#and giving him that good sleight of tongue that he deserves.

[the-beatnik-gale]

We all know Mystra never gave our Wizard any sleight of tongue but hey, at least Karlch knows what's good. Sometimes it's worth it to get on your knees.

[imaginedreamwrite]

Do you have a day 15 prompt already?

I'm working on a Christmas market today and I'm freezing. Couldn't help but think of poor California wifey not having the proper winter clothing and freezing on the first day till Curtis takes her shopping.

Christmas Countdown day 15 — Go for a sleigh ride

“Sweet sunshine baby,” Curtis had cooed when you stepped outside and almost instantly ran back inside when you experienced your first bout of Montana winter, “you’re not used to the cold yet.”

“I feel like my fingers are gonna fall off.” You shivered and shuddered against the chill, arguing against Curtis’ attempt to get you out of the house and into town so you could buy winter things. It was an offer that was necessary even if you didn’t want to brave the cold.

“We’re gonna get you some warm clothes, snowbird.” Curtis had warmed your hands with his own, he caressed you with adoration before he draped his coat around your shoulders, giving you a chance to warm up.

You yanked the hood of your coat over your head before you stepped outside for the surprise Curtis had for you. Your trip to town with Curtis had been just over three weeks ago, a trip that was made so you could have warm winter boots and a jacket. Curtis had gotten you everything you needed for the harsh winters in Montana, sparing no expense to make sure you would be warm.

“I have a surprise for you, snowbird.” Curtis beckoned you down the steps when you’d left the safety of the house. “Another item crossed off your bucket list.”

You trounced down the steps and followed the sound of his voice around the corner, coming to a sudden stop when you noticed a horse attached to a wagon and Curtis standing near the front. He was patting the horses’ neck, whispering softly to the animal before he had looked your way.

“A horse drawn sleigh? Really?” You stepped closer, hesitant to allow your excitement to build too soon. “This is our surprise?”

“Do you like it, snowbird?” Curtis hummed and stepped away from the horse, moving toward the sleight and the set of reins draped over the front. “Another way for you to experience the beauty of our home.”

“This is amazing,” your voice wavered, affected by your bubbling excitement while you moved toward the sleigh, “I’ve never been on a sleigh before. I’ve never even…”

You trailed off, and gazed at the leather bound he seat of the sleigh and the thick woven blanket folded by the edge. Curtis had rest his hand on the small of your back, and uses his other to grab yours in order to help you up. He had waited for you to get settled and then he followed behind you, reaching for the reins.

“Are you warm enough? There’s a blanket if you need it.” Curtis spoke over his shoulder to you, watching you get settled on the seat beside him. “Are you ready, beautiful?”

“Absolutely,” you exhaled giddily, eager for this surprise that had been completely unexpected, “this is like something out of a Christmas movie.”

“Its everything you deserve, sweetheart.” Curtis clicked his tongue against his teeth, stabilizing you with his hand as the horse started to move. “We’re gonna have a good life here.”

[shijiujun]

pls give us chuyao and "kissing as a distraction to steal their wallet"

An au in which Lu Yao spent some time on the streets when he was younger after getting kidnapped by really Bad People, and had to become a thief on the streets to survive. His dad and siblings find him a year later, but some habits are hard to shake off once you’ve got them (an adrenaline junkie of sorts?), cue occasional minor thief Lu Yao who has three degrees from a major Western university XD

--

Lu Yao's fingers itch, his skin tingling in excitement.

He honestly doesn’t need the money, but he likes it. It isn’t something he does often, but occasionally, he’s struck with the urge to just steal some cash with a sleight of hand, giving in to the thrill of a successful wallet snatched without the owner of said wallet even realizing what he did.

It is a very, very bad habit, he knows that. And it isn’t like he doesn’t return the wallets! He doesn’t even take the money most of the time. Simply put, Lu Yao pickpockets and steals just to prove that he can, and if he gives in to the temptation to sneak some coins away while he’s at it, well, no one is any the wiser.

It is also often that the owners would voluntarily gift him with a small reward for ‘returning’ their wallets. Lu Yao would refuse of course, because he is a well-bred, proper gentleman who will not take advantage of others (coughs), and only at their repeated insistence does he shyly accept the money.

This keeps him out of trouble - Lu Yao is well aware that he cannot run very fast despite his long legs, so if he is caught, it would be a challenge to get himself out of hot water. Instead, he’s content with pickpocketing for fun, and if some assholes who cross Lu Yao’s path find some money missing long after Lu Yao has made his escape, well, they deserve it.

Recently, however, Lu Yao has his eye on this gorgeous man at the city’s hottest nightclub, Bai Le Men.

Qiao Chusheng comes from money, and the wallet he so callously dumps on the bar counter top every time Lu Yao sees him is stuffed full of cash, screaming at Lu Yao to just grab it. The gloss on the dark brown leather wallet is oh so shiny, and anyone with a pair of functional eyes would know just how expensive the wallet itself is.

Of course, Lu Yao doesn’t, because this is Qiao Chusheng, de-facto leader of the Green Dragon Gang, and he would like all his fingers wherever they currently are, thank you very much.

This requires some deft handling, he thinks, and so instead of outright creating an opportunity for a quick steal, Lu Yao befriends Chusheng.

Pretends to be drunk as he knocks into Chusheng on their first meeting, spilling his glass of whiskey all over Chusheng’s expensive woollen jacket. Thanking him a few days later when they meet for sending Lu Yao back home that night after dirtying his suit. And then for the weeks after, whenever Chusheng visits the bar, Lu Yao is usually seen seated right next to him, both men in deep conversations and the occasional laughs.

Once he’s sure that Chusheng is less likely to beat him up for stealing his wallet, Lu Yao tries.

He stresses once again that he doesn’t need the money. Ever since meeting Chusheng, the man pays for everything - drinks, dinners, a handful of meetings outside the nightclub in the day - without a single word, but Lu Yao just wants to steal it.

It doesn’t help that he’s had a few too many drinks for real today, which only amplifies the urge to swipe Chusheng’s wallet from his back pocket right now. He’s so sleepy too, his blurring vision full of Chusheng’s unfairly handsome face, his eyes which are all full of Lu Yao right now, and that smile... that smile, when Chusheng talks to him.

Lu Yao leans forward, reaching for Chusheng’s lips, and kisses him.

His kiss is entirely unplanned, and the moment their lips meet, Lu Yao sobers immediately, like a pail of iced water to his face. Even then, habit and rote memory has his fingers snagging the wallet and hiding it away in the span of those few seconds.

Chusheng is staring at him with wide eyes as Lu Yao straightens back, looking as shocked as he is.

What did he just...

Qiao Chusheng is going to... is going to murder him.

Blood draining out of his face, Lu Yao scrambles unsteadily to his feet, prepared to make his escape, “I’m just going... to-”

A hand encircles his elbow just as he’s about to turn and go, and Lu Yao yelps unglamorously as he’s tugged backwards, hard.

And then Chusheng is kissing him again.

This time, it’s no simple, chaste peck on the lips. Slanting his mouth over Lu Yao’s, Chusheng positively devours him. The breaths between them hot and moist against their skin as their lips and tongues collide time after time, until Lu Yao just collapses into Chusheng’s embrace, unable to feel his legs.

His face is still red a few minutes later when he lands on a soft bed to one of the private rooms sequestered away on the last floor of Bai Le Men’s building, but as articles of clothing between him and Chusheng fall to the floor one after the other, Lu Yao finds that he doesn’t have the mind to be embarrassed anymore.

That night, Chusheng takes him apart again and again, his kisses and touch leaving heat trailing across his entire body, so much so that it is branded into Lu Yao’s memory. His own hands feel their way over Chusheng’s back and his sculpted abs, his legs locking behind Chusheng’s waist to feel each thrust impossibly closer, every part of him sensitive and tender.

The crests of pleasure assaults his senses repeatedly, until all he can think of is Chusheng.

===

Lu Yao stirs at the sensation of lips pressing against his forehead, his nose, his cheeks, and wakes up fully just as he’s kissed on the mouth.

It’s warm in Chusheng’s hold, pressed skin to skin with him, and Lu Yao never wants to leave. He refuses to open his eyes though, because the memories of yesterday night are terribly clear in his head, and he remembers the way he begged for Chusheng, the way he clung to him and the embarrassing things that came out of his mouth.

As if knowing exactly what he’s thinking, Chusheng laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest into Lu Yao’s ear.

“Why’re you shy about this?” Chusheng asks, teasing.

“... you’re a monster,” Lu Yao mumbles, curling further into Chusheng’s side to hide his face. “How many times did you- Even after I told you I was tired! I can’t feel the lower half of my body anymore.”

“Oh?” Chusheng raises an eyebrow. “We can’t have that, shall I make sure the important parts are working now-”

At that, Lu Yao quickly interjects, “I’m hungry, Lao Qiao.”

“Mnn. Get me my wallet from your jacket, won’t you?”

In his haze of drowsiness and the ache that is running through his body, Lu Yao doesn’t register what Chusheng has said until he’s fished the wallet out of his own jacket, which fortunately fell right next to the bed on the floor, on Lu Yao’s side.

His eyes go impossibly wide, wallet in hand.

“... Lao Qiao,” Lu Yao swallows, trying to quickly come up with a lie, “I can explain-”

“You’re really good at it,” Chusheng cuts in with a smile, sitting up and taking the wallet from him. “You don’t repeat locations too often, but I happen to own Bai Le Men, Jin Guang Tai and Man Fu Du Cheng, and i’ve seen you around quite a lot. Don’t worry, it was only because I was looking out for you that I even noticed you were pickpocketing.”

Chusheng slips out of bed, and asks, “Do you want dumplings or jianbing? I recall you liking the jianbing from the kitchens... and some tea.”

Sitting up in bed gingerly and pulling up the blankets around him to cover his state of undress, Lu Yao gapes at Chusheng, “You knew?!”

“San Tu, you’re not very subtle,” Chusheng almost rolls his eyes. He bends down to pick up a shirt, only to see the condition of Lu Yao’s clothes on the floor. “... I ripped your shirt apart yesterday night. Sit tight, I’ll get Salim to send a new set over for you.”

“Wait, wait,” Lu Yao stops him. “What do you mean you knew? You knew that I was after your wallet and you just let me hang out around you?”

At that, Chusheng sits on the bed again, amused, “How did you think i got you to come to me? Although no one would dare to steal my wallet, I don’t really make it a habit to just toss my wallet on the tables, out in the open, you know.”

The realization that he was the one conned, in a sense, hits Lu Yao like a brick to the face.

“Alright,” Chusheng continues, sensing his anxiety. Pressing Lu Yao back down to lie down under the covers, he says, “Next time, you can take my wallet whenever you want to. Although if you’d like to take the initiative and jump into my embrace like last night, feel free to do so whenever.”

“Qiao Chusheng!”

The man avoids the pillow and swiftly bends down to sneak another kiss from Lu Yao, before heading out to find some breakfast for Lu Yao.

A few minutes later, Lu Yao sighs.

For the sake of love (and great times in bed), Lu Yao supposes he can limit himself to stealing only Chusheng’s wallet from now on.

---

~ from this list of prompts! ~

[white-collar-lawmen-and-conmen]

The Execution

Summary: You execute your revenge plan and seize an unexpected opportunity. (Sequel to The Salted Coffee Hit List.)

Word Count: 2,769

           Ryan went down fast once he had erroneously decided he could trust you, and after two more face-to-face operations plus a lot of in-character communications over the phone, he gave you some damning evidence which you relayed to Peter to build your case. While you couldn’t enter the broker’s office without thinking of the time you’d had Neal and Peter both interrupting every few minutes, you hadn’t had the time to get back at them for it because the case had to come first.

           By the time you were back in your routine, that had been nine days ago and you weren’t even sure Peter would remember what had happened without some prompting. Hell, he could barely even remember to get his own clothes from the dry cleaner’s without a reminder. You caught yourself wondering if it was even worth it anymore.

           Then you realized that you had the element of surprise over them both. After plotting – um, pondering on it for a while over a TV dinner, you decided you couldn’t let them get away with it. It would set a bad precedent.

           Despite what most cop shows might have led you to expect, being a senior agent didn’t give Peter the excuse – or the guts – to order his agents to always bring him coffee. All members of his team alternated with who got all the coffees, and you bided your time until it was your turn.

           “Y/N,” the barista called loudly, barely looking up from the coffee cups as he put several down in a cluster.

           You grabbed a couple of white salt packets off of the utensils counter as well as two thin red stirrers, then started checking the names on the coffees as you were putting them into a cardboard drink carrier. You left yours, Diana’s, and Clinton’s free of tampering. Neal’s, with added cream, and Peter’s, straight, were left out of the carrier for just a moment. Trying not to look suspicious to the baristas or any other customers, you quickly but calmly opened both men’s drinks, dumped a salt packet in each, and stirred the salt into dissolving faster before trashing the stirrers and putting the tops back on.

           No one suspected anything when you carried all the drinks back up to the twenty-first floor, across the bullpen, up the mezzanine, and into the preferred conference room. Keeping a straight face was a bit of a challenge, but you had been under higher stakes than this before, and you were not about to let your amusement ruin this for you.

           “About time,” Neal commented, his dull eyes lighting up as soon as he realized there was coffee in the room. Peter looked like he had been halfway through chastising his informant when you came in, which probably explained said informant’s boredom.

           You put the carrier down on the table while keeping your own cup in hand. Jones looked at his watch briefly before standing up to reach for his coffee. “I thought it would take longer. Lunch rush.”

           “They’re starting to learn our order by heart,” you remarked, grimacing slightly. How much money did that branch make from tired FBI agents? Probably as astronomical amount.

           Peter let everyone else get their drinks before he got his, but he was also the first to try drinking it while the steam was still rising from the slot in the lid. Sitting down normally, you kept an eye on him as he took a sip, made a face, forced himself to swallow, and then stuck his tongue out at either the heat, the saltiness, or both.

           “Something wrong?” You asked, keeping your face even and tilting your head.

           “I think I just tasted my tongue burning off,” your boss said, disgruntled. You were silently delighted. It was so hot that he couldn’t even pick up on the salt. He was going to drink the salted coffee again.

           “The steam was supposed to clue you in,” Diana quipped.

           “What have we got since I left?” At your question, the team got back on track. Diana and Peter filled you in with a quick review.

           The five of you continued looking at your case for several minutes before the steam had quit venting out of the coffee lids. Neal took a taste of his while listening to Jones report on accounting figures and the face of disgust he made was worth every second of anticipation. As soon as he knew his coffee was tampered with, his eyes shot up to you.

           “That was low,” he said, interrupting Jones.

           “What did I do?” You asked earnestly, blinking. Neal didn’t buy it for a second. Diana looked at you suspiciously and drank some of her own coffee. Since she hadn’t been deserving of sabotaged beverages, she didn’t find anything wrong with hers and shrugged at Jones.

           “It was almost two weeks ago.” Neal frowned.

           “Congratulations, you can count.” You smiled sweetly at him.

           Peter rolled his eyes and looked up to the ceiling. To brace himself for dealing with conflict, he drank some more coffee. It had cooled down enough by now for him to realize that the taste was god-awful and he turned around so quickly his tie flew, like he was going to spit it out in the trash can. He didn’t end up doing that, which disappointed you a little. It would’ve been more interesting if he had since you really hadn’t put in that much salt.

           “For God’s sake,” he grumbled, turning back around after forcing it down. “What the hell was that for?”

           “Huh,” you said thoughtfully, locking eyes. “I guess I must have accidentally mixed up the salt and sugar.” You kept up a polite smile.

           Peter looked at Neal as if to say it was his fault. Neal made an innocent face at him and gestured to his own, almost untouched, coffee to emphasize that he was a victim, too. Peter just strengthened his glare and continued to blame Neal.

           “I haven’t touched yours,” he objected, “I barely even touched mine!”

           “Because there’s so much salt in it you could melt the ice off the road!”

           Diana snorted and leaned back in her chair. “There’s free coffee in the kitchenette.”

           Neal gave her an apprehensive look. “That’s not real coffee.”

           “Ick.” Peter picked his cup up for a third time, but this time he dropped it into the trash bin. Neal pushed his along the table so that when the boss turned back around, he repeated the process with Neal’s cup.

           “How long were you planning that?” The thief asked you, crossing his arms.

           “I’ve had the idea since you wouldn’t shut up in the van.”

           “It took you two weeks to do that?” He shook his head. “Wow, Y/N. Wow.”

           So what if it was unsophisticated? It was unpleasant for them, and that was all you had wanted. “You weren’t expecting it and I ruined your afternoon because now you don’t have coffee.” Although you wanted to stick your tongue out at him, you decided against it. Instead, you sipped on your perfectly tasty latte with smug pride.

~~~ The Execution ~~~

           Although you couldn’t accept coffee from Neal or Peter for a couple of weeks, the salted coffee hit list had been successfully carried out and was absolutely worth the inconvenience of having to get your own drinks for a while. The boys appeared to have taken it with some salt (pun intended), but there were no reprisals – they must have realized that they had it coming. Both of them had worked undercover before, and both knew how freaking aggravating it was when the utility of the earpiece was abused.

           Work carried on as uneventfully as it ever did when your colleagues included a contemporarily-renowned con artist. When you joined the bureau, you had thought it would be exciting. It was, but you had confused the movies for real life. When you all caught wind of a case which involved a stolen identity, a missing persons profile, and long-term embezzlement, you all jumped to seize the investigative leads.

           You almost forgot how boring it could be to sit in the van while someone else was doing the tough work. For a moment, you understood why Neal had been so insufferable. You worried about him, too, of course you did. This sympathy only lasted for a few minutes as Neal charmed it up with the receptionist inside while he waited for his appointment with the in-house accountant. If he could so freely wing it and expect you to stay quiet, then he should have been able to keep his mouth shut when you were watching your words and policing your body language.

           “How did you do that?” The soprano voice asked with laughter. You rolled your eyes at the flirting while listening with a headset over your ears. Neal responded with the French word for sleight of hand, trying to appear cultured and suave.

           “If this goes on for much longer, my lunch is going to make a reprise,” Peter shared, looking at you and pretending to have to settle his stomach.

           You picked up your phone to check the time. “I thought the appointment was at one?”

           “It’s supposed to be,” the senior agent grumbled. “This should be time theft.”

           If Neal could hear you now, he would be offended. Your eyes darted to the recording equipment, just to see. The light was off on the equipment – the line was only open one-way. But that could change…

           Peter wouldn’t go along with it because work was serious and had to be prioritized. You were glad he knew that, but Neal apparently didn’t, and sometimes that man only learned lessons when they were beaten into his skull. Though you’d been content with your petty revenge, this teaching opportunity was too good to pass on.

           “Hey, boss, he’s just going to be hitting on that poor girl for a while,” you said craftily, giving a yawn into the crook of your elbow. “There was a Starbucks just a couple streets back, I’d love a pick-me-up.”

           Peter yawned after you and blinked, apparently just then realizing how tired he actually was. “Me, too. I could use a stretch.” He got up and patted his pockets to check he had his wallet, phone, and badge. “Your usual?”

           “Yes, please.”

           You waited for him to shrug on his coat, jump out, and close the back of the van before you pressed the two-way communication button on the recorder. The light turned green and you smirked.

           Neal kept flirting with the receptionist, and you kept yourself quiet. Though it was tempting to suddenly start chatting in his ear and distract him from the pretty woman’s attention, your point would have a lot more heft behind it if you waited until he was mentally invested in the task. He enjoyed flirting, but he himself said that it was more of a game than a serious endeavor.

           Almost ten minutes after Peter left the van, the sound changed and someone faintly called Neal’s name on the other end. He quit talking with the receptionist and a few seconds later, he was introducing himself as Nick Halden and the other man’s voice was much closer than it had been before. The accountant introduced himself by his nickname, Walt, and Neal very subtly snuck in a comment on how the accountant’s office looked so that you and Peter would know where to go if things went sideways.

           A couple of minutes into the meeting, a thumping on the doors had you stand up and open them for Peter with your headset still on. You took both coffees from your boss and let him climb back in and close the doors. He had graciously gotten your favorite latte. You smelled it first, and then took a tiny, slow sip.

           “Don’t worry,” Peter said dryly as he sat down. “I thought about it, but exercised some self-control.”

           “Ouch,” you remarked back at a normal volume, knowing Neal was hearing every word while he was also trying to concentrate. “That stings.”

           “So does too much salt.”

           Neal didn’t let on that he was hearing voices. You knew he wouldn’t or you wouldn’t have risked it. You had always admired his composure. Before long, he had become, for the most part, a behavioral mirror of Walt. Neal did it so skillfully that if you didn’t know exactly what he was doing, you wouldn’t have known he was manipulating his behavior at all.

           A few minutes passed by, and Neal’s careful questions and inconspicuous prods started to show a little more about what the bad guy was thinking. It was time to interrupt again, you noted, and had a legitimate reason to do so. “What do you think?” You asked Peter, swiveling in your chair. “Is he the one pulling the strings?”

           “I have a hard time believing someone else is doing it,” Peter said thoughtfully. “Accounting is very precise, and it’s not all about crunching numbers and filing taxes.”

           “I know what this kind of job’s like,” Neal was saying, sounding earnest and a little… patronizing, maybe? It wasn’t a straightforward inflection – you would have had to see his expression to know for sure. “You spend all your time up here, crunching numbers, filing taxes, and no one even knows your name. Guys like us deserve a thank you once in a while, is that so much to ask?”

           You thought quickly and acted to catch Peter’s attention before he realized that the uncanny repetition was Neal hinting that he could hear you. “He could just be the brains behind someone else’s greed,” you pointed out.

           “He could, but I don’t think so. Not enough money’s gone missing to make up two cuts.”

           “Maybe not yet,” you countered. “But if he thought this could go on long enough, they could rake in plenty for two people, or even three.”

           Peter leaned forward, thinking about it carefully. You couldn’t wait for him to reply. Although Neal’s tone wasn’t cluing you in to any irritation or stress, you knew it had to be there. And in the meantime, the accountant was agreeing vehemently, getting braver because of Neal’s expressed sympathy.

           “I suppose,” he said slowly, “But the way they’re talking, there’s not room for another person.”

           “Let’s hope he’s the only one, then. Less paperwork.”

           Neal kept continuing in the direction that his conversational partner was leading. It was becoming excessively clear that Walt felt the company owed him more than he was being given. There wasn’t anything concrete enough to use as evidence, but it was obvious that if you were persistent enough, you could get something out of him.

           “I gotta spend my whole life cleaning up their messes and making their lives easier. And what do I get? Barely 80K.”

           You rolled your eyes as the suspect whined at Neal. “Oh, is that all?” You sarcastically asked, then snapped, “Jackass.”

           Peter was shaking his head. “The city’s not a cheap place to live, but that’s a lot more than most people get. I think he’s doing fine.”

           “Greed like that should be illegal,” you commented. Thinking that a perfectly respectable salary was too low and feeling entitled to embezzle as a result was just inexcusable. No one was entitled to rip off other people. No one.

           “In his case, it already is.” Peter mumbled, his low tone letting you know he was having similar thoughts.

           The appointment continued on, but didn’t last very long. Most of that time you were respectfully quiet, not wanting to push too hard and actually jeopardize the case. Every few minutes, you would pipe up with something that sparked a short exchange between yourself and your boss. You had counted up to six interruptions before Neal was politely but firmly dismissed, and “Nick” gracefully made an exit while persuasively cajoling Walt to keep in touch.

           There were a couple minutes of silence, and then the sounds of an elevator door closing and beeping with every floor as it descended. Presumably isolated, Neal let himself sound annoyed as he spoke again. “Seriously, Y/N?”

           Peter was confused for a second before it dawned on him to check the equipment. The light on the box was still green. Peter slapped the button to turn it back into a one-way receiver and then turned an accusatory look on you. Now you understood how Neal felt right before one of those famed Burke lectures.

           Putting your hand up quickly for a chance to speak first, you managed to hold him off long enough to say plainly, “Worth it.”

~~~

~~~

A/N: Woohoo! Thanks to @whizzer-fashion for my first commissioned story! Also, yay for my first posted series!

My requests are closed, but if you’d like to get around that little issue, please drop me a line or ask about my commission options or go straight to my Ko-Fi page. A oneshot of this length is $4 (pricing formula: cost = $1/500 words, + 500 words free). Imagines are $1 each, and you can also get a 2-for-$1 would include package.

[thepetulantpen]

Healing/Ashes

(I swear I’m going to get these done! Here’s day 7 of @widomauk-week , I’ll have day 8 done shortly! Little more angsty today... warning for mild description of injuries and major character injury!)

“You should have Jester heal you.”

Caleb slowly lowers himself next to Molly, wincing at the protest from his bruised ribs and the deep cut on his arm.

“I’m fine.”

Molly frowns in concern but doesn’t bother to argue with Caleb when he knows he’s not going to budge on the matter.

He wishes, not for the first time, he had the power to heal, instead of just to hurt. That way, Molly could heal him whenever he pleased and Caleb would have no choice but to accept it.

Their wizard looks particularly grim after today’s battle, with blood crusting on his head, singed eyebrows, ash dusting the top of his hair, and bloody bandages peeking out of his sleeve. As Molly watches, blood slowly seeps into the bandage on Caleb’s upper arm, spreading and consuming more of the white material.

“Caleb-“

“It’s fine, Mollymauk. She doesn’t need to waste any more spells on me.”

Something is wrong. Molly can feel it, but he doesn’t know what he can do about it.

He supposes he could tell on Caleb, sic Jester on him so he’s forced to submit to a healing spell. Or maybe he has an extra healing potion he could put in some tea; Nott could certainly pull off the sleight of hand required to dose Caleb.

Molly stands, making up his mind to get someone to help heal his stubborn man, but Caleb grabs his hand, tugging him back towards the ground.

“Don’t go.”

Caleb’s hand is sweaty and he’s staring at the ground, hair falling around his face like a curtain. Molly manages a reassuring smile, a dazzling lie to keep Caleb calm.

“It’s ok, I’m just going to get some tea for you.”

“Not yet.” Caleb takes a ragged breath, tilting his head up towards the sky to watch the storm clouds converge over them.

A strong breeze passes through them and Caleb closes his eyes, letting the atmosphere of the storm soak into his skin.

“Can I ask you a weird question?”

“Sure,” Molly shifts nervously, wanting to help Caleb but not sure whether it’ll be best address his physical or mental concerns first, “I’m an expert on weird.”

“What do you want to happen to you after you die?”

Molly blinks once but doesn’t try to analyze the question, he’s going to deliver on Caleb’s expectation of an answer without judgement. Even if Molly secretly thinks it is a really weird question.

“Mm, I guess the Moonweaver would collect me. I’d want to be a part of whatever mischief she gets up to.”

“No, I mean,” Caleb breathes in again and this time Molly can tell it’s definitely wrong, definitely strained, “Would you want to be buried?”

Molly squints at Caleb, trying to examine his face and determine whether he’s more pale than usual. His eyes are still closed, Molly wishes he would open them.

“I suppose. What else is there?”

A grimace contorts Caleb’s face, taking over for a few long seconds before he’s able to pull back on his neutral mask.

“The pyre. From ashes, to ashes.”

Molly looks around anxiously, wondering if anybody is nearby to call for help if Caleb needs it. He’s talking so weird, maybe the wound is worse than they thought and the blood loss— what if he needs healing now?

No, Molly can’t just leave. Clearly Caleb has something on his mind, it’d be wrong to just ignore that. He’ll get Jester as soon as Caleb is ready. He clears his throat, determined to give Caleb an answer and figure out what his point is so they can move on to more pressing issues- like the blood that’s still traveling down the bandage.

“I don’t think I could do the whole cremation thing- too permanent. What if I come back again? I’d like to leave my body to be recycled by the next guy.”

Caleb laughs, or tries to, but the sound gets stuck in his throat, launching him into a coughing fit. Molly puts a hand on his back as Caleb starts hacking into his hands, watching in horror as blood begins to splatter against his hand wrappings. Caleb gasps, pulling in air for the first time in nearly a minute.

“I don’t think you’d die forever if you burned, Molly,” Caleb smiles, eyes still closed, why won’t he open them-

“I think you’d rise from the ashes, like a phoenix.”

Caleb opens his eyes, staring up at Mollymauk. They’re totally glazed over, a glassy white cloud covering the bright blue completely. Behind the fog, there’s a bright light, a feverish fire burning through Caleb’s mind.

He’s out before he lands in Molly’s arms, before he hears him screaming for Jester, Nott, Fjord, anyone—

...

He has a dream he’s had before, of a fireball and his friends and seven piles of ashes.

Usually, the dream ends after the explosion, after the screams of his subconscious follow him into the waking world.

This time, the dream lingers for a few more silent, dark moments. Caleb just wails, face buried in his hands, ashes in his hair, under his nails, clogged in his tear ducts.

A fire bursts to life amongst the ashes, embers warming without any input from Caleb. The room is suddenly very, very hot, the tears running down Caleb’s face start to boil and it makes him stop crying long enough to shout in surprise and pain.

The flames rise, surrounding him. They don’t spread but move, as if they had bodies to carry them. The pillar of fire in front of Caleb reaches out with a tongue of flames and brushes his face, harmless warmth spreading from cheek to chin.

The living, moving wall of fire parts to reveal a silhouette rising from the ashes, too obscured by the combination of glaring light and all consuming shadow for Caleb to make out.

The flames flicker once, then die, blown out by an unseen force. It’s done with ease and precision, like blowing out birthday candles rather than a room full of wildfire.

The only light that remains are the embers, gently floating through the air like fireflies and collecting on the ground in a path that winds from Caleb to the ashes.

He stands on shaking legs and follows it, not because he wants to but because his feet seem to have developed a mind of their own, siphoning dying coherency from his brain.

The ashes have been replaced by a bed of embers, some hot and yellow, others cooling red, and the rest solid black. The silhouette- now a distinct lavender tiefling- is there, sitting cross-legged and peaceful on the embers. His eyes are closed.

The purple tiefling- Molly?- doesn’t open his eyes but his head tilts up, sensing Caleb’s presence.

“Caleb!”

Eyes still closed, he smiles up at Caleb, the same wide grin that Molly gives him any opportunity he gets: in morning, before bed, after battles, after shopping, when they’re eating, when they’re drinking. It makes Caleb smile too and he reaches out to cup Molly’s cheek.

“-up! Caleb!”

Molly’s eyelids lift but there are no eyes there, just fire and embers spilling out and down his face. He’s crying fire but the smile stays, plastic and perfect, unaffected by Caleb’s horror.

The red fire reaches Caleb’s hand where he’s touching Molly’s face and catches on the bandages there, lighting up and spreading faster than should be possible. He tries to pat out the fire consuming his right arm, tries to scream or do something—

Caleb doesn’t have a chance because he’s already ash, swept away with the breeze.

...

Caleb wakes to something freezing cold on his forehead and an unidentifiable, but definitively unpleasant sensation in his right arm.

He tries to sit up, bat away whatever is touching his arm, but something holds him down, putting gentle weight on his weak shoulders.

“Shh, shh. I’m almost done.”

Like lifting heavy weights, Caleb manages to open his eyes. He’s in a dark room, lit only by dim candles. The window next to his bed is totally dark, revealing a starless night sky.

Molly is leaning over him, holding his arm and screwing up his face in concentration. He mutters something in a language Caleb doesn’t know and waves his hands in an unfamiliar arcane gesture.

The odd sensation starts again, like... bleeding but worse and not dulled by adrenaline. He watches as a green-tinted, translucent liquid leaks from the cut on his arm and floats up towards Molly’s fingers, before getting caught in the vial he holds. Caleb turns his head away, not wanting to further upset his stomach.

A few minutes later, Molly sighs and sets the vial on a side table, alerting Caleb with a soft clinking sound.

“Caleb?”

He turns his head back to Molly, peering up into his eyes. Molly looks so tired, more tired than Caleb has ever seen him. Fatigue weighs down the edges of his eyes and wears a crease in between his eyebrows.

“You know I love you, right?”

Caleb hesitates but nods slowly. He can’t bring himself to protest, uselessly, Molly’s steadfast affection, especially not when he can see tears welling in Molly’s eyes.

“And that’s never going to change, but,” Molly takes a deep breath, rubbing a hand over his face, “if you ever do something this stupid again—I don’t know what I’ll do but it will not be pleasant, understand?”

Caleb fumbles for Molly’s hand with his good arm, squeezing weakly when he finds it. Molly squeezes back, with much more force than necessary, though Caleb supposes he deserves that after the day they’ve had.

There’s a million thoughts racing through Caleb’s head, guilt ridden and self-deprecating- I don’t deserve this, I’ve caused so much trouble, I’ve hurt Molly- but he silences all of them at the look on Molly’s face, a powerful mixture of worry and relief.

He doesn’t say anything he’s thinking, just what he’s feeling, “Thank you for saving me, Mr. Mollymauk.”

Molly smiles, letting the tears in his eyes fall. He leans forward and presses his forehead against Caleb’s; the warmth of his skin sinks into Caleb’s even through the cold compress he’s placed there.

“Of course, Mr. Caleb. What would we do without our all-powerful wizard?” Molly smiles wider, fangs poking out to become part of the shining performance piece of an expression.

Molly turns his head, pressing a kiss to Caleb’s forehead. He adds, much softer, “What would I do without the love of my life?”

Caleb’s going to say something to that, maybe apologize, maybe contradict, but Molly beats him to it, sitting back and rubbing his hand over Caleb’s arm.

“I’ll always be here to save you, Caleb, but I don’t want to, if I can avoid it.”

Caleb swallows, intimidated by Molly’s expectant stare. The vibrant red energy of Molly’s eyes fills his mind and Caleb finds himself giving into the impulse to say what he feels, to say something stupid, something impulsive.

Something Molly wants to hear, something Caleb wants to say.

“I promise you won’t have to. Not like this. Not again.”

Molly makes a happy little hum, satisfied with the flimsy, tired promise. He may be happy with just those words but Caleb is determined to make it more than that, make sure he never makes Molly so tired ever again.

But there’ll be time for making good on promises later, when there’s more light outside and less ache in his bones.

The candle is blown out and Molly tucks himself into bed next to Caleb, careful not to disturb any injuries.

They lay like that for a while, peaceful and content to just be in each other’s company. Caleb is reluctant to fall asleep again, scared of what he’ll find in his dreams and nagged by lingering curiosity about the missing hours of his day. He doesn’t want to wake Molly if he’s already asleep but he can’t help it, he has to know.

“How did you save me?”

Molly, apparently not asleep, laughs against Caleb’s chest.

“I used my brilliant arcane abilities to extract the poison from your blood,” his smile dies a little, hugging Caleb as tight as he dares, “Jester was out of restoration spells, so I had to make due.”

His grip is still weak from the fever and blood loss, but Caleb puts all the strength he has left into hugging Molly.

“That’s pretty clever, Molly.”

Molly snuggles a little closer, holding onto Caleb like he’s scared he’ll slip away.

“I learned from the best.”

[ifishouldvanish]

Falling Forward (2/3)

Part 3 of I Must Be Warmer Now

Summary: Gold has got it bad. So, so, bad. Rating: M Tags: fluff for these two, because they need it Previous Chapters: [1]

[Read on AO3]

Enjoying a meal with Lacey certainly beats the alternative of eating alone in his kitchen. Takeout might be comfort food, but the greater comfort comes from having someone to share it with, Gold thinks. At the very least, it gives them some sort of pretext for the evening. Something to do while he tries to decipher what this latest progression in their relationship means— assuming he isn't just imagining it. Calling each other pet names for the first time has to mean something, doesn't it?

These are the thoughts that linger in the back of Gold's mind as they watch one episode of The X-Files after another, taking turns feeding each other forkfuls of lo mein and vegetable curry until the various little boxes have all been emptied. Sometime after the food is set aside, they begin cuddling on the couch, occasionally sneaking kisses on each other's hands, cheeks, and shoulders. Every time Lacey kisses him, a pleasant feeling blooms in Gold's chest and he can't help smiling to himself. But every time he finds himself kissing her, he gets the feeling that he shouldn't. The instant his lips part from her skin, he feels his heart sink and his pulse throbbing in his ears.

Lacey shuts the TV off and sets the remote down on the coffee table. She tilts her head back where it rests on his chest to look up at him. It's much darker without the television's blue-filtered light filling the room, but there’s a warm glow coming from the single incandescent bulb by the front door. It makes her features look so much softer and gentler. Ethereal.

God, he wants to kiss her again.

She sucks her teeth. “So.” She says, “Do you uh, believe?”

Gold knits his brows together. Believe in what, exactly? Shape-shifting extraterrestrial creatures, climbing through vents to prey upon unsuspecting victims under the cloak of night? Surely she can't be serious. He clears his throat. “Believe what?”

She laughs, and that damn bulb in the entryway reflects in her eyes, making them glimmer like two galaxies speckled with millions of stars.

“That the truth is out there? ” She says. “Aliens, government conspiracies, or just… I don't know. That there's maybe something greater going on that we don't know about? ”

Oh. Right, right.

Gold shrugs. “Can't say that I've ever given it much thought.”

“I dunno.” Lacey says, fidgeting against him, getting closer to him. “I feel like there's no way we're alone. There's gotta be something more, you know?”

He combs his fingers through her hair idly while he considers the possibility. Once again, he scolds himself for it. For allowing himself all these little touches. Sure, she lets him touch her to his heart's content after he's sated her in bed and they're both basking in the afterglow of their shared efforts. But this is somehow… different. She doesn't seem to mind it though, does she? He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, refocusing his thoughts. There's gotta be something more, you know?

“...I suppose statistically speaking, it's more likely than not.” He says.

Lacey looks back up at him with a smile, and as adorable as it is, he can't for the life of him figure out what he's done to deserve it.

“...What?”

“You're a Scully, aren't you?” She says, her grin widening.

Ah.

He can feel himself slowly beginning to smile. She seems to have a way of making him do that. She makes him nervous, certainly, but once they start talking? All of those nagging thoughts are chased away and replaced with calm. “I’m sorry, is that a bad thing?”

“No.” Lacey shakes her head. “I think I'm a Mulder though.”

“I think so too.” He finds himself saying.

Lacey frowns, seemingly offended by the thought that he could have her figured out so easily. She sits up and looks at him with furrowed brows. “What makes you say that?”

“You called it first, lass,” he winks, “you tell me.”

Lacey huffs and she just looks so cute when she's like this, he can't help but oblige her.

“...Alright.” Gold smiles and shifts on the couch a little, inviting her to lie back down. She settles against him again, her head tucked beneath his chin, and he laces their fingers. “I think... you possess a great amount of hope. Hope that there's more— for yourself, for the world. A dreamer, I should say.”

“Oh.” She studies his hand for a moment, stretching her fingers out between his own and touching their fingertips together. “You uh… you think so?”

“Aye, I do,” he nods. He watches as she lays her hand flat against his, as if to compare their sizes. “Life... throws things at me, good and bad, and my first instinct is to try to rationalize it. Deconstruct it. That whatever I'm feeling, I've no right to. If it's a good thing, it's all just a coincidence. That if I just keep looking, I'll catch the sleight of hand and it will all fall apart. And if it's a bad thing— well, I probably deserved it. But you… you take whatever life throws at you and you run with it. You put a considerable amount of faith in things— in me— that I do not possess. It's ah… quite endearing.”

Lacey's silent for a long moment, her brows knit together thoughtfully, and Gold feels like he'd do anything in this moment to know what she's thinking. “Nah,” she shakes her head suddenly and clears her throat. “I doubt shit all the time.”

He can't really argue that. As he's gotten to know her better, he's come to notice all the little things she does when she's unsure of herself. Nibbling her lip, wrapping her arms around herself, fidgeting, the frequent ums and uhs in her speech . It breaks his heart to see someone so young and brilliant filled with such doubt, and yet she still opens herself to him so readily. Takes chances and risks, and never half measures.

“That may be so,” he says. “But it doesn't stop you from trying. You might not believe, but… I think you want to. You try to.”

“And you don't?” She presses her lips together, fighting back a smile.

“I suppose I want to,” he shrugs. “But I won't let myself.”

Lacey sits up again, turning to face him better. “Not without proof?”

He doesn't know how to answer that. Even if he had proof, he'd probably ignore it because it's so much easier to just keep drifting along to wherever it is that life is taking him. Such was his trajectory no less than a month ago. He's still not sure what exactly compelled him to leave the house that night. But he did, and there she was, telling him there was still hope for him. He's never been the sort of person believes that things happen a reason, but now that he's cuddling on the sofa next to her— feeling so at peace and comfortable in his own skin— it's incredibly tempting to start. To let himself believe.

But it's one good thing that's come out of this whole mess, he tells himself. Perhaps his luck simply isn't as bad as he thought.

“I don't know.” He sighs, glancing away.

It's hardly an answer at all, let alone the one she was probably looking for. But then she climbs over his lap and faces him, her lips pressed together with indecision. Her fingers comb through his hair and she leans in slowly, but with a certain and now-familiar determination in her eyes. Without thinking about it, Gold closes the distance between them.

Her lips are so soft and he can't resist sucking and nipping at them right away, settling his hands at her waist and inviting her to get closer. She pushes herself up on her knees and climbs further up his body before poking her tongue out to trace it along his lips.

Gold's a bit startled by the sound he makes when he opens up and she dips inside his mouth. Lacey always kisses him like she just can't get enough of him and it's one of the most gratifying things he's ever experienced.

There's nothing but the sound of their slipping lips and tiny gasps for breath until she pulls away to lift her shirt up off her shoulders. She tosses it on the floor and Gold's heart thrums in his chest when she shakes her hair out of her face and smiles at him. She adjusts herself into a more comfortable position on his lap and uses her hand to guide his own over her breast. She presses her lips to his again, letting out an encouraging little moan when he starts feeling her through her bra.

Gold has come to find that Lacey is full of surprises and discoveries to be made. She’s so much more than just the scantily clad barfly everyone presumes her to be, and he’s ashamed to admit he used to be among that majority. But now he wants nothing more than to taste every corner of her mouth and chart every inch of her skin with his fingertips. He feels like he's seeing a master painting in person for the first time— overwhelmed by all the small details and humble strokes that make up the masterpiece and how they're so much more than just the sum of their parts. He's still completely lost in her lips when she slowly pulls away, and for an instant he fears it's all just a dream from which he's waking up.

“You taste like curry.” She giggles.

He huffs out a laugh. No, definitely not a dream.

“So do you,” he says, stealing another kiss. “...Delicious.” He adds with a wink.

“You're so—” Lacey nibbles her lip and shakes her head. “... I dunno.” She manages before bubbling into a fit of giggles.

“So what?” He teases, his mouth curling into a little grin at the sight before him.

“Nothing.” She says with a smile, shaking her head before changing the subject by claiming his mouth again.

It's hard to kiss her back properly when he's grinning as widely as he is, but soon enough he's drowning in her again and the only sensations he can process are those of her lips on his, and he needs more of it.

He sits up and slowly begins guiding her onto her back. She hesitates halfway and he stops, but before his mind can conjure a single word about how everything's ruined and it's all his fault, the look in her eyes changes and she smiles and nods. He splays a hand over her back, supporting her as she lies back for him, and she fidgets into a comfortable position, draping her arms over his shoulders while he lowers himself over her. Her fingers comb through his hair, keeping it out of his face as he dips down to kiss her.

The hand on her back wanders around and over her belly before sliding upwards to palm her breast again. He tugs at the cup of her bra slightly and she nods, arching her back and twisting her arm around to unhook it. He tucks a finger beneath the strap and pulls it off her shoulder, and Lacey wiggles her arm free of it. Pushing it aside, he joins their lips once more, dipping his tongue inside her as he begins tentatively kneading her bare breast.

Letting out a moan, she entwines her fingers through his hair again. She parts her thighs for him in invitation and he accepts, his hand dragging away from her chest in favor of pushing up the hem of her skirt. He strokes the warm apex of her thighs and she takes in a sharp breath. Her sounds grow louder as he builds the pressure, rubbing languid circles against her through the wet and slick fabric of her panties. Lacey draws a staggered breath, and a euphoric little smile blooms across her face as she comes with a silent cry.

He peppers her neck with featherlight kisses as she melts into the sofa. She lets out a deep, contented sigh, and once she's recovered, slowly pulls herself up to kiss him properly— dipping into his mouth and pulling him close, drinking him in. She finally pulls back, gasping for breath and smiling at him.

“...Bedroom?” She suggests.

He nods automatically. “...Aye. Bedroom.”

[paranoiakrp]

         CITIZEN FILE RETRIEVED: SON YUL …

STATS

name / son yul d.o.b. / 06.14.1993  age / 26  pronouns / he/him  job / freelance video editor and photographer  societies / monstrous › enhanced charisma groups / vlog › host

WHATS YOUR WEIRD?

on paper, son yul shouldn’t get away with as much as he does.

he’s a punk, per his father’s words, that grew up with a propensity for fists first, words later. words that are deceptive, sarcastic, all lies or half-truths, deflective and meaningless in every way. a liar, not compulsive, but purposefully. he’s fast hands, sleight, with a grin so crooked anyone would think he must be too. cheap whiskey is his cologne of choice, with a mix of smoke and the perfume of whomever he saw last. and he puts himself first, second, and third, not hesitating to double-cross or hurt someone to keep it that way.

and so, again: on paper, son yul shouldn’t get away with as much as he does.

but there’s something about him.

something hard to put a finger on, exactly, because it’s not tangible. not visible, not really. and yet, there’s something about that grin, that damn crooked grin, that reels one in, lowers defenses. just enough that even when his words are so clearly lies and easy to disbelieve, the exact opposite happens. because, god, you just want to believe him, as if compelled, but not. a silver-tongue so crude that anywhere outside of junae, he wouldn’t be classified as such. but here, hidden away in between the mountains, his voice is his weapon and his smirk is his shield. and he wins the fight every time.

as a child, he thinks it’s because they feel bad for him. it’s not hard to overhear when the whispers are barely that. poor thing, they say, practically growing up without a mother and having sanghoon as his father. so when he’s six and his hands are still untrained and clumsy, fumbling to stuff ice cream bars he can’t afford into his backpack and the grandma running the corner convenience shop catches him – yet lets him go after he pleads without so much of a slap on the wrist, he thinks it’s just that. pity. pity for poor son yul.

as a teenager, he thinks maybe it’s just him. maybe he really is just good at turning on a natural charm. maybe he’s not so bad. junae is weird, but it’s not so weird for someone to love him, is it? teenagers “fall in love” every day, as it were, so why would it be odd for him to be on the receiving end of that? it’s not, he convinces himself. it’s not strange at all that she agrees to even the most absurd things he can think of just to see if she would, not strange that sometimes all it takes is a smile, a touch of his hand to persuade her, and it’s not strange that he doesn’t feel any remorse about it.

as an adult, he’s fully aware that it’s not him. well, it is him, but it’s not his words. it’s not that he has an award-winning smile, because he knows he sure as hell doesn’t. it’s not anything but a side-effect of being junae born. an unnatural charisma so enhanced, so innate, it’s hard to deny him anything.  

WHATS YOUR STORY?

tw / ppp, depression, allusions to suicide, abuse, and alcoholism

vhs thirty-nine, untitled. 04:54 PM / JUN. 14 ‘93

▷ PLAY

the video opens slowly, static filling the screen first before it crackles to life. a muffled, pained cry growing louder, louder until it’s all that can be heard. there’s not much on screen save for a blank, white wall, shadows dancing frantic on it every so often.

and then, a new cry. piercing, infant.

then, panic. a male’s voice can be heard, asking about the other baby, about his wife, about what the hell is going on, and will someone please answer him? other voices answer by asking him (sanghoon, the viewers then learn is his name) to please step outside. gently at first, then stern when he refuses, pushing him out of the delivery room.

the video is shaky all the while, the sound loud and frantic until he’s out in the hall. it almost seems silent, but sobs can be heard. weak knocks on the delivery room door, too.

it carries on like this for another minute until the camera falls to the ground, giving viewers an angled view of: white linoleum (1993), junae hospital

▢  STOP

stillborn, they say later of the other baby. unstable but still hanging on, they say of mikyung, sanghoon’s wife. but, the first baby is alive and well, and did they have a name in mind for him?

back when the newly weds found out they were having twins, mikyung and sanghoon toiled over names that would match until they landed on the perfect pair.

now, though, that doesn’t matter to him. this baby, who sanghoon now associates with bad luck, with everything going wrong, doesn’t deserve either name. instead, he names him somewhat offhandedly just to stop them from asking again.

yul, he says, after his grandfather. son yul. he fails to mention how much he hated him.

instead, he shuffles off to sit by his wife, holding her hand between his iron tight.

mikyung wakes up days later in a panic, but she’s fine. physically, anyway. the doctors keep her and yul a few more days to keep checking in, but in a town as small and as weird as junae, and in a time like the 90’s, there’s nothing alarming about her behavior. about how oddly she regards the nurses, the doctor, and even her husband at times. about how skeptic she is about everyone just wanting to help her. refusing food for fear of poison or bugs in them because she swears ‘they’re’ watching her or that she can hear all the insects crawling in between the walls of the hospital. about how she just wants to get out, get out, get out of there now.

it’s just the stress of giving birth and losing a baby, the doctor says. it’s just a side-effect of junae, the doctor leaves implied. she’ll be fine to go home now, the doctor urges, unable to usher them out of the hospital quickly enough.

-

vhs forty, untitled and scratched up as if intended to be broken. 10:11 AM / JUL. 25 ‘93

▷ PLAY

the video opens to a birthday cake with a single, lit candle. there’s jellied writing that reads ‘happy birthday mikyung!’ and strawberry decoration laid on top of white cream. a door comes into view and muffled crying can be heard behind it. the cameraman knocks on the door, starts saying, “oh were you up already? happy–”

the camera falls to the floor as soon as the door opens, followed by the cake. white cream is all that’s in view, but yul’s cries become clearer, less muffled by fabric, and become accompanied by two, older, more full sobs and arguments that tell of a struggle.

▢  STOP

this isn’t the first time.

every time, mikyung just says she’s trying to help yul. that he’s crying because the lights are harming him, that there’s infectious dust in the air and she just doesn’t want him to breathe any of it in. that junae is weird, and she doesn’t want yul to be too.

she doesn’t get help because it’s junae in the 90’s and so, she never gets over it fully. the hallucinations and delusions fade away after a good amount of months, but the depression stays deep-rooted.

-

vhs fifty-one, simply titled with tired handwriting: yul’s first day 06:54 AM / MAR. 02 ‘99

▷ PLAY

the video opens to the door of yul’s childhood bedroom. mikyung’s voice can be heard telling him to wake up or he’s going to be late. there’s shuffling behind the closed door until it pulls open, yul standing behind it with a small smile on his face. his black hair is messy, to say the least, and mikyung’s hand reaches out to smooth down the flying strands.

it’s a fairly simple video that carries on like this, following yul from the dining table to the front door where he waves goodbye to his mom as he hops onto his bike. the video ends here, closing on mikyung saying goodbye.

▢  STOP

when yul comes back home later that afternoon, police are in front of their old, worn-down house that has belonged to his father’s family for two generations now, residing on the outskirts of the outskirts of town.

he finds out that his mom had said her last goodbye that morning.

he doesn’t realize it yet, but yul loses both his parents that day.

-

vhs sixty, simply titled with childish handwriting: yul’s second first day 07:01 AM / MAR. 03 ‘00

▷ PLAY

the video opens to the floor of yul’s childhood bedroom. it pans, quickly, around his messy room before landing too closely on his face. his eyes are tired, barely awake, as if he’s not gotten nearly enough sleep. but, he grins at the camera anyway and talks about how it’s his second first day at school. he shows off his uniform, his old backpack, and a few pencils he may or may not have stolen.

he accidentally closes the door too loud as he leaves his room and he freezes. his eyes widen like he’s no longer tired, fully alert. there’s a loud grumble, then a loud, slurred shout, then loud stomps and a loud slam of a door.

the video ends abruptly.

▢  STOP

yul bolts out of the house before his dad can make it out to the main room. he’s too hungover to make it out quickly, but yul will pay for it in the afternoon anyway.

he leaves without breakfast, but that would have happened regardless. there’s not much in the son household’s fridge anymore. yul stops to visit the grandma next door for scraps of breakfast instead. she’s grown fond of him, lately. she likes his gummy smile and hasn’t noticed some of her food and money gone missing after he comes over to help with simple chores.

this becomes his routine over the next few years. he grows up fast, as a child without parents usually does. he may still have his dad physically, but vhs sixty is just one of many prime examples of his spiritual absence since the year prior. so, yul fends for himself. grows up mostly outside of their dingy little, alcohol-stenched home. feeds himself with five finger discounts and the power of his smile alone. he learns how to be slick with his hands, how to lie with a straight face and charm the hell out of everyone. he learns how to stop at nothing to get what he needs or wants, and grows into his teenage years stubborn and brazen when it turns out he always does.

he also continues to record almost everything from big milestones and little daily occurrences in between because it’s all he has left of his mother.

-

dvd ten, digitally titled: sia application rough draft. 08:09 PM / FEB. 28 ‘12

▷ PLAY

the video, now played on a laptop screen instead of a television, fades in to a cave located on the foot of doryeongsan. a title pops up on the screen that reads: the strangeness of doryeongsan. a subtitle in smaller font shows up underneath that reads: by son yul.

the video carries on in documentary style with yul narrating on about the origins of the mountain while aesthetic shots of the mountain play on screen. he continues, talking about the myths and superstitions, goes into detail about some of the caves, including one rumored to be a mouth to hell. there are a few interview cuts, too, of the hotel staff, of junae residents, of himself.

in the end, it’s a rough video to say the least. one that ends on a black screen of rolling credits in white font that almost all read accredited to: son yul.

▢  STOP

needless to say, the video doesn’t get him into the seoul institute of arts film program. nor any university in seoul. to keep his pride, he tells anyone that asks it’s because he couldn’t afford it. they believe him, somehow.

it doesn’t stop him from continuing to shoot videos or shoot photography, nor does it stop him from enrolling into a small, much more local college that he pays for with part-time work at the gs25 in town – although four years and a useless degree later, he wishes it did.

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online video, title: the secret history, an introduction. UPLOADED JAN. 2019

▷ PLAY

the video starts nicely stabilized, focused on the two hosts of the show, yul included, with the green woods out-of-focus behind them. they briefly introduce themselves and the premise of the vlog, seeking to get to the heart of the weirdness in junae.

▢  STOP

for yul, the vlog is nothing more than a sort of game, a way to bide his time doing the one thing he loves.

he’s long known that he’s weird in a way that can only be an effect of junae (maybe there was truth in his mother’s delusions after all). he had his suspicions growing up, getting away with as much as he did. but he officially confirmed after surprisingly convincing his dad to move out of the house and leave it to yul. they’d both been shocked by his agreement, but in the end yul was left with the small, run-down house out near the river and he hasn’t seen his dad since.

and yet, in the vlog, yul plays the skeptical role. continuously denouncing the strangeness of junae, finding absurd reasoning for everything, laughing in the face of weird occurrences.

for now, it’s all fun and games.