with how uncooperative he was being about the divorce. Not that you viewed Minho in that light at all— he was just a silly guy whose elite sense of humor meshed well with yours. In an effort to not cause a scene, you flashed him a tense smile before turning back to chat with Minho. You caught the man wiggling an unserious, challenging brow at your husband, and could not find it in you to contain a giggle.

“Did I miss anything important?” He inquired, though the smirk quirking one corner of his mouth up indicated that he already knew the answer.

“Don’t worry, the appetizers aren’t even out yet.” You divulged with a wink.

“Gosh,” Minho sighed with a faux disappointed shake of his head. “I should have left the office ten minutes later, then.”

Tongue in cheek, you pouted your bottom lip, “Oh, god no. I wouldn’t have lasted any longer without my entertainment for the evening.”

As quietly as he could, Minho chuckled. “Is that what I’m here for? To be your entertainment?”

Your quip died before your lips could even form the first syllable, as Seungmin’s large palm latched onto you a little above your knee (right where his sultry breath had smoothed over your skin that night, your mind unhelpfully supplied). He wasn’t rough; the touch was more of a weight, but it was unwelcome nonetheless. The action was concealed by the table, but still frowned-upon in a casual-professional setting. Pressure built up behind your brow until it pulsed with a vengeance against the bone.

You were too good to be putting up with his ridiculous double standards. What happened to not getting too close in public? Did he seriously expect you to just sit there and be jovial at every obnoxious outing? There was absolutely no justification for this marriage, and the back-and-forth game Seungmin played between house and ignoring you entirely was insulting to your time and intelligence. He couldn’t even make up his own mind about getting a divorce, and you were going out of your way to make it up for him, but he still wouldn’t budge.

Your eyes fluttered shut as you tried to ground yourself, extinguish the sparks of your rage before they festered into flames, but the throbbing behind your eyes was too severe. You excused yourself from the table, slipping out from under Seungmin’s hand. You avoided Seungmin’s intense eyes following your figure and Minho’s concerned frown as you slung your purse over your shoulder and strode inside the restaurant. The bathroom was, of course, at the end of a long hallway that was tucked back away from the guest seating. Whatever air freshener they were using inside the women’s bathroom was far too potent, the assault of the scent of pine enough to trigger allergies you didn’t even have. As you glanced at your face in the mirror above the sink, that was the conclusion you come to as to why the sensitive skin around your lashes and the tip of your nose look irritated— that stupid pine diffuser and how unbearably cold it was tonight.

You turned your back to the mirror, resting your tailbone against the dark counter, and retrieved the burner from the depths of your purse. The chat log opened, displaying the thread of intimidating messages exchanged with Seungmin. You typed, the white light emitting from the screen only exacerbating your headache. Your message was simple, final.

Time’s up.

Once sent, you tossed the phone back into your purse, snapping the clasp closed, and readjusted the strap over your shoulder. You couldn’t go back out to the balcony yet, too aggravated to sit at that table again so soon with the only reward being an overpriced, mid steak, but you weren’t going to hide in the restroom either. A fucking drink was your best play at the moment.

With every intention of making yourself comfortable at the bar located in a temperature-controlled room for at least the next twenty minutes, you pushed the door to the bathroom open and stepped out. The door swung shut behind you with an ominous creak, and you only made it three paces before you came face to face with Seungmin again in an isolated hallway. You were far enough away from other people for the unease curling rapidly in your stomach to make you reconsider that drink.

Had Seungmin followed you? He had obviously moved quickly since you were in the restroom for less than ten minutes. He looked oddly pale, and the color drained out of his face contrasted starkly with his deep, dark eyes. They were stiff, stony even, as they scanned you up and down, then shifted around the deserted hallway before settling back on your face.

“What is it?” You asked, your arms folding in front of you. The corners of his mouth were drawn tight into a frown, and when you allowed your eyes to flick over his tense form, you noticed his cell phone clenched unforgivingly in his fist (if, for a brief moment, you thought you could make out a knife that promised no mercy instead of the phone, then that was your business). Seungmin was trying to study you again, like he always seemed to be, and you wished you knew what it was that he was looking for. Yet again, he didn’t find it, and he speared his trembling hand through his cropped hair, defeated and irked. He dropped his phone into the pocket of his slacks, lips twitching like he wanted to speak, but couldn’t force the words out. A slight crease formed between his dark brows, and Seungmin finally, shakily, uttered, “Are you having an affair?”

What the hell.

Kim Seungmin’s brain was fucking incoherent.

Your animosity festered to its peak capacity at a rate so fast, you ignored the dread weighing in the pit of your stomach resulting from being alone in this hallway with him. You could feel your own eyes morph into something fierce and lethal, splitting clean through his question and his nerve. You brushed past him, heels clicking violently against the tile, unwilling to dignify his asinine accusation with a response or even look at him. You make it another few strides when Seungmin’s large hand landed on your elbow, still covered by his suit jacket heavily draped over your shoulders. It was uncomfortable.

“Let’s just go back to—” He began, but you’d heard more than enough from him. With a flourish, you wrenched your arm away from his touch, glaring ahead with your nose held high as you stalked out towards the reception area. Seungmin was right behind you, but you ignored his calls for you to “hold on” and “wait.”

You burst through the glass front door, letting it slam shut behind you. The iciness of the night air rolling off the river was sobering, and you inhaled the crisp breeze; it stung your lungs, doing little to curb the heat of your temper. The sidewalk outside the restaurant bracketed a narrow road, not even wide enough for a car to drive by— it was isolated. A metal railing blocked off a drop of a couple of feet down to the dark, frigid water on the opposite sidewalk. You hadn’t had anywhere near enough time to emotionally cool off, though, when Seungmin shoved through the door and your attempt to protect your few remnants of peace. He found you immediately, rushing to you before you could evade him further.

Both of his hands curled around your upper arms, his body heat searing through his jacket. Seungmin’s eyes were a bit wild, pupils trembling and brightened by the restaurant’s fluorescent sign floating above. It stained his now rumpled hair that flopped a few centimeters above his pinched brows with bright, unnatural hues. There was a faint sheen glazed across his high cheekbones, an unusual appearance in the cold.

“Honey—” He tried, and you immediately recoiled at his low, nasal tone on instinct, your purse slipping off your shoulder and into the crook of your elbow in the process. All you heard was an irritating screech of metal against metal at the pet name and his voice. It felt excruciating against your teeth, the vibrations unpleasant.

“I hate it when you call me that.” You bit out, and he was momentarily taken aback, lips slightly parted and downturned.

“It’s cold. Let’s go inside and—” But Seungmin was still pressing, and still delusional if he thought you were going to sit at that table while he dismissed you and your marital issues any longer. You hadn’t wiggled out of his hold yet, but you were trying, and you could see the frustration mounting in the deepening lines of his face.

“Enough,” You said, and it comes out unsettlingly calm.

Seungmin blinked rapidly, and he was frantically trying to read your face like you were the one who wasn’t making sense. The gears crunch like they were never designed to be compatible parts to begin with, creaking and groaning defiantly. He gave up. Seungmin’s hands rubbed up and down your arms, a gesture that appeared comforting to onlookers, but you feared the moment his fingers would claw into you, nails biting into skin until it broke, the façade giving way to his true intentions.

“Just tell me what’s wrong.” The insistence frayed the last wires of your brain-to-mouth filter, and one of Seungmin’s hands released your arm to cradle your cheek, thumb swiping back and forth in a rhythm that made you feel seasick— then many things happened all at once.

The aggravation prickled at your lash line, and you flicked your eyes heavenward to both release that feeling and prevent it from manifesting in angry tears.

You saw the neon sign above you sway precariously, and thought that the water in your eyes must be distorting your vision, until— with a final echoing crack and an unnerving series of pops— it plummeted.

“Move!”

Before you could react, Minho threw himself into both of you, slamming all three of you into the unforgiving concrete road. Seungmin took the brunt of the landing, coiling around as much of you as he could, his arm absorbing most of the impact for your head. The glass and plastic rained over Minho, who piled over the top of both of you as best as he could. The three of you lay toppled over in the narrow street in a disorienting heap of limbs and expletives.

Minho was upright first, gingerly stumbling to his feet and attempting to avoid the eruption of what used to be the restaurant sign shattered all around you. A few minor cuts littered his face and hands, and he shook his head to rid his hair of the sign fragments— it was a fluffed-up mess. You and Seungmin were in similar states with no serious injuries, but both of you had been significantly less caught in the downpour of glass and plastic. Seungmin bled from a couple of thin nicks across his cheekbone and nose bridge, but otherwise seemed uninjured.

Minho muttered out curses at the unsalvageable state of his work clothes, whining something along the lines of, “motherfucker just has to fuck with my bag— have to buy another fuck ass suit—”

You shifted to brace a hand on the ground and shove your way to your feet, but Seungmin hauled you up before your fingers could graze the road. Big hands were on you again as Seungmin’s wide eyes checked you for any life-threatening injuries, demanding to know if you were hurt.

You surveyed the destruction around you, baffled.

“Oh my god,” You gasped, your chest heaving a bit as you took in the newly formed cracks in the sidewalk where you and Seungmin had just stood. “Minho, you deserve a raise.”

“Don’t I fucking know it.” The man in question grunted, his suit jacket held at arm's length before him with his nose crinkled in distaste. “Your stupid guard dog of a husband gets fucking tunnel vision every time something involves you.” He turns on Seungmin, a manic glint in his wide eyes, “Yah! How the fuck did you not hear that giant ass sign?! If it weren’t for me, you guys would be dead as hell! You should be better to me!” All of Minho’s soft tone was overtaken by something guttural you hadn’t heard until now.

Seungmin turned and cut off Minho’s complaints, instead drilling questions into him about what happened, what he saw, who he saw…

What a fucking mess.

While Seungmin interrogated Minho, you glanced around in search of your no-doubt scratched-up purse, finding it sprawled out a few feet in front of you; the clasp had popped open in the tackle, the contents spilling out on the concrete. The pounding in your chest ceased, and you rushed over to gather your belongings, your heart now lodged in your throat.

Lip gloss, wallet, car keys, your cell, a hair tie, a pack of gum, two more hair ties— where the fuck was the burner? Your hands trembled, your movements becoming frantic as your eyes darted around the wreckage. Seungmin and Minho were still occupied with their own conversation, Seungmin with his phone now held up to his ear. The burner was nowhere to be seen on the road. That left…

You peered over the railing overlooking the river, your hands turning white against the chipped metal paint to no avail; the water was black.

It was gone.

Further down the road, you discovered stairs leading closer to the river. Ignoring the ache settling into the side you’d landed on, you darted over to the top landing, clutch in hand and everything else out of mind. You didn’t know how deep the water was, but technology was so advanced— there was totally a possibility that the burner was one of those like, water-resistant up to five feet phones— or was time the important factor? Super wishful thinking on your part, but you’d never know until you knew. You hurried down the concrete steps and over to the grassy riverside, your heels scratching against pavement, and carelessly tossed your purse to your feet (just as you’d anticipated, the road had left its mark on the leather, so no reason to be gentle now). Your heels were the next item discarded, kicked off to tumble next to your bag. The grass was so cold it felt damp beneath the bottom of your feet, and goosebumps shivered up your legs. They appeared on your arms once you shed Seungmin’s suit jacket as well.

But as you peered into the unyielding, dark water, you knew it was a lost cause. Then, you were whirled around to look into Seungmin’s eyes that mirrored the river, though the currents in his eyes were far more volatile— also a lost cause.

“Quit fucking running off!” He seethed, and it was the only time you could recall ever inspiring an emotional outburst from him to this degree. It was a far cry from his typical frigid indifference— his temperament was borderline volcanic. He trembled as he erupted, yanking his jacket over your own quivering form again with unsteady hands. “Some motherfucker just tried to drop a sign on you, and—”

Your jaw was clenched so tightly, you didn’t know how you bit out your lethal retort back at him. “And whose fault is that, Seungmin?”

And with that, his rampage subdued like you’d dunked his head under the river water. The tension coiled tight enough to snap in his limbs unwound and dissipated, and he slumped. Seungmin couldn’t even stand to look at you, his head falling forward to stare down at your bare feet like he had a conscience.

Now he had the gall to pretend to be ashamed? Or was he just disappointed that you knew? You were so, so tired.

Silently, he gathered your abandoned purse and your heels, slinging the clutch onto his shoulder. It was like a replay of the gala; he squatted to slip your shoes back on, one knee lowering into the dewy grass, then heaved an exhausted sigh that seemed to emanate from his very soul upon discovering your feet were wet, blades of grass stubbornly adhered to your skin.

“Are you fucking stupid?!” Minho’s edged voice called from the sidewalk behind you. “Some jackass just tried to kill you—” Minho was cut off by Seungmin launching your heels at him without turning around. With your purse still secured on his shoulder and a surly glower pulling the corners of his lips down, Seungmin heaved you up off the ground and into his hold. Even the weightlessness in your stomach from Seungmin’s steps felt like lead— like you were going to be sick. As he curtly passed Minho, you peered over Seungmin’s shoulder apologetically, only for Minho to mime chucking your heels at the back of your husband’s head. You allowed him a faint, queasy smile, then pled for assistance with glassy eyes that he tragically misinterpreted.

“Just go home,” Minho groaned, gesturing vaguely with your heels in one hand, but taking pity on you nonetheless. “I’ll handle the police report.”

Despite your efforts to remain at the scene of the literal crime, you ended up in the passenger seat of Seungmin’s car for a very tense, uncomfortable drive home. The roads seemed to stretch like the thick silence. You couldn’t help glancing over a few times to try and read his expression, but his downturned lips and exhausted, droopy eyes were difficult to decipher. Seungmin’s Adam’s apple bobbed with each rough swallow, and he made no attempt to speak and dislodge whatever words were obviously stuck in his throat.

Part of you appreciated his careful, languid driving— otherwise, you risked the very real possibility of spilling the contents of your empty stomach onto the leather seat of his car. The ache from the impact with the concrete had settled into your bones by now, throbbing every time you shifted in your seat. However, it was currently the least important thing on your long list of concerns. Topping the list was the increasing likelihood that Seungmin was going to take care of you himself now that he knew that you were on to his scheme to become a widower. You knew better than to think that Seungmin would continue to play the ignorant, doting husband after this one. Something was about to happen— you could feel it pulsing with each piercing throb in your sore bones, and you knew that it was alive in Seungmin too.

The tense silence persisted as you arrived home. As Seungmin slipped out of the car and rounded the front, you pushed the door to your side open. He caught it and steadied it, then stepped into your path to exit the vehicle. Apprehensively, you peered at his face, but it was still devoid of any tells that would indicate his motives. Against your will, the nausea looming in the pit of your stomach spread to the back of your throat. Your fingers twitched against the side of the leather seat as you fought the sickness away. An overwhelming heat diffused into your skin as Seungmin leaned over you once more and slipped his arms around your back and under the bend of your knees. If he noticed the quivers vibrating from your hands to your shoulders as you secured your arms around his neck, Seungmin remained silent.

He set you down once you passed the threshold of the front door, and you immediately buried your feet into your house slippers, more than appreciative of the cushion they provided to your aching side. It wasn’t until you entered the living room together, Seungmin trailing behind you, that either of you spoke.

“I need to talk to you about something.” His low voice set off a shudder down your spine. Before you turned to face him, you inhaled a steadying breath.

Neither of you was oblivious to your circumstances or each other’s awareness at this point— all that was left to do was tear the rest of the bandage off and discover the ugly, ragged wound bleeding beneath.

“I’m listening.” You pivoted, expression strategically neutral as you briefly paused at the already clotted blood dotting his nose bridge and cheekbone. He shifted his weight to one leg, clenching and unclenching his fingers into tight fists as you waited for him to admit it all.

Seungmin swallowed, then sighed, then speared his fingers through his rumpled, cropped hair. Finally, he spoke: “Recently, a case— well, a defendant has gotten out of hand. He’s been threatening violence.”

That makes two of you.

Seungmin scanned your face for a reaction to this information, dark eyes darting around for the first indication of an emotion. There wasn’t one. The corners of his mouth twitched, and he continued slowly as if clarifying his previous statement, “The threats are directed at you.”

He waited again, nerves tense, anticipating something from you in response, whether fear, anger, or all of the above. What Seungmin had not anticipated were giggles. Like, the kind you tried to contain while you were in quiet, public areas. He watched, perturbed, as your hands clamped over your lips and nose and your shoulders shook. His brows furrowed, and abruptly, he was concerned that he might not have cushioned your head well enough during the fall earlier.

You gasped for breath. “You really—” Another burst of giggles, and you angled your head away from him. “God, you—” A deep sigh as you reeled yourself together to stare into his vaguely uneasy eyes. “You’re really gonna run with this, huh?”

The wry curl of your lips and the firm glint in your eyes made something twist in Seungmin’s chest. Were you just in denial of your situation after the trauma of someone trying to drop a thirty-pound neon sign on you? Like, he really couldn’t fault you for it, but reality was the only place where you could problem solve on this one.

“Go ahead and craft your own reality, I guess,” You sighed.

He could never in any timeline have predicted the next words out of your mouth.

“But I know you’re trying to kill me, honey.” You maintained a steady voice, nearly slipping into customer service territory with how saccharine your delivery was.

Seungmin blinked rapidly, as if you’d just switched to a whole new language mid-conversation. His eyes were wide, nearly crazed, and his mouth pressed into a firm line, like he couldn't decide if it was you or him who had lost the plot.

Meanwhile, you were on a streak today for inciting the most authentic emotion you had ever seen from him. You couldn’t decide if it was an accomplishment or another indication of your pitiful relationship whose structural integrity, at this point, you couldn’t help but compare to that of a wet paper towel— disintegrating and only adept at making messes worse.

If someone had asked Kim Seungmin how well he knew his wife, he’d have confidently answered that he could recognize your voice in outer space— your verbal ticks, cadence, and the distinct breathy enunciation of specific syllables— with how he’d trained his ear to pick out your tones in an overcrowded room, lack of air particles be damned. He could determine the moment when you entered a room, even with his sinuses severely clogged in the spring months when his allergies acted up, because he knew the scent of your preferred laundry detergent, shampoo, and perfume down to the base notes. Even if his taste buds stopped regenerating, Seungmin would still be able to discern the addictive light cream flavor of your favorite lip balm— the one you constantly carried in your purse was the same one you’d worn on your wedding day. A hundred layers of fabric wouldn’t be enough of a barrier preventing him from distinguishing the exact shape, press, and warmth of your hands, or the curve of your cheeks, or the space his hands covered of the small of your back.

He knew you as well as anyone could— through observation.

But evidently, Kim Seungmin had never known what the fuck his wife was thinking.

“I’m what?” He demanded, body going rigid and brows furrowing as a baffled huff blustered past his lips.

“Let me know when you have a dead body.” You mimicked in a moody, low tone, nailing the delivery exactly the way he had drawled it into the phone that night.

Every nerve in his body lit aflame as you parroted the phrase back to him. It singed all the way to his fingertips. They twitched. His blood was frozen.

Oh, no. Yeah, okay, that sounded like really, really bad. Definitely damning. He shook his head a couple of times to clear out the disbelief clogging his brain from the rest of his nerves. Seungmin couldn’t comprehend that this whole time you’d thought that he had been trying to kill you; he wasn’t even really sure how long that even was. He could read the impassive expression pasted onto your features that displayed ‘The ruse is up, buddy,’ and he was so, so furious that it had escalated to this, and it was all on him and his inability to just be upfront with you about the unfortunate hazards of his job. He had miscalculated spectacularly, and the worst part?

Minho had just forced him into an unwilling, unresponsive heart-to-heart about this over lunch this week.

“Hey,” As usual, Seungmin had ignored his officemate in favor of his paperwork, until Minho resorted to relentlessly kicking his chair and whining incessantly. “Hey! Snail— lunch.”

“Nah,” Seungmin declined.

“Jjigae,” Minho bribed.

And then, before he’d been able to comprehend that he’d fallen victim to the tangy, acidic seduction of stew, the Seungmin and Minho sat across from each other at the table, ties rotated around their necks to hang down their backs, steaming bowls set before them.

That was when Minho had brazenly broached the subject:

“So, you’re like, not husband goals.”

Seungmin had dipped his spoon into the broth, watching the tofu and pork swirl around, terminally uninterested in Minho’s meddling. He’d countered immediately: “What do you know? You don’t live in our house.”

Minho’s eyes had widened, an incredulous huff cutting through the steam curling from his meal. “Yeah, I don’t need to cohabitate with you to know that it’s that bad, my lovely little office atrocity.” He’d grimaced, nose scrunching. “If you treated me like that in public, I’d divorce your ass instantly*.” His the last word had hissed from his lips, and it sizzled obnoxiously in Seungmin’s eardrum.*

“We’re not looking for a third. Mind your business.” Seungmin had drawled, the severe downward angle of the corners of his lips an indicator that his patience was rapidly draining.

Unfortunately for him, this was something Lee Minho had never cared about before, and he would not be turning over a new leaf today. The man braced his elbows on the table, like anything that was about to come out of his mouth was valuable enough to warrant elbow-bracing.

“First off— throuple my ass. I’d just steal her.” Minho raised his index finger, pointedly ignoring the predatory heat emitting from Seungmin’s sharpened glare and the tension stiffening his high cheekbones. Fearless, he continued, extending his middle finger: “Second off— if I can see it, everyone else can too.”

Seungmin’s frown had deepened impossibly further.

The thing was, Seungmin had known he’d won by marrying you. You’re the entire package and everything more— gorgeous, intelligent, and generally a joy to be around. He was painfully aware of that fact, as well as the throat-tightening truth that had it not been for ancestral meddling, you would have never even spared him a glance. Despite not really earning the privilege of being your husband, he still took his role seriously: it was an honor to be your partner in any capacity, and he prioritized your safety and happiness, even if it aggravated him to have to keep his distance in public.

“I don’t like it either, but the less attention I draw to her in public, the less likely it is that she’s targeted.” He’d swallowed his first spoonful of stew, and it was good— comforting, piquant— but something was off. He’d known instantly that the sugar had accidentally been left out— only a small amount was sprinkled in, but it made a world of difference in the flavor of the broth. Seungmin sighed, “You know, in theory.”

He’d rested his spoon down along the edge of the drip plate and tiredly pressed his thumb and index fingers just below his brow bone. The threats had all gotten way too out of hand lately, and Seungmin knew exactly who to blame.

All he’d done was enforce the fucking law— which was, you know, his job— and some rich fucker who thought he was above it all was delusional enough to try and just pay Seungmin off to evade the consequences of his own actions. Obviously, Seungmin could not, in fact, just be paid off. The migraine-inducing man had learned an expensive lesson, and he’d decided to make it Seungmin’s problem by sending him threats via mail, phone calls, texts, and emails. It was one thing to inconvenience him by flooding his inboxes, it was another to direct the threatening messages toward his wife. He should have just minded his business and spent his time evading taxes rather than earning the top spot on Seungmin’s shit list.

Because now Seungmin was going to get this stupid fucker.

But before he could follow that thread further, Minho grilled him again. “And your wife is in on this brilliant theory?”

Seungmin’s blank face and refusal to comment on the matter had spoken volumes, dark, droopy eyes dodging his officemate’s judgment as he picked his spoon back up and returned to his lunch.

Minho had groaned, his head flopping back so he could air his frustration out to the ceiling. Then, he’d donned his professional mannerisms, back straight and eyes shining as he addressed Seungmin. “Perfect people— like me and your wife— need to be worshiped in a relationship,” He explained. To whom, he hadn’t known, because Seungmin had buried face down in his kimchi jjigae, cheeks puffed out with a mouthful of stew-soaked rice.

“Y’know what? Whatever.” He’d shrugged and reclined back into the wooden chair. “I don’t know how your marriage has lasted this long.” The rest of the lunch had been silent. Only the soft clinks of metal utensils scraping the sides of bowls and the creaking of Minho’s chair had filled the restaurant.

Eventually, Minho had finished his meal, and he stood from the table, stretching and grunting as his shoulder cracked.

“See you back at the office.”

“You’re my senior, aren’t you going to pay?” Seungmin had blinked, attention more fixated on Minho in this moment than during any other part of their mostly one-sided conversation.

Minho had simply adjusted the lapels on his jacket, unmoved by Seungmin’s appeal. “Oh, I’m your senior, am I? You’re the problem. Fix it. Thanks for the meal.”

And then he was gone, his parting gift a lunch bill for Seungmin to cover.

Okay, he could fix this.

Seungmin’s eyes briefly flickered to the picture of the two of you on your wedding day hanging a few feet away, and swallowed thickly, his prominent Cupid’s bow trembling from the adrenaline unfreezing his blood stream.

Before he could stop himself, Seungmin’s twitching fingers rested against your cheeks like he could somehow transfer his thoughts into your head through his touch.

You shifted to evade his touch, flinching a bit, a frown weighing the corners of your lips down, but he stepped closer so you had nowhere to look except his eyes. He filled his gaze with as much sincerity as he could muster so you would believe the words coming out of his mouth.

“Honey,” He began, never once blinking, not giving you the chance to doubt his honesty by breaking eye contact. “Honey, you just put the fear of god into me back there, okay? I’ve— that—” Seungmin cut himself off with a wince, his own stream of consciousness jumbling his thoughts. “Let’s rewind. That call was real?” The fear of god he’d just mentioned returned in full, and his lips quivered. He could still hear the glass and metal pieces shattering and shrieking against the pavement, reverberating on a loop that spiked his heart rate at each shrill initial collision. The tremors in his fingers remained just as constant.

You thought he was going for a whole fucking Oscar. Unmoved and fresh out of patience, your hands reached up to bat his off of your face, but his grip on your cheeks strengthened, still careful not to hurt you.

“How did you get away?” His eyes flickered from your face to your hands down your body and back up to your eyes as if he’d find the answers there.

It was your turn to blink in disbelief. You scoffed, “Are you fucking kidding?” Like some amateur criminals could possibly stand a chance at out-crazying you. Seungmin had zero confidence in your ability to handle your damn self. That figured, since he’d underestimated you this entire time. There was no way he could comprehend it, even if you explained. Clearly, he didn't know shit about what you were capable of.

No worries, honey. The guy held a knife to my neck from the back seat, so I disabled the rear airbags and drove into the barrier. Easy, breezy, beautiful, Covergirl!

You wiggled free from his hold, and Seungmin instead grasped your hands, still trying to keep you near him long enough to clear up the mess he had made. He rushed to voice the next thought searing into his tongue against his better judgment.

“You wanted a divorce because you thought I was trying to kill you, yes?” His eyes morphed out of their steely lines and drooped into a sorrowful appearance you hardly recognized. You’d seen him weighed down and bruised with exhaustion, but the glassy grief was uncharted waters.

“Yeah, that’s one of the reasons.” You easily admitted, and Seungmin was struck with the bitter reality that there was so much more he had to fix about your relationship than he initially thought. It wasn't too late; he willed the thought repeatedly like he could force it to become the truth.

“Why?” He whispered, gently squeezing your hands in his and bracing himself for the ache to burrow its way into his chest and shred its claws into his arteries. He needed to listen— to understand— even if it cost him everything he thought he knew about your relationship.

“It’s humiliating.” You answered, and Seungmin could never have prepared for the way his lungs sunk in on themselves like they were mere moments away from crumbling into nothing. His waterline swam with irritation.

“Being my wife?” He choked out like the syllables were weighted, knowing the confirmation would finish him off for good. Seungmin couldn’t even bring himself to look at you, his eyes squeezing shut like it could protect him, like he could stop himself from imploding at the truth.

“Yeah, you don’t even hide that you don’t like me, and literally everyone knows.” You were frustrated and tired, and you couldn’t stop yourself from whining. “Just divorce me already!”

Seungmin’s eyes snapped open, and the steel contours had returned. “No.” He refused, clutching your hands up to flatten against his chest where his heart hammered like it was trying to force its way out of his shriveling lungs. Seungmin wished the organ could extract itself and reside permanently in your careful palms; he was sure it would flourish if he could just pass it to you, let you see it unobscured as it pulsed within your hold. “I never said I don’t like you, n—” “— You didn't have to say it!” You interrupted, but Seungmin didn’t even entertain your asinine line of thought and continued, tone firm, insistent.

“— No one else knows shit about how I feel about you, and I have been trying to do the opposite of killing you.” He persisted, and you must have sensed something earnest in his words, or maybe in his heart pounding in your hands, because you didn't try to wrench away from him again.

Instead, you quietly replied: “I don’t know how you feel about me either.”

And Seungmin could finally breathe again. Because he could fix that.

“My love,” The words left his mouth like an oath, a promise, and his heart palpitated in time with them, the organ pumping them out consistently, repeatedly, so that it could declare your place in his chest and its place in your hands to ensure you never forget or doubt it. One of his warm hands reached to cradle your cheek again, thumb swiping soothingly while he dropped his forehead to rest against yours.

“My love.” He repeated, and how could he not mean it? “Let me show you.”

And just like that, you moved to retreat again, eyes narrowed and lips sulking. “You are not going to fix this with sex.”

Seungmin didn’t allow any more misunderstandings to forge distance between you. Large, warm, scratched hands kept you near him, one resting on your back and another gently brushing your hair away so he could lowly murmur into your ear. “As if.” His bottom lip grazed your lobe, the warmth traveling down your spine. “I’m going to worship you, my love.” And then Seungmin punctuated his promise by pressing a kiss to the shell of your ear.

Your knees lost feeling, and Seungmin pulled away slightly to meet your eyes, his own brimming with that overwhelming affection that you had begun to suspect might not have been an act this entire time. “Can I do that?” He asked, his fingers at your back rubbing leisurely at your spine. You wished his stupid suit jacket wasn’t still draped over your shoulders. “Am I allowed to worship you? I haven’t done a good job of that, huh?”

Steadily, you exhaled through your nose and rested your eyes. “No, you haven’t.” Then, your eyes reopened, clear, steely, and addressed him: “Do better.”

Seungmin didn’t wait. He didn’t need further instruction. He gathered you in his arms— and with how often Seungmin had done this lately, it might be a petty indication that despite his occupation as a prosecutor, he was still strong enough to lift you— and carried you down the hallway to your room with long, purposeful strides.

Once you were past the threshold of the bathroom door, Seungmin deposited you on the counter, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead before moving over to the bathtub. With his back to you, he turned the tap on, carefully twisting the lever to a comfortable, warm temperature. As he checked the water gushing against the porcelain, the thundering sound filling the resolute silence between you, you observed the slope of his wide shoulders beneath his shirt.

The once crisp, white dress shirt had grime from the road smeared into the fabric. His dress slacks, while dark, weren’t faring much better, with little tears littered down the pant leg. You hadn’t looked yet, but you figured his suit jacket was in a similar state. You curled the edge of the silky lapel in your fingers, eyes following Seungmin’s movements as he scanned through your bath accoutrements until he selected a lavender chamomile bath salt. Long, nimble fingers unscrewed the lid, and Seungmin sprinkled a liberal amount near the stream of water, swishing it around with his hand until it bubbled. He flicked his wrist a few times to shake off the water droplets and patted the rest off with a towel.

You’d been searching for the malicious intentions behind his every word, twitch, and gaze for the past month, so the dissonance clouding your trust from his actions was thick and syrupy, like honey. Logically, you knew that Seungmin had had ample opportunity to kill you tonight— there was no reason to hold back once in the privacy of the living room— but logic did nothing to quiet your intuition warning you that a crime would be easiest to clean in the bathtub. Something a little louder— more persistent— urged you to trust him, reasoning that for all his clumsy shortcomings and questionable behaviors, he’d instinctively shielded you and, admittedly, prevented a horrific death tonight. Perhaps a little credit was due. Plus, it would take a different kind of steel-nerved scoundrel to stand beneath a death trap of his own making, and watching your husband search for the exact spot to return your bath salt with wide, overwhelmed eyes like he was in a non-alphabetized spice aisle at the grocery store led you to deem him lacking in that particular area.

Seungmin returned, resting a hand just above your knee; it was the same touch that had irritated you at the restaurant, setting off the wrong kind of sparks, but this time, it registered as attentive instead of surveilling. Pleasantly floral steam swirled between you, not overpowering, but soothing. The rushing water from the tap matched the current of your pulse.

“I’ll be right back,” He said, and disappeared into your room, returning moments later with a change of sleepwear, fresh underwear, and your hairbrush from your vanity, all in a neat stack. Seungmin set it on the counter next to you and stepped into the space where your knees are parted on the edge of the counter. It was again reminiscent of the night Seungmin had knelt there, his steady puffs of breath diffusing sensually up your thighs. The suit jacket was carefully lifted off your shoulders, and tossed into a heap on the tile in the corner. You let the house shoes slip off your feet, hitting the rug with a soft thud. Slowly, Seungmin looped his arms around you and pulled you into him, resting one palm on your lower back and the other on your shoulder. The gentle slope of his nose skimmed the side of your neck, and every soft exhale kissed your skin.

Seungmin waited, just breathing with you, until you loosely wound your arms around his neck and rested your chin on his shoulder. He trailed his hand from your shoulder to the zipper at the top of your dress, leaving a warm path in its wake. The zipper glided down easily, and Seungmin retreated out of your hold.

His back was to you again as he shut the water off. You hopped down from the counter and slipped out of your dress and underwear, dropping them to join Seungmin’s discarded suit jacket. While you weren’t particularly shy about stripping with him in the room— after all, you had nothing to be ashamed of— the courtesy of his turning away to respect your privacy was still appreciated, despite being the bare minimum.

You padded over to the bath as Seungmin sat down on the ledge of the tub. A short spill of water droplets dripped from the faucet into the bath. Seungmin peered up at you, his gaze firmly set on your face, and he offered you his hand. Just like that. You’d been completely hellbent on forcing his hand for the past month— so much so that you’d overlooked the steady, sincere palm he’d offered you all along.

Carefully, you slipped your hand into his and he applied a light pressure, squeezing to offer stability as you settled into the warm, fragrant bathwater. Your eyes fluttered closed and your muscles went slack, the water soothing the ache stinging in your bones from the fall and the tension tangling your nerves into a jumbled nest.

“Okay,” Seungmin began, voice low and soft, like he’s trying not to burst the comfortable atmosphere, fragile like a soap bubble. “Let's start from the beginning.” He soaked a washcloth in the steaming water and lathered a liberal squeeze of your body wash into the fabric until suds puffed up between his fingers. “I have zero desire to divorce you, and I definitely don’t want you dead.”

You stared at him, internalizing his words, watching as he gently pulled your arm from the water and buffed your skin with the soapy washcloth. He was vigilant of the superficial scrapes on your skin, diligently avoiding applying too much pressure on the mostly dried blood. The light, floral lavender and chamomile scent must have softened your once-unyielding skepticism, because you questioned him evenly as you slipped further into the water, letting it lap easily at your collarbones. It was soothing, oddly providing a layer of bubbly comfort as the froth from the bath salt steadily fizzed at each miniscule movement. “Why not divorce me if you aren’t happy in this marriage?”

Seungmin inhaled deeply, disappointedly, but still methodically worked calming circles with the washcloth. His eyes, ever-wilting from exhaustion, withered further, dark pupils dulling with the understanding that he’d essentially made himself a stranger to you in this relationship.

“I made you think I didn’t want this marriage because of the way I treated you in public.” He summarized, tone intentionally neutral, yet still dreary at the wrecked state of your marriage due to his lapse in judgement.

The statement was true, painfully so, and you nodded.

His lips pulled down into a frown, his shoulders sagging with it. Seungmin’s expression only grew more overcast as he took the same logical (and inaccurate) journey you did, pouring over the events of the past month, each detail from your vantage point further incriminating. “And the phone call…” He trailed off, eyes squeezing closed in a wince.

“Yeah,” You affirmed quietly, lips flattened. At this point, your head was lolled to the side, relaxed yet concentrated on him— on guard or simply observant, he wasn’t sure.

In all honesty, he would have reached the same conclusion you did in this situation, but he could have never pulled off the performance you’d managed— interacting with him like everything was normal— like cohabitating with someone who was actively trying to carry out your demise wasn’t the most intense stakes role play Seungmin could fathom. And he discovered that your bones were made of sturdier material than you let on: you were infallible, yet still light enough to glide through life like you weren’t enduring a storm that would rupture anyone else’s foundation. It was a careful, elegant balance you maintained, and Seungmin only wished that he hadn’t been the choppy tide working against you.

He switched to your other arm, leaning in closer for better access. As he settled near your face, you took in the sheen of his skin, no longer dewy out of exertion, but from the floral scented steam wafting in the bathroom. It clung to his cheekbones and forehead, and softened his features in a way you hadn’t been able to recognize for a while.

Colorfully (and vaguely homicidally), Seungmin filled you in on the rich, tragically stupid defendant who had evidently had it out for you as of late. From the description that Seungmin provided, he seemed exactly like the type of asshole to hire a shitty hitman. By the time he was done painting his monstrous portrait of the guy, he was halfway done washing your legs, massaging the soap methodically as he spoke. The bubble bath had mostly fizzled out, leaving behind dreamy lilac-tinted remnants. Seungmin’s brows were furrowed, that devastatingly attractive crease in his forehead making a reappearance, and his words were clipped and as sour as ever.

It was this moment when you recognized that you’d never been on the receiving end of his truly acidic, resentful wrath— no, Seungmin was only tart with you in public. On the surface, he was stinging enough to dull your taste buds, to prevent you from ever coming back for another taste, but it masked the underlying sweetness he so desperately tried to veil. It was the syrupy sweet side of him that only came up for air at home, the part of him that craved near-constant contact with you, that was content to sit quietly with you each evening and work soothing circles into your legs with his nimble fingers that had leafed through paperwork all day. The part of him that seemed to cling and hover near you all night, basking in your attention and pressing tender kisses into whatever skin he had access to at every opportunity.

You wanted to laugh. Instead, you revealed your hand to him.

“It’s almost impressive how bad he is at everything.” You hummed thoughtfully and twisted to face him fully, cooperatively bending your leg for him in the process.

Seungmin listened attentively as you recounted the (obviously unsuccessful) attempt on your life. His jaw clenched when you mentioned the knife, and his cheekbones appeared so painfully angular, taut against his skin, you feared the pressure might reopen his cut. However, the satisfaction of the poorly suppressed mortification in the raging waters of Seungmin’s eyes at the intentional crash was admittedly so sweet; you nearly felt bad about it, but nothing was going to stop you from appreciating the little joys you found in your traumatic experience, guilty pleasures and all.

By now, the steam curling in the bathroom had dissipated, but Seungmin’s troubles had not. He carefully lowered your leg back into the cooling water and abandoned the washcloth on the side of the tub. Wordlessly, he fished out your hand again, clutching it in both of his; his hold was warmer, more gentle than the bath water. Seungmin stamped a tender, apologetic kiss onto your knuckles. With his head angled so his breath puffed against the back of your hand, he peered at you through creased brows and remorseful, dusty pink-rimmed eyes. The weight of his gaze thickened the air in the room more than the humidity ever did.

“I’m sorry,” He started, lightly squeezing your hand. “I didn’t want to scare you, so I didn’t say anything, but obviously that fucking backfired.” He huffed out a self-deprecating rush of air from his nose— the kind that wasn’t really a laugh. “I never meant to make you feel unloved in public, I just thought it would be safer for you to not be seen with me.” Another kiss to your knuckles before he concluded: “All of this is my fault.”

He was pitiful.

You sighed, pouting lightly at him and straightening up to lean closer to the edge of the tub where he was seated. The tinted water sloshed lightly as you moved, lapping against the porcelain before retreating in little ripples. You supposed it was only fair of you to come clean now too. Settling your chin down on Seungmin’s thigh— that tensed as you made contact— you peered up at him knowingly and admitted, “Not all of it.”

Immediately, Seungmin’s mouth opened to protest, to take accountability for it all, but you cut him off, stating evenly, “I took the burner and used it to threaten you too.”

Seungmin went completely rigid, mouth clamping shut, processing. He was about to be furious. He looked at you with gaping, disbelieving, possibly betrayed eyes, and you knew he was reccounting every threat, every malicious message with the knowledge that his wife had been the person on the other end. Seungmin would walk out of your bathroom, out of your room, and file for divorce. You waited for the sharp transformation of the contours of his eyes, the hardening of his stare, and the darkest parts of his pupils to freeze you out permanently.

“Clever.”

Unexpectedly, his lips curled into a boyish, undeniably amused smirk, and he cupped his hand under your chin, gently lifting it off of his leg and stroking it a few times with the pad of his thumb. “But still a losing battle.”

He stood then— mood suspiciously cheery based on the roundness of his cheeks and the squareness of his shoulders— and unfolded your fluffy towel for you, draping it over his arm. Seungmin stretched out his palm for you, a foolishly charmed smile curling his lips.

You blinked up at him and his offered hand warily before holding onto it and rising out of the tub, the water flooding down your body to drizzle steadily back into the bath. “You’re not mad?” You demanded, head tilted challengingly, but Seungmin only wrapped you in the towel until you were snug and protected from post-bath goosebumps.

His dark eyes glistened as he brushed his hands up and down the part of the towel cloaking your arms, the friction slightly heating the material. “I’m more relieved that our home security system is functional and someone isn’t actually able to bypass it. I’ve been driving myself crazy trying to figure out how someone was breaking in without tripping it.” His grin was positively radiant, and he held himself like he just stripped himself of his work attire after a miserable night of overtime, posture finally blessedly relaxed and unburdened. “This is great news!”

Elated, Seungmin cradled your cheek in his large palm and pressed his lips to your forehead. Your eyes fluttered closed under the warmth of his kiss, and he drew back just slightly to murmur, “Now that I know that bit of information, all bets are off for this fucker.”

Hm. Your husband didn’t pry into the details of your attacker’s instant (and permanent) karma in the crash, and you decided to graciously extend the same courtesy about his pest. After all, reciprocity is the foundation of a healthy relationship.

And plausible deniability.

“What’s this guy even pressed about?” You complained instead, allowing your irritation to bite into your words.

Seungmin, now shuffling the towel about to dry the rest of you, lingered close by so you can inhale his mostly faded, fresh cologne and his scent, familiar and comforting like soft linen. “He’s throwing an adult tantrum about me not taking his pathetic bribe. Probably hurt his pride more than anything else. Embarrassing.” You could hear the eye roll in the delivery of that information, but more importantly, you felt a particularly devastating throb in your lower stomach that threatened to melt your kneecaps.

‘A man.’ Your pulse thrummed, rushing hot and loud, and you couldn’t have agreed more.

Crushing billionaires’ slimy little unpalatable egos was a valiant act of public service, a truly unselfish gift, as honorable a contribution to society as one can make, the purest form of noblesse oblige, and your husband just did that— mercilessly, no less.

“That’s so sexy of you.” You exhaled dreamily, fluttering your lashes open to peer at him with infatuated eyes and an airy smile that promised everything sweet, spicy, and unapologetically indecent.

The towel slipped from between Seungmin’s fingers, and his eyes widened comically. It crumbled in a heap at your feet just as Seungmin was spluttering an eloquent, “Huh?”

“I said,” You stepped over the dampened towel (it was useless anyway now that you were a different kind of wet) eliminating the respectful distance between you and instead claiming it. “That’s so sexy of you.” Your chest flattened against his, bare skin against rumpled dress shirt, and vaguely, you were concerned about the way you felt his chest stutter and then still. Seungmin was beside himself— not for the first time that night— completely baffled by your abrupt shift in tone. He was lost, you could tell; he had no idea how he’d gotten into this exact situation despite it being the consequences of his own unintentionally, heinously core-clenching actions.

You never really showed him interest like this.

“Didn’t you say we weren’t going to fix this with sex?” Seungmin’s brows raised in question, not objecting, but definitely reviewing his notes from the evening nonetheless.

You’d made an executive decision and amended the conditions of the ceasefire, as it were. Circumstances had changed since then and thus your parameters shifted accordingly.

“Didn’t you say you were going to worship me?” You challenged, voice saccharine and expression coy. His eyes, as dark and deep as water at midnight, overflowed with a devotion you hadn’t allowed yourself to entertain the thought of being genuine until now. The bathmat slipped out from below you in an instant, and with it came that weightless swooping sensation in your stomach, only this time, it left you an exhilarating kind of breathless.

Seungmin was unquestionably addressing your perception of his lack of strength by gathering you yet again into his uncharacteristically stable hold. There was a proud, borderline arrogant twinkle in his eyes that said, “Still think I can’t carry you?” and a lopsided, lovesick grin on his lips as he swiftly turned on his heel and carried you out of the bathroom. The drop in temperature compelled you to wind your arms around his neck you so you could burrow closer into the steady warmth of his neck. You felt his cutting intake of breath when the cold tip of your nose brushed the sensitive skin of his neck, his fingers clamping tighter into your skin.

Seungmin was maybe a few steps away from the bed when his attention was briefly stolen by the chest of drawers placed unassumingly against the wall— specifically, your underwear drawer.

Whoops!

The rigid pull of his bones and the tension mounting in his jaw necessitated you stretching up to issue a comforting smooch onto his cheek and, like a siren call, Seungmin turned back to your innocently fluttering lashes. That’s right, you’ve never ever done anything wrong, they insisted. Dark pupils blown wide flickered down to your lips, just for a moment, and then they focused back on yours, charged with something inescapable, thick, and sticky. Detour averted, you think as he padded the rest of the way to the bed.

“You’ve got jokes,” He acquiesced, his low drawl wry against the shell of your ear enough to make you squeeze your thighs together. “I’ll give you that.”

“Just that?” You pouted, blatantly provoking him with your faux dissatisfaction.

Subsequently, he settled you down at the foot of your plush bed with a confident simper, the pads of his fingertips intentionally draping along the sides of your thighs, raising goosebumps in their wake. While your skin was cold, your insides were boiling impatiently in your chest, ears, and core, threatening to bubble over completely. Seungmin leaned onto your bed, bracing a knee near the edge, holding your gaze with dark, watery eyes that you thought were so clear you could finally see through them, coaxing your upper body back into the comforter. When your back was finally cushioned, he slanted his lips over yours like a confession, honest, open, and trusting. You dragged your nails into his rumpled, short hair, lightly scratching at his scalp in reception and reward. He groaned a bit into your mouth, brows crinkled as he slightly pulled back, just his blissed out expression and his broad shoulders— tragically still clothed— in your field of vision.

Not clothed for long, you decided, abandoning your purchase in Seungmin’s hair in favor of tugging expectantly at the offending article of clothing between pinched fingers.

“Alright,” He chuckled, lips pulled up into a boyish, bemused grin that accentuated the apples of his cheeks as he straightened and yanked the buttons free one by one. “As you wish.”

Each undone button revealed a bit more skin— the peak of his collarbones, a peek at the expanse of his chest, until finally the last button fell loose and his dress shirt parted like curtains to reveal a much more defined torso than you ever expected. You bent a leg up to your chest, then extended it to flatten the sole of your foot against his firm chest and the delicate curve of his collarbone. He watched you with sultry eyes and a quirked brow as you languidly trailed your foot down his torso, feeling each hitch in his breath whenever your toes lightly brushed something sensitive— his nipple, the dip just below his ribcage, the skin just above the waistline of his pants. Seungmin was sturdy and toned, with evident contours etched along the sides of his stomach tracing down the firm plane and disappearing behind his slacks. He hissed through his teeth, brows furrowing instantly when your toes skimmed the edge of his pants, hand reflexively snatching your ankle to still your movement and jolting you out of your exploration.

“Huh?” You blinked like you were trying to recalibrate your eyes, like a system reboot was something they could do. Because why did your husband have the core of a fucking super soldier?

Seungmin lifted your leg, and warm wisps of his breath fanned out against the side of your foot as he lightly scoffed at your false assumptions. His lips ghosted along the inner curve of your foot, hot and soft and punishing. Then, you nearly jostled out of his hold with a startled squeak of “Seungmin!” as his lower lip unexpectedly dragged up the side of your big toe. Evidently satisfied with your reaction, Seungmin carefully lowered your leg to rest on the bed with an amused smirk. You squeezed your eyes shut to gather yourself, making out the ripple of fabric as he flung the ruined dress shirt somewhere in your room, but you were still too invested in the mystery of his well-maintained physique and his cruel mouth in general to note where.

“Just focus on this, please.” The pad of his thumb rubbed into your cheekbone, and he punctuated his petty request with a contradictorily delicate kiss to your forehead. His lips traced down the slope of your nose until they met your lips in an attention-commanding, open-mouthed kiss. It was dizzying, stealing any other unrelated thought from your head and replacing it with a floaty haze. Then, your eyes fluttered closed as he attached his lips to your neck; you knew he could feel your blood rushing under his mouth. He relished sucking and lightly nipping the column of your throat, and you could feel the curve of his mouth against your doubtlessly bruised skin at the first whine that escaped your lips.

He only grew more fervent at the noise.

“You’re fine, my love,” Seungmin murmured, and your lips quivered as your heart trembled at his promise. “I’ve got you.”

The comforter rustled as you squirmed while Seungmin took his sweet time on his journey down to your center, the entire region aching like it was bruised. He was all over you— mouth swirling hot around your nipple, a large hand dutifully working the other, his palm gliding down your waist and squeezing at the supple flesh of your hip.

“Seungmin,” The whimper breezed past your lips before you even registered the intrusive thought, “I need you.”

Everything froze. Seungmin’s mouth horrifically detached from your skin, the agonizing grief left in its wake unbearable. Before you could even voice the first syllable of your complaint after blinking your eyes open, you catch your reflection swimming in his dark, glossy eyes.

As Seungmin peered up at you, he held you with such undeniable security and devotion.

“You never have,” He confessed, the sincerity of his words cushioning you like cashmere. “But you can have me as long as you want me.”

With that, Seungmin slipped off the bed and dropped to his knees. They sank into the plush area rug. He tugged you closer to him with meticulous strength, gliding his large hands up your faintly lavender-scented legs, and settled the bends of your knees over his arms. His tongue darted out to wet his lips as his eyes, pupils completely blown out to swallow the irises, fixated on the way your folds glistened in anticipation.

Admittedly, you had thought extensively about Seungmin’s lips on more than one occasion— how plush and rounded his bottom lip seemed in contrast with the steepness of his Cupid’s bow, and how in combination they formed an endearingly triangular shape. But right now, “The mouth on this man” held an entirely new meaning.

Seungmin’s downturned lashes brushed faint shadows against his cheeks as he hovered above your sex and let his tongue loll out to drip a glob of saliva right there. It was a sight, reverent and oddly pretty as the warm light from your bedside lamp set his skin aglow. It was also completely unnecessary— you were soaked, but Seungmin was thorough.

Then he dove in, gliding his tongue in a fluid, languid lap over your leaking core that stole your breath and triggered your thighs to squeeze around his head. He didn’t seem to mind. Seungmin exhaled, throaty and relishing, before delving in further, swirling his warm, slick tongue around your clitoris with a torturous level of care. You narrowly resisted tangling his short hair in your fist, desperate to hold on to something, but buried your hands into your comforter instead.

“My love,” Seungmin sighed— mouth still on you, the vibrations of his low voice drawing out a shrill gasp— and you thought your heart must have started throbbing in the same rhythm. “How could I not adore you?”

He took his time, exploring you, tasting you, mentally cataloguing the exact places and pressure that made your thighs quiver, back lurch, and breath hitch. All the while, the curve of his nose rubbed delectably against your clit, the friction and pressure enough to cause your lips to tremble.

He worked you up steadily, persistently, gently, and rigorously all at the same time, his tongue flicking ruthlessly up and down and his head angling to reach just where you wanted him— deeper. Seungmin lapped at your glistening folds, messy with a combination of both of your fluids, and drew your nerves into a stiff, desperate peak. Your fingers tangled further into your comforter as each humid exhale fluttered out against your core and thighs, his tongue licking confidently into you. You fluttered under his merciless tongue, whimpering as the flourish of your orgasm radiated out through your limbs until the tension drained and you were left with a fuzzy hum in your bones and a fresh flush to your skin.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” He moaned— ironic, although unperturbed by the thought as he added his long, dexterous fingers into his spine-arching ritual. Deliberate, slender fingertips traced your sensitive slit, and you clenched with an overstimulated whimper of his name.

“I’m right here.” He soothed, voice muffled as he softly pressed a kiss to your swollen folds. Methodically, he slid a long finger deep inside you, observing with half-lidded, glazed eyes and rough breaths as you instinctively tightned around it. The stretch of his second digit is nothing short of cosmological, the delectable curl he rewarded you with sending your consciousness to outer space momentarily as they reached deep inside you.

Seungmin was an intentional lover, tenderly drawing another two orgasms out of you with his divine fingers and sharp, feverish tongue. Stars burst behind your eyelids and the stimulation was intense enough to rocket your nerves to the moon.

You were still lost in the haze of your release as Seungmin carefully lowered your twitching legs from his shoulders. The bottom half of his face was gleaming with the evidence of his actions, but his starry eyes glimmered brighter, lost in a dreamy haze as he peered up at you.

“Just a moment.” He stood, fondly rubbing soothing circles into your knee as he did. “Let me clean you up.” And he disappeared into your bathroom while you tried to steady your breath, nothing short of debauched and satisfied. The faucet ran for a bit, and then Seungmin returned in just his boxers with a gentle smile and even gentler hands as he wiped you down with a warm washcloth and feather-light touch.

His actions were as dutiful as ever, dotingly apologizing as you twitched in his hold when he brushed over sensitive spots. Seungmin stamped an endearing kiss into your inner thigh once he was done, whispering a devoted, “Perfect” as he did, and deposited the wash cloth into your laundry before joining you on the bed. He settled you comfortably up by the pillows and under the silk covers, sinking right at your side to cuddle you below his chin.

“So,” He grinned down at you, a mischievous glint bright in his eyes and a boyish grin curling his lips. “Any more questions about how I feel about you? Any hidden motives you want clarified?”

You smiled coyly with an airy hum, eyes crinkling with a promise he didn’t know you were making.

Next time, you were gonna ride him until he cried.

“So,” You chirped, cheeks still flushed. Then your eyes fluttered up to his. “No divorce?”

He scoffed, eyes playfully sharpening. “Go ahead, honey.” Despite the nickname, his tone was sour again, but you knew it was there to mask the sweetness. “I’ll just marry you again.”

Seungmin tucked you closer into his hold, sharing his body heat and everything else that he possessed with you, trusting you to keep it safe.

“You think I’d agree to that?” Your nose scrunched as you teasingly prodded at his ego.

His warm palms pressed into you, silently swearing his vows into your skin. Seungmin’s lips brushed against your forehead, sweet.

“I swear you won’t fucking hesitate, my love.”

౨ৎMasterlist

౨ৎ taglist: @sunfk88, @softchannie

[mariasklodowskastwixbar]

So i did Boone's quest for the first time (i don't usually have him as a companion) and while I stand by my claim that 4 is the game to do companions the best in terms of gameplay, New Vegas still holds the title for mist nuanced story, in my opinion.

The way 4 tells its story is more subtle, there's little clues that get sprinkled around that I really like, such as Glory's name on the throne, and the random spot you can find your railroad callsign. But it's still black and white. There's no debate. The Minutemen and the Railroad are the good guys, the Brotherhood and the Institute are the bad guys. And so none of the companions have that nuance either.

Fallout 4 couldn't accommodate a character like Boone, who admits to murdering women, children, elderly, and wounded, who admits to killing his own wife to save her from being a legion slave, and who is absolutely suicidal, but is still a good person who only wants to do the right thing, even if the redemption is death.

Fallout 4 couldn't accommodate a character like Orion Moreno, who is a die hard Enclave soldier and can only barely be convinced to fight against the legion (something I wasn't able to do in this game because I built my character like shit).

I think this is the reason Fo4 nixed the Karma system. In New Vegas there are good and bad things about each faction. Some of them are way better options than others, I'm not about to claim that Caesar had a good point actually, but when you play Fallout New Vegas, there's the sense that society is what you make it. You can be a terrible person and still bring anarchism, the best option, to the Mojave. You can be a saint who is only here to help and serve the people, and still bring Caesar glory.

You can't reasonably be a good person and still choose the Institute in Fallout 4. You can't reasonably be a good person and choose the Brotherhood. And you can't reasonably be a bad person and still choose the Railroad or the Minutemen. The nuance in Fallout 4 is deciding whether or not you're going to call Nick Valentine a toaster

This isn't a dig at Fallout 4 either, plenty of amazing games are absolutely black and white. My favorite game for years was Breath of the Wild which is completely no nuance. And I think Fallout 4 is a step up from Fallout 3 where there was no real choice. It was always Brotherhood or bust

[rainbowtransform]

I want to make something super clear: all of Brennan Lee Mulligan’s battles are to the death. It is kill, or be killed and that extends to the Rat Grinders.

I like them just as much as the next person but I knew they’d die. They’re amazing antagonists and it’s great that we like them but this is their fate. They were doomed the minute they chose Porter, and yes they chose him and to come back.

Lucy didn’t. It was painful but she didn’t.

The others did. They were doomed by the narrative the moment they got the mark on themselves.

[starry-bi-sky]

pouring one out for luo binghe in my disciple SQQ fic, poor guy has taken a backseat here. we're nearly 30k words deep and he hasn't even shown his face once. it'll be much longer before he even actually talks to Shen Qingqiu.

(i say im pouring one out but in reality im sitting in my director's chair chewing on a cigar and wearing a beret as he tearily and unsuccessfully pleads with me for more scenes with Shen Qingqiu)

[metalcorebarbie]

don’t read the tags if you don’t want to get mad at me but also i want to shout into the void about 911

[wild-magic-oops]

Gale: Occasionally, I miss adventuring. Traversing to forgotten places, exploring history, righting wrongs. Not so much sleeping out in nature though. I do prefer our bed considerably more, I must say. And it's not that I'm not enjoying my life, far from it, let me assure you. But the thrill of adventure is sometimes so alluring.

Durge: Let's go an a short adventure then, just the two of us! To a place few had traveled to, most likely rich in history, probably hiding some rare books and artefacts. And it would be doing everyone a favor in all honesty.

Gale: *successful insight check*

Gale: Sounds suspicious... but alright, I'll bite, what do you have in mind?

Durge: ...Destroying Bhaal cults...

Gale: ...

Gale: That's a bit more intense and murderous than what I had in mind but you know what - alright, let's do it.

Durge: <3

[tethys-the-aquatic-sea-godness]

Sarevok, his mother, and revenge

There are very few known information about lady Anchev, not even a canon name, but there's enough to know she mattered to Sarevok. The memory of her murder followed him through adulthood, and it's a huge part of his character. It's also one of the motivators behind his betrayal of Rieltar Anchev.

As usual, my rant is down there.

All that's really known about Sarevok and his mother is found within his diary.

"He [Rieltar] mentioned mother in our conversation: how I wasn't to be unfaithful to him as she had."

"I had a dream this night. My mother was talking to me, but as she did her face became bloated and discolored. Her voice became weaker as she spoke to me, telling me to save her from Rieltar. I could see the garrote cutting into her neck, but I did nothing. It was only a dream."

"Terribly sorry, 'father,' but my true parentage calls and you are in my way. I shall be sure to instruct the doppelgangers in the exact manner Rieltar should die. I think a garrote would be perfect for the task."

-> I will never not be obsessed with this. The way Sarevok writes about both of his foster parents tells much about his feelings toward each of them. He refers to Rieltar by his first name or as "'father'" with quotation marks. However, he always refers to lady Anchev as "mother", even "My mother". It's a rare touch of sentimentality from him. His mother has no name, but she's the only character who gets an entry in Sarevok's diary that's not related to his plans.

It's interesting to see where the introduction of lady Anchev is.

-> The first entry about Sarevok's foster mother is right after the first entry about Gorion, Charname's foster father. It's a structural choice to have both parents who mattered to Charname and Sarevok follow each other on the page. It shows how they mirror each other as a parental figure, but also how they diverge, as Gorion is still alive at that point, but lady Anchev is dead. They also both unsettle Sarevok, albeit for different reasons. In true parent mode, Gorion was the one to spot Sarevok was up to something.

Now, let's look closer at the entry introducing lady Anchev.

It's the retelling of a dream (*cough* what you call a nightmare when you're not repressed *cough*), and from the way it's structured, there's reason to believe it wasn't intended to be there. It starts with "I had a dream this night", followed by lady Anchev's murder with graphic details, but Sarevok minimizes the previous lines with "It was only a dream". It reads like Sarevok woke up disturbed by his dream, went to write it down right away then minimized what happened when he saw what he wrote. He couldn't erase the ink, and crossing it out would've been even more telling than the words themselves. Note that this is Sarevok's diary, it's not supposed to be read by anyone but him, but there's still this reflex of minimizing anything that could be perceived as a weakness.

There are a few things to take into consideration when looking at lady Anchev's death. First, memories can get distorted, second, it's a dream, so not everything should be taken literally. Typically, when lady Anchev talks to Sarevok in his dream.

"Her voice became weaker as she spoke to me, telling me to save her from Rieltar. I could see the garrote cutting into her neck, but I did nothing."

-> Lady Anchev was strangled by Rieltar with a garrote, she would've had no air to shout, much less form a coherent sentence while her brain was running out of oxygen and her trachea was being crushed.

It's more likely Sarevok's own guilt speaking through her. His "but I did nothing" reads like an accusation at himself, and more importantly, an admission of failure and powerlessness. Hence the immediate minimization. The language he uses is also worth a closer look: "telling me to save her from Rieltar". She's not asking him to do it, she's telling him to save her. It's phrased like an order and reinforces the impression it's Sarevok's inner dialogue rather than anything lady Anchev ever said. The kind you'd get when you'd try to get yourself to move, but your body doesn't follow.

Sarevok has this dream as an adult, at the height of his power and on his way to godhood. Yet, he still cannot save his mother, not even in a dream. That's the powerlessness this dream/memory throws him back to. The child he was when that happened was unable to save his mother, nor should he be expected to, but Sarevok views that as his own inaction, not his inability: "I did nothing." Rieltar is the murderer, yet he's only mentioned in the dream. Technically, he's not even there, it's only Sarevok, his mother and the garrote. Sarevok's dream frames him as the cause of her death because he "did nothing".

It adds internalized self-recrimination to Sarevok's character, which fits his past as an abused child. The structure of the dream rests the responsibility of action on Sarevok rather than Rieltar, making the one who was 'weak' take the blame. Sarevok's quest for power remains even after his resurection because it's something rooted in his past, not his taint. The weak are to blame for what happens to them because they aren't strong enough to defend themselves. That's the twisted mindset he learned from Rieltar, because he's been the weak one at his mercy. The murder of Sarevok's mother is important, because it's the starting point, it's when that idea starts to sink in. Discovering he's a Bhaalspawn only cements that mindset by giving it a 'predestined' element. His very nature is to cause pain. It doesn't matter that it's not true, it becomes part of his misbelief and further taints how he interacts with the world around him. A part of that behavior is minimizing or outright dismissing anything that could make him 'weak', such as being upset by a nightmare of his mother's murder.

Even though Sarevok claims "It was only a dream", his plotting of Rieltar's murder contradicts that.

"I shall be sure to instruct the doppelgangers in the exact manner Rieltar should die. I think a garrote would be perfect for the task."

-> Sarevok has many reason to kill Rieltar, some purely practical, but this, this is personal. Yes, he tries to lure Charname and their party into killing Rieltar, but how hard does he really try? He charms the whole city of Baldur's Gate, but lets his front crumble after a couple of valid questions from Charname? Charname's cooperation isn't necessary because he has set everything to frame them for the murder anyway. Sarevok isn't present when Rieltar dies, because he's busy having an alibi, he can't do the deed himself, or say anything he'd want to say, but he makes sure Rieltar dies in a manner where he'll still get the message. One that tells him exactly how long Sarevok has waited for this, how long Rieltar was fooled. Ever since her.

You don't get to know more about Sarevok's mother, not even in ToB, but there's a dialogue you can get when talking with Sarevok. It's a dialogue you get if you take his offer to swear a binding oath post resurection.

Sarevok: "[...] You have no remaining grudges from our earlier matches?" Charname: "No, not really. You paid for what you did." Sarevok: "I… paid for it. You do not still feel anger over what I did to your stepfather?"

-> There's a lot Sarevok did to Charname in BG 1 they could be mad about. Framing them for murder and sending multiple assassins after them among the most prominent. But the one Sarevok's mind goes to, the one he considers the most impossible to forgive is killing Gorion. Sarevok thinks of the emotional reason not to forgive him, not the attempts on Charname's life, which are numerous, but the murder of a caring parent. Because it's something he relates to. He held on to his grudge for years before he could do something about it.

When Sarevok is finally in a position to get revenge, he goes all out. He writes a letter to justify his absence at Candlekeep to Rieltar. The last sentence is interesting, because it's probably the only true statement in the letter.

Father, [...] I am also writing to tell you that I cannot attend the meeting at Candlekeep. [...] I am sorry that I will not be at your side. Sarevok

-> Sarevok is sorry he won't be there when Rieltar is killed. He'll have to be satisfied with knowing he was the one to make it happen.

The thing about Sarevok's revenge against Rieltar, is that it doesn't stop with killing him. No, that's too easy, too little. Sarevok also destroys everything Rieltar worked for. The iron conspiracy, the development of the Iron Throne on the Sword Coast, all of that was Rieltar's project at the start.

"While this is a great blow to the Iron Throne, it is the perfect opportunity for Rieltar to approach the Throne high council with his proposal."

"The Iron Throne council has agreed to support Rieltar's plan. He has been given all the resources he needs, as well as leadership of the project."

-> Sarevok took over Rieltar's own plan and once his control was total and his own personal goal (being named grand duke) was within reach, he ran this entire, brand new, branch of the Iron Throne into the ground.

"I have been sent from Sembia to determine why this branch of the Iron Throne has foundered [...]."

"I will not debate that he [Sarevok] is in control, but whatever his plans, they certainly do not have the good of the Iron Throne in mind. He has abandoned us in favor of his new position [...]. We are simply to be cast off, and I would not be surprised if the marches the Flaming Fist through here tomorrow as a show of his stance on mercantile crime!"

"I only know business, and what he is doing makes very little economic sense. [...] As it is, he is seemingly intent on abandoning us and launching a bloodbath of a war."

Valdis (Charname): Then you won't mind if I help myself to your coffers, will you? Pang Wallen: Bah, they are nearly empty regardless! Sarevok has been making decisions on the sidelines for some time now, and it has cost us all plenty. He does not seem concerned with profits or much of anything! The iron shortage became his pet project, but he has used it to inflame tensions instead of build business! He's brought us down as sure as if he was some 'hero'. [...]

"He throws away gold like it was copper, and uses our best laid plans to inflame governments instead of bargaining for wealth!"

Tralithan: Oh, wonderful. I recognize you from the descriptions given. You are the one accused of murdering our leaders, are you not? I suppose you are here to exact revenge or some such? Well, we are already defeated by one of our own and do not need you. You would do better to focus your efforts on Sarevok, rather than beating up those already beaten. Valdis (Charname): Why would he turn his back on the Iron Throne? Tralithan: Because he was never interested in us in the first place. [...]

"He secures himself as leader of the Iron Throne and then all but destroys its mercantile credibility by practically sacking it!"

-> At this point of the story, Sarevok has more or less won (he's not aware Charname has escaped yet), the Iron Throne has served its purpose and he no longer has a use for it, however, there's no need to destroy it. The scapegoat of the iron crisis was always Amn and most people ate that up. Sarevok could let his plan runs its course, without making another move on the Throne. Instead, he ruins the Iron Throne and targets them with Baldur's Gate's guards. It's a bit of a disservice to his plan, because he already had their leaders assassinated, now he's ruining their business. He knows how the Throne works, he knows they'll send people after him, he just doesn't care. He knows he can defeat anything they throw at him at this point. Sarevok doesn't run Rieltar's operation into the ground because it serves a purpose for him, he does it because he wants to. He doesn't only kill Rieltar, he destroys everything he built on the Sword Coast.

It's not the only time Sarevok makes a 'scorched earth' plan against someone he has a personal grudge against, the other being Gorion's ward and the Candlekeep chapter, but that should've its own post.

Conclusion: Sarevok's affection for his mother is showed in a subdued and repressed way. There's never any vocal expression of it, but it's in his thoughts even when he doesn't want it to be, like his dream. It's built in his plans when he wants Rieltar killed the same way he killed her. She's not the only reason Sarevok tears down all of Rieltar's work, but she's a fundamental one.

"I think a garrote would be perfect for the task."

It's the last sentence of Sarevok's diary. This is what the one insight you get into Sarevok's mindset in BG 1 closes on. He doesn't talk about himself or his future godhood here, indirectly he talks about her. Sarevok denies it matters on paper, but unconsciously contradicts his claim. It hints at where Sarevok's weak points are. He's not fully self-aware, he doesn't overcome pain or weakness, he denies that he experiences either.

It never is 'only a dream'. Lady Anchev is haunting Sarevok. Killing Rieltar and ruining his work isn't just about her, but the closing statement of his diary is.

[balkanlila]

fighting the urge not to make this post. tags it is.

[aweisz]

i have to go to uni tomorrow: :(

to drop out: :)

[stargazingpsychotic]

I don't think I've had to exist so long before and now I am starting to feel something awful

[nightsintodaydreams]

m. i read ihnmaims and watched a bit of a playthru of the game. i couldn't really get into it 😔

[devotedlystrangewizard]

i love writing characters who are fucked regardless of what they do. theres no way out. they were always going to be miserable. pre-destined to suffer.

[creepyclothdoll]

The Devil's Wheel

The Devil’s Wheel

“If you say yes,” said the Devil, “a single man, somewhere in the world, will be killed on the spot. But three million dollars is nothing to sneeze at, missus.”

“What’s the catch?” You squint at him suspiciously over the red-and-black striped carnival booth. You’re smarter than he thinks you are– a devil deal always has a catch, and you’re determined to catch him before he catches you. 

“Well, the catch is that you’ll know you did it. And I’ll know, too. And the big man upstairs’ll know, I ‘spose. But what’s the chariot of salvation without a little sin to grease the wheels? You can repent from your mansion balcony, looking out at your waterfront views, sipping a bellini in your eighties. But hey, it’s up to you– take my deal or leave it.”

The Devil lights a cigar without a match, taking an inhale, and blowing out a cloud of deep, sweet-smelling tobacco laced faintly with something that reminds you of rotten eggs. If he does have horns, they’re hidden under his lemon yellow carnival barker hat. He wears a clean pinstripe suit and a red bowtie. No cloven hooves, no big pointy fork, but you know he’s the Devil without having to be told. Though he did introduce himself.

He’s been perfectly polite. 

You know you need the money. He knows it too, or he wouldn’t have brought you here, to this strange dark room, whisking you away from your new house in the suburbs as fast as a wish. Now you’re in some sort of warehouse, where all the windows seem to be blacked out– or, maybe, they simply look out into pitch darkness, though it is the middle of the day. A single white spotlight shines down on the two of you. 

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” you say. “I bet the man is someone I know, right? My husband?”

“Could be,” the Devil says with a pointed grin. “That’s for the wheel to decide.”

He steps back and raises his black-gloved hand as the tarp flies off of the large veiled object behind him. The light of the carnival wheel nearly blinds you. Blinking lights line the sides. Jingling music blares over speakers you can’t see. The flickering sign above it reads:

THE DEVIL’S WHEEL

“Step right up and claim your fortune,” the Devil barks. “Spin the wheel and pay the price! Or leave now, and a man keeps his life.”

You examine the wheel. 

The gambling addict

The doting boyfriend

The escaped convict

The dog dad

The secretive sadist

“These are all the possible men I can kill?” You ask, thumbing the side of the wheel. It rolls smoothly in your hand. Then you quickly stop, realizing that this might constitute a spin under the Devil’s rules. He flashes a smile at you, watching you halt its motion. 

“Addicts, convicts, murderers– plenty of terrible options for you to land on, missus!”

“Serial wife murderer?”

“Now who would miss a fellow like that? I can guarantee that the whole world would be better off without him in it, and that’s a fact.”

The hard worker

The compulsive liar

The animal torturer

The widower

The desperate businessman

The failed musician

The beloved son

“My husband is on here too,” you say. 

“Your husband Dave, yes. The wheel has to be fair, otherwise there’s simply no stakes.”

“I know what’s gonna happen,” you say, crossing your arms. “This wheel is rigged. I’m gonna spin it around, and it’ll go through all the killers and stuff, and then it’s gonna land on my husband no matter what.”

“Why, I would never disgrace the wheel that way,” the Devil says, wounded. “I swear on my own mother’s grave– may she never escape it. In fact, take one free spin, just to test it out! This one’s on me, no death, no dollars.”

You cautiously reach up to the top of the wheel and feel its heaviness in your hand. The weight of hundreds of lives. But also, millions of dollars. You pull the wheel down and let it go.

Clackity-clackity-clackity-clackity

Round and round it goes. 

The college graduate

The hockey fan

The Eagle Scout

The cold older brother

The charming younger brother

The two-faced middle child

The perfectionist

The slob 

Your husband Dave

Clackity-clackity-clackity.

Finally, the wheel lands on a name. A title, really.

The photographer

“Hmm, tough, missus, but that’s the way of the wheel. But hey, look! Your husband is allllll the way over here,” he points with his cane to the very bottom of the wheel, all the way on the other side from where the arrow landed. “As you can see, it’s not rigged. The wheel truly is random.”

“So… there really isn’t another catch?” You ask. 

“Isn’t it enough for you to end a man’s life? You need a steeper price? If you’re really such a glutton for punishment, I’ll gladly re-negotiate the terms.”

“No, no… wait.” You examine the wheel, glancing between it and the Devil.

You really could use that three million dollars. Newly married, new house, you and your husband’s combined debt– those student loans really follow you around. He’s quite a bit older than you, and even he hasn’t paid them off yet, to the point where the whole time you were dating you watched him stress out about money. You had to have a small, budget wedding, and a small, budget honeymoon. Three million dollars could be big for the two of you. You could re-do your honeymoon and go somewhere nice, like Hawaii, instead of just taking two weeks in Atlantic City. You deserve it. 

Even so, do you really want to kill an innocent photographer? Or an innocent seasonal allergy sufferer? Or an innocent blogger? Just because you don’t know or love these people doesn’t mean that someone doesn’t. 

The cancer survivor

The bereaved

The applicant

Some of these were so vague. They could be anyone, honestly. Your neighbors, your father, your friends…

The newlywed

The ex-gifted kid

The uncle

The Badgers fan

“My husband is a Badgers fan,” you say.

“How lovely,” the Devil says. 

Then it hits you.

Of course.

The weightlifter.

The careful driver.

The manager.

The claustrophobe.

Your husband Dave lifts weights at the gym twice a month. You wouldn’t call him a pro, but he does it. He also drives like he’s got a bowl of hot soup in his lap all the time, because he’s afraid of being pulled over. He just got promoted to management at his company, and he takes the stairs to his seventh-story office because he hates how small and cramped the elevator is.

“I get your game,” you announce. “You thought you could get me, but I figured you out, jackass!” “Oh really? What is my game, pray tell?” The Devil responds, leaning against his cane.

“All these different titles– they’re all just different ways to describe the same guy. My husband isn’t one notch on the wheel, he’s every notch. No matter what I land on, Dave dies. I’m wise to your tricks!” 

The Devil cackles. 

“You’re a clever one, that’s for sure. I thought you’d never figure it out.”

“Thanks but no thanks, man,” you say with a triumphant smirk. “I’m no rube. No deal. Take me back home.”

“As you wish, missus,” the Devil says. He snaps his fingers, and you’re gone, back to your brand-new house with your new husband. “Don’t say I never tried to help anyone.”

[jaxon-exe]

Omg He’s dead?!? No!!

Inspired by this post

In order for Danny to go ghost he has to die. Every, single, time. While it was definitely concerning at first, there r only so many times u can die and be ok before u just stop freaking out about it.

This is why when a 20 y/o Danny gets kidnapped by a cult that intends to use him as a sacrifice to a demon, he is oddly calm about the whole thing. As soon as they kill him he’ll just turn into a ghost and stop them so it’s fine.

Problem, he was expecting the summoning part of this whole shebang to happen after his death. Whatever, he’s fought demons before so as soon as they do kill him he’ll just have to kick this guy’s ass and then put a stop to the cult.

Only he’s plans r changed, get again, when some of the batkids show up before the cult can kill him. Double fuck bc it’s clear these guys r not equipped to handle a demon and with how he’s a little tied up right now he can’t really kill himself. So with very limited options he resorts to asking the heroes to kill him.

Needless to say, Nightwing is very concerned about the seemingly suicidal hostage. Red Robin is confused as fuck and decided it’s probably best to leave the guy tied up until they could drop him off at a hospital. Spoiler thinks the guy’s just joking but gets more concerned the more he insists they kill him. Hell even Robin and Orphan are thrown off by the guy’s repeated requests for death as the fight goes on.

It’s at this point that Red Hood, getting tired of the guys voice, decided to actually asks the guy why he wants to die.

Problem with this is Danny fucking sucks at explaining things and for some reason thinks “I can totally kick that demon dudes ass but like, only if I’m dead.” Is a satisfactory answer.

For most of the bats it’s not. For Hood tho? Who has a better understanding of magic than the rest of the fam and has been wanting to shut this guy up all fight?

“Seems legit.” *BANG*