#but then they mention each other and ow ow ow

[yuragiku]

mine to miss | jung sungchan, song eunseok

pairing: jung sungchan x fem!reader x song eunseok

plot: you were done with love. you said goodbye to your best friend at his behest, and now, you were a lost soul in a bustling city. your mantra was to divert, avoid, and ignore—and it would've worked well until the end of the year had a spunky, friendly, and absolutely loud-mouthed soccer player barged into your lone seat at a restaurant.

"psst, i need you to pretend you're my date. i don't have any money right now, but i'll pay for all your lunches here from next week onward."

alternatively, the one where the campus hotshot tries his best to make you forget about your best friend back home.

wc: 44.1k

genre: melodrama, coming of age, slow burn, e2l kinda

warnings: R18+ DO NOT READ IF YOU'RE A MINOR OR IF YOU THINK YOU'RE NOT IN THE RIGHT MENTAL HEADSPACE TO READ ABOUT THE FOLLOWING; heavy depictions and mentions of depression, anxiety, and mental illness; heavy discussions of death and s*uicide; heavy depictions of substance abuse (alcohol and party drugs); graphic depictions of anxiety attacks; heavy depictions of rehab and therapy; EXPLICIT SMUT (UNPROTECTED SEX WRAP IT BEFORE YOU TAP IT, public sex, nipple play, oral m receiving), heavy discussions of sex; existential dread; hospital imagery; graphic depictions of mild violence; mentions of food and water; a lot of tension really; political discussions of 80s korea

extra notes: THIS IS PART TWO OF never meant. I REPEAT. PART TWO! PLEASE READ THAT ONE FIRST. heavily inspired by norwegian wood (haruki murakami), and american football's lp2. as always, NEVER SKIP THE WARNINGS PLEASE !! YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT YOU CONSUME AND CAN BACK OUT AT ANY TIME !! she cooked but i don't know if she delivered. anywho, thank you so much for reading mine to miss, and as always, i don't know when my next story will come out but she'll come out when she has to !! most likely a PART THREE because this has gotten a lot longer than i would've linked :////

COPYRIGHT 2024 YURAGIKU. DO NOT STEAL, COPY, OR TRANSLATE.

During the summer holidays, the riot police were everywhere, seizing all buildings and quickly arresting students and professors in quick succession. This was nothing new. Places for the intelligentsia to prosper always had its fair share of dissidents, and they were the most difficult to dismantle in terms of rebellion groups owing to the amount of funding universities get from the government. Even if Yonsei had been known to be a liberal school, there was always the other half of the staunch conservative faculty who may or may not have served in the electoral college. Around the start of September, the dawn of a new semester, this normalcy had died down. There were no more police everywhere you went in Seoul; you didn’t need to go to the office to bookkeep for the New Korean Democratic Party, and work at the campus library became your main priority. To your surprise, everything in the library was untouched. Each book was still confined in its respective shelf, the reception desk was unscathed and pristine, albeit dusty from a lack of use, and nothing on campus was burned. 

Of course, violence didn’t equate to a passionate, successful demonstration, but you were a little confused at the cleanliness of the university past the June struggles. Books were usually a target during riots, often burned in a bonfire by dissidents who disagreed with authoritarianism. Still, when you walked around the politics section of the library, you found everything in place, as if nobody had entered the library at all since the demonstrations began. 

Upon announcing the June 29 declaration, things returned to normal in a snap of a finger. The same people who were the most vocal during the protests sat at the very front of the lecture hall, seen as martyrs or assholes, depending on who you ask. As if nothing had ever happened, they took their notes in silence, never bringing up the core reason for resistance to a professor who openly admitted his support for the Korean Army’s coup in 1961. The sheer hypocrisy of it all left you awestruck, to say the least. It’s not to say you were avidly passionate when participating in the riots, but consistency was the least you expected from the forerunners of the student demonstrations. Even if things had arguably ended and all their demands were met, a military officer was still elected. Shouldn’t they be mad? What was the entire point of calling for a democratic constitutional amendment and fair elections when a complicit military officer, who was a part of the elite that wanted all of South Korea under a dictatorship, won the elections supposedly “fair and square”? When you dared to ask some of the protest leaders, whom you also worked with at the New Korean Democratic Party office and frequently saw in secret Marxist lectures, why they were doing anything about the election of Roh Tae-woo, they shrugged. 

“There’s no foul play as far as we know,” One of them said. “We can’t really scream about paper tigers.” 

What a joke! At that point, they should’ve just told you they were afraid to lose participation marks! To think that they were the same idiots who passionately beat police officers up, closed down the campus, and led a sit-in hunger strike for a week! 

For a while, you faithfully attended lectures, staying quiet when the professor would ask for your name in attendance. Participation marks meant nothing to you anymore, and to a certain extent, university education started to make less sense. You concluded that people only really went to university when their parents could afford it or when it benefitted them. Nobody went to school to pursue knowledge anymore, and it wasn’t like you had the passion or the drive to pioneer a new school of thought. There was nothing you wanted to accomplish in society that required you to drop out of university, so you had no choice but to attend lectures every day, take notes, read when you could, and spend your free time in the library before and after your shift there. Nonchalance made you an extremely diligent student. 

You kept Eunseok’s room clean in his absence. When you had the chance, you asked the landlord to remove his name from the mailbox and the apartment door, telling him that Eunseok was never coming back. You returned from your shifts at the library and your lectures to clear Eunseok’s belongings bit by bit, repackaging them in neat, large boxes that you dragged to your apartment. You began reading through his books despite having a distaste for fiction, spending each morning with a different novel in hand alongside your regular routine of coffee. With the help of the janitor, you moved Eunseok’s prized bookshelf to your apartment, arranging your furniture like Eunseok did when he was still living next to you. Even if you missed him dearly, the only way to keep him in your heart is through the homage of his book collection. You didn’t know why he left it in Seoul when he would most likely need it for his treatment at the mountainous sanitorium, but you digress. Things unfolded the way they did, and now, you were alone again. 

Directly after your shift, the sun began to set, adding a warm vibrance to the fallen Zelkova leaves trailing along the pavement. You decided to eat dinner outside instead of opting for your usual meal plans after Mirae had told you about an excellent Western place that served delicious seafood pasta and salad for a cheap deal. The restaurant was a little challenging because it was strewn across many intersections and alleyways, but the quiet, faint location made you sure you could relax once you got inside. 

Once the waitress took your order, a group of four students came in, taking one of the bigger tables with velvet armchairs on the edge of the restaurant. Two men and two women in their young twenties, all stylish and had an air of money to them. By the time you finished your appetizer, the group was still arguing over what they wanted, only for one to call the waitress to relay the same lunch deal for everybody. 

Your pasta had arrived, and in between picking up a copy of Heidegger’s Being and Time while slowly twirling pasta on your fork, you noticed that one of the men kept glancing in your direction. Apart from the curvature of his doe, deer-like eyes, he had a sloppily cut mullet that suited his face—the kind that looked good no matter what he wore or how he presented himself. Despite the weather, he wore a white fleece Addidas pullover and baggy jeans. You had no idea who he was, so you went on with your lunch, twirling the pasta on your fork in the same rhythm and timing as your progress on Heidegger. Before you knew it, you placed your book down, twirled another small serving of pasta on your fork, and had the mysterious man sitting in front of you, neck leaning closer and closer until you could see the hazel shine of his big doe eyes. 

“Hey! It’s been a while,” He said with an exaggerated jubilee. You took your copy of Heidegger, playing with the book’s binding while examining his features up close. Even then, you couldn’t remember seeing him at all. If you had met him on the off chance, you would surely recognize him. He was the kind of man you’d notice from afar, especially with his choppy mullet. 

“Are you expecting someone?” He asked, his voice suddenly changing to a low whisper. Uncertain, you shook your head, remaining still while his breath tickled your ear. 

“No, I don’t think anyone’s coming today.” Heaving a sigh of relief, he slumped himself on the chair before you, reverberating a grating thud that made his companions stare. He moved closer again, eyes directly in front of your food, then looked up to give you a smile that was too bright to handle. 

“Looks good,” 

“Your table got the same thing,”

“Oh,” He panicked. “Right… about that.” 

“I don’t think I’ve met you anywhere around campus, and I’m not even sure if we go to the same university,” You blurted. The man in front of you heaved a dejected sigh, extending his long arms around the circumference of his chair. There was a genuine tinge of hurt in his breath, and you put your fork down, taking your copy of Heidegger and stuffing it in your bag. This was the type of conversation that demanded your full, unbridled attention. 

“We were in the same calculus class in first year, then basically took the same courses in the second, and now, we share advanced macroeconomics and econometrics,” 

“Econometrics with Professor Goo just ended, though.” You replied, peering deeper and deeper into his twinkling eyes. He tried his best to do a middle part with his extremely short bangs, making you finally remember who he was. A drastic change in hairstyle had prevented you from recognizing him, 

“Were you in Choi’s seminar? The one that always brought a huge hockey stick to class?” Sungchan vehemently nodded, a bright smile etched on his face.

“I play soccer in the summer, and it bothered me to have hair on my face, so I just got some scissors and cut the front.”

“Looks nice on you,” You said, picking your fork up to twist a few bits of pasta and shrimp together. 

“They don’t think so,” He scoffed. “I thought it looked okay initially, but all the girls don’t dig it. They told me I looked better when I had a clean cut without anything trailing past my neck, saying I looked like the mentally ill son of a war veteran! Could you believe that? The audacity of it all, my god! Why do all girls think a clean cut with a middle part makes you look refined? Because I, for one, know that all those assholes with the same haircut belong straight to the sewer.”

As far as you can remember, you meant it when you said he looked good. It wasn’t just the hair or his bright, doe eyes. He exuded the organic inertia, a force of life, as he sat in front of you. He was like a large deer with strong antlers running around the forest, galloping in the serenity of lush greeneries. His entire being moved with bursting energies of joy, laughter, annoyance, and despair—as if he were the embodiment of explosive emotion. You hadn’t seen such vibrance and color in ages and must admit that you enjoyed seeing him like that. 

“Aren’t your friends waiting for you?” To this, a flip switched inside him, snapping him back to reality. His eyes widened, taking in all the light the sun had given him that afternoon, redirecting all of it back to you in pure, blunt force. 

“That’s why I came here!” He exclaimed, his eyes turning up into shiny crescents. “You see one of those girls there?” He pointed at a girl who wore her hair in a short bob, her white cotton dress barely covering her thighs. You nodded, watching her tall nose go up and down as you predicted the flow of their conversation in your head. 

“My friend, Jaemin, is trying to set me up with her, but I’m not really feeling it. She’s a little too uptight and bitter for my taste, and she would never stop talking about her ex. Like, I get that it scarred her, but why is she here right now, trying to get with me, if she knows she needs time to sort things out on her own?” 

You averted your gaze from the girl, then stuffed your hands in your pockets. You instantly saw a flash of Eunseok in the girl, sensing the same brooding loneliness and desperation he had when he held you. You called the waiter and grabbed another cup of coffee, refraining from adding milk or sugar. The man stared at you in disgust, making a snarky remark about how much of a tryhard you were. 

“Look at me, I’m so cool! I drink black coffee and I read German philosophy!” 

You pressed your mouth in a neat, thin line, opening the book and picking up where you left off. You left a few bites of pasta on your plate, and the man in front of you dragged your tray and your fork, using his long, slender fingers to push the book down until you could see his eyes, which were staring at you with a frightening intensity. 

“Anyway, I need you to act like my date for a bit. I told her I was already seeing a girl, and luckily, you were here before me!” 

“I don’t even know your name.” You said dryly. You were ready to take your bag and leave a tip for the waiter. 

“Sungchan, Jung Sungchan, the most unholy relic you’ve ever seen,” He grabbed his chair and stood up, shocking you a little with how tall he was. You rarely come across people that were his height, and in a sense, you liked that he was tall enough to obscure you from his group of friends. You wanted to dine here alone, after all. 

“What if I turn your offer down?” 

“Then I’ll cry right here, right now.” 

“Cry about it.”

“You sure?” 

“What’s that got to do with me?” 

The determination in Sungchan’s eyes stayed undeterred. Before he could cause a scene, you paid your bill to the waitress, went outside the restaurant, and dragged him along, making a quick, sharp turn on one of the alleyways across the road. You took a deep breath, sharply inhaling and exhaling through your lungs. Sungchan’s innate enthusiasm flickered slightly, but he still looked like he was about to burst with energy. 

“I’m not really in the right headspace to fuck around right now, so please try your luck with someone else.” 

“I can’t.” He blurted. “I already told them your name. Besides, it won’t be too difficult. All you have to do is be with me all the time. That would get Jaemin to stop worrying, and I would basically have an impromptu restraining order on its own,” 

“Restraining order?” 

Sungchan nodded, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, a restraining order. If people saw me with you all the time, started spreading rumors, and have that circulate around campus, then I’m sure I could get a few admirers off my back,” 

By now, Sungchan’s food should’ve arrived at his table, but he didn’t move. He simply stayed put, eagerly waiting for your answer. You didn’t give him any. 

“Come on!” He complained. “I’ll buy you lunch every day. I have no money now, but I should be able to get it soon since I have to coach a children’s match next week,” 

Judging from his stature, it was natural to infer that he played sports. In first year, he had a hockey stick with him at all times, his blades sticking out of his bag like a walking hazard. 

“How did you even get my name?” 

“I looked at our class roster and thought, ah! She’s someone I’ve known since first year!”

“That’s it?” Sungchan nodded, hands still in his pockets. 

The midday sun strewn with his sweat made his mullet stick right onto his temple, giving him the same look as Peanut’s yellow “safety helmet.” The question now was whether he would dye his hair blonde, but you found the dark, jet-black on him a good look. 

“Yeah, and you’re not so bad yourself, you know? I think we could make a cute campus couple,” He joked. 

“The free lunches sound like a good deal, but I’ll pass. Go find another one,” 

“Are you always alone like that?” Sungchan asked. The intenseness in his gaze had softened, and his hands were out of his pockets. You nodded, and before you could leave the alleyway, he blocked the road with his tall stature, head standing right in front of the sun like a golden halo. 

“Nobody likes to be alone, but I’m just tired of it all.”

“Woe is me; you can definitely publish that in your autobiography or something,” You muttered a small ‘thanks.’ Then, you tried to leave again. This time, he walked around to your side, neck leaning down to meet your eyes, keeping a close distance between you. 

“Tell me, do you always wear such tacky clothes?” 

“Yes, I do.” You snapped back patiently. 

“Yes, I do, I love the way you talk. It’s like there’s no bullshit to it. No flare, no theatrics—not even any poetry! It’s so… smooth? Something like a calm river instead of a thrashing sea. Has anyone ever told you that?” 

You shook your head again, trying to hide how taken aback you were by his sudden monologue. He gave you a wide, ear-to-ear grin, taking his pinky out and putting it right in front of your lips. 

“I need to take you out for dinner, that’s non-negotiable. But think the offer through. I know you like being in your own little, solitary bubble surrounded by pretentious books, but if you change your mind, let me know.” 

He ran back inside with his friends after who you assumed was Jaemin came out of the restaurant, nagging him about his food getting cold. He ignored his friend for a little while, keeping his eyes on you as you clutched your bag, ready to take the summer trek along the river to head back to your apartment. He seemed to be mulling over something, then he quickly took your hands in his, squeezed them, and went back inside the restaurant. He had his eyes on you, trailing your silhouette as you disappeared through the back alleyway near the restaurant, using a shortcut to get to the main bridge of the Han River.

In the following week, Sungchan didn’t keep his promise. There was no sign of him in the restaurant, and you thought of waiting for him over the same pasta and salad set, but the place started to fill up, prompting you to leave and go somewhere else. Sungchan was also not there when you attended your afternoon econometrics class. Upon asking your professor where he was, he shrugged and said he didn’t get any word of Sungchan’s absence. 

“He’s the type of kid who always skips, you shouldn’t waste your time with someone like him.”

Walking to the receptionist, you booked an appointment with student affairs, searching their records for a “Jung Sungchan.” Sure enough, his name was listed in three classes you shared this semester: econometrics, quantitative analysis in public policy, and advanced macroeconomics. Then, you found the address to his house and a telephone number. He entered the university in 1984, living in the suburbs of Western Seoul with her family. 

When you dialed the phone, a woman answered. “Jung Records, how may I help you today?” Jung Records? You balanced the receiver between your cheeks and shoulders, twirling the cord around your fingers. 

“Sorry, is Sungchan around?”

“No, he’s not.”

“Do you know where he might be? He’s missed today’s class, and I wanted to see if I could give him my notes.” You lied, hearing some rustling on the other end of the line. 

“He’s most likely at the hospital.”

You thanked and hung up, wondering what he could do at the hospital. Was he injured? Is it from soccer? Was he sick? Many scenarios swirled in your head, and the mysterious calm on the other end of the line worsened your unease. How could he say such a thing so nonchalantly, as if he was just going out to get groceries? Was he the type to always get sick? The questions didn’t seem to end until you reached the door to your apartment. Your body sank onto the couch, and you continued your debate with Heidegger. 

The following week, you faithfully attended the econometrics lecture, sitting at the front of the lecture hall. You still saw no signs of Jung Sungchan, and after scanning the entire room, you took some letter paper from your bag and began drafting a letter to Eunseok. You wrote about the protests, your activities with the New Korean Democratic Party, and the people you had met during your political tenure. 

After filling three sheets, you folded them inside an envelope and addressed them to Eunseok’s house in Jeju. By then, the lecturer had arrived, dabbing his face gracefully with a handkerchief as he began to take attendance. He was a tall, lanky man who walked with so much authority that the class stopped whatever they were doing when he came inside the room. Despite his strict and well-prepared nature, he could do nothing to make a subject such as econometrics fun. Without preamble, he starts the lecture where the class left off last week, explaining the concept of multivariate regression. When the door opened, he had written some formulas and statistical variants on the chalkboard for twenty minutes, revealing a disheveled Sungchan. He was wearing a blue Adidas tracksuit and some loose-fitting joggers. After making a quick bow and smiling at the professor, he sat beside you. Then, he took out his notebook and a small notepad, tearing one of the pages to hastily write something. 

Sorry about yesterday, are you angry?

You shook your head and kept your eyes on the tall, lanky professor filling the chalkboard with more equations, filling your notebook with the same formulas. Sungchan kept his eyes on you while you copied everything down, watching your swift fingers seamlessly jot down everything the professor wrote at lightning speed. 

“Mind sharing the notes with me later?” He asked. You nodded, keeping your eyes on your notebook. 

There were about thirty minutes left of the lecture when you saw two students enter the door, both carrying the same political smell that most of your colleagues at the New Korean Democratic Party had. One of them, a stout, round fellow with prominent cheeks and dopey eyes, took a quick glance at you before going in front of the professor and asking for the room to be accessible for a political debate. 

“I know you assholes are used to the school running a muck for your liberal agenda, but I don’t care. This is my class, and if you’re not fine with that, go leave and find another classroom to bother.”

After clearing his throat, the professor turned to your direction to ask if you had a part in this. You kept your eyes between your notebook and the chalkboard, shrugging off any suspicion the professor may have for you.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Sungchan whispered once the class had ended. You gave the stout one quick wave before they stormed the classroom, passing handbills to bystanders on campus election fraud. While you were technically a part of the crowd, you had to admit that the movement had been getting uninspired since the June 29 declaration. Free and fair elections were back as you knew it, and despite local politics, you realized student government didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if the union benefitted you in any way, and most of your insurance was paid for by the government, not by any union efforts to safeguard dental or dermatology. Besides, you couldn’t care less about having perfect teeth or smooth skin. It wasn’t the end of your world if you had to pay a couple extra just to have pearly whites and glass-like, porcelain skin. 

“Do you think they’ll kill us after the revolution?” Sungchan asked when the two of you were outside of the lecture hall. 

“I’m technically part of the problem,” You replied, dodging through a crowd of people to swiftly get to the exit. Sungchan followed suit, using his long arms to push past people who were getting in your way. 

“So you’re a communist who likes German philosophy because you wanna be oh-so-cool, that’s funny. I like it.” 

“I’m gonna go eat lunch,” 

“There’s a place I wanna take you. It’s not that far from here,”

Sungchan took you to the bus to Dongdaemun and showed you to a Russian restaurant with specialty pierogies in a neatly sheltered spot just behind the market. The minute the two of you sat down, they served you some borscht and the lunch of the day in large plates. You had never had Russian food before, but the distance was worth the meal. 

“This is great,”

“And cheap, too. I came here before the Russians when it was still some sketchy, run-down marketplace. This used to be a dumpling place run by some old guy when I was still going to school, and we all had to sneak out since they were so strict about these things.” 

When Sungchan wasn’t busy finishing his borscht, he would rub his sleepy, heavy lids, which looked much more languid than last time. When he wasn’t playing with his chopsticks or hounding the Russian waiter for more soup, he would incessantly rub the corners of his eyes, careful not to put any borscht residue on them. 

“Tired?” You asked.

“Sorta. I haven’t been getting enough sleep lately, but it’s okay, don’t worry about me.” He replied. “Sorry about the other day. Something important came up, and I couldn’t ditch it. I thought about calling you at the restaurant, but I couldn’t remember your name and didn’t know your home number. Did you wait too long?” 

You shook your head amidst a cup of warm tea. “No worries, I’m a woman with a lot of time.”

“A lot?” 

“Yes, way more than I need, to be honest. I wish I could give you some to help you sleep.” 

Sungchan rested his cheek on his palms, a vast, crescent-eyed grin forming. “Aren’t you a sweetheart?” 

“I don’t think so. Like I said, I just have too much time to kill.” 

You thought about telling him you called his house but decided against it. There was always a time and a place for anything, and if he wanted to tell you about it, he would at a particular time in a specific place. While Sungchan was a chatty person, there was a meticulous way that he picked and chose what type of conversation he wanted to have, almost as if directing the flow of his words solely to avoid something he didn’t like to talk about. You felt the hospital was sensitive to it, so you dropped it altogether. 

He took you to his old school, a short walk from Dongdaemun. Passing through the bus stop and the train station, you thought about Eunseok and your endless walks with him. It had all started back home on the beaches of Jeju, and it arguably ended here in the city. If Eunseok had never visited you in Seoul, your life would have been different. Then, you changed your mind. No, even if he never visited Seoul to see you, your life wouldn’t change. He was meant to come to see you; if not, he was bound to visit you some other time. There was no logic to it; it was just a feeling. 

You and Sungchan sat on a park bench together, looking through the tall gates of his old school. Vines of old-growth moss clung to the walls, and pigeons huddled under the rooftop, resting their wings. While the building looked nice, something was brooding and ominous about it. 

“I really didn’t wanna go to this school,” Sungchan started. He shook his head until his eyes had hit the ground. “I wanted to go to a normal State school with normal people where I could just be myself and have fun like a normal teenager, but my parents thought it would look good on me to go to this stuck-up, fancy place. They’re the ones who sent me in here, and I suppose that’s just what happens when you do well in primary school. The teacher tells your parents that you have more potential, and they start considering it too, even if they didn’t have the budget to send me here. I went here for like, six years, and I absolutely hated it. All I could think of then was to leave, and you know, I’ve gotten awards for never being late or having missed a day of school. That’s how much I hated this place. Do you get what I’m saying?” 

“No, not really.” 

“It’s because I hated this damn place so much, that I wasn’t going to let it beat me. Because if I let them get to me even just once, I’d be finished. I was scared I’d just keep slipping down and down. Even if I was sick, I’d crawl to school, teetering at my last breath with a temperature of 39 degrees. When the teachers would ask me if I was sick, I would always shake my head and go to class. When I left, they gave me awards for perfect attendance and punctuality, plus a tennis racket for being one of the best tennis players in the school. That’s why I’m never playing tennis at university ever again. I didn’t wanna owe this school anything.” 

“Why did you hate your school so much?” 

“Did you enjoy going to your school?” 

“Not really, but I didn’t hate it. I went to a normal State school, but I didn’t really think about it at all. 

“Well, this school,” Sungchan explained, using the tip of his index finger to rub his eyes. “Had nothing but upper-class boys, almost four hundred boys from a prestigious background. Rich boys. They all had to be rich and stay rich to survive. Expensive tuition, donations, and extravagant school trips. If we went to Busan, they’d book the most expensive hotel and serve us the best seafood on lacquerware, then take us to a fancy hotel in Seoul to teach us some table manners. This wasn’t an ordinary school at all. And out of a hundred boys in my class, I was the only one from a middle-class background. I looked at the class register to see where everyone else lived, and they were all from a rich area like Gangnam. One boy from Incheon was an heir to a farm that I became friends with, and he was really nice. But can you imagine him feeling embarrassed about living in Incheon? I mean, this was the type of kid that got driven around in a Benz by a chauffeur! And still, he had this inferiority complex. Can you believe it?” 

You shook your head in disbelief. 

“I was the only one in the whole school who came from a suburb like Ichon. My parents were the only record shop owners in there, and when my classmates would say I was lucky to have all the records I wanted to listen to at the tip of my fingers, I would laugh at them! Of course, they expected something big like an HMV, but no! Records have been dying since the Walkman was created, and they would’ve never expected a small, poor, little Jung Records. From the entrance to the cash register, there is nothing but old records from pop stars you’ve never even heard of! The only people who still shop there are the widowed ahjummas who don’t know how to use a Walkman or a Boombox! No Beatles, no New Order, not even Wham! Do you think I’m lucky?” 

When you closed your eyes, you could see the type of place Sungchan was talking about. A cozy, run-down record store in the middle of an alleyway in suburban Seoul, welcoming regulars in the neighborhood who were too old to adapt to a newer, digital age.

“What I will tell you, though, is that it’s not bad business. Everyone in the neighborhood has known who we are for some time now, and we always deliver. Also, we make more than enough to support a family of four. No debts, two sons in university, but that’s it. There are no extras, and they should’ve never sent me to a school like that. It was a recipe for disaster. I had to hear them complain about the uptick in tuition every year when they thought I was asleep, and whenever the school would ask for a donation, they scrambled everything they could to provide even just a tiny amount. I never made friends, nor did I hang out with anybody after school because I was always so scared of running out of money in case they wanted to go someplace expensive to eat. It’s such a miserable way to live. Anyway, is your family rich?” 

You shook your head. “My parents are white-collar working-class people who’ve been working as auditors for a cargo company in Jeju. We’re not rich or poor, and I know it hasn’t been easy on them to send me all the way to Seoul, but it’s just me, so that’s not really a big deal. I work part-time to take the load off them, and our house back in Jeju is just a regular two-story home with a little garden for our dog and a Toyota Corolla parked in the garage.”

“Where do you work, and what do you do?”

“I work at the library in Yonsei. There’s not much to do other than sorting books out and hounding the people that have books overdue.” 

Sungchan’s mouth was agape, doe-eyes glimmering in the sunset as he shifted closer to your frame. “You’re joking, right? I mean, you just seem like someone who’s had an easy life, you know?” 

“It’s not like we ever suffered financially, but it’s not like I had tons of money growing up, either. I’m just like everyone else.” 

“Well, everyone else in my school was rich,” Sungchan replied, squeezing his knees with his palms.

“Now that you’re out of that environment, I’m sure you’ll have a lot of chances to see the normal people you craved so much, you know?” 

“I hope so… I mean, university’s going great so far! It’s full of normal people!” He smiled with the slightest curl of his lip and smoothed his mullet with the palms of his hand. 

“Do you have a job?” You asked.

“Yeah, I work at the campus radio. I make little playlists and recommendations for people who ask, with descriptions of what makes each song special or something like that. We also play songs on the radio depending on what people request, whether they want something romantic, sad, or happy, because those are the three moods that only exist when it comes to music. It’s so easy! Takes zero time and no effort at all. I can come up with an entire playlist and burn it on a cassette tape in a day. All you have to do is master a couple of secrets about the trade, and all kinds of work, regardless of the type, comes your way.” 

“And what are these secrets?” 

“Say, you take the entire mood of heartbreak, for example. Sure, there are many songs about heartbreak, but you need to know what type of heartbreak the person requesting a playlist or recommendations is going through. It doesn’t have to be anything big at all, just some tiny nuance like that. People also love graphic sentimentality, so make sure you’re curating songs and artists that really speak to them, and the money comes decent.” 

“Yeah, but don’t nuances get a bit too tedious? And doesn’t it require enough knowledge of musicians, artists, etc.?” 

“True,” Sungchan replied, tilting his head so that his choppy bangs flowed back and forth between his forehead. “But if you look for them, you usually find them, say, in like a gossip magazine or a music almanac. And if you don’t, there’s really no harm in making stuff up. I never get caught.” 

He said he wanted to hear more about you, so you told him the usual stories you would tell in the first year about Peanut and Mirae. You would tell him precisely about Peanut’s’ neat freak tendencies, her yellow “safety helmet” that she wore alongside several layers of surgical masks, safety goggles, shin pads, and UV-repellant clothing. Peanut especially made Sungchan laugh, wishing he had a chance to look at the dorm back then.

“Now, it’s just me alone with my coffee and my daily paper next to the Han River, either going to lectures, going to work at the library and sitting on my secret spot during breaks, sometimes going to the party office to do some bookkeeping for them sometimes, or sometimes organizing and attending riots.” 

“Does every girl just casually mention that one day she’ll either be a martyr or get arrested by the government for treason?” 

You laughed, crossed your legs, and stared at the clear, open blue sky. “Yeah, I think so. We all love to talk, as quiet as we may be.” 

“Even something as top secret as government insurgency?” 

“Maybe? But what we do at the party, at least as far as I know, has nothing to do with government insurgency. Things have been relatively calm since the June 29 declaration, and although people are somewhat angry at the results, there’s nothing we can do when there’s no foul play in the presidential elections. He won fair and square.”

“I don’t really know much about this sort of stuff when I should, I mean, I don’t know. I couldn’t care less about politics, to be honest,” 

“Well, I guess those ahjummas stopping by the record store don’t talk about it enough,” 

“Not at all!” He replied, laughing. “Anyway, how’s Sunday looking this week? Are you free?” 

“Yeah, I should be. The library’s closed, so I shouldn’t have work, either.” 

“Why don’t you come visit me? At Jung Records? The shop will be closed, but I have to hang around there all day to watch a few things. I also might be getting an important phone call, but that’s beside the point. How does lunch sound? I can cook for you,” 

“I think I’d like that,” You said with a smile. 

Sungchan tore a page from his notepad and wrote the address and the nearest train station and bus stop to his record shop. 

“Really, once you walk straight from the station to the residential area, you can’t miss it. There’s a big sign that says Jung Records. Come at around noon. I should have something ready for us by then.” 

After thanking him, you put the page in your jacket pocket. “I should be getting back to campus now; my shift starts in an hour.”

Sungchan said he had somewhere to be as well and took the train from Dongdaemun.

When Sunday morning came, you woke at eight, made coffee, read the daily paper, did your laundry, and hung the clothes on your balcony. You picked out a lovely, long black maxi dress with thin straps that gracefully went over your shoulders. It was a beautiful day, with the sun shining brightly over everything it touched, adding a spiritual iridescence to things so banal. Ladybugs fluttered everywhere, sitting atop your stretched-out duvet hanging on the balcony. With no wind, the river looked flat from where you were. Despite being a student, the area you lived in housed more families and entry-level graduates, so Sunday wasn’t dead quiet. In fact, it was quite the opposite. While most shops were closed, children were still running around the riverbank, playing hopscotch or tag while their parents watched on picnic mats. Another group of kids just across the pavement were throwing rocks at empty cans. A flower shop was open right next to the train station, so you went in and bought some daffodils. You knew it wasn’t in season, especially with the dawn of autumn, but you’ve always liked daffodils. 

Three old women sat across you on the train, looking at you and your flowers. One of them gave you a smile, and you smiled back. You sat in the train’s last car, watching the ancient houses stack on top of mountains like piles of dominoes. The train was a little slow and flimsy today, but the speed was enough for you to see the laundry deck out of each resident’s window. One of the windows had a small garden with ten juicy, ripe tomatoes beside a big calico cat stretched out in the sun. In the window of another house, a little girl in ribbons was blowing soap bubbles with her mother. You heard a distant Lee Sunhee ballad through the radio from somewhere, and you could catch a view of old men doing stretches at the park below the train tracks. After snaking its way through a large tunnel, a few more passengers got on. Despite that, the three old women stayed still, talking intently about something while huddled together in their seats. 

You got off near Ichon station and asked a staff member if he knew the quickest route to the residential area, as written in Sungchan’s notes. When offered to walk with you, you politely declined, simply asking for directions so you have a good idea of where you were. Any street signs, turns, or landmarks were all you needed to ground yourself in this part of town. 

As you began your journey, the shops you passed by didn’t look too well; they were housed in old buildings with gloomy interiors and faded writing on some of the signs. Judging from the age and style of the buildings, you believe that this area was spared during the bombing raids in World War II and the Korean War, as whole blocks and districts were still intact. Some buildings had been rebuilt, with giant apartments erected in an old neighborhood. Besides, most houses had been enlarged or repaired in certain places, giving off a shabby or tacky look. The entire atmosphere of the place gave you the impression that the original residents had given up on the taxing toll of city life and moved to the suburbs, leaving nothing but cheap, run-down apartment blocks, empty lots, and a few stubborn families who clung to their long-time family businesses. 

A few minutes of walking uphill brought you to a corner shop, where you turned left into a small, albeit dead, market on the right side in the middle of the road, which hung a large sign for Jung Records. While it wasn’t a big shop by all means, it wasn’t the tiny, mom-and-pop locality Sungchan had described. It was just a typical neighborhood record shop, the same ones you used to pass by on your commute to school. A wave of nostalgia hit you as you stood in front of the place, and you grazed your hands on the big, metal shutter that covered the entrance to the shop. You were technically ten or so minutes early, but you didn’t know how you’d kill your time in a neighborhood that seemingly didn’t have a coffee shop, so you pressed the buzzer and kept the bouquet of daffodils snug in your arms. Only a few seconds had passed, and you looked up to see Sungchan leaning over, long arms waving at you. 

“Come in,” he yelled. “Just lift the shutter with the other button there.” He pointed at a button next to the buzzer marked with an ‘x’ over masking tape. 

“Is it okay if I come in? I’m kind of early?” You shouted back.

“No problem. Come in and make yourself comfortable. I’m busy in the kitchen right now.” He left the balcony in a hurry. 

The whirring of the shutter made you drop the daffodils on your arms as soon as it lifted itself up. It flimsily stopped midway through opening itself entirely, so you used the chance to duck inside the shop, then pressed the button with the masking tape again to see if it could close it back. To your surprise, it did, and you swiftly picked your daffodils from the ground and covered your nose with a handkerchief as you traversed through the store. The shop was pitch black inside, and you managed to find your way around by feeling through shelves and piles of records, tripping over square-shaped vinyl jackets on your way to the staircase. You kicked your Mary Janes off and climbed the stairs to the dining table. The only light source entering the living area was a small opening in a matted curtain, making the interior dark and gloomy. 

“Over here,” Sungchan called. To the corner on the right of the room was the kitchen, with all the windows opened. The entire building was old, but something new about the kitchen made it stand out from the rest of the shop and the rooms in the house. You didn’t know if it was because Sungchan regularly polished the counter, or if it was due to the shiny luster in the sink taps, but the kitchen was the only place that felt like it belonged in the current era, while the rest of the building was a bygone relic. Sungchan was preparing food, busy pacing around with bubbling pots and the smell of grilled fish. 

“There’s beer in the fridge if you want,” he said, taking a quick glance in your direction. 

“Make yourself comfortable. I should be done in a few,” You nodded and took a can of beer from the mini-fridge. The beer was so cold that it might have been in the fridge for an entire year. There was a small white ashtray on the table, the daily paper, and a couple of condiments. There was also the same notepad that Sungchan used when he gave you the directions to his place with a pen, a hastily written phone number, and what appeared to be a shopping list written on the side. 

“Wait, I lied. I should be done in about ten,” He said, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his tank top. “Can you wait, or are you so hungry that you could devour a three-course meal in one go?” 

“I can wait,” You replied. 

“Good.” He said with a smile. “Get hungrier, then. I’m making a lot.” 

You slowly sipped your beer and focused on Sungchan as he continued cooking, his broad shoulders and muscular back on you. He worked with quick, nimble movements, handling four cooking utensils simultaneously. He tasted a boiled dish in one pot, and the next second, he was rhythmically cutting vegetables on the cutting board; then, he was crouched over on the fridge, and before you knew it, his back was on the sink washing a pot that he had just finished using. You watched in awe as he was immersed in his craft, never missing a beat or his sense of balance as he gave the illusion of having eight limbs. 

“Do you need help with anything?” You asked, standing up from your seat with an empty can of beer in your hands. 

“Oh, no! No, no, NO! Sit back down,” Sungchan demanded, abruptly turning the stove off and shoving you back into your seat. Then, he returned to his cooking, turned the stove on, and tossed some spring onions in a large frying pan. He wore a slim, loose-fitting pair of joggers that hung snugly on his hips and a tight tank top that went just above his abdomen. The light pouring in from the kitchen window gave his figure an almost Promethean outline, making it extensively clear that he frequented the gym or was extremely meticulous about his health. 

“You really didn’t have to put an entire feast together, you know?” 

“What, you’re calling this a feast?” Sungchan joked. “I was too lazy to do any shopping today, if I’m being completely honest with you. I’m just throwing around what I have in the fridge. Besides, it’s a family tradition of ours to treat our guests well. I don’t know what it is, but it’s kind of like we’re born to entertain. It’s like a sickness because it’s not like we’re especially nice, or we love people or anything, but if someone comes over, we have to treat them like the king of the castle.”

“Does that explain the beers in the fridge?” You asked. Sungchan vehemently nodded.

“My stupid father hardly ever drinks because it’s bad for him, but he stocks up on a lot of alcohol to serve guests! So please, drink as much as you want. It would make him happy knowing his stock is going to be of good use.”

“Thank you,” 

You took the daffodils on the table and handed them over to Sungchan, who immediately grabbed a tall, slim glass from one of the cupboards and placed the flowers in it. 

“I’m not much of a flower person, but these are so pretty,” He marveled, doe-eyes gazing over each petal with gentle care. “What are they called again?” 

“Daffodils,”

“Is it the same as narcissus or something?” He asked. You shrugged your shoulders. 

“I’m not the best at the language of flowers, but I think daffodils belong to the same family or is a part of a family of flowers called narcissus,”

“That makes sense then. I once played piano for a classic Korean production in my old school about daffodils.”

He hummed the melody to Narcissus while plating the food. 

Much to your chagrin, Sungchan’s cooking was far better than what you’d expected. A diverse, fantastic assortment of grilled, marinated, fried, boiled, roasted, and cured dishes using mackerel, radishes, seaweed, mushrooms, pork bone, and sesame seeds, all cooked in the intense flavors of the Southern Jeju style.  

“Wow, this is really good,” You said with your mouth full. 

“You didn’t expect my cooking to be good, didn’t you? Based on how I look or something,” 

“Not really, no,”

“You’re from Jeju, right? So you like this kind of flavor profile, don’t you?”

“Did you seriously change your cooking just for me?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course not! We always eat like this!” 

“Are any of your relatives from Jeju?” 

“No, we’re all born and raised in Seoul, as far as I know. There’s not a single person from the South. We’re all from around the area.” 

“I don’t get it,” You continued, heaping more food from your chopsticks into your mouth. “How can you make this super authentic Jeju dish? Were you taught, or did you go to any classes?” 

“It’s kind of a long story,” He replied, taking apart a piece of grilled mackerel. He used the other end of his chopsticks to start deboning a small piece on your plate, feeding it to you once he was finished. 

“My parents never really had the time to cook, and we always had the business to think about, so it was either take out or eat at a restaurant. When we didn’t have money to eat out, we bought ready-made lunches at the convenience store or nearby butchers. Even when I was little, I couldn’t stand the lack of fresh food, and it wasn’t like my mom cared about changing things up. We just kept eating the same, ready-made lunch boxes, and I grew so tired of it that I taught myself how to cook. I went to the big Kyobo in Gwanghwamun and bought the thickest cookbook I could find, mastering it from cover to cover whenever I had the time. The author also turned out to be from Jeju, which explains why much of what I cook is in the Jeju style.”

“Wait, so you’re telling me you taught yourself how to cook? Just you and a book?” 

Sungchan nodded, pride brimming widely in his grin. He took another bite out of the grilled mackerel in front of him, took a large heap of rice, and swallowed the rest with some seaweed soup. 

“It was only until I turned twenty that I had the money to go and eat at a real Jeju-styled restaurant. My dream is to go to Jeju one day and try the real thing there, but I think the restaurant I went to here in Seoul was close enough and helped me understand most of the nuances and flavorings that I needed to master my dishes.” 

“Wow…” You exclaimed, taking a piece of shrimp into your mouth. “I could never have taught myself how to cook. I mean, how do you do it? Especially when you weren’t able to see how it’s done right before your eyes?” 

“It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows,” Sungchan explained, sighing while chewing on a slice of fried eggplant. “Especially when I grew up in a household where nobody gave a single crap about food. I would beg my dad for a better knife or a decent pot, and he’d tell me to spend my money on something else! I mean, the audacity! You can’t possibly debone a fish properly with cheapass knives, and how can you expect me to sous vide meat without an immersion circulator or some vacuum sealers? Every time I’d make these requests, they’d just look at me like I was crazy for trying to sous vide beef at home. It was hopeless trying to tell them that all the money was worth having good food in the house, so I took it upon myself to save as much as I could and buy the equipment with my own money. Little old fifteen-year-old me spending my entire allowance on nicer pots, higher quality knives, strainers, whatever you can think of. Can you imagine? Other boys are buying cleats and nice jerseys of their favorite baseball players while I’m here, spending every buck I can on cooking utensils! Isn’t that nice?” 

You nodded with every word, swallowing a mouthful of bright red soup drenched in gochugaru with tofu and spring onions. 

“I know this sounds a bit disgraceful, but I’m happy my mom died,” Sungchan continued, putting his chopsticks down momentarily to wipe his mouth with his arms. A bright, orange stain smeared his forearm, leaving an outline of his lips where it touched his skin. 

“Why is that?” You asked. Sungchan’s doe eyes widened, staring into your pupils as if communicating his thoughts to you directly. 

“Because now that it’s just me, my brother, and my dad, I get to take control of the family budget. I bought what I wanted, and that meant completing my set of cooking tools. My dad doesn’t know a single thing,” 

“When did your mom die?” 

“When I was seventeen or so, somewhere around my last year of high school. Some nasty tumor did it for her, but it’d probably be distasteful to joke about which one she had on the table. She was bedridden for about four months, was taken home because she seemed better, and then spent the last six months of her life with chemicals injected in her. I already knew that a part of her had died the moment the diagnosis came in, but by the end of it, she wasn’t even a human being anymore. Hardly spoke, looked like a shriveled-up raisin, had no hair, and didn’t even know who me or my brother were. I think that type of death is the worst kind, where both the patient and the entire family go through a different kind of hell. It wasn’t just awful watching my own mother become a vegetable, but it took every Won in our pockets. I mean, every session was 200,000 down the drain, and it wasn’t like the nurses were there for free either, you know what I mean?” 

Sungchan stopped for a moment, mouth agape and hanging in thought. With his chin resting atop his bone-like knuckles, his doe-eyes formed crescents, bright brown turning into a spectrum of hazel under the rays of the seeping sun. 

“How did we get here?” He laughed. 

“I think it started with the budget and how you’re happy your mom died,” 

“Finish your food and think about my little sob story, will you?” Sungchan said, his smile quickly fading into a solemn, thin line. 

After that, Sungchan barely touched his food, prompting you to put your chopsticks down as well. You thought you would ask him to take some of the food home, as it was too good to waste. 

“Cooking makes me less hungry,” Sungchan started, taking a slim, pristine cigarette stick between his lips and lighting it with a match. His eyes wandered until it hit the bouquet of daffodils resting neatly in a tall, slim glass. 

“They look nice like that,” He said. 

“I guess I rescued them from being stepped on at the riverbank,” You replied. 

He chuckled airily, smoking half of his cigarette and dumping the rest in a small, wooden ashtray. Rubbing his eyes, he grabbed the bright red box of Marlboros and fiddled with its corners. 

“Do you smoke?” He asked. You shook your head, gathering the empty bowls and plates before Sungchan stopped you to dump them into the sink himself. 

“I stopped in the summer,” You replied. 

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I just hated running out of ‘em in the middle of the night.”

“You make it really obvious whether you like things or not,” Sungchan said. 

“I think that’s why people never really liked me,”

“You show it, that’s why,” He continued, resting his head on the curves of your neck. “You show that you don’t care about people, and that type of attitude makes them angry, especially the ones that think they’re important.”

“But that’s what also makes talking to you so enjoyable,” You felt him grin as his lips touched your neck. You dragged him up and pushed the small of his back towards the sink, helping him dry some of the dishes as he began washing them with an abundance of bubbly dish soap. Standing next to him, you did your best to wipe everything in a spick-and-span state, stacking each plate and utensil carefully on the drying rack. 

“Are your parents out today?” You asked. Sungchan nodded, eyes focused on a stained plate. 

“Well, my mom’s six feet under,”

“You told me that,”

“My brother’s on a date with his fiance, probably on a drive somewhere off the coast nearby. They both love going to the beach, even if the weather is horrid up here.” He then kept his lips pressed in a thin line, gripping the sponge until it oozed with more white bubbles. You did the same and focused on scrubbing the plates with a tea-stained cloth. 

“Then, there’s my dad,” He whispered after some time had gone by. You nodded, eyes still on the plates that were now neatly lined up against each other on the rack. 

“He’s off to Thailand, has been since last spring.”

“Thailand?” You asked in shock, as if to ask him what and why his father was in Thailand out of all places. 

“Didn’t really say much about him, but he’s an eccentric one. A friend of his was in Vietnam during the war and deserted to Thailand, running off with a woman. He now has a farm there, and my dad just got on a plane and told us he was settling there. My brother and I tried to stop him—we told him he couldn’t speak the language, didn’t know a single thing about the customs, and how he wasn’t used to a place like that after being in Seoul his entire life. He didn’t seem to care and wouldn’t listen to a single word we said. I guess losing mom made him go a little bit insane.”

There wasn’t much you could say except stare at Sungchan, mouth agape in bewilderment. 

“Do you wanna know what he said after mom died? He said he would’ve much rather lost us instead of her. I mean, how was I supposed to respond to that? You don’t say such a thing to your kids, you know? For sure, he lost the love of his life, his life partner. I get that it’s a super painful thing to go through, something that makes you sad for the rest of your life, but you don’t tell your own sons that they should have died in her place. That’s just terrible, don’t you think?” 

“Yeah,” 

“Honestly, I don’t think that wound would ever close inside me, even if my dad took it back,” He said while shaking his head. “In some ways, everyone in my family’s odd. We’ve got something strange in us, even if it’s just a little bit.”

“I think I’d react in the same way if my dad said something like that to me,” You replied. 

“But despite the harshness of it all, I still think it’s a wonderful thing for two people to be in love like that, no? I mean, for a man to love his wife so much that he tells his sons they should’ve died in her place, then runs off to Thailand as he dumps the two of us right here in Korea.” 

You wiped the last plate without replying, while Sungchan swiftly put everything back in their respective cabinets. 

“So, have you heard anything from him at all?” You asked. 

“On a postcard sent to us back in the fall. The only thing he tells us is the difference in whether or how the fruits tasted better there. I mean, seriously? Give me a break! One dumb photo of him riding an elephant! He’s lost his goddamn mind! He didn’t even tell us the specifics of how he met the guy—the deserter who owns a farm there or whatever. He didn’t even tell us about sending us there once he’s settled, and he’s ignored our letters to him since.” 

“What would you do if your dad told you to come to Thailand?” 

“I think I’d go and tour a bit of it, I mean, by the sounds of it and the guidebooks I’ve been looking at, it sounds like a nice place to be. My brother, on the other hand, would absolutely refuse. He can’t stand dirty places.” 

“Is Thailand dirty?” 

“I don’t know? Maybe? He thinks it is. Like, the roads are full of elephant shit or something, swarming with flies while the toilet is an entire forest. He saw a documentary of the sort and made that conclusion. He can’t stand flies, either, and all he wants to do is drive through nice beaches in expensive cars.”

“No way…”

“I mean, to hell with him! What’s wrong with Thailand? I’d go for sure!” 

“So who’s running Jung Records while he’s gone?” 

“My brother technically, but he hates it. We have a neighboring aunt who helps around here and there, and I help, too, when I have time. A record shop isn’t exactly the hardest thing to manage, so it’s fine. And if it’s too much, we can always sell the place.” 

“Do you like your dad?” Sungchan stopped for a second, then vehemently shook his head. 

“So how can you go with him to Thailand if you don’t like him?” 

“I believe in him, that much I can do.”

The two of you then went up to the balcony of the building, where he rested his palms on your cheek, caressing it before giving you a chaste, slow kiss. A fire had broken out in one of the buildings nearby, causing smoke to go up as he rushed out to see what was going on. Soon enough, sirens began to wail in the empty, suburban air of Seoul, and he nonchalantly made coffee for you while talking about Thailand. You couldn’t recall its proper location, but you knew it was near Vietnam. 

“The Lee family’s building burned down,” He said. “They traded silverware and porcelain if I could recall correctly, but they went out of business some time ago.” 

You leaned over the railings, head resting on his slow, beating chest. A large apartment unit blocked the view, but you could see flashes of red trucks flowing into the streets, about three or four that were parked nearby, dousing the flames with large pipes. 

“Maybe you should evacuate,” You said to Sungchan. “The wind’s blowing in the other direction, but it could always change its course. You can always stay at my place, and I’ll help you pack whatever you need.” 

“Fuck that,” Sungchan spat happily. “I’m staying here. Ride or die. Even if this place burns down, I’ll be right here. I don’t mind death.” 

He looked straight into your eyes, and you couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. The only thing that you felt was the warmth that his arms exuded as he continued to hold you, long, slender fingers caressing the surface of your skin. 

“Alright, I’ll stay here with you, then,” 

“You’re gonna die with me?” He asked, eyes shining brighter than the radiant sun.

“What? No way! I’ll run if it starts to get here, you can go die alone.” 

“Ouch, that’s cold, you bitch!” 

“I’m not gonna die with you just because you made me lunch. If you added dinner on the itinerary, though, then I might consider it.” 

“Anyway, let’s stay here for a while. We can talk about you now if you’re interesting enough.” 

Sungchan brought two pillows from his bedroom, several bottles of beer, and some snacks from the kitchen. He says they were leftover cookies from the week before, but the dough tasted fresh enough that you inferred he made them in the morning. The two of you drank together and watched the thick, black smoke rise from the building. He asked you more questions about yourself that you couldn’t seem to answer, and you slumped onto his shoulder while he gently played with your loose hair. 

“When my mother died, I didn’t really feel sad or anything,” He started, hands now looping through your scalp, as if searching for something valuable. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. I didn’t feel a thing.” 

“Does that make me cold like you?” He asked jokingly. You shook your head, burrowing your face onto the comforts of his chest. 

“I’m sure you had your reasons.” 

“I do, I really do. Things were always complicated in this household, but I always thought that I’d be sad if they died, I mean, they’re my parents, you know? But that didn’t happen. I hardly felt anything when my mom died, and now, I hardly even think of them at all. Sometimes, I dream about it; I see her glaring at me and lecturing me about how ungrateful I am for being happy that she died. But the thing is, I’m not happy at all, I’m just not sad about it. And to tell you the honest truth, I didn’t even cry at all. I cried when my dog died, though, when I was like, five or something.”

The only thing on your mind at the time was how much smoke there was despite the abundance of fire trucks that squeezed into the small boulevard. You couldn’t see any flames spewing out of the area, and it didn’t seem to be spreading anywhere. There was only a column of black smoke that continued to rise into the sky. What could’ve caused it, and why was it burning for such a long time?

“I think if they—my parents—had loved me a bit more, then I would’ve been sadder, you know?” 

“Do you think they didn’t love you enough?” Sungchan tilted his head, leaning over until his forehead touched yours. Then, he gave you a subtle nod. 

“I don’t know, it’s somewhere in between being loved and not being loved, I guess. I mean, I was always so hungry for love, and I always thought about what it felt like to truly be loved, to be fed so much of it that I’d be filled with it inside and out. They never gave that to me. Never. Not once did they pamper me or beg me for something, they’d just push me aside and yell at me, complaining about how much I’d spend on cooking tools. That’s all I’ve ever heard from them. So, I made up my mind. I told myself that I was gonna find someone who would unconditionally love me forever. I was still very young at the time, probably in elementary or so, but I made up my mind and have been searching since,”

“And did you end up finding it?” 

Sungchan watched the rising smoke for a while, pensive in his own thoughts. “I don’t know, I’ve been waiting for so long that I’m looking for the perfect person. That makes it a tough ass search for me.” 

“Waiting for the one?” 

“No, even I know that doesn’t exist. I’m looking for a girl I can be selfish with, like, a girl who will drop everything in a heartbeat just because I said I wanted some cake or something. Then I say I don’t want it anymore and throw it out the window, while she is still there, completely content with the fact that I made her do something for me. That’s what I’m looking for.” 

“I don’t think that has anything to do with love,” You said in utter shock. 

“It does!” He replied, insisting in his odd fantasy as he continued to twirl your hair between his fingers. “You just don’t know it because you’re not a man.” 

“So finding a girl who willingly buys you cake and watches you throw it away is love to a man?” 

“Something like that. And when I throw it out, I want her to apologize to me, telling me that she’s sorry because she should’ve known that I would lose the appetite for cake, and had the intelligence and foresight to refuse my initial request knowing that I would get sick of cake, then go out again to buy me something else, asking me what I would like next.”

“Then?” 

“Then I’d give her all the love she deserves for what she’s done for me.”

“You’re insane.” 

“Well, that’s what love is to me. Not that I think anyone can understand, though.” Sungchan replied, giving his head a little shake. Now, he was lying next to you, eyes twinkling as he held your head into his chest, caressing the small of your back with a soft, gentle touch. 

“I’ve never met a guy who thinks like you,” 

“I get that a lot,” He said, resting his chin on the crown of your head. “But I guess it’s just how I think. Like, I’m honestly just telling you what I believe in. I’ve never really cared or realized that how I think is different from other people. I’m not trying to be different, but whenever I say something that I mean, people just think I’m doing it for attention. When that happens, I just feel so hurt.”

“And you’re letting yourself die in a fire?” 

“No, that’s different from this whole thing! I’m just curious,” 

“About what it feels like to die in a fire?” 

“No, I just really wanted to see what you’d say or something,” He said, resting his forehead against yours again while letting the tip of his nose brush against yours. “But if I’m being completely honest with you, I’m not afraid to die. Like, I’d just be consumed with all the black smoke and lose consciousness in a snap. Just like that. The thought of it doesn’t scare me at all, because it’s not as harsh as the way my mom died. It’s not a long, slow process of pain and suffering. A fire’s quick.” 

Sungchan put a stick of Marlboro between his lips and lit it with another match, watching the black smoke from his lips swirl into the sky. 

“That type of death scares me. The type that slowly eats away at you, taking everything you’ve known and loved until it pulverizes it into a dark abyss. I couldn’t stand something like that.” 

Another hour went by, and the fire was completely put out. The firefighters kept it from spreading out into the neighborhood, and all but one fire truck remained in the streets, whirring its orange siren around the streets, its bright, neon light spinning. Sungchan seemed drained of all the energy left of him, and he barely spoke. 

“Are you tired?” You asked. He shook his head.

“I think I’m just spaced out.” 

He looked deep into your eyes, head slowly tilting until his lips met yours. You felt his tongue slowly swirl into yours, the same sense of hunger and desperation felt between the caverns of your mouth electrifying you to the touch. The slightest rush kept him rigid, but he succumbed to deep relaxation and closed his eyes, hands searching across your back until one rested on your shoulder blades while the other, with a firm grip, felt the curves of your ass. The setting summer sun rested on his cheek, emitting a radiant, otherworldly glow in his trembling lashes. He pulled away as if something told him to stop, and then he held your hands, mouth twitching with difficulty, as if what the two of you did had an element of danger to it. 

“Is there someone you’re seeing right now?” He asked. You nodded. 

“But you’re always free on Sundays, no?” 

“It’s… complicated.” You replied, eyes cast down to your feet. 

And then, the summer had set into early autumn, its breeze casting a cold, lonesome touch to your bare shoulders. You told Sungchan you had to go back home to complete some assignments, asking him to come with you for some tea. He said he needed to stay home in case the phone rang. 

“I’d been here the whole time, waiting for the phone to ring all alone. Sometimes, when I’m like that, it feels like my flesh is rotting by the minute, little by little until I melt into this giant puddle of nothingness. That’s how it feels to be inside all the time, waiting for something that will never come,” 

“I’ll be with you next time,” You said. “As long as you make me lunch again.”

“I’ll start another fire in the neighborhood if it means you’re staying for dessert.” 

Sungchan didn’t come to the econometrics lecture the next day. Instead of eating lunch at the cafeteria or the restaurant, you went straight home from your shift at the library, opting for a light, frozen meal of pasta while you continued reading the daily paper with a cold cup of tea. Then, you stood out of your balcony and watched the glimmering moonlight reflected on the river, flowing with a harshness that you see during high tide. You saw a group of high school girls commuting on bicycles, each with a large sports back nervously balanced on their little baskets as they pedaled as fast as they could. One of them had a stack of CDs from a band you weren’t aware of. A couple was walking near the embankment filled with Zelkova trees, hand in hand as the girl adjusted her scarf to protect her from the cool breeze. Near the bench, there was a group of old men feeding pigeons with stale bread as they talked about inaudible qualms about recent politics. It was, in essence, the usual evening scene by the river, but you sat on your balcony with a newfound attention to detail, seeing the gleam of happiness in everyone’s eyes. Whether they were truly happy or just looked the part was something you couldn’t tell, but they did look happy on this quiet, pleasant autumn evening, and due to that, you felt a sense of loneliness that was new to you, as if you were the only outsider to this picturesque evening. 

Come to think of it, the last scene you could remember being in was with Eunseok and his late girlfriend, playing board games in his room with a wafting feeling of true friendship. His girlfriend had died that night, and ever since, a cold, rigid border was placed between you and the rest of the world. This girl, who you weren’t even that close to, what was her existence to you? There was no adequate answer to such a question. All you knew with absolute certainty was that Eunseok’s girlfriend’s death had robbed you of a crucial part of your adolescence. But what that death meant to you and how it impacted you went far beyond your understanding. 

You sat by your balcony for a long time, watching the people passing through your apartment, hoping, with the same loneliness, that Sungchan would be one of the people passing by. He never appeared, and when the next day came, you woke up early, read the papers, and went to campus early for your accounting lecture.

The next day, you ate a light lunch near the campus library, then used the telephone by the reception to call Sungchan to see if he was alone waiting for another call. You let the machine ring about fifteen times, but no one answered. You tried again in ten-minute intervals with the same outcome. Then, you took the bus back to your apartment, finding a letter written by Eunseok in your mailbox. 

Thank you for your letter, Eunseok wrote. My family forwarded it to me, and it made me really happy. I’ve been making progress, and I’ve gotten to a point where I can write one back to you. 

You quickly took off your jacket and sat at the foot of your bed. You left the windows open when you left, hearing the caws of crows sitting idly by the telephone poles near your building. The cool, autumn breeze swayed your sheer curtains, and you held the four pages from him under the moonlight, studying every word that was addressed to you. The colors around you suddenly gleamed with a spiritual vibrance, painting the dull stillness in your life with life the more you read into his letter. You closed your eyes and spent some time collecting your thoughts before picking up the next paragraph. 

It’s been about four months since I’ve been here, he continued. I thought about you a lot, and the more I did, the more I began to feel that I was unfair to you. I think I should’ve been a better person, seeing the way I treated you was cruel. 

This may not be a normal way of looking at things, though, since boys my age never see things as cruel or unjust. Young boys like me are quite indifferent about these things, and rather than being cruel, they care more about what satisfies them. I think these types of questions are often asked by women like you, but I can’t help but feel that it applies to me now as well. Because questions about satisfaction have become rather difficult for me to navigate now, I find myself asking questions about cruelty, like whether or not things have been a bit too cruel for me or if the world itself is unjustly cruel, to begin with. In any case, I think I was cruel to you, and because of that, I led you on and hurt you. 

In doing so, I’d also led myself on and hurt myself just as deeply as I did to you. I don’t say this as a way to make myself feel better, but because it’s true. If I left a large wound inside you, just know that I’ve also left a wound in me as well. So please, don’t hate me. I’m a flawed person, much more flawed than you’ll ever realize. Which is why I don’t want you to hate me. Because if you were to do that, I would really fall apart. I can’t do you what you can do, letting things pass and waiting idly. I often envied how strong you are, which is probably why I led you on like that. 

I might be looking into things a little too much. The therapy they do here is not anything too over-analytical, but several months of it makes you question things with a certain precision that you can’t find outside in the real world. I can’t tell if this type of analysis is making me see things a lot easier or making it harder for me, but regardless, I feel that I’m getting closer and closer to full recovery than I was before, and people here are telling me that it’s true. This is the first time in a while that I was able to simply sit down and write a letter without biting my fingernails about each word I think about. The one I wrote you about four months ago, before I underwent treatment, was something I had to force out of me (was it a bad read? I don’t know, I don’t remember much of it). This time, though, I’m calm. Very calm. The mountains have been doing wonders for me. It’s clean, it’s quiet from the hustle and the bustle of the city outside, and I’m completely cut off from everything, on a daily schedule of group therapy, personal therapy, and then doing some outdoor activities like hiking and calligraphy to take my mind off things. I think I needed a lot of those to fully function again, and I’ve missed you dearly—missed talking to you, and missed conveying all my thoughts to you, my only person left. I used to dread the feeling of going through my thoughts just to pick out a few things to say, but now, the thought of feeling so much again over one person overwhelms me with so much joy. So now, I’m writing to you. It’s about nine in the evening, and I’ve just had my dinner and my bath. Everything is quiet, and there are no lights outside. I usually see stars out my window, but the clouds make it hard to see. 

People here are different. They talk of stars and constellations because they have nothing else to do, and they also talk about different kinds of birds, flowers, and insects that are in the mountains. When I talk to them, I grow aware of how ignorant I’ve been about the world around me, which is humbling, to say the least. 

There are about forty people in this building, alongside twenty more for in-house staff and doctors. It’s such a vast, wide, open place, so this isn’t big at all. It’s so vast that the place might’ve been empty, filled with nature and quiet living—almost so that you feel that this is how people should’ve truly lived, not in the cramped life of the city or even our small town back in Jeju. I mean, of course, it’s not, but I suppose I get to live this way due to certain conditions. 

In my free time, I do calligraphy with the other patients. I don’t really like moving my body as much as I used to when I was a teenager, and despite the beauty of the mountains, I find that I’m still a bit unwell to hike. Sometimes, the characters start to seem a bit jumbled up in my head whenever I try to paint a word or two, but I don’t know if it’s the medication or if it’s just the state that my mind is in when I’m concentrating on a specific word. Today, I tried “acceptance,” which ended up in a blotted mess. I told my doctor about this, and he told me that this blurriness I’m feeling sometimes is not something to be afraid of. It’s not a deformity or an issue I have to fix, but rather, it was something I had to get used to, that we have to accept these blurry visions that we see. Just like each person carries their own quirks and traits, people have their own little ways of feeling things, even if you think you have to correct them. You can’t force these things or else they go funny. Of course, he didn’t go into much detail and simplified a lot of the details, but I think what he was trying to say reached me. This blurriness might be permanent, and we all come here for some clarity in certain ways. As long as we’re here, we can live our lives without having to spread such blurriness to other people because we know that we are blurry in our existence. That’s what separates us from those that are outside: most people are unaware of things going blurry, while in this small, little mountain villa, it’s a necessity to have that blurriness in us. We are open about it all, and we live in peace and quiet so as to not inflict or spread this pain on each other. 

Calligraphy aside, I also join in growing small crops like tomatoes, cucumbers, and spring onions to make the dishes the chefs serve us. We grow everything ourselves, and the people that are here know a lot about farming. They even read books on cultivation, and we have experts come by to give us talks from morning to night about how to properly harvest and take care of our crops. I’ve grown to love this little part of my life, and it’s been a great happiness of mine to watch what I planted grow into something more, getting bigger and bigger each day. Have you ever grown tomatoes? They sprout flowers and then turn into this small, green bulb just before becoming juicy and bright red. 

The one problem about this place is that it’s so picturesque that you don’t want to leave, or rather, you’re afraid to leave. I feel like I’d lose the peace and calm that I’ve had here if I ever left, and even if I think I’ve recovered, I know that I’ll lose all that once I come out of it all. My doctor has been urging me to talk to other people—normal people in the normal world where you live. When he tells me that, the only person I see is you. I don’t really want to see my aunt or whatever family I have left. They never felt like that to me anyway, and hearing about them puts me in a bad mood. I have many things I want to say to you that cannot be put aside any longer, and I hope that you won’t feel burdened by what I have to say. I don’t want to be a burden to anyone, and I can sense how you feel about me. You make me very happy, and I hope that my happiness about your feelings for me has been conveyed in this letter. It’s what I need in my life. You’re what I need in my life. Please forgive me if I’ve written something that upsets you in this letter. As I’ve mentioned, I’m more flawed than you think I am. 

Sometimes, I wonder. I wonder if I never moved out of our neighborhood, wonder if I never met my girlfriend, if we stayed in the same school and lived our lives together, commuting day to day from our houses to school and back. What would’ve happened? Of course, hindsight is never accurate, but I’m trying my hardest to not be cruel to you anymore. It’s all I can do, and I hope I conveyed at least some of my feelings through this letter. 

This place has free visiting hours, unlike a normal hospital. As long as you make an appointment through the phone, you’re welcome at any time. You can even stay with me in my room. Please come and see me whenever you can. I really miss you. 

Attached to this letter is a map of the place. I’m really sorry if this letter got a bit too long. 

You read Eunseok’s letter through and through, reading it again until the sun rose. After that, you went out onto your balcony, watching the sun rise as you sipped a cup of coffee, ignoring the daily paper to read Eunseok’s letter again. You put the pages of his letter back in an envelope and neatly laid it on top of the dining table. Your name and your address, along with your apartment number, had been written out in perfectly messy handwriting, too messy, in fact, for a man who had been practicing calligraphy for about four months. You sat at your dining table, looking through every crevice of the envelope under the dim glow of the rising sun. The return address on the back was Ujeong Inn. An odd but appropriate name for a sanatorium, especially considering that ujeong means friendship.  Leaving the letter on top of your dining table with a half-empty cup of coffee, you slipped on a loose shirt and went out. You were afraid that if you continued staying within the vicinity of the letter, you would lock yourself in your apartment and read it until you’d memorized its entire contents. You walked across the embankment of the Han River without a single destination in mind, just as you would when Eunseok was still in Seoul. You took many sharp turns, keeping the river within your sight, picturing every word that was written out in his letter while pondering each sentence in your head. When the sun fully rose up, you ran back to your apartment and made a call to Ujeong Inn. The high-pitched, nasally voice of a male receptionist answered and asked what you were calling about. You asked for Eunseok and if you could visit today or tomorrow, leaving your name and your address so the receptionist could call back later. The same man called the phone after thirty minutes. Eunseok was available, he said. You thanked the receptionist and hung up, shoving a few clothes and a copy of Adorno’s Aesthetic Theory in your backpack. Then, you opened the envelope again, reading Eunseok’s letter with a glass of wine, waiting for sleep to seep in. You stayed up until three in the morning, washed your face, and waited again while reading Eunseok’s letter until it was five, leaving your apartment to catch the first train to Gwanaksan.

You took the 5511 bus to get to Gwanaksan before noon, following the instructions that Eunseok put in the envelope after getting off at the Engineering building at Seoul University. Initially, you believed that Eunseok’s facility would be housed under Seoul University’s psychiatric department, but upon realizing it was an independent inn that acted under another medical center that specialized in psychiatric care, you were somewhat relieved. Most university hospitals operate under strict, often rigid conditions, and from hearing about Eunseok’s activities and the freedom he experienced at Ujeong Inn, it was a relief on your end to know that he was in good hands. The trip took a little over an hour, and before you knew it, the ridges and cracks of a great mountain range rose over your tiny little frame, an overwhelming sense of the power of nature striking you stuporous against its vast superiority. The autumn winds, which were calm in the city, seemed to roar and wail with the rustling of dense trees, home to a flora and fauna that was extinct in the asphalt and tar of the city. You began your twenty-minute hike up the inn after stopping by a small bookshop across the road, leaving with a pamphlet that showed specific landmarks around the mountain’s main trail, which was a straightforward, linear path that went uphill to the peak of the mountain range. Along the way, lush, large oak trees lined up the dirt path and the bridges that led to the inn, coupled with a plethora of loons and petrels that added a dash of color to the bright, blue sky. Most of the sun’s light was filtered through the foliage of greeneries, reflecting its pigmented tint in the shadows that cast downward onto the surface of your sneakers. No wonder it was such a quiet place, because the inn itself was basically deep inside the mountains!

A large, mounting metal gate covered the inside of the inn, along with thick oak tree stumps that acted as pillars to the entrance. The fact that the inn was situated in the middle of the forest made it seem like the whole world had been buried under it, lost to the civilization and rush of the busy streets in Seoul. Troughs and hills of mountain ranges continued to stack onto each other, giving you an image of an endless visage of scenic nature that you could never find elsewhere. On the left side of the gate, sparse fields of rice that were turning into a light shade of yellow spread out in all directions, cutting through a pristine, clear river that played with the rays of the sunlight. There were no houses around the area; the only thing you could see was a large sign that read UJEONG INN PRIVATE NO TRESPASSING. 

At the crook of the gate was an empty post made of wood, its once bright yellow paint stripping off to show the bare, splintered ends underneath. The presence of a freshly crushed cigarette in an ashtray, a steaming tea cup, and a silent radio on the desk gave you clues about the guard’s whereabouts, and you gave yourself ten minutes to wait for anyone to come back. Soon enough, a guard dressed in a knockoff security vest slipped into his post and asked for your last name and the patient you were seeing. When you replied with Eunseok, he used the pager strapped onto his breast pocket, lifting the gate with a single button that whirred and disturbed the natural silence of the forest in quick succession. 

Once you were inside, you were greeted with a small car park that had a minibus, a large Range Rover, and two dusty Toyota Corollas near the front door. The car park looked like it could hold around twenty cars at maximum, but for today, it seemed like there were only three vehicles there. 

The actual inn itself resembled an old, Korean-styled house made with rustic, pointed clay laid out in a geometric, square pattern. It had a well-maintained Zen garden with shiny pebbles as floors lining a small footpath with stone lanterns. Your guess about the place was that it was once a country house for Japanese or Korean aristocrats during the occupation period, considering the vast, four-story height that it boasted. There was something simple and sleek about its design, but there was also a slight tackiness in the bright red and green paints that adorned its walls. 

Upon reaching a large, stone gate, you were greeted by a woman in a nurse’s scrub. “Are you here for Eunseok?” 

You nodded, and she smiled while guiding you inside the building to sit on a small, beige sofa. As she left to use the plastic answering machine on the reception desk, you took the straps of your backpack off your shoulders, slumping it right next to you as you surveyed the place. There was an eerie cleanliness to it, an uncanny luster that reflected your face in all the furniture and the items strewn around the lobby. The paintings were minimal in color, sometimes having none at all, showcasing simple shapes on a white background. The floor was polished to perfection, almost as if a shiny, waxy sheen had been above your soles to ensure that you wouldn’t leave any dirt as you walked along, absorbing all the dirt and mud that you accumulated to hide it from the cleanliness of the entire building. 

“He’ll be here soon,” The nurse reassured you with another gleaming smile. You nodded, taking note of the deathly quiet that surrounded you after you finished speaking. There were no sounds of any kind, only a white, static silence that murmured underneath your ear canals. In this building, the people, animals, insects, and every microorganism were all sound asleep, even in what should’ve been a busy afternoon. 

Before long, you heard a pair of weak, rubber soles gliding through the slippery floors, and Eunseok was in front of you in a loose shirt that was buttoned halfway. He sat next to you on the beige sofa, its weight only slightly shifting from the impact. At first, you thought he was a hallucination that you conjured up from the fatigue of traveling all the way up into the mountains, but it was the real Eunseok. 

“Tired?” He whispered. You shook your head and gave him a gentle smile, head still shaking slightly from the apparition that was Eunseok. You wanted to reach out to him, feel his fingers against yours to truly confirm that he was real, but you decided against it. You still didn’t know if he was in a state to hold your hand, let alone be here right next to you to talk to you, but an unwavering calm aura that wafted around him gave you the reassurance that you were at least allowed to converse with him once more. 

“How have you been, Eunseok?” 

“Good,” He replied with a little, ghostly smile. “I’m sorry, but I’m not supposed to be here right now. I’m supposed to be back in one of the recreational rooms to do some calligraphy. I just slipped out for a minute, and I have to go back right away, so I’m sorry if I look like a mess right now.”

“Not at all,” You said, doing your best to reassure him with a gentler, softer tone. “I think I like your clean cut.” 

Eunseok’s hair was perfectly trimmed to ensure none of his strands reached the collar of his shift, bangs pristinely sliced just above the edge of his eyebrows. It suited his face very well, framing his angular features and accentuating the roundness of his eyes. He looked as if he had always worn his hair that way, a handsome rendition of an aristocratic schoolboy during the height of the occupation period. 

“I had one of the nurses cut it for me, but do you really think it looks nice?” 

“Yes, I do.” 

“My aunt said it’s too… childish.” He ruffled his hair and let some of the strands topple over each other, creating a mop of disheveled, black hair that was tousled meekly. 

“I wanted to see you just as you came here, not that I had anything urgent to say, but I just wanted to see your face and get used to having you around. If not, then I might have some trouble getting to know you again, even if we’ve practically known each other since birth. I’m just so bad with people, and I think the desolate nature of the mountains made it worse for me. I can hardly recall my aunt’s face now, and I don’t even know what my parents look like anymore,” 

“Well, do you think the treatment’s doing you any good?” 

“I think so, yeah,” He replied, fiddling with his hair again. “But I have to go.” 

You saw him off to the recreational room, and before he slid the door open, he took your hands in his, studying each crevice and line in your palm with his slender fingers. 

“I really wanna thank you for coming all the way here to see me. This makes me very happy, but I don’t want you to feel like I forced you to come here. The last thing I wanna be is a burden, and this is a special place far removed from what you’re used to. If you feel uncomfortable or lost in here, please tell me and be honest about it. I won’t be hurt by it at all. In this place, we can be completely honest with each other.” 

“Of course, I’ll be honest,” You said with certainty. 

Eunseok’s hands trembled as he gently took your shoulder, pushing the small of your back in his direction until your head was leaning on his chest. When you circled your arms around his back, he took his chin and softly placed it on the crown of your head, staying like that for a time and absorbing your body’s temperature into his cold touch. Holding him made you feel warm in your chest, and he suddenly stood up without saying a word, disappearing into the recreation room as quietly as he had come down to the reception desk. 

With Eunseok gone, you went back to the reception and took a nap on the sofa. You didn’t intend to, but you fell into a deep sleep that you hadn’t been able to experience in a long time, filled with a sense of Eunseok’s presence. In an instant, you were transported back into the small comforts of his apartment, in the bathroom where his toothbrush and toiletries were, with the library of books that were on his shelf, and in his sparsely decorated bedroom, lying next to him in his bed. Sleeping soundly in his apartment, you felt the fatigue from your body disappear bit by bit, dreaming of an albatross flying in the distance, in the dim glow of the summer sunset in Jeju. 

When you woke up, the clock on top of the reception desk points at six in the evening.

The lights had changed into a dim, yellow glow, the wind had died into a silent stillness sans the ruffling of tree leaves, and the shape of the clouds was distorted into lines and streaks that symmetrically bordered the moonlight. You wiped off the sweat on your forehead with the hem of your shirt, quickly changing into a long-sleeved sweater in the absence of people. You went into the kitchen by following the signs, getting a paper cup, and filling it to the brim with water while watching the night sky fade into a dark abyss in the absence of light in the forest. There was no sign of anyone around, and no sound penetrated the thick walls of silence that surrounded the entire building. It felt as though you were isolated in a void. 

“Hey, sorry for being gone for a while,” Eunseok’s voice was barely a whisper, and it startled you to the point where you dropped your cup. He tried to pick it up, but you swiftly bent down in a panic, using a crumpled pile of paper towels to soak up the remaining water that spilled out of your cup. Your copy of Adorno’s Aesthetic Theory slipped out of your backpack’s front pocket, and he picked it up to hand it back to you. 

“How could you bring such a book in a place like this?” He joked. He was right, of course; all you could do was shrug. 

“I don’t know, it reminded me of the sort of books you would read back when you were in Dongguk.” 

To this, he chuckled—the first you’ve heard in a long time. Almost so that it shocked you to the spine, giving you an electrifying tingle every time you heard a tingle or a shift of pitch in his voice. He took your hand and dragged you to a large dining hall on the main floor, passing you a tray filled with lush, green salads, boiled vegetables, rice, and seaweed soup. 

“I’m sorry, did you want something else?” He asked. “There’s some pasta, and you can always go eat outside if you wanna go for a smoke,” 

“I’m alright, Eunseok, I quit in June.” You replied with a small, soft smile. His eyes widened with an unreadable expression. Then, he pressed his lips in a firm, thin line, averting his gaze back to his tray of food. 

Twenty other people entered the dining hall, while a handful began to pack their trays and left. Apart from the variety of ages, you pictured Sungchan’s private all-boys school in the dining hall, filled with men in hospital gowns instead of uniforms and speaking in a much lower volume than a large room of electric adolescent boys. There were no loud voices or whispers, nor was there anyone laughing out loud or crying. There was no yelling, and the only type of conversation that was present in the room was hushed and serene, with people either nodding to each other or softly humming with interest. You couldn’t tell what anyone was saying, but the way they spoke reminded you of the secret conversations you would see among girls in your time at the dormitory in your first year, confiding deep, dark secrets in the form of low whispers. You wondered if Eunseok spoke like this with the people he did calligraphy with, and you felt a twinge of loneliness mixed with jealousy at the proximity that the people here had with Eunseok. 

Two doctors sat behind your table with Eunseok, one a sheepish, nervous balding man with glasses in a white, neatly-pressed lab coat and the other a much younger-looking man with slightly greying hair, donned in bright blue scrubs and a surgical mask resting on his chin. The two were immersed in a battle of nodding at each other, with the occasional ah and oh really thrown back and forth. You listened to the way they spoke, and the more you allowed yourself to be a part of their conversation, the more it became apparent to you that the bald man was a doctor and the younger man was on his last leg of residency. 

Nobody in the dining hall paid any special attention to you, nor did they realize you existed at all, almost as if your being there was a natural part of their daily lives in the mountains. It was either that, or the sheer vastness of the nature around them that made people seem almost insignificant—small and irrelevant. 

Just then, the balding man in a white lab coat was now behind you, tapping you on your shoulder. 

“How long are you here for?” He asked. 

“Only two nights,” You replied firmly. “I’ll be leaving via the first bus in the morning on Sunday.”

“Well, if you ever come back, then do so in the winter. It’s really nice here in the autumn, but the snow caps on the mountian ranges adds an even nicer touch to the scenery.”

“I’ll probably be out of here by then,” Eunseok interjected with a forceful, yet gentle smile. 

“But still, the winter makes the place really nice.” He repeated. You weren’t too sure if he was a doctor anymore. 

Once the bald man left with the younger man in scrubs, you turned your attention back to Eunseok, who finished what was on his tray. His slender fingers trembled as he fidgeted with an empty bowl, unease written all over his face. 

“What do you talk about up here?” You asked. Eunseok hummed, pondering your question as if it was a bizarre one to ask. 

“What do you mean? We just talk about normal things like our daily routine, the books we’ve read, tomorrow’s plans, stuff like that. Don’t tell me you think people here talk about crazy things while jumping up and down with an imaginary marching band!” 

“No, no, that’s not what I mean,” You replied hastily, but Eunseok didn’t seem to stare at you the way he did whenever you felt you said something gravely wrong. Instead, he folded his arms and smiled at you, leaning his back on the plastic railings of the chair. 

“If you’re thinking about the noise level, then it’s just what it is. People talk quiet here, and there’s no need for you to talk so loud or draw any attention to yourself.” 

“I guess not,”

You took Eunseok’s tray and stacked his empty plates with yours, clearing the table as he dabbed his mouth with a folded handkerchief. When you put the trays back to a small window into the chef’s kitchen, you found yourself surprised by how much you’ve missed the low hums of people or the white noise that buzzed in one ear and out throughout your daily life. You wanted to hear boisterous laughter and people screaming for no reason, saying ridiculous things that only made sense after a few bottles of beer. Sure, it was the kind of environment you lived in since moving out of Jeju for university, but sitting with Eunseok in an eerily quiet dining hall made you uneasy and anxious. You couldn’t relax, and the more people began to leave the dining hall, the more you likened the experience to that of an empty art exhibit, where the people eating were caricatures of what an alien species thought human life was like. 

Instead of going back to the guest room in the left wing of the inn, Eunseok insisted that you stay in his room while he finished his bath, which was located in the opposite side of the guest rooms. He had his own shower in his room, but he insisted that you use his. 

“The thing is, most of the patients here are men, and I’m not too sure about using the staff bathroom since I don’t know where it is.” He explained, before making the trek to the other side of the room with his toiletries. 

After he was gone, you decided to play the first record that was on his shelf, unaware that it was his own copy of the Johnny Cash album that he gave you for Christmas—the very same one that he cried to on his birthday. To think that it had only been six months since you celebrated Eunseok’s birthday and slept with him was a puzzling realization. It felt more remote than it was. 

Maybe it was because you thought about it too much, distorting your sense of time and rearranging the timeline of memories in your head. 

The moonlight’s low beam was fluorescent enough for Eunseok’s room, leading you to turn his lamp off, legs streteched below his study desk as you immersed yourself into Johnny Cash’s voice. Shadows danced around the white walls of Eunseok’s room, playing with the items that were on his table and turning them into random blotted patterns across the room like a Rorscharch test. Taking a shiny metal flask from your backpack, you allowed the taste of warm wine to sit on your tongue, swirling it around and letting the warmth spread throughout your body. After a few sips, you slipped the flask back into your backpack, body slightly swaying with the shadows that continued to dance in Eunseok’s room. 

“It’s so dark here,” Eunseok suddenly murmured. Instead of standing up to greet him, your arms and legs felt heavier than usual, sticking like glue to the edge of his wooden seat. His light, wispy chuckles echoed back and forth between your eardrums in a trance-like reverie, making it harder for you to believe that Eunseok’s presence was indeed, real. 

“I wanted to turn the lights off because I haven’t seen such a bright, full moon in a long time,” You explained, feeling the apples of your cheeks for more warmth. 

Eunseok brought a large, white candle from the kitchen, striking a match to light the wick. Its bright, orange glow swayed with the shadows that it illuminated, further distorting the lamp and books strewn around Eunseok’s room. As the two of you sat facing each other and the candle amidst the disquiet silence of the mountain, it slowly began to feel like the candle transported you and Eunseok to the edge of the world, far, far away from anything that could disturb you. Eunseok shifted closer until his arms touched yours, causing you to flinch. 

“You smell like wine,” He laughed, resting his head on the crook of your shoulder. 

“I still have some in my flask if you’re allowed to drink in here,” You replied with a blase hint of surprise.

“We’re obviously not allowed to drink in here, but it’s fine. If the nurses and doctors can smoke, then we can also break the rules, no?” 

“Right,” 

“I even have drinking parties sometimes with the guy next door,” Eunseok murmured shyly, concealing a hint of mischief in his tone. 

You took the flask out of your backpack again and handed it to Eunseok, who slowly took the cap off and placed the opening of the flask between his lips. When the record ended, he took the flask in front of your eyes and shook it, signaling its emptiness. You took the flask back into your backpack, and Eunseok began humming the tune of a nursery rhyme that was all too familiar to you. 

“I still think Johnny Cash’s version is the best one,” you remembered him saying at fourteen, messing up the English lyrics to “My Grandfather’s Clock” so badly that it came out in a jumbled mess. A year later, when he turned fifteen, his voice was a little too deep to reach the higher parts of the song. Since then, he opted to hum it every now and then, leaving a distant performance of intimate warmth blended with a sorrowful loneliness that could only be heard in the timbers of his voice. 

He hummed the song again, closing his eyes as he buried his face closer to your neck. Eyes on the candle, feeling the wine circulate across your veins, listening to Eunseok’s peaceful humming, you felt all the tension inside you slip away. When he finished the song, a sheer silence engulfed the two of you in the stillness of the moonlight. 

“I don’t know why, but for a nursery rhyme, the song always makes me feel so sad,” said Eunseok. “I think it’s because I can see a giant, tall, old clock, just me and the thing in a vast, empty room with nobody else.” 

Eunseok, as per the letter he sent you, did look a lot healthier than before. Instead of the ghastly pallor that you were used to, his skin was kissed with the sun’s golden glow, his body firm and rigid with oozing vigor from all the exercise and farming he does in the inn. His eyes still contained the same, deep pools that always put you in a reverie, and his plump, luscious lips still trembled with hesitance, but there was an overall change in him that evolved him into a mature man. The sharp, thin edge of his jaw had disappeared into a more inviting, soothing calm. You couldn’t put a finger on how you felt about this newfound view of Eunseok, but it moved you to think that someone could change so much in just under half a year. You felt even more drawn to him than ever before, and never again would he have the brooding mystique of his former self, one that set him apart from the rest of the pack wherever he went. 

Eunseok had asked you about how you spent the last six months, demanding every detail of your life since she was institutionalized. You discussed your political activities in detail with Mirae, and how the riots have subsided since the June 29 declaration. While Mirae was a recurring topic of conversation between the two of you, you never told Eunseok about Mirae’s involvement with the New Korean Democratic Party or the underground Marxist lectures. To him, Mirae was simply an eccentric roommate notorious for sleeping around with as many guys as she could. Explaining this new side of Mirae to Eunseok proved difficult, especially with the complicated nature of her unique philosophy and what she believed in. Despite it all, the way you wanted to describe Mirae seemed to reach Eunseok, and you hid any mention of Sungchan from him. 

“Wow, I didn’t know Mirae was a staunch Marxist,” Eunseok cooed. “Do you still like her after all that?” 

“I don’t know,” You replied. “I don’t think I do, and Mirae is beyond liking or not liking. She doesn’t try to be liked or unliked, and I guess her honesty drew me in, but I wouldn’t say I like her.” 

“Honest while sleeping with all those men? You’re weird for that,” Eunseok said, stifling a loud chuckle. “How many boys has she slept with?” 

“God, I don’t know. I haven’t been getting updates from her lately, but last I’ve heard, she’s nearing one hundred.” 

“And you call that honest? Is she being honest with those other men?” 

“Yeah, for her, it’s sort of like the increasing number makes the crime less meaningful in some ways. Like, if she told a guy from the get-go that she was sleeping with other people, then to her, that nullifies whatever personal attachment that she might’ve had with the man she was sleeping with.” 

“I think she’s a lot more flawed than me,” Eunseok murmured after thinking about your description of Mirae. 

“I think so, too,” You replied with a nod. “But she’s the type of person way too logical for her own good. If you brought her here, I don’t think she’d last a day. She’d crack the code, tell the doctors she knew what they were doing, then leave after lecturing them on how she already understood her flaws and how to fix them. People don’t like her, but people definitely respect her in some way or another.” 

“I guess I’m the opposite of her, then,” Eunseok said. “I still don’t understand what they’re trying to do to me here, which makes me think that I don’t understand anything about myself.”

“It’s not because you’re not logical or clever.” You explained, grazing your fingers on his tanned arms. “I think you’re quite normal, and even I have things that I don’t understand about myself. I think everyone does to a certain extent, and that’s what makes us normal.” 

Eunseok rested his head on your lap, the same pearly eyes staring straight into yours. His thumb grazed the edge of your lips, but instead of leaning forward, he remained still, head firmly pressed on your thighs. 

“You’re the first person I’ve ever slept with,” He whispered, watching you with clear eyes. You kept your lips pressed firmly, rigid in your seated position. Sweaty palms seeped through the carpeted floor, becoming one with its acrylic fibers. 

“I was ready to sleep with her, I really was.” Eunseok started, fiddling with the ends of your hair, making your body slowly lean closer to him. “We wanted each other, that much was real. We tried everything we could—lube, moisturizer, oils—but it never worked. I don’t know if she was afraid of losing her virginity, but I wasn’t. Even then, I couldn’t get hard, and she couldn’t get wet.” 

You were now lying next to Eunseok on his bedroom floor, a flash of his room back in Jeju fusing with visions of his apartment in Seoul scattering through the white walls around you. 

“It always hurt me because she was always dry, and of course, because I couldn’t get hard, there was simply no way I could get inside her. We tried masturbating; she would jack me off, and I would use my fingers to play with her, but even that started to hurt, so we stopped.”

You nodded in silence. Eunseok cast his gaze at the moon, which started to look bigger and bigger between the shiny luster of his pearlescent eyes. 

“I never wanted to tell you this, but I came here to be honest. That night on my birthday, I was rock hard when you walked into my apartment. I’d been getting hard every time I saw you. I just wanted to hold you in my arms, take off our clothes, touch you all over, and fuck you then and there. I’ve never felt that way before, and I guess it confused me because I loved her so much.” 

“And not me, right?” You said, trying to hide the bitterness and pain in your throat. “You want to know why you were so turned on by me even though you didn’t love me like that, right?” 

“I’m sorry,” Eunseok repeated. “I know we’ve been friends for a long time, but she and I had a special bond, almost as if we were conjoined to the hip at birth. It was like we couldn't let each other go when I moved out of town and into her neighborhood. We were always together, and we understood each other perfectly. When we kissed, I knew we were connected somehow, maybe through an invisible string or a spiritual destiny. She ran to me and cried like a baby when she had her first period, and she was the first person I talked to when I had my first wet dream. After she died, I didn’t know how else I could’ve been able to relate to other people—including you, and I’ve known you longer than I’ve ever known her. I didn’t know how to love another person the way I loved her.” 

Eunseok remained silent for a while, then suddenly burst into tears, trembling in spasmodic tremors. He buried his face under your chest, gripping your waist tight as his hot breath tickled your abdomen, sporting the same suffocating violence that he had brought with him on the night of his birthday. You caressed his back, smoothing the loose wrinkles of his shirt as he clung to you like a baby. For what felt like a few hours, you held Eunseok in your arms, soothing his back every now and then whenever he would wail or hurl, his cries piercing your heart in palpable agony. His candle was now extinguished, and the moonlight was covered with thick, dark clouds condensed in the deepest shade of navy. The night was chilly with silence, slicing through the air with a whir of disquiet that spoke louder than Eunseok’s cries. The mountains were so quiet that they seemed to drown out any noise that stirred its way, the winds flowing from the curtains swaying all sense of sound back to its earthen ridges, to be absorbed in the soil as nature hurls back in a stupefied haze. Eunseok slowly climbed up, tugging at your shirt before planting a soft kiss beneath your ear amidst sniffles. 

“Sorry,” his voice barely a whisper. “Sometimes, I get so confused that I don’t know what’s happening.” 

“I’ve been getting that a lot recently, too,” You replied, returning the gesture by grazing your lips on his cheek. You felt his lips curve into a small smile, and then he placed his palms on your temple, attempting to massage whatever fear and anxieties you had. He gently twisted his hands into yours, intertwining his fingers in the webbed crevices of your palms. Then, he softly tugged at your arm, leading you to his bed, where his entire body lay languid, clinging to your side.

“I’d like to hear more about your life here. What you do, who you meet, everything. Of course, if you’re not tired.” You asked. 

Eunseok smiled and began talking about his daily routine in the inn, speaking in short phrases that were crystal clear. Wake up at six. Feed the cats before breakfast. Go to the cafeteria and eat. Clean out the hallways. Water and tend to the crops grown in the garden. Trim the garden’s bushes. Pick some ready vegetables. Before his lunch, he would have an hour and a half with his doctor. In the afternoon, he spent most of his time reading or doing calligraphy as a group activity. Sometimes, he would dabble in cooking classes. 

“I started playing the piano again,” he said. “There’s a music teacher that comes from Seoul University every week, and sometimes, we all take turns as teachers or students depending on our expertise. I don't have any, but I teach literature to some patients when I can. Some of the patients who specialize in a language like French or English step in to teach for an hour or so, and I’ve picked up some techniques on how to knit, so if you could bring the scarf that I gave you last Christmas, I can adjust it so it won’t be too big for you.” 

“That sounds fun!” You exclaimed in a whisper. 

“What do you think you’d teach if you were here?” He asked. You pondered at the thought, realizing that economics wasn’t necessarily the most therapeutic topic to teach at a place like Ujeong Inn. Ujeong was home to those who wanted to be tethered from the real world, and something like economics was too tied to real events that broke the facade of a peaceful commune—a society of its own that didn’t need to worry about money or value. 

“Honestly, I don’t know. I think I have nothing to offer,” you finally replied. 

“I’ve been putting a lot more effort into studying here than I ever did when I was a student at university. I work really hard to understand new concepts and even complete whatever homework I get on time. It’s nice, and I’ve grown to enjoy it.” 

“So, what do you do after dinner?” 

“Read books, talk with some of the patients, go to their rooms, and play board games. I also go to the music room and play piano, and at night, I like to sit down and work on my autobiography,”

“Autobiography?” 

“No, I’m just kidding. We sleep at ten sharp. It’s a pretty healthy lifestyle, no?” He laughed. You stared at the small, analog clock on top of Eunseok’s desk. It was a few minutes before nine-thirty. 

“Isn’t your bedtime coming soon?” 

“We can stay up late today. I haven’t seen you in so long, you know? I wanna talk more, so please, talk.” 

“Sometimes, when I’m all alone, I think about the old days,” you explained. “When it was the three of us in your room. Do you remember when I had your girlfriend struggling to ride the back of my bike to visit you at the hospital near the sea? I know we pretty much live right next to it, but that one was right next to the shores.” 

“Yes! It was for my appendicitis surgery!” Eunseok recalled with a smile. “I saw you struggle to pedal through my window, and you brought me cake, but it was all smushed up! It was practically inedible, but I tried to smash it up even more like baby food and swallowed it all up! God, that seemed like such a long time ago,” 

“I think you were trying to write a novel then. Your desk was filled with loose-leaf paper, pretty much scattered across the room!” 

“I like to think that there’s a time in a boy’s life where all he does is write and think,” Eunseok nervously uttered. “What made you think of that all of a sudden?” 

“I guess I just miss the smell of the sea a lot. This year, it rained a lot more in the autumn, and for some reason, I can just smell the salt of the sea every time it rains. Before I knew it, I would spend my mornings thinking about that specific hospital visit. Did she ever visit you afterward?” 

“Absolutely not! We had a huge fight after the two of you visited, and that was it. She never showed her face in the hospital again. Terrible! Something about hating hospitals did it to her.” Eunseok laughed. “She was always a kid about it. Nobody likes hospitals, but you swallow that feeling if it means making the one that’s actually stuck there feel better. I don’t know, she just didn’t get it.” 

“But she wasn’t so bad when she was with me.”

“It’s because you were there,” he said, a growing edge to his timbre. “I know it may seem like the two of you weren’t that close, but she was very fond of you. When it was just me, she struggled to keep her weak side hidden. Something to do with your presence made her hide that side of her very well. With me, her mood switches with a simple snap of a finger. She let her guard down in front of me a lot, and she could go from talking about the weather to throwing a long, screaming tantrum. It happens all the time, and has been happening since we met. She did try her best to change, though.” 

Eunseok readjusted his position, lifting his head from the crown of your head to face you. His arms went loose around your waist, and his palms were no longer firmly pressed on your back. 

“She tried hard, but it was no good for her at all. It’s like the more she tried, the angrier and moodier she’d get. She was already a beautiful person, but she never found the confidence to realize that. It was always ‘I need to change, and I need to change fast,’ always thinking about how to better herself every single second. How awful!” 

“I don’t think I’m the best judge of that, but now that I think of it, she did always show her best side when I was around. Whenever I’d come visit your room, she was always smiling, doing her very best to join and play the board games you’d pick out. She wasn’t a sore loser at all, either, and took punishments with grace.” 

Eunseok’s smile grew brighter, eyes crinkling between his lids and his cheeks. “She’d be thrilled to hear that, you know? Even if she never made it obvious, you were her only friend—apart from me, of course.” 

“And both of you were my only friends,” you replied. “I don’t think I can call anyone that now.” 

“That’s why things felt so right when the three of us were together. I was with you, and I could see her best. Whenever you’re around, I can stop worrying about her and relax, see her have fun like a teenage girl. Our board game sessions were my favorite moments in life. I don’t know about you, though.” 

“If I’m being honest, I was restless. I could never tell what she was thinking, and I was always worried if she didn’t want me there or anything. Something about being a third wheel and making things more awkward, I guess.” 

“Well, to me and her, it was the perfect circle. So perfect, in fact, that we knew it was never going to last forever.” 

He sat up, back resting against the bedframe. There was a shadow cast over his eyes from his bangs, which hung loosely on top of his brows. The moonlight illuminated his cheeks in a way that showed its hidden sorrows, dyeing him in blue hues as he put his thumbs together, circling them back and forth. He started, then stopped, his breath falling short whenever he opened his mouth. Then, he looked at you with a sad smile, eyes filled with an ocean of sorrow wallowing within the single tear that rolled down his cheek. 

“Sorry, can we talk about something cheerful now?”

Having moved out of your dorm in first year, nothing you could talk about was cheerful anymore. Peanut was most certainly out of your life, and Mirae had gone from an odd roommate with a penchant for sleeping around into a tour de force of complex, contradicting ideals. The best you could do now was talk about the people you would observe through the balcony that you and Eunseok used to share by the Han River: the group of old men who would feed pigeons and talk about their life, the joggers who brought dogs without leashes to run across the embankment with them, the vibrant high schoolers in bicycles who did tricks with tennis rackets strapped on their backs, and the plethora of oddballs you’d see at night, drunkenly singing hymns from a bygone era. To you, they were nothing but a routine, but the little tidbits of life you encountered made Eunseok smile. To think that he once shared such realities that were now foreign and new to him baffled you. After that, Eunseok attempted to impersonate some of the patients he encountered at the inn. Then, a giant yawn preceded his collapse into a deep, peaceful slumber.

The room continued to glow white from the moonlight, illuminating its rich, heavenly light on Eunseok’s face. Whenever you closed your eyes, you could still hear the faint echo of Eunseok’s low hum, the tune to “My Grandfather’s Clock” faintly leaving your eyes, lingering with a slight reverberation until it completely disappeared into the empty silence of the dark night. That night, when sleep finally carried you in Eunseok’s arms, you dreamed of the sea. It wasn’t the same one in Jeju, with its calm, gentle waves, the smell of brine and wet sand wafting through your nose, and dark skies that swirled into a misty pastiche of white, ocean waves. The breeze that the waves carried was cold to the touch, wrapping its layers of chills around you in a shrill, almost lifeless temperature that made you taste what death would’ve felt like. No matter how much the winds howled and the waves crashed, though, the sea itself remained calm. Why was that? Your ears could hear the roars of crashing waves immolating into a cacophony of distant cries, and yet the sea was flat like a river, calmly carrying its waters back to shore. You tried to throw a stone, and it only skipped three times before sinking into the deep end, bouncing back to the sand where your feet were. 

When you opened your eyes, you felt as if you were still within the world of your dreams, Eunseok’s room drowning in the calm waves of the sea. The dark skies trembled with the wavering shadows cast by the bright moonlight, and on reflex, you stirred up and got out of bed, searching for the stone that you had just thrown into the ocean. What you saw instead was an image of Eunseok, who was also awake, sitting out the windowsill. He had drawn his knees up to his chin, shoulders relaxed in a hunched state. Judging from the glow of the moon and the color of the skies, you assumed it was about dawn, perhaps four in the morning. A violent thirst clutched your throat, but you remained still and watched Eunseok by the window. He wore the same, blue pajamas that he wore before the two of you went to bed, and his hair was held in place by a small, glowing hairpin, reflecting the glow of the moonlight with his forehead. 

Eunseok stayed frozen in place, his pearlescent eyes directly staring at the moonlight. In his hunched state, he looked like a vulnerable prey hiding from a formidable monster in the sea. The outline of his nose and lips were accentuated with the shadowplay of the moon, forming a fragile, yet crystal clear imagination of his dreamy features, almost pulsating with the gentle beat of his heart. His lips pursed open, as if he were murmuring his deepest secrets to the night. The hungry thirst you felt was drying up your throat, but in the stillness of the night, every single noise you made was bound to reach his ears. A single sigh was all it took for him to quickly spin his head towards you, feet gliding back to the bed as his large, pearly eyes were fixated on you. You stared back at him, but there was a ghastly transparency in his eyes revealing a portal to another world, and the more you peered into him, the more you began to realize that the portal led you into an empty husk of nothingness. Your figure was no longer reflected in his pupils; he was light years away from you. 

When you reached out to touch him, he trembled, quickly running away and disappearing into the shadows. Then, he was on top of you, all seven buttons on his blue pajama top unbuttoned, revealing a lanky, tanned chest bathing in the soft light of the moon. His body had the heartbreaking shine of newborn flesh, the shadowplay revealing all the details of his skin in perfect clarity; the curves of his nipples; the hollow lines of his collar bones; the depth and pulsating muscles of his arms; the soft indent of his navel; his protruding hip bones; shapes which keep morphing with the light and shadows that danced on the surface of his body. He was simply nothing like the body that you held when he cried with agony that night, all imperfections no longer marring his flesh. He was beautiful, of course, but there was a fragile rigidity that clamped him shut, making the act of holding him alone awkward. Even if all you were doing with him that night was joining your body with his, there was an inkling of thought that consumed you. For no matter how much you had him inside you, Eunseok could have never shared his imperfections with you. The only thing you could’ve done was hold him tightly, feel what he truly felt inside you, letting all of his sorrow and heartbreak out into your caverns. 

Eunseok’s body before you was different; reborn through the many phases of the moon. All sense of boyishness had been stripped away since his girlfriend’s death, replaced by the metamorphosis of a mature man. There was nothing sexual about it, and you could only stare in astonishment at the perfection of each detail that he showed you—a spectacle of raw authenticity. He stripped his pajama pants down, exposing his naked truth. Then, he disappeared once more, this time out the door, leaving it swinging ajar. 

You stayed sitting upright on the bed for what felt like a very long time, until it occurred to you that you had to leave. You took your jeans on the floor and hastily buckled them to your hips, silently rushing to the kitchen in the main hall for a glass of water. You took the time to stretch your amrs and legs, letting the tension of your dream go while you thought of the vivid richness of what you saw. You went back to bed and found Eunseok sleeping soundly, careful not to stir anything. Sleep never came until dawn gave you a taste of the first orange luster of sunlight, letting all the shadows from the moon disappear all at once.

“Good morning,” You felt a cold hand touch your cheek. 

“Good morning.” You replied. Eunseok had to hold your hand and support your weight all the way down to the dining hall. Your eyes never met his, and you tried your best to feel the touch of his skin, comparing it with what you saw that night. 

“How did you sleep?” He asked.

“Alright, I guess,” you said. He tilted his head in concern, hesitating before rushing to the start the kettle. Next to him was a large box filled with teabags and instant coffee pouches. “Your eyes are red, though, did you not get any sleep at all?” 

“I woke up in the middle of the night,

“Oh no, is it because of me? Did I snore?” Eunseok asked with concern. 

“No, not really, I just had a weird dream about you. Something about us on the beach back in Jeju, this time as adults.” You lied with a smile. At first, you thought that Eunseok had caught on, acting embarrassed about revealing his body to you, and then, you realized that the transparency you saw was gone, your silhouette hazily etched into his irises. 

“What was it about?” 

“I don’t know, just us walking down the beach as usual when we were children,” 

“Did anything happen after that?

You shook your head, letting the discomfort of the dining hall’s plastic chair ground you to the earth. Eunseok brought a tray of toasted bread, butter, and a salad, and you couldn’t bring yourself to touch your food. 

“We should go back to Jeju together sometime, when we’re both not like this,” Eunseok said hastily, as if he was in a rush. 

“I think we should,” you replied, not knowing what to say. There was a slight hesitance upon Eunseok bringing Jeju and the past up a lot more than he did before, but you supposed Ujeong was a place where he had to confront all of that—even if it hurt him in the process. 

“I know it isn’t much, but would you like to go to a picnic with me? There are no seas out here or anything, but it might make us remember a time when everything was alright, you know, when we were both just kids growing up in Jeju,” He asked almost pleadingly. 

“I’d love that,” you replied with a smile. 

“I have to tell the superiors that I want to cancel my schedule for you, though, is that alright?”

“Of course, take as much time as you need,”

After breakfast, Eunseok took you to a room on the other side of the building. It was a spacious enclave with scratching posts on every corner, scattered around with many cat toys that had vibrant colors of feathers on them. Two men who looked a little bit older than Eunseok were already present, feeding the cats and playing with them. One of them was rolling on the floor while a large, tabby cat had tangled its claws in his hair. Eunseok muttered a small good morning to the pair, and they returned the greeting with glee. The windows were large, encompassing the entire room as the curtains were drawn to reveal the back garden, which was well-manicured with a varying flora of flowers. Spotting Eunseok, a slim, black cat began to strut towards him, rubbing its head on his ankles. He crouched down and gently patted the cat’s head, watching it roll over to reveal its pale underbelly with low purrs. 

“Do you do this every morning?” You asked Eunseok. 

“Yep, the facility says petting cats or any animal is good for you, so they try to make it the first thing we think of when we wake up,” he explained, scratching the cat on the bottom of its chin.  “I don’t know why, but the entire inn has a fondness for cats. I was indifferent to them before I came here, but I see why they’re so loveable now. They’re not like dogs who demand love, they just come to you when they know they can get love.”

After quickly telling the cat to go away, he went to one of four litter boxes and scooped up its droppings, shoveling them into a large, plastic bin nearby. He then replaced the litter box with new, clean cat litter, his task quickly disrupted by a beige white berman with deep, blue eyes. When you tried to pick it up to assist Eunseok in his task, the cat retaliated by scratching your hands. 

“Don’t worry, he won’t hurt you, even if he looks like he would. Kokuma is one of the friendlier cats here.” He picked Kokuma from you, its demeanor immediately changing upon being held from Eunseok. Rather than the slanted, deep blue hues of wariness that Kokuma gave you, the black, shiny luster in his pupils grew to encompass its entire eyes, softening into large pools of twinkling yearning. Eunseok’s smile at you while he stroked Kokuma’s chin was so radiant and blinding, carrying an infectious weight to it that made you grin from ear to ear. You were still wondering about your dream and whether that was the real Eunseok or not, but you still weren’t certain if the Eunseok that was in front of you, filled with the vibrance of life, was the same one that coldly showed his raw nakedness that night. 

“I’ve started to like mornings a lot more, you know?”

“Yeah? I remember you used to hate them back home, and I had to go all the way up into your room to wake up and go to school together. Then, when you moved out, I would sometimes cycle to yours just to wake you and your girlfriend up!” You said, picturing a perfect scene of your younger, uniform-clad self, clutching a backpack and kicking your bike down Eunseok’s garden to barge into his room, incessantly banging on his door until he got up to open it. 

“Yeah, I remember that,” he replied with a smile. “Mornings used to be so bleak, like a reminder that you’re alive for another day. Now, it’s a reminder of anything fresh and new, and I start to get sad around the afternoon, when the sun starts to go down.”

“I think it’s just a reminder of us getting older, no?” You interjected. 

“I guess, but I don’t think I mind. Getting older is also something fresh and new in its own way,” Eunseok continued playing with Kokuma until it went away to drink some water out of its bowl. He whistled to the tune of “My Grandfather’s Clock,” attracting two cats his way with his low lullaby. Whenever you tried to pet one, it retaliated and demanded nothing but Eunseok’s touch. 

I envy you, you sly, sly cat, you thought, watching the gleaming grin plastered on Eunseok’s lips as he toyed with two cats at the same time. 

“Do you wanna come eat lunch with me?” He suddenly asked, eyes perking up to you while trying to distract the cats who began meowing for his attention. 

“No thanks, I have to work on some schoolwork. I’ll join you when we go out, though,”

You slipped out of the room and went to Eunseok’s bathroom, washing your face and trimming your nails with the inn’s nail clippers. You expected his bathroom to be simple, but the hospitality of the inn added an impeccable array of expensive soaps, facial creams, and moisturizers by his sink—almost to a point where you wondered if he was truly alone in his room or not. While most of the patients were male, there were a few female patients who were often situated by the music room, either playing piano or guitar as they sang songs that were at least a decade old. Albeit a taboo, you also thought of a nurse coming in past ten in the evening. All speculations disappeared the moment you rinsed your face with another splash of cold water. Eunseok wasn’t the type to sleep around, especially now that he was tangibly confused between his feelings for his girlfriend and you. Closing your eyes, you thought of her, and how relaxed she was whenever with Eunseok. It was a new form of trust that transcended everything you knew about emotions—something that was likened to the fusion of two entities into a cellular level. She never needed to worry whenever she was with Eunseok, because he always got straight through her, reading her mind and understanding her on a molecular level. 

Tell me, did you ever get jealous? Of me? Of anyone that Eunseok was with? Did you ever speculate if he was with others when the two of you were not by each other’s side?

No way! You can hear her respond in your head with a vigorous shake of the head. That boy can hardly go on without having to worry about me all the time. Do you think he has the capacity to create space in his mind for other people! No! No way! 

You must be lucky, then! Because he still worries about you even when you’re dead! 

When you blinked, you saw her outline through the mirror, still wearing the school uniform that she shared with Eunseok. She still looked the same as she did then, with an innocent youthfulness that paled in comparison to what you and Eunseok went through in the throes of young adulthood. Almost as if flaunting the permanence of her age, you can imagine her laughing with good, yet prideful intentions at the thought of Eunseok seeing other women in the facility. 

You know, you’re stupid to think of such things! Don’t you believe in him wholeheartedly the way I do?

I don’t know, really. I want to, but it’s a little difficult right now. 

Entering the kitchen, the image of Eunseok’s dead girlfriend nodding and waving goodbye transferred into the ripples of the coffee you made. As you swirled your mug, she would swirl, too, swimming in a black pool, sloshing away until you pressed the mug onto your lips. You took your macroeconomics textbook open, quickly tossing your sweater aside in favor of a white tank top in the sunny kitchen. It was a little odd trying to memorize graphs on a kitchen table that wasn’t yours. 

Eunseok came back from his calligraphy lessons ar noon, taking a quick shower and changing his clothes. He joined you in the dining hall for lunch, then walked you to the front of the gate. The absent guard was now in his little post, listening to a static-ridden radio while reading a book. He waved at the two of you as you walked past the gate, and you returned the gesture with a friendly sentiment. Eunseok went to the logbook and wrote the details of his outing while entertaining the guard with casual small talk. 

“It’s gonna rain later in the evening, so make sure to come back by then. The valley gets very wet and muddy during those times.” He said, mouth stained with the residue of nicotine gum. “Take care,”

“He seems nice,” you said, looking behind you as Eunseok placed his hand on the small of your back. 

“I think he’s a little bit like me,” he replied, tapping his head.

The guard was right about the weather—almost so that the sky’s piercing blue hues served to hurt your eyes. The only trail of white clouds that was left was a limp cluster that looked like torn-up cotton balls stuck to a technicolor backdrop on a child’s art project. Instead of taking the dirt path down the hill and into Seoul University’s engineering building, Eunseok took you up on a hike, traversing through large oak trees leading to a steep, narrow hill. He climbed with a confident stride, legs maneuvering the area with perfect, crisp memory. With hardly a single word uttered between the two of you, Eunseok concentrated on his hike, his bomber jacket hoisted up his left shoulder. 

You watched his frame solemnly move from side to side, his jacket miraculously staying in place despite the nature of the hike. Sometimes, he would look back at you and smile, ensuring that your eyes would meet. 

The trail ended after another ten minutes of upward walking until the two of you reached a flatline. Near the edge of the path, there was a small bench situated at another town’s entrance, and you rested there, wiping your sweat with the hem of your shirt while dousing yourself with water. Then, the two of you got back to walking, this time on a dirt pavement that lined an empty neighborhood of old, Occupation-era houses designed for cheap, communal living away from the main hub of the city. The dead, yellow grass reached your waist and covered a quarter of the houses’ height, alongside dry grubs of pigeon feces that lined the tarnished clay finish of the roofs.

“There was a farmland around here, as you can see with the barren fields. They used to grow rice here, but all of that’s been cleared out since. It’s not really that easy to grow anything out here when the winters get too harsh, and the soil’s been degrading because the weather hasn’t been too nice to it. Everyone migrated towards the city, abandoning this place into an empty wasteland of sorts,”

“Some of the houses here still look like they can be used, no?” You asked. Eunseok peered at one of the bigger houses next to a barren, empty field marred with nothing but dry soil, then snapped his head back to you, as if remembering a crucial detail. 

“There are rumors that the Unification Church used it as one of their communes, but I think they’ve moved down South since. It’s either they couldn’t handle the weather, or they got sick of the mountains. After all, most of the people in that cult are city folk.”

A little beyond the moat and the barren fields was a clear, pristine view of Seoul’s city skyline reflected in the deep depths of the Han river. From the corner of your eyes down to the scope of your peripheral vision, you began to mentally trace the vastness of the city with your pupils, black dots going back and forth as each building merged together with the blurry haze of the autumn sun. Eunseok continued to follow the fence that lined the abandoned houses, unfazed at the city in front of him. With downcast eyes, he continued to trot along, light steps posing symmetry with the rustic, worn-down fences beside him. 

“This reminds me of the old days, just without the sea,” Eunseok whispered. He tilted his head, glassy, beady eyes meeting yours. Somehow, his eyes blinded you more than the beaming sun.

“Well, if it makes you feel better, we did try to revive this ritual when you moved from Jeju to Seoul. We were practically walking back and forth between the entire city!” You cheered, jogging to his side to match his steadfast pace. 

“Even that feels like ancient history to me now.”

At that time, you couldn’t muster a response. You wanted to stop dead at your tracks and pull him into a hug in the middle of the dead roads, holding him with all the delicateness you had in your heart. You wanted to tell him that ancient history is always relevant in the present, and that the past doesn’t have to continue to define your trajectory with him. 

Eunseok-ah, we can go on those walks again—hell, even walk through all of Seoul once more, but it will be different once you’re out. We’ll be walking and revisiting history like a sacred, respected tourist spot, full of all the things we’ve learned and understood about each other. 

Then, Eunseok walked further again, and you felt that he was too far away from your fingertips. No matter how hard you chased after him, he was always two steps forward, only looking back to flash you a fragile, broken smile.

The dirt path came to a halt, and what was beyond the two of you was a lush forest filled with the coos of distant autumn birds and a flora of old growth trees expanding into the edge of the mountain range. There was nothing beyond the point that Eunseok began walking, and yet it was endless all at once. The city you were so familiar with slowly turned into a green haze, and once you looked back past a point where the green, prickly grass began to reach your waist, the beige finish of the dirt path disappeared completely. Eunseok continued treading onward, then stopped to slowly sit down on one of the barren, empty hills that expanded into an infinite illusion of greeneries.

“Sorry about last night again, I don’t know what got to me. All of a sudden, I was this giant ball of nervousness, and I couldn’t control the tears anymore. It was a bit selfish of me to unleash that after you’ve come all the way from Seoul.” He began, eyes focusing on the piece of grass he twisted between his fingers. You took the empty space next to him, maintaining a loose, spatial distance between him. Whenever Eunseok was like this, he was always difficult to get close to. 

“It’s all good.” You reassured, flashing him a warm smile.  “We both have a lot of things and feelings we want to straighten up and get out into the open. So if you need anyone to spill everything on, then spill it all on me. After that, we can understand each other better.” 

“What will happen after that? After we’ve understood each other?” 

“It’s not a question of what then, it’s just a little selfish thing of mine. People have certain fixations, like how Peanut is focused on being a neat freak, and Mirae has her own rigid, albeit complex philosophy that she wants to follow. Mine just happens to be trying to understand you as best as I could, and as best as you’ll let me.” 

“So it’s like a hobby?” He asked, widening his eyes at the prospect. 

“No, not really. I think most people would call that friendship or love, but if you want to think about it as a hobby, then that’s fine by me.” 

“Why do you always end up liking weird people like me?” 

“I don’t see you like that, to be honest.” After a few seconds of silence, you pursed your lips in a long, slow sigh. 

“But I am weird. I wake up in the middle of the night so scared, even when I don’t have any nightmares. I don’t know why, but it’s this feeling of never getting better again. I’ll always stay in this weird, blurry haze, never having a clear head, and grow old like this, wasting away in the inn and the mountains. When I think of that, I get these horrible chills that make me stay up all night.” Eunseok replied, the fragility in his voice grating your ears like grass. You cautiously shifted closer to him, leaning your head on his shoulder as your wrapped your tiny arms over his broad, wide shoulders. He remained frozen, eyes staring into a blank fixture of green hills as he unconsciously unwinded the twisted grass from his fingers. 

“Sometimes, I feel like she’s calling to me in the darkness, haunting me because death parted us. I can hear her voice calling for me, calling me out to join her because she can’t stand being alone. I don’t know what to do,”

“What have you been doing?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, please.”

“I won’t.”

“Sometimes, I go to the bathroom and stare at myself. Then, I stare at my penis, thinking of you. And I cry, cry so hard that some of the tears drop while I stroke myself to feel any sense of warmth around me. Is that sick?” 

“No, I don’t think it’s sick at all. I just wish I was there for you,” you replied. 

“Be here for me now, then. Right here.” 

Eyes looking deep into his for answers, you began shifting your weight to his side, slowly laying his head on the soft grass. He laid flat on the ground, hands shivering as his fingers explored the small of your back, searching for something that can never be found. You dipped your head towards his temple, forehead grazing his as the tips of your nose touched. Your eyes found his, silent permission awaiting his imminent approval. Once he gave you a quick nod, you closed your eyes and kissed him, the edge of his mouth feeling light as a feather. The apprehension in your bodies quickly started to fade away, and a lonesome desperation consumed Eunseok. In an instant, he grabbed your body close to his, letting all of him fuse with you in a microcosmic level. A sweeping breath from his lungs tingled in your ears, reassuring you that this was what he wanted. This was what he needed. And yet, the hunger in his tongue delving deep inside the caverns of your mouth made you apprehensive. He responded to every single inch of your body with a bottomless hunger that was difficult to keep up with. Hands threading your hair, tangling within your locks, he pulled you in deeper—and in an instant, it was almost as if he dyed you with all the dark colors that plagued him since you last saw him in Seoul. 

“You don’t need to hold back,” you whispered, trying to hide the nervousness that overwhelmed you. As if knowing this, a deep stare engulfed you within the prison of his psyche, enveloping you into his austere smolder. 

He slid further down into the hem of your dress, tugging at it and pushing it upward to expose your bare skin to the gentle, autumn breeze. He was warm yet cold at the same time, fingers grasping your waist and never letting go. His rough tongue never left an inch in your stomach, appetite increasing as he found his hands under the cups of your bra. In a quick motion, you raised your torso up and helped him unclasp it, slender fingers desperately squeezing each line and curvature of your breasts. His free hand made its way to feel the cotton of your panties, sneaking past the binding elastic to feel the soft moisture of your slit. 

“Tell me something,” He whispered. 

“What?” You replied with bated, agonizing breath. 

“Will you wait for me until I get better?” 

“Of course I will,”

“Will you do me a favor and stop saying of course to everything I say?” 

“Sorry, I’ll stop.”

He continued to play with your clit, thumb pressing lightly on its surface while his fingers found its way into your entrance. His lips found its way to your perked up nipples, grazing his tongue around its shape to memorize its outline in perfect clarity. You grabbed his hair, shaky fingers desperately trying to unzip his jeans. 

“You’re still wet,” He smiled. 

“You’re warm,” You replied, gaining the courage to meet his eyes as you pressed your palm on his crotch. 

In one, swift motion, you gently slid his trousers down to his knees, with Eunseok awkwardly kicking them to the side. As his fingers entered your walls, searching around them as you clenched yourself tightly to his electrifying touch, your hands played with the hem of his boxers, casually slipping your fingers in and out until a heaving, longing snarl escaped his hungry lungs. 

“Do you want me to touch you?” You asked. A flimsy nod was enough for you to take his girth within your fingers, thumb placed at his tip as you slowly moved up and down, feeling him grow underneath your grasp. He sucked his breath in with your every touch, occasionally losing focus and pulling his fingers out of you. 

Gently, you stood up and laid Eunseok on the grass bed, licking his abdomen until your tongue found its way to the tip of his penis. With two hands, you continued to clasp your fingers around his member, one tightly held at his shaft and the other firmly gripping his length. You took him all in, breathing in his intoxicating scent as you let him reach the entrance of your throat. 

“Stop,” he murmured. “I want to make you feel good,”

“You don’t have to,” You whispered with a smile, your breath tingling beneath his girth. 

“We can make each other feel good, Eunseok.” 

Intertwining your fingers with his, you led his stiff length to your core, slowly bucking your hips in response to every jolt and jitter from his member. He held your hands tightly, throbbing and crying with lustful pain as you continued to move your hips to a pace that didn’t overwhelm him. Soft cries of desire and loneliness filled the barren, empty fields of green, and the uncomfortable prickle of grass disappeared, replaced with the needy warmth of Eunseok’s body inside yours. He sucked in a breath, hips rocking forward in a desperate attempt to follow the motions of your hips. Your chest heaved, and your breath began to run out, but you continued to ignore the beads of sweat that trickled from your chin down to his exposed abdomen, wet palms gripping his in the damp grass surrounding the two of you. He whispered his girlfriend’s name underneath his breath, eyes covered with locks of deep, jet-black hair. Despite this, you continued to move your hips, adjusting to every single twitch that you felt inside you. 

“Eunseok-ah,” 

The immense pleasure building up between your legs loosened into static bliss, feeling Eunseok beneath you, attempting to unlatch himself from your feverish grasp. Now, he was on top of you, firm hands gripping your body tight while your fingernails scratched into his bare back. Just when you thought the wild tensions in your legs began to fade away, the sensation was suddenly replaced with a wave of euphoria. Being filled with Eunseok’s warmth gave you a mixed temperature that blended his cold loneliness with his aching, yearning heat. The rise and fall of his chest and the faint heartbeat that reverberated with it fused with yours; this was the closest you had ever been to Eunseok. 

“I never told you about how my dad died, didn’t I?” Eunseok said, breath hazy and interrupted with quick pants. 

“I think you did. It was during the war, right?” You replied, removing his limpness outside of you as you watched some of his cum trickle down your thighs. 

“Yeah, but I never really went into detail about what happened after that.” 

Eunseok cleaned up after himself with his shirt, zipping his jacket all the way up to his neck to defeat the cold. He offered the piece of cloth to you, and you did the same. 

“After my mom found out my dad’s body got washed up in Vietnam, she was never the same. Of course, I was a kid, so I didn’t really know what was going on, but I was old enough to understand what it meant when she would lock herself in her room every night, crying and praying all the time. We always fought and bickered before that, but since then, she has never fought with me. She was always so quiet, serving me my meals and picking me up from school.”

To your recollection, Eunseok’s mother was someone inviting and chatty, always updated with gossip looming around the parent’s association. Unlike the other housewives who were often lonely at home, Eunseok’s mother was a radiant beam that shonen even brighter once her husband came home. 

“It was the day I had to go home with you, because my mom didn’t show up. The moment I went home, I could smell something vile in the air, kind of like rotting meat. It made me sick to my stomach, but I went inside the house anyway, calling for my mom, who, by this point I was already used to not answering me. I called and called, I even stopped calling her mom and called her by her full name, but she never replied. With my little hands and feet, I tried to open the door, and when I finally saw it, I didn’t know what to think. My own mother, was suspended in tacky bedsheets that she tied together to the main light in her room. By then, she was so frail and thin that the bedsheets didn’t snap or break the lights. After that, I lived through everything like a blur. Maybe that way, the image of her being strangled to death wouldn’t be in my head forever. I then lived with some relative who I never knew existed, and she was alright. She was a little too old to take care of me, but she made my meals on time and even sent her neighbor to pick me up from school. That was when we started walking to the beach a lot, because no matter how much I told myself that this will be my new normal, it never clicked. I was always going to come home to my dead mother, and that will stay with me for the rest of my life. Going to the beach instead of going straight home was the only way I was able to add a new routine to my life, something that will make me forget about it all.” 

Eunseok stopped at his tracks, taking a few seconds to breathe before moving forward again. 

“The way she killed herself reminded me of how my girlfriend died. They couldn’t stand the grief of losing someone in their life. With my mom, it was my dad’s death that did it. The same could be said about her, even if there was no evidence or indicators that made me understand why she did what she did. I’m not saying she had a perfect upbringing; she was far from it. That’s probably why we got along so well when I moved into her neighborhood after that relative died, and my aunt took me in. From the first day of school, she latched onto me, saying we had the same eyes. Then, I found out her dad died in the war, just like mine, and we seemed to have an automatic, almost spiritual understanding of each other. The more I was with her, the more she reminded me of my mother before my dad died. She liked to read a lot, stayed inside most of the time, and talked. Talked so much that sometimes, it made me forget that my mom had died at all. Her words had a way of filling my brain with things to think about, things to distract myself with. She was the kind of person who told stories that came to life, and I don’t know why I tortured myself the way I did, but whenever I came across a writer who spoke life into their characters, I’d cry. I cried a lot.” 

Whenever Eunseok paused, his fingers would twirl into the tall grass, often picking at them to make long ribbons that decorated his hands. Whenever he was finished or if the grass began to snap with the pressure he put on them, he would discard them immediately. 

“I never found her when she died, but I can still remember it vividly. I came home from the beach with you, and all of a sudden, two police cars were parked outside of my aunt’s house. They came to ask me a few questions, and then told me that they found her dead on the island’s only highway, sprawled out on the road and flattened by large tires. They took me to the coroner and had me examine her body to identify her, and it took me a while, but I think I was there the entire night, looking at her mangled corpse. I tried talking to her, to see if, by some miracle, she was alive and would respond to me. But the more I conversed with her, the more I felt that I was just talking to myself, so I left and went home. She had the school uniform that we wore, and her dirty bag was sealed in a plastic bag with scribbles and labels that I couldn’t read. I demanded to look through her stuff, but the police had told me they found nothing. No suicide note, no plans to die, nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was just her schoolbooks and a board game that she wanted to play. For the longest time, I believed the incident was an accident. I just thought she took a wrong turn and happened to exit the highway, since it was en route from the school to our neighborhood. Of course, that’s an illusion I fed myself with. How the hell could she turn to a blocked-off highway with large, concrete walls around it to make sure nobody dumb enough would climb it and end up being run over like her? The police later came to me that week and told me they found a grappling hook! A grappling hook! Disposed at the edge of the highway! Why the hell would she have a grappling hook!” 

With this, Eunseok slowly shook his head. 

“I haven’t seen you since then. I just couldn’t talk to anyone at all until the funeral, when I forced myself to meet you.”

The two of you were back at the entrance to the dirtpath, the marmalade glow of the setting sun dyeing the entire, empty neighborhood in warm hues. 

“I’m telling you, I’m a lot more flawed than you think I am. This sickness that I have is a lot worse than you think. It’s not just my girlfriend, but it’s everyone around me. It’s like I kill everyone that I end up getting too close to. And that’s why I want you to move forward, without me. Please don’t wait for me anymore. Sleep with other men and live life. Don’t let thoughts of me hold you back. Otherwise, you might end up dead, too, and that’s the one thing I don’t want to do. I don’t want to interfere with your life like that. I care about you too much to ever want to tarnish you like that. All I want is for you to remember me and come see me when you can. That’s it.” 

“But that’s not all I want, though,” You replied. 

“You’re wasting your life away by being involved with me,” 

“How do you know that? I’ve known you since I was nine, and I’m still here, alive and well, right next to you,” 

“But I might never recover. Are you still gonna be there then?” He asked. You couldn’t tell if he was desperate or curious anymore. 

“You’re letting yourself get scared by all these things: the dark, the dead, the sickness. You have to let go and forget them to recover, and I’m sure you will.” 

“That’s if I can,” Eunseok replied, shaking his head. 

“Once you’re discharged, do you wanna live with me?” You suddenly asked. “Then I can protect you from everything. I’ll be there for you when things get too hard, and I will always be right next to you so you can hold me whenever you’re feeling lonely. It’s no sea or anything, but it’ll be just like Jeju. We’ll walk up and down the Han River until we reach the end of it.” 

“That would be wonderful,” 

Eunseok pressed his languid weight against yours, lacing his fingers underneath your palms.

The last thing Eunseok said to you was a faint “goodbye,” and then, your time at Ujeong Inn ended just as swiftly as it had begun. It rained when you had to leave, and Eunseok didn’t see you out the door. He was right about the inn and its facilities, for it took a while for you to adjust to the “real world.” Unlocking the door to your apartment and entering what was supposed to be your home suddenly felt unfamiliar. Sometimes, apparitions of Eunseok would start to appear at the kitchen table that the two of you shared when he still lived next to you, listening to his meager record collection while making dinner on a Friday night. Now, you lay in bed in a daze, watching a stream of abstract colors wash and waver around your eyes. It took a few blinks for them to disappear into your empty, white ceiling, and before you could sleep, the ungodly hour struck at three in the morning with fifteen-minute intervals of blaring sirens outside your open window. The ghost of Eunseok’s presence was felt strongly in the empty spaces of your bed, as if any minute now, he would come crawling next to you, resting his head on your chest while sharing each other’s warmth. You could feel his tender, jolting skin next to yours, the ebbs and flows of his shaky breath coming up and down with each contraction of his chest. In the darkness of the night, you returned to the inn and the visions of your dreams there, smelling the fresh, lush greeneries a distance away. You thought of his naked, frail body, picturing him playing with the cats at the inn or drawing beautiful renditions of calligraphy with his slender fingers gently gripping the tip of the brush. Your fingers slowly made their way to your entrance, pushing more fingers until you could fill yourself up with a loose pastiche of his girth until you came. That managed to help you sleep a little, but before you knew it, your alarm clock rang in your ears, signaling your true return to the real world. 

The next time you saw Sungchan was a week later, after you had eaten lunch at the cafeteria on your way to your macroeconomics lecture. Sungchan was with a group of other boys, presumably soccer players, as all of them had been wearing cleats. When he saw you, he approached you alone. 

“So, what’s going on with our deal?” He asked.

“You mean your so-called restraining order?” 

“Ditch macro and come eat lunch with me.” 

“I already ate.” 

“So? Don’t care. Order a coffee or something. Just come with me.”

The two of you ended up at a nearby cafe, where he ordered a giant plate of pork cutlet while you had a serving of coffee. He still wore a sweaty, soccer jersey with shorts and knee-high socks tucked underneath a pair of tightly-laced cleats. He seemed to enjoy the cutlet and took three or four bites at once while quickly drinking a glass of water. 

“Things haven’t been good at the record store, sales have been rough and I practically had to be home waiting for calls. Something about negotiating the building being sold off and my dad from Thailand calling at weird times to talk about it,” 

“Any fires lately?” You asked. 

“That was fun! We should do it again,” Sungchan had another glass of water, took a breath, and stared into your eyes for a while. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Sungchan said, snapping his fingers around your eyes. “You look like you’re not here,” 

“I’m alright, I’ve just been tired from a trip.” You replied. 

“Where did you go?” 

“Gwanaksan. Just over there.”

“Why?” 

“For a hike?” 

“Did you meet other boys there?” 

“What’s that to you?” 

“I don’t know, I can’t stop thinking about when we kissed.” 

“That’s nice.” 

“Not even a proper reaction? God, you talk so weird.” 

“Do I?”

“Yeah, anyway,” Sungchan snapped, taking the menu in his hands while holding his free arm up high to call a waiter. “I was thinking, right, that if I could switch things in my life around to make it more ideal, then I would’ve absolutely been happier if my first kiss had been with you. Then, I would wonder later in my life about you, asking about that one first kiss, not knowing where the hell you went off to. Wouldn’t that be nice?” 

“I guess?” You replied. In a few minutes, a large pint of beer was slammed onto the table. Sungchan gave a quick wink to the waiter before gulping half of the glass down, careless of the white foam that lingered around his lips. 

“Why are you so spaced out?” 

“I don’t know. Probably the mountains and nature doing things to me, but I just feel like nothing’s real anymore.” You replied after another round of silence. 

“People are strange when you’re a stranger,” 

“The Doors? Really?” 

“What? It’s my job to know many songs, and you just happened to perfectly describe this one request I’m working on for the radio: something about loneliness and isolation in the city.” 

“Right,” 

“You really need to come to Thailand with me,” Sungchan said. You’ve always known him as the type to take charge of the conversation and mold it into whatever he wished, but you found it difficult to keep up with him. 

“I don’t think that’s a bad idea at all,” You replied, chuckling lightly as your eyes scanned the drinks menu. Though it was still midday, you realized that a drink or two could ease your apprehensions about the inn and Eunseok. 

“Come on! Ditch everything, I’m sure it’d be a nice, wonderful change to go somewhere where you don’t know a single soul.”

After calling the waiter for a cool mojito, you turned your attention back to Sungchan. 

“Sometimes, I feel like doing that. I just wanna escape life, get whisked somewhere far, far, away. Live like those super-rich men who have a ton of babies everywhere they go, and I’d live happily with them, watching them roll on the floor and coo with their little big eyes.”

“Babies…?” 

“I guess you don’t want a lot of babies yet,” Sungchan groaned, eyes tracing the plate of fries that was freshly placed in front of him. He took a handful and stuffed his face until his cheeks puffed out, leaving you in a laughing fit. 

“I don’t know, motherhood doesn’t sound too bad, but not right now.” 

“It’s alright. You don’t want to have them, so there’s no point.” Sungchan took another handful of fries and loudly crunched on them. “What’s the point of going to Thailand anyway? All they have there is elephant shit. Elephant shit everywhere. A shit here, and a shit there. Hey, do you want some of my skewers? Take my skewers.” 

Sungchan was especially enigmatic today. You couldn’t put your fingers around why, but it slowly helped you pull yourself out of the lingering memories you had with Eunseok. Now, you were here, with Sungchan blabbering on about whatever came into his mind. You had a cool glass of mint mojito next to you, and the more you drank its chilled contents, the more your throat responded positively. Perhaps you were just parched, or perhaps it was something more. Regardless, you were coming back in the now, chin resting on your knuckles as you watched the plate of fries and skewers quickly disappear, its contents successfully transported inside Sungchan's mouth. 

“Sunday was too nice to me, almost like a dream I never wanted to wake up from. Watching someone’s house get on fire, drinking beer—I don’t know how long it’s been since I felt something so relaxing. People are always forcing me to do things, like, the minute they see me, they ask me, ‘Hey Sungchan! Do this!’ or ‘Sungchan! Can you sub for a left-back today?’ The least anyone can do is not force things on me like that.” 

“I don’t think I know you enough to force you to do stuff for me,” You replied. Once the plate of fries was empty, Sungchan popped a few ice cubes in his mouth, crushing it beneath his teeth as he whistled at the waiter for another heaping of chicken skewers and two bottles of strong rye whiskey. 

“You mean, if you knew me better, you’d force me to do things like everyone else?” He asked, eyes staring straight into yours. This was the third or fourth round of drinks, and the waiter seemed visibly annoyed at the growing pile of empty glasses next to Sungchan. He rested his chin on his large palm, fingers tapping his cheek to the rhythm of Echo and the Bunnymen playing in the background. Once you finished your glass, you kept still, quiet as ever. Closing your eyes, you immersed yourself in the soft strums of “Lips Like Sugar.” The restaurant began to pile up with more customers, but it was only your table that had begun drinking alcohol. 

“I mean, isn’t that how life is? People build relationships by forcing stuff onto each other.” You explained, after ordering another glass of mojito. 

“But you wouldn’t do that. You’re not the type.”

“How are you so sure of that?”

“I can just tell. I’ve become an expert in these things, seeing if people will force things on you or not, and you’re nothing like that, which is why I feel so relaxed when I’m with you.”

“What kind of things do people force on you?”

“Do you wanna get to know me better?” 

“I just asked,”

“What kind of answer is that?” Sungchan exclaimed, angrily popping another ice cube in his mouth. 

“Okay, yes, Sungchan. I do wanna get to know you better.”

“Really?” 

His crunching halted, a few drops of melted ice trickling down his chin, dampening his palms in the process. 

“Yes.” 

“Even if what I might say ends up getting you in prison?” 

“Seriously?” 

“Are you free on Sunday again?” He asked. 

“Didn’t I tell you I was always free on Sundays?”

“Okay, come hang out with me on Sunday, then.” 

“Sure,”

“I’ll come to your apartment, then we can go somewhere from there. I’m not sure what time, though, but I’ll be there when I’ll be there, ringing your doorbell.”

“Yeah, sure. That’s no problem.” 

“Do you have any idea what I wanna do right now?” He asked in quick succession, a fresh batch of chicken skewers sliding onto his side of the table. With a clean swipe, he took a piece and used his teeth to remove all the meat from the burnt, wooden stick. 

“No, my head’s blank right now, if I’m being honest with you.” 

“Okay, so first, I wanna lie down in a bigass bed, wide and comfy with fluffy blankets. I wanna get so drunk and cozy, not having to think about elephants and their shit at all, and I want you to be there, right next to me.”

“And then?” 

“I think you know the rest,” 

“Oh boy…”

You couldn’t count the amount of drinks the two of you had, but you were sure that Sungchan was not in the right headspace. He was staggering from his seat, eyes squinting at the bill as he complained that the text was too small for him to read. Regardless, he slapped several five thousand Won notes on the leather casing that held the thinly-veiled receipt. 

“It’s okay, think of it as a treat. I was the one who asked you to skip class for me anyway, unless you’re true to your party’s goals and have a credit card, refusing to let a man pay for you.” 

“No, I’m not like that. It’s fine, really.” 

Lifting Sungchan out of the restaurant was already a hassle in itself, but his staggers worsened as soon as the two of you began to walk outside. You couldn’t tell if he was tipsy or if he was already drunk, but he almost missed one step, and you did your best to carry his weight on your shoulders, making sure that you didn’t fall back into the hard, concrete wall with him. The layers of violet in the sky were now embedded in a deep, dark glow, emanating the low dim of the crescent moon that flickered with the neon lights around the alleyways. The two of you wandered around for a while, ending up in a small parkette with a few swings and benches. 

“Do you think if there were any tall trees in here, I could climb it?” He asked. 

“Yeah, I mean, you’re athletic and all, I’m sure a tree would be nothing to you.” 

You looked around the parkette to ensure that your eyes didn’t fool you, and you hummed in vague concern upon realizing that there weren’t any trees at all in the parkette. The only thing that remotely resembled such a tree was the neatly trimmed bushes that lined the entrance of the parkette, exaggerating in size with the shadowplay of the night. Sure, some of them had outlines of twigs and branches sticking out of them, but in the end, there was nothing that Sungchan could climb—especially given his stature. 

“Well, too bad. All the trees here are too damn short for me.” 

He got up and grabbed your hand, fingers clasped tightly on your wrists as he led you into the main shopping district. The more you were engulfed in the bustle of the city, watching each mannequin outside of a store feel more alive and in tune with the world than you were at the moment, the more concrete everything around you began to feel. The streets felt real, even more real than before when you had just moved to Seoul. It was a stark reminder that you were no longer there, but here, in the city, with a woozy Sungchan flailing his arms as he walked with an invisible tune in his head. 

“I’m glad I ran into you.” You whispered under your breath.  “I think I’m back in the real world now,”

“That is true,” Sungchan replied, stopping in his tracks while peering straight into your eyes. “You finally look like you’re here. See? That contract of ours is doing you wonders. I get to have a restraining order so I don’t get any creepy stalkers anymore, and hanging out with me does you good by pulling you all the way back to the ground from whatever sky you’re at.”

“Sometimes, I hate that you’re right,”

The large clock looming at the center of the intersection in the shopping district pointed at six in the evening, and Sungchan said he had to go home to make dinner and prepare for a match tomorrow. You told him that you would also call it a night, allowing him to walk you to the bus stop. 

“Do you know what I want to do now?” He asked, taking the seat next to you in the waiting area. 

“What?” 

“I want to go to Somalia. Get captured by pirates, you and me. They’d tie us together in tight ropes and make sure we can’t escape.” 

“Why the hell would you want us to get captured by pirates?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe fucking you in captivity is a hot fantasy I’ve let myself think about a bit too much,” he said. 

“Pervert.” 

“Then, the pirates, even though we can’t understand their language at all, would tell us we had an hour to go before they would either shoot us or, by some miracle, have some coastal guards from the US find us and save us.”

“Then?” 

“And then we would use that hour, rolling around while trying to take our clothes off, me trying to put it in with our hands and legs tied together,”

“That’s what you wanna do now? Really?”

“Yeah,”

“Good lord, Sungchan,” you said, shaking your head. By this point, Sungchan was sober enough to get up and walk back to the station. As the door to the bus opened, he reminded you of your meeting tomorrow, staying seated in the waiting area until your bus took a turn to the other lane.

It was seven in the morning when Sungchan visited your apartment. You had just woken up and had time to fetch the daily paper at your door, but you didn’t have the chance to wash your face or properly start your day with a cup of coffee. Before you could go back to the kitchen table or take a glance at today’s headline, someone loudly pounded at your door. Tucking the paper underneath your arm, you peeked through the door viewer to find Sungchan peering straight into its small, circular lens. His form wavered and swirled each time you blinked, the glass reflection of his eyes seemingly spinning in graceful pirouettes. 

“Hurry up and let me in, or else I’ll get hit on by all your neighbors! Including the ahjummas who were totally staring at how nice my face looks!” 

Once you opened the door, you were greeted by Sungchan’s beaming smile. Beads of sweat lined his furrowed brows as he used the hem of his shirt to wipe down the mist that gleamed under the rays of the summer sun. 

“Was I too early?” He asked. 

“No, not really. You came here right after the guy delivered my morning paper, come in, and I’ll make you some tea.” 

Sungchan kicked his shoes off, lining them neatly next to your sneakers before entering your apartment. 

“Nice place for yourself, is that the bed where you finger yourself? Or do you do it on the couch over there?” 

At this point, you were used to his crudeness, but the level of crass he can muster always leaves you with a second of stalled thought—almost as if time had stopped whenever something dirty came out of his mouth. 

“Come on, Sungchan. It’s like, seven in the morning. Don’t you have anything better to say?” You replied

“No, not really.” 

Before the kettle on your stove could hiss and breathe steam, you rushed to turn the switch off, hastily opening the window and fanning the smoke out into the open. Sungchan sat on one of the chairs of your dining table set, eyeing the stacks of newspapers you’ve saved somewhat morosely. 

“Tea’s ready, what kind do you want?” You asked. 

“The same one you’re having,”

“Okay,” 

You added an extra portion of milk into his tea with a cube of sugar. Normally, you’d prepare a pot of orange pekoe or rose hip, unbothered by the periodical cool of the tea whenever you would leave it to brew for too long to head to the university. Rather than out of practice or habit, it was more so a neglectful absence that didn’t require atonement. To you, it was just a pot of tea. If you were so eager to have it nice and warm, you could just pour a cup full into a saucepan and add a little bit of milk or fruit jam, stirring it and drinking it with a spoon instead of transferring it back into the pot. There was no routine to it at all. Tea was tea. 

However, the man in front of you, crass as he may be, was your guest. Even if it were at his request to have whatever you were having, it would probably be wise for you to brew him a fresh cup. After all, he was a guest, not a customer. It’s not for him to know how you like to have your tea—cold and bitter. 

“So tell me, what do girls living alone like you do?” He asked, ceaselessly blowing on the tip of the mug as he waited impatiently to devour the drink. 

“I don’t know, that’s a very creepy question to ask, you know?” You replied between sips of hot tea, placing your mug down on a coaster as you crossed your legs, dangling them on the side of the chair. “Also, don’t you have a girlfriend to ask this to?” 

“Just like you, we’re a bit complicated right now.” He said, eyes looking at the slow, rising steam wafting back and forth from his mug. “Besides, she’d yell at me if I asked her these things.”

“That’s perfectly normal.” 

“I know, but I’m just curious, and you seem to answer all my questions, no matter how bizarre.”

“That’s because you won’t shut up unless I do,” You retorted. Sungchan took the mug back into his hands and towards his pursed lips, giving the rim a light peck before drinking half of the cup and jingling it around to swish the leaves that rested at the bottom of his mug. 

“So tell me, what is it that you do here all alone?” He asked again. His doe-like, brown eyes protruded through you as if you were transparent—practically invisible. Rubbing the goosebumps off your arms, you cleared your throat and took the mug between your lips, gently blowing at it before taking a sip. Once you let it down, his bright, brown eyes glistened into a greenish hazel you as the sun hit his frame through the sheer slip between the curtains. You pushed your seat back and continued to hold your mug, this time anchoring your elbow to the table to increase the distance between him. 

“Well, I get up, read the daily papers, drink tea or coffee, depending on what I have, then take the train to school. When I go home, I take a shower, brush my teeth, study, and then go to bed.”

“What about your sex life?” 

“That hasn’t been active lately,”

“Isn’t it easier for you to just bring men here?” 

“Yeah, but I don’t feel like it,” 

“Am I not hot enough?” 

“No, you’re a hunk, trust me.”

“So then, why don’t you invite me here more often?” 

“Because, dumbass, I think of you as a friend. Why would I want to invite you over and—”

“You have someone else waiting to be invited back here,” Sungchan retorted. You could feel your chest tighten at every second that passed in silence. 

“Well, yeah, I guess,” You replied, exhaling each word as you turned your gaze to the fuzz of your worn-out slippers. “You’re surprisingly proper when it comes to these things,” 

“That’s what I like about you. But still, you couldn’t even invite me over for a quick fuck? Something to let some steam off? I wanna be here even just once, helping each other relieve our stress or something. I’m asking you because we’re friends. Who else can I ask for something like that? I can’t just walk up to anyone and say, ‘Hey, do you live alone? Can you invite me over so we can fuck for a second?’ It’s because I see you as a friend that I’m asking,”

You let out a sigh. 

“If you’re that desperate, you can come over again next week, and we can sort something out. What do you like?” 

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression or anything,” You said, watching him stand up through the corner of your eyes. “You already have painted yourself as a sex-crazed freak,”

Sungchan began pacing the room, letting his loud steps echo throughout your walls and back into your ears, equally matching the quickening thumps of your heart that rendered you deaf. He then turned his heels with a screech, and you watched his toes' heavy, languid steps draw closer to the tip of your slippers. He took a finger and lifted your chin to meet his gaze, a swirling depth of hazel underneath the glimmer of the sun. Before you could lean, he took his finger back and stuffed it in his pocket, hunching back into his seat with a ‘thump.’ 

“Whatever, anyway, I’m just curious. I was in an all-boys school my whole life so I really don’t know anything about women, even if people have spread rumors about me being this playboy. I want to really know what women think, not just through gossip and stories from other boys.”

You tried to suppress a groan, but allowed him to continue with his ridiculous train of thought. 

“The thing is, the girl I’m seeing right now doesn’t really like it when I ask her these things. She gets angry, calls me a nympho or a crazy person, and she wouldn’t even let me eat her out. Something about being a hardcore Christian makes her want to wait and see these things as impure,” 

“Right,”

“Have you been eaten out before?” 

“Yeah,”

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah, but can we please talk about something else? It’s such a beautiful Sunday morning, where I was meant to sip coffee in the sunrise while reading my morning paper. I don’t want it to be ruined by talking about fucking and getting my pussy eaten out. Let’s try to talk about something else, like your girlfriend or something. Is she in the same university as us?” You asked. The cup clasped onto your hands was empty, and you didn’t have the appetite to offer pastries that you’d left in your bread box two days ago. 

“Okay, pause. She’s not my girlfriend. It’s a little more complicated than that. She goes to the women’s university nearby, and we met after I played at her school for a soccer match. We started to talk more after exams, but she refused to put a label on it,”

At some point in the conversation, you began to allow the rest of the world around you to blur in a dream-like haze, wafting back and forth like the steam that has now fully evaporated out of you and Sungchan’s mug. You let your head hang lightly by the headrest of your chair, feeling the wooden spine trudge deeper and deeper into your neck. In these thoughts, you tried to picture Eunseok’s face, but it was rather difficult when Sungchan’s voice would continue to permeate in and out of your ears. What did Sungchan’s girlfriend look like? Would she be a better fit for Eunseok than you were? Why should any of that matter? You didn’t even know the girl.

“Hey,”

“What?” 

Just as your eyes began to adjust to the slow, menial details of Sungchan’s face, the cup on the coaster tipped over to reveal scatters of tea leaves strewn across your dining table, coated in thick, dark hues of deep, foreboding maroon. You hastily searched for a napkin or a tea towel, and Sungchan tossed a pack of tissues crumpled out of his pocket. 

“Just once on a Sunday.” He repeated, and you lost his train of thought at that very moment. 

“No,” You answered, but a part of you failed to recall his initial request. 

“At least think of me when you finger yourself, please?”

Ah, there it is again.

“Fine. I’ll give it a try and write you a detailed report, is that enough?” You said, throwing the empty pack of tissues to the bin by the kitchen counter. 

The two of you took the commuter train to Jongno. When you transferred to Daegok, Sungchan offered to purchase a small, tuna-filled kimbap from one of the stands in the station to make up for the breakfast you hadn’t eaten. The tea you had with him was over-brewed and tasted of the autumn falls blasting in your mouth. The trains on the weekends usually consisted of students in large groups of more than five and families who wanted to take the line straight to the park. There was an odd assortment of bookish girls in long skirts and boys slinging tennis rackets on their backs, rushing to leave the train to the nearest exit. Underneath the fluorescent lights of the carriage, Sungchan’s tank top was so sheer that you could see the outline of his chest and abdomen without any sense of imagination. Occasionally, he would pull the hem of his top-down, tightening its fit to enhance the way his sweat and skin clung onto the transparency of his white top. Some people in the car began staring at him, making you uneasy. This continued until the two of you had to get off at Bulgwang to switch platforms. 

“Do you wanna know what I’d like to do now?” Sungchan whispered while you quickened your pace. 

“Not here, Sungchan, we’re in the fucking train for god’s sake,” You hissed. “What if someone will hear you?” 

“Too bad, this fantasy’s a wild one,” Sungchan replied, clearly disappointed. 

“Why are we going to Jongno?” You asked, attempting to change the topic. 

“Just come,”

Jongno was sparse on a Sunday, full of empty houses that toppled over each other with equally vacant garage slots imprinted in thick, black tire marks. Sungchan slid through the downward slope of the residential villages resembling ancient homes with sleek, angular woodwork, keeping one of his hands in his pocket while interlocking his fingers in yours with the other. 

Without warning, he asked you. “Can you explain the concept of speculative attacks and why that causes a currency crisis?” 

“I can, but you should know the answer to that if you paid attention in lecture,” You replied. 

“Okay, here’s another way to frame it. How could that stuff be useful in our day-to-day life?”

“Unless you’re working in public policy or economics, then no, you don’t really need to know that stuff in detail.” You said after a brief pause to collect your thoughts. “It doesn’t necessarily serve a concrete purpose, but having that extra information in mind is useful for you to grasp things in a more logical, systematic manner.  Say, a currency crisis. It’s a thing that impacts our daily lives. If the government is running a budget deficit, then that means they’re gonna hike up taxes or cut spending. What this means for us is our lives might be harder because we have more taxes to pay, or facilities that we need might not be built. Things like that can give us more pieces to fit in this large puzzle we call life.” 

He continued to hold your hand down the slope, only letting go to carry you up once the two of you reached a point where all the greeneries and mountain ranges looked as squishable as a colony of ants within the palm of your hand. Your breath hitched for an instant, taking in the soft breeze gently caressing your cheeks while staring down into a part of the city that suddenly made you feel so small. Cars and trucks parked down the pathway felt like toys you could animate to life with one push of your finger; families hand-in-hand could be plucked out like dolls; the sky and clouds swirled with the swirl of your finger; the green of the mountains was so vibrant you felt yourself inching closer and closer to the metal railing’s edge. 

“Wow, aren’t you amazing.” He said, keeping his firm, long arms on your waist. “I never really thought about it that way. I’ve always seen what I’ve learned in school as totally useless, a pain in the ass, if you will, so I always ignored them. Now, thanks to you, I have to rethink my whole life. See if I was thinking about things the wrong way,”

“You ignored them?”

“Yeah, like I just thought they didn’t exist. I know money exists because it’s something tangible, but I couldn’t care less about sine curves or differential calculus. Those are just things to me, things I write on paper that I just throw out when I’m done with them.” 

“Then how did you get into university with a mindset like that?” 

“Don’t be dumb, you don’t need to know everything to pass exams! You just need luck and intuition. Most of the time, it’s just picking one option out of the three. One of them usually looks off, so it’s picking between the two that you think is right—and I’m usually right about the answers.” He exclaimed, leaving light kisses on your neck. 

“Unlike you, I don’t think I have too good of an intuition, so I have to be systematic, kind of like how ants work together to carry food back to their colony. It’s a step-by-step relay of going from point A to point B, until I reach the end.” You laughed under your breath, taking the chance to turn and free yourself from him. You leaned on the metal railings, feeling the cool touch of the metal replace the warmth that his arms had left. 

“Is that any better?” He asked curiously. 

“I don’t know, I think it’s easier to understand some concepts that way,”

“Like what? I need examples here,”

“Languages?”

“What good does learning a new language do?” He asked. Sungchan always had a habit of curling his lips inward when he was in deep thought, accentuating the apples of his cheeks and making his sharp features rounder. 

“Depends on the person trying to learn it. It serves some people a purpose to understand French because they’re either going to France or any French-speaking country for work, and others might be here in Korea their whole lives. The main thing, though, is training your brain to dissect things piece-by-piece, making it easier to absorb. It’s not necessarily about the purpose it serves, but often the skills you gain.” 

“You know, you’re really good at explaining things to people,” Sungchan finally said, seemingly impressed with you. He took your hand in his again and took you even lower down the slope. 

“Am I?” You asked. 

“Yeah. I’ve asked everyone in class what the hell a currency crisis has to do with everyday life and why we need it, and not one of them gave me a good, clear answer. Not even the professors are supposed to be experts in this stuff! They go on this winding path of just explaining difficult concepts and never getting to the root of my question, or they just laugh it off and tell me that I should know because I decided to enroll myself in this program. If I had met you a lot earlier, then I would’ve been interested in so many things! Damn, what a life I’ve missed.”

All you could do was hum in response. 

“Did you ever read Das Kapital?” He suddenly asked. 

“Only parts that were assigned, but I never got around to finishing it,”

“Did you understand what Marx was trying to say?” 

“A little bit. I feel like you have to have more knowledge on economics to read a book like that, far beyond what has been hamfisted up our asses by the professors,”

That was a lie. Your first encounter with Marx was with Eunseok and his girlfriend in high school. Being the contrarian she was, she always enjoyed provocative books that got her in trouble. Naturally, after being suspended for three days for carrying a copy of Marx and Engel’s The Communist Manifesto, proclaiming her unyielding devotion to Juche in front of the whole class, the next step for her was to bring a copy of Das Kapital, tactfully ripping some of the paragraphs and stuffing them inside her History notebook upon submission to the teacher. You had only read a few pages of Das Kapital then, but to this day, you could never understand what this book had to do with communism. It was a benign, sometimes aggressive critique of what is now blooming into a consolidated economic system written at a time when there were many avenues that the world could’ve taken. Marx shouldn’t be faulted for what the future thought of his words. 

“Do you think, say, a first-year student who has never been educated in economics would be able to understand Das Kapital just by reading it?” Sungchan asked. 

“No, that’s just a Sisyphean task. Outright impossible.” You responded without preamble. 

“You know, when I joined the soccer team, I expected to simply play soccer. But no, that wasn’t the case. Most of the people on the team were either socialists or those from a more working-class background, people who had been invested in the student demonstrations about inequality and political fraud. And so, whenever we finished practice or ended a friendly match, they would always talk about Marx in the locker room, saying that his view on labor was important for the future of sports. I tried to get a copy and read a few bits of Das Kapital at home, but I couldn’t get it at all. So, when I went back and told them I didn’t get it by the next week after practice, they treated me like an idiot, saying that I had nothing going on in my head. ‘Oh, Sungchan, you’re in the economics program but couldn’t even understand Marx! Hah! That’s funny! That’s what the orthodox system does to you!’ They called me a fraud for playing a working-class sport as a private school kid, all because I had told them I didn’t understand a piece of text. That’s horrible!” 

“Yeah, that is horrible,” You repeated. 

“The thing is, though, their discussions were terrible, too. Empty nothingness by using big words to sound smart, when in reality, they probably misinterpreted what Marx wanted to say, too. Whenever I asked them to explain things to me, they never bothered to. Instead, they’d just get angry, as if expecting me to know all these things by default. Can you believe it?” 

“Yeah, I can, that’s the type of crowd that the underground lectures and student movements often attract,” You replied. 

“Our former captain, who’s now graduated, called me a dumbass with nothing but brawn for my brain, asking me how I live my life the way I do now? That did it. I know I’m not the smartest, and even though I went to a private school, I was also from a working-class background. I am well aware that it’s the working class that keeps the world running and that the working class gets exploited by the bourgeoisie. I don’t think Marx envisioned a revolution where people just throw big, fancy words at each other that others can’t understand? That’s a shitty social revolution if you ask me. How the hell are you able to move people with difficult words that they can’t understand? I believe that if a certain group of people are being exploited, then we have to do all we can to stop it, that’s why I keep asking questions, to know more and to understand how the world works so we can try to make it a better place. Do you think I’m stupid, or what?” 

“No, you’re very much right.”

“A-ha! Those guys are total frauds! All they have in mind is using these big words to impress girls that they run into after our matches. When they graduate, they won’t give a single crap about the class struggle or whatever socialist mumbo jumbo they were preaching! They’d just don a suit and find work in large companies! They’d marry pretty, upper-class wives who have never read a single word of Marx in their life, get kids, drive fast, fancy cars, and give them Western names that are so ridiculous that it makes you want to laugh. Smash the education complex? Fight against election fraud? What bullshit! The newer recruits were just as bad. They didn’t know a single thing about Marx. They just sat there silently in the locker room and pointed fingers at me whenever I asked a question. Then, they told me, ‘Hyung, just agree with whatever they say, it’s easier that way.’ Makes my blood boil.”

You laughed, watching the sparkle in his eyes fester with vigor. “So, what happened after that?” 

“Most of the upperclassmen had graduated by the time I got the position of vice-captain. Since then, I told the new recruits to never talk about things like Marx in the locker room and to treat each other with respect. ‘Ask Hyung if you need anything, and I won’t haze or bully you about it.’ I told them that. Things have been better since, but the captain still wants to keep the so-called revolution going. Something about keeping the original root of the sport and the integrity of the game aligned with the class struggle. Shut the fuck up. God, if ever any of those assholes ran into you, they’d probably beat you up or shoot you because you understood Marx far better than they did.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, believe me. I know what I’m talking about. I’m working class. Revolution or not, the working class will always be the ones scraping by. I mean, look at those communist revolutions happening in Africa! I don’t know too much, but tell me why they’re still poor even after some big guy comes in and says he can change the country! It’s because he uses stupid, big words that nobody can understand! Then, they’d hike up taxes for so-called ‘government expenses,’ when in reality, they’re just inflating their pockets with more money and gold. Tell me, have you ever seen the taxman?” 

“No, never,”

“Well, I have. Too many times. They come in barging into your door with their stupid papers, acting like big game. ‘Oh, how is take out a business expense? Show me all your receipts right now!’ And we can’t even say anything back, or else my dad will go to jail! We even have to give them nice teas and snacks! No matter how cruel they are, though, I will tell you one thing: My dad is an honest man. He has never cheated on his taxes, and he keeps records just as well as he’s maintained the shop since it was handed over to him. If you tell that to the taxman, though, he won’t believe you. He’ll just dig and dig and dig. ‘What’s this ledger?’ ‘Isn’t income looking a little low in this quarter?’ And I wanted to scream to them, scream so loud: Hey asshole! Income isn’t looking too good because we’re not making any money with this stupid business! Go dig into our shop when we make some real cash!”

“The worst part is that they won’t change even after a revolution,” You signed.

“Exactly. Fuck the revolution. It’s just a bunch of bullshit. The only thing I’ll ever believe in is love.”

“I got somewhere to be,” Sungchan said. 

“This early?” 

“Yeah, I have to go to the hospital. My dad’s there, so it’s my turn to look after him,” 

“Wait, I thought he was in Thailand?”

“I lied.” Sungchan said flatly. “I mean, he’s been screaming about it, but he’s not even in a condition to leave Seoul.”

“How bad is he?” You asked. 

“I don’t know, give it a few months? Maybe two?” He replied. The two of you walked on in deathly silence. It was a matter of time until the two of you reached the bottom of the slope, head first into the large, glass doors of Seoul National University Hospital. 

“He’s got the same one my mother had,  just with a different genitalia because he’s a man. God, I don’t know if you can sexually transmit cancer, but can you believe it? Four years after cervical cancer, my dad suddenly gets testicular.”

Once the two of you entered the corridors, the stench of antiseptic wafted in the air. The hospital was busy and crowded for a Sunday, with several lines in the reception and elevators consisting of weekend visitors and patients walking about in wheelchairs or IV drips. The sweet scent of flowers slightly permeated the air, with an inkling of urine and old mattresses. Nurses walked past the two of you, pushing large trays of food, the soles of their shoes rubbing into the floor as they quickened their pace. 

Sungchan’s father was in a room shared with four other patients. His bed was right by the large, open window. Upon inspection, it was difficult to tell if he was breathing and even harder to tell if he was human. Though he was stretched out, the rest was shriveled up like a raisin, cheeks hollow to the touch and eyes covered in folded lids that were always closed. 

Today, he was lying on his side, skinny, bony arms limp and flat on the white bed covers. There were several tubes and needles attached to him, and it was difficult to see him as the kind of man who was once as tall and mighty as his son. The constant drip of the plastic bags only gave you the impression that he could only shrivel up more than he already endured.

For a brief second, you saw his eyes fling open as if aware of Sungchan’s presence and only keeping them open as a greeting that was established between father and son. It didn’t take a doctor or a medical practitioner of any sort to know that he was going to die soon. At least, in part, all it took for you was, in brevity, seeing the rims of his eyes glow a shade of pinkish red, drifting back and forth with the blur of cataracts in his pupils that refused to show him the colors and lines of the world he once saw. There was absolutely no sign of life or direction in his second-long gaze, and even if you were to inflate him like an air balloon with life, it felt to you like there was a punctured hole somewhere in him that oozed out life no matter how hard you tried to pump it in him. It was a short stretch from here to the end—a waiting game of slow decay and demolition. Despite this, though, his thin, white goatee continued to grow like stray bristles on a brush, and you wondered why he grew an impressive one when all other signs of life escaped his body and mind. 

Sungchan greeted each patient by popping his head through the curtains. One lady of about sixty with all her curtains open nodded and smiled in return, dry, flaky lips sealed with a lack of moisture. She tried to suppress a cough a few times, then returned to her bed to shift her weightless form to face the door. 

The view from the window was bleak in comparison to the one the two of you experienced in the middle of the residential area’s slopes. The only thing you could see from Sungchan’s father’s window was a large, electricity pole that covered the sky. 

“How are you feeling, dad?” Sungchan asked, leaning closer until his lips were right next to his father’s ear. His father shook his head and muttered a groan, as any word he formed in his head remain stuck in his throat, choking him dry. 

“Headache?” Sungchan asked, touching his own head. His father nodded in return, trying to open his mouth but to no avail. 

“Well, no wonder,” he muttered. “You’ve just got your balls removed, and they’ve injected you with so much medicine that your head will pound. Of course, your head will hurt. Too bad, but please, try to be brave. Oh, and this is my friend,” 

“Nice to meet you,” You said. Sungchan’s father tried to open his mouth, then proceeded to close it shut again. 

Sungchan pulled a seat from his father’s foldable table and gestured for you to sit. You hesitated a little until he grabbed your arm and pulled you into one of the plastic chairs next to his father’s bed. Sungchan then gave his father a few sips of water, asking him if he would like any food. His father shook his head, and when Sungchan stubbornly insisted that he needed to eat, his father opened his eyes briefly, moving his pupils to point at the food left at the head of his bed. 

Sungchan hoisted a large duffel bag under the table, taking out a change of clothes and underwear, straightening them out, and putting them inside a drawer by his father’s bedside lamp. Once he reached the bottom of the bag, he fished out two packs of dried seaweed, a couple of fruit jellies, and two slices of cream-filled sponge cakes. 

“Fucking hell, really? Cake?! Feeding a man pumped with chemo cake?! I told that asshole exactly what I wanted him to buy! Porridge with vegetables, not cake!” Sungchan exclaimed, angrily shoving some of the food back into the bag. 

“That’s… a weird mixup.”

“Weird indeed. God, he’s insufferable.” Sungchan said. “Dad, want some cake?” 

His father didn’t respond. 

“Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?” Sungchan repeated louder, resulting in a firm no that his father was able to mouth. 

“How about you?” Sungchan turned to ask you. 

“I’m also alright,” You answered. 

After sitting with Sungchan and his father for a while, Sungchan took you to the smoking area outside of the hospital and slipped a cigarette between his lips, crossing his arms tightly as he held the filter with his fingers. Some of the patients in hospital gowns were also outside, smoking while counting the cars that passed by the entrance’s driveway. 

“That old woman in the wheelchair keeps looking at me. The one over there, with the glasses and a pink nightgown,” Sungchan whispered, eyes twinkling. 

“I don’t know, what more do you want me to say? ‘Oh, Sungchan, you’re so handsome that all the ajhummas in the hospital want you!’ Do you want me to say that?” 

“Maybe seeing a handsome guy such as myself keeps them with things to think about. You know, get them all excited. I be they haven’t felt like that in a long time.” 

“Seriously?” You sighed. Sungchan stared at the smoke that swirled from his cigarette. 

“You know,” Sungchan started, fishing his hands in his pocket and slipping another cigarette from the pack into his mouth. “He’s not so bad. He can say terrible things, but deep down, he really loved my mom with such intensity, even though he’s a little timid and cannot run a business properly. People don’t really like him because he can be blunt at times, but he’s definitely a lot better than the frauds out there who go around thinking they’re tough shit for knowing big words or being in a gang. I’m just as stubborn as he is, so we tend to fight a lot, but he’s not a bad guy.”

Sungchan took your hand as if it were fragile, carefully placing it on his lap. He used his thumbs to rub your palm in repeated circles, eyes looking into yours for over a minute. 

“Sorry to bring you here out of all places, but can you stay with me for a bit longer?” He asked, a soft tinge in his voice begging for you to stay. 

“I can stay with you for as long as you want. I mean, I did say I’m free on Sundays.” You replied with a smile. 

“What do you usually do? You know, apart from reading the daily paper and sipping coffee at five in the goddamn morning.” 

“Laundry?” You replied. 

“What about your boyfriend?”

“Same as you. I don’t really know if I could call him that, and it’s really complicated right now. I don’t really know how to explain it,”

“That’s alright, but do you mind me asking what I think is going on?” Sungchan asked. 

“Sure, I bet it’s miles more interesting than the truth,”

“He’s married, isn’t he?” Sungchan said, unwavering confidence in his voice that convinced you otherwise that his grand fantasies could maybe become a reality. “Forty or something, rich, and was once handsome. Drives foreign cars like a Benz or a BMW and wears shoes made of pure leather, with suits hand-tailored for him from the most expensive department stores here in Seoul. He’s hungry for lust, and he’s into super kinky things. The two of you meet after your shift at the library on weekdays and do all sorts of things to each other's bodies: he ties you up in crazy positions, puts a gag on you, has different kinds of whips, and you sit there enjoying all of that. His wife and kids have Sundays to themselves to eat big dinners and spend time together. That’s why he can’t see you then. Is that correct?” 

“Interesting,” 

“He loves taking pictures of you, too, and has a really expensive camera that he uses to take all sorts of pictures of you in many positions, including when he puts all sorts of weird things inside of you. It’s like every single time you meet him, he gets kinkier. He’s always planning what type of toys and liquids he’d use on you, and he makes you come at least three times in crazy positions that break your legs and twist your body. He then talks about how because he’s older, he’s more experienced, and that you’ll never ever find the same satisfaction in younger boys anymore because he’s satisfied you so much. Makes you feel good.” 

“I think you frequent the porn cinemas too much,” You flatly replied, dreading the next few words that would come out of his mouth with a twisted, mild curiosity. 

“I do, actually. I was kind of worried that I come off that way, but if you want, we can go to a screening sometime soon,”

“Alright, when you’re free,” You said. 

“You’re not joking?” Sungchan asked with an ecstatic shock in his voice that you had never heard from him before, as if you were the first person who had acknowledged his presence in his whole life. 

“Nope. Show me what sort of things you watch.”

“Alright, there’s a BDSM one with pee and shit everywhere. Some pirated German one they found. I’ve never seen it yet, but I do like watching the ones that are a bit more deranged. It’s interesting.” 

“Sounds fun,”

“My favorite ones are the gang bang scenes, because you think to yourself ‘How the hell do they get seven people to fuck each other like that? Swallowing cum and pee at the same time?’ It’s like going to a cafeteria and having people all drink water super loud at the same time!”

When the two of you returned to the hospital room, Sungchan filled the air with his chatty voice, only to be met with a dead wall of silence. The only thing he could get out from his father was a firm nod, a shake, or a grunt—and, if he was lucky, a string of groans. Two hours had passed, and an old, healthy man, presumably the old woman's husband with her curtains all opened, came inside the room to change her gown and peel some fruits for her. Despite the signs of age, he was a tall, athletic-looking man—somewhat stocky but firm in muscle. His face was inviting and kind, and his smile emphasized the lines on his cheeks, brightening him back ten years or so. He shared a lot of small talk with Sungchan, and by the time the two had started talking, a nurse arrived with a tray of needles and medicine, speaking to Sungchan while the old man excused himself out the door. Your eyes wandered around the room towards the window, tracing the trajectory of the electricity pole’s power lines. Every now and then, crows would perch on the lines, elongating their necks in surveillance of the whole neighborhood. Sungchan talked to his father and wiped the sweat around his body, helping him spit phlegm into a trash can occasionally while chatting with the old man, who came back and exchanged pleasantries with you. 

The doctors usually did their rounds at the hour, so you stepped outside with Sungchan in the corridor. When one of them came out, Sungchan’s eyes widened, and he rushed to his side, greeting him with a firm bow and asking him how his father was doing. 

“He seems fine after the surgery, obviously drained from energy, but we’ll still need a few days to assess him and evaluate the results of the operation. If he’s alright by then, he can probably go home, and if not, we’ll discuss further with your brother,” The doctor said. 

“Are you not gonna take his other ball?”

“If you put it that way, then it depends. We can’t know until we’ve seen the results,”

A patient’s condition and prognosis were challenging to tell with doctors. Though you didn’t know too much, it was always the impression that you got from them. Armed with a clipboard that tells you more about yourself than you will ever know in your entire lifespan, yet shrouded in ciphers, you must decode through medical language and terms you would’ve never encountered. There was simply no easy way to tell if you were doing well or not when the doctor couldn’t even give a concrete answer. It was always the good news followed by the bad or the bad followed by a string of intricate phrases and words that you couldn’t care much about as soon as you left the hospital. 

With Sungchan’s father, though, everything was transparent. It was almost as if you could see his fate through the reflection of the glasses that kept inching closer and closer to the doctor’s nose. No matter how much he pushed it up, it always slid down the bridge and onto the tip of his nose, where it dangled until he had to push it up again. He should probably throw those out and switch to contacts. 

After the doctor finished his rounds, a nurse entered the room, pushing a trolley with trays stacked on each other. Sungchan took one and carefully balanced it on his long arms, placing it down after reclining his father’s seat upright. He gently took the hot bowl of congee onto the makeshift table, then used a butter knife to slice up some fruits and debone the boiled fish that came with his father’s meal. With each spoonful he gave to his father, the life that had been drained out of him slowly came back. After four or so spoonfuls, he had enough to slowly raise his hand and stop the spoon from entering his mouth. 

No more, he mouthed. 

“God, you're hopeless, aren’t you? If you don’t eat more, you’re gonna die! You need to have your intestines functioning at least, so you can shit properly and not get constipated,” Sungchan complained, but to no avail. His father fervently shook his head, and Sungchan gave up, proceeding to turn his attention back to you with a tired frown. 

“Come, let’s go down to the cafeteria,” he requested. 

You promptly nodded and followed him down the elevator, letting your nose adjust to the stench of antiseptic that wafted across the entire building. Once the two of you reached the cafeteria on the ground floor, he offered to buy you some sandwiches and rice balls, but you declined. You couldn’t bring yourself to have an appetite when the entire cafeteria was packed with doctors, nurses, patients, and visitors. All the conversations that wafted and stayed in the air all talked about sickness, never health. It passed through you like a tunnel, where one after the other, another form or fragment of injury seemed to fill your head with the worst fate that terminal illness could offer. Every so often, the PA system would slice through the cafeteria with screeching static for a patient or a staff member. 

When Sungchan returned with two portions of rice, cabbage stew, and ban chan, you tried your best to chew half of it, leaving the rest for him to finish. He didn’t look up throughout his lunch, nodding with glee as he hounded his meal to the last mouthful. 

“You barely touched your food,” he asked. This was the first time he’s looked up since he came back with the meals. 

“I don’t know, I’m just not hungry,” you replied. 

“I get it. Hospitals don’t really equate to hunger, especially when you’re not used to the place. I mean, god, the smells! That antiseptic or whatever they use sure keeps you full. Being in an environment with so much stress, anxiety, disappointment, pain, and fatigue—that’s what does it to your stomach, grabbing your appetite and beating it to a pulp until it’s dead. The thing is, though, it’s not a problem once you get used to it. And you can’t really take care of someone when you’re hungry. I know this. I was on an empty stomach when my grandpa was at the hospital for cancer, and then I ate a little when my grandma was here. By the time it got to my mom, I got the routine in my head and ate before going to the hospital. Now, it’s my dad. By this point, I’m too used to coming here, and I can eat here just fine. You never know when you’re gonna have to basically live here, so it’s important to eat when you can.”

“That makes sense,” you nodded. 

“Whenever our relatives come to visit, they leave their food just like you. Then they tell me that I’m strong because I can eat despite being upset. What a load of crap! I’m the only one taking care of him! All they have to do is come every now and then and drop their faux sympathies! I’m the one who wipes his ass and makes sure his balls don’t hurt! I helped change his IV drips and fed him! If sympathy were all it took to clean his shit up, then he would be better by now! Instead, they see me eating here and say all that crap about me being strong. What the hell do they think they are? I mean, they’re old enough to know how this world works, so why are they so dumb? It’s so easy to talk big unless you’re not in the position of wiping some old guy’s ass up. Like, do they not think this hurts me just as much, if not more? Do they not think about it hurting so much that I just want to cry? How do they think I feel when I watch a horde of doctors cut my dad’s balls up, doing it again and again? To top it all off, you see your savings depleted. I was lucky enough to make it to my third year, but what then? He’ll surely die before I graduate, and that’s one more year! At this rate, I don’t even think my brother can afford to get married!” 

“How many times do you come here?” You asked, taking a soup spoon to stir some of the cold stew in your tray. 

“Depends. Usually four times a week, and they do promise all-around care from the nurses, but there’s too much for them to do around here. It’s an understaffed hospital. Some of our relatives come here to help. My brother’s got the shop, and I have to finish university. Even then, he comes here three times a week, and we sneak in past visiting hours when we can. It’s a full commitment, I tell you,” 

“How do you have time to spend with me when you’re so busy?” 

“I enjoy spending time with you,” Sungchan said with a smile. 

“Get out of here. Take a walk or something, I don’t know, just leave. I’ll take care of your father,” you demanded. At this point, you were already stood up. You had both trays in your hands with all the rubbish piled up on Sungchan’s empty bowls. He remained seated, eyes widening enough to encase all the fluorescent lights’ reflections into his brown, swirling irises. 

“What, why?” 

“You need to leave the hospital. It’s not helping you relax,” you explained, sighing. “You need something that can clear your mind up, even just by a little bit,” 

As he prepared his body to stand up from his chair, he sank again, allowing his back to merge with the flimsy plastic touching his bare neck. After a minute, he stood up again and nodded. 

“Do you know what to do, though? It’s a lot of work,”

“I think so. I’ve been watching you do it, and I think I got it. Check the IV drip, give him water, wipe his sweat off, and adjust his oxygen mask occasionally when he coughs, making sure they collect the phlegm. If he gets hungry, I feed him some jellies or the rest of his lunch on the bedside table. If I don’t know what to do, I’ll just ask the nurse,”

“Perfect,” Sungchan replied, grinning from ear to ear. “There’s just one thing, though: he can say weird shit because of all the medication, some jibberish that no one can understand. If he says anything that hurts you, try to ignore it. It’s not him, it’s the medication.” 

“Got it,” you saluted. 

Once the two of you were back in the room, Sungchan told his father that he had someone from the soccer team to phone and that you would be watching him while he sorted things out with the team. His father didn’t move or open his mouth. You figured it didn’t concern him if it had nothing to do with him. He remained lying on his back, eyes shut while his head was cocked up to the white ceiling. Had he not periodically opened his eyes to blink once in a while, you could’ve sworn he had flatlined. 

Whenever he did muster the courage to open his eyes, they were stained with swirls of red, making him look hungover. His nostrils noticeably flared up and down whenever he breathed, and his eyebrows would twitch whenever he had to open his eyes. Besides that, he had little to no movement, and he never tried to respond to Sungchan. 

After Sungchan had left the room, you didn’t know what to say to his father, let alone how to start a conversation with someone who didn’t give you a response. So, you kept quiet for a while, watching him slowly succumb to sleep. You took one of the chairs by the window and leaned closer to look at the way his nose twitched, hoping that he wouldn’t die while you were here. How would it feel to have a strange woman your son had brought to die by your side?

It was easier to sympathize with the dead than a vegetable. 

He was, alas, not dying. He was simply sleeping peacefully, with gargled breath and a twitching nose. You brought your ears closer to his face, hearing his faint, weak breathing. Heaving a sigh of relief, you got up and greeted the husband of the old woman next door. The only thing that came out of his mouth was any good word about Sungchan, assuming you were his girlfriend. 

“Sungchan’s a really good guy,” he said. “He takes care of his father, and he’s so kind and sensitive. To top it all off, he has a face of an actor. I’m sure he treats you right, and always be by his side. He’s going through a tough time right now, and I’m sure you won’t find anyone like him.”

“I try my best to treat him right,” you replied casually. 

“I have kids at home. One’s eighteen, just out of high school, and the other, twenty-two, probably around you and Sungchan’s age. Neither of them want to visit! They said the hospital smells, and the minute they’re out of school, they never think twice about visiting. They just play around, go on dates, go on with their lives. They only come around to ask me for some pocket money.” 

About an hour had passed, and the man got up to wave goodbye. You didn’t know if he would come back, but you could see that both Sungchan’s father and the old woman were deep in sleep. The gentle, marmalade rays of the sunlight poured into the room, and the warmth that wafted in the air made you feel like you were slowly drifting into a benign, mindless nap. The faded pink of the Dahlias by the old woman’s bedside drawer signaled the end of the summer, and the remnants of boiled fish swirled around the room. You could hear the low chatter of the nurses just outside in the hallway, sneakers squeaking and squealing with the wagons they had to push back and forth throughout their shift. Every so often, one of the nurses would poke her head into the room, quietly sliding the door to glance around. Then, they would flash you a small smile. You wished there was a magazine or a newspaper that you could pick up and read to kill time, but there was nothing of the sort nearby, and you didn’t want to bother any of the nurses when you weren’t even a patient at the hospital. 

Oddly, the hospital reminded you of Eunseok. Perhaps it was because of Ujeong Inn, but you could picture him wearing nothing underneath the blanket in one of the beds. You thought of the softness of his jet-black hair and the lean, bony muscles that felt fragile between your fingertips. Then, you wondered why he was here, of all places. The more you thought of him, the less apparent his existence seemed—almost like a wavering, hazy fantasy you conjured up in a daze. And the more you thought of him, the more uncertain you became of the night you spent with him at Ujeong Inn. If you told yourself that it did happen, then it did, and if you thought of it as a daydream, then it was just that, a daydream. Some of the details felt too real for it to be anything you could think of, but too ethereal to have been based in actuality. 

Eunseok and the moonlight; an trick of the eye that trickled to the hairs of your skin. 

Sungchan’s father suddenly stirred up, raspy breaths accompanying a dry heave. You quickly snapped out of your daydream and helped him spit his phlegm out into a handkerchief, disposing of it before coming back to wipe his sweat with a fresh towel. 

“Would you like some water?” You asked. He responded with a weak, but firm nod. You poured some of the water from a plastic bottle into his glass, and controlled his sips a little at a time. 

It was difficult for you to discern if he wanted more or if he wanted you to stop. It seems that larger movements physically hurt him. 

“More?” You asked. He shook his head. 

“Are you hungry? What about some fruits?” 

He shook his head again. You wiped his mouth with the same towel and adjusted the bed flatly before taking the trays and cutlery onto the visitor’s table. 

“Was the food good?” You asked. He fervently shook his head, then deepening the wrinkles of his eyebrows. 

“I know, I know,” you tried to sympathize with him. Sungchan’s father indecisively opened and closed his eyes as he lay completely flat on the bed, turning his head to face you. Did he know who you were? Had Sungchan talked about you to him on his last visits? He seemed quite relaxed to be laying next to a stranger, and he was definitely quieter with you than he ever was with Sungchan. Perhaps he thinks you’re Sungchan? Or someone else? 

“It’s a nice day out,” you started, resting your chin on your palm as you crossed your legs. “Winter’s coming soon, but the temperature hasn’t dropped significantly. It’s still warm enough for me to do my laundry outside, and you’re better off here than out in the city. The pollution’s getting worse because of more factories built up in the East, and the crowds! My god, they’re exhausting to deal with. I’d rather stay home and iron my clothes. I used to be bad at it, almost burning my shirts, but I’ve gotten better. Now, I can make things look perfect, and none of my clothes have any wrinkles on them at all! Spotless and brand new! Today was a perfect day for laundry and ironing, but that’s okay, I can wake up early tomorrow morning and take care of it all. Sundays are always free, and I always have nothing to do.” 

“When I sort out my laundry tomorrow, I go to class with Sungchan. We take a lot of classes together, but econometrics is the one we’re taking tomorrow. It’s nothing really interesting, and I don’t particularly enjoy it. It’s just statistics adapted to fit economics, and most of the stuff we do, like regression analysis, has already been done and mastered in some of the more math-intensive courses.” 

“What I enjoy in most of my courses is reading essays by economists who think beyond the scope of what we think the economy encompasses. I find that economics works better with the math all removed, even if most scholars say it’s the math that adds a solid foundation to it. Sure, I do agree to a certain extent, but you can’t quantify real-life behaviors. I mean, how are we supposed to calculate every one's utility when every person has a different level of satisfaction? People also don’t seem to take into account the difference in culture. I mean, yeah, the American model of capitalism and consumerism relies on so-called notions of freedom of choice, but Korean society consists of savers. We have been taught to save for a very long time, and that’s one thing we can’t erase. It’s rude to spend, and because of that, we can’t just adopt capitalism as a structure. We need to be aware of what makes us different from the rest, and then think about adapting to a new type of accumulation that stimulates overall growth without throwing away the lessons that we’ve been taught by our ancestors. That has nothing to do with econometrics, but that’s pretty much the kind of stuff Sungchan and I study at university,” 

Sungchan’s father had said nothing, keeping his dim eyes on you the entire time you were talking. Of course, it was difficult to tell if he actually understood anything you said to him. 

“Alright, I’ll go now,” 

Sungchan’s father responded in a way that made you remember that he was once a human capable of speech. 

“No, please stay,” he whispered through the lumps of phlegm on his throat. After conversing with yourself, you nodded and returned to your seat, feeling parched and starved. You didn’t eat anything for breakfast and ate half your lunch. Now, you regretted not being able to finish your portion, but you realized quickly that feeling sorry for yourself wouldn’t help you at all. You stood up again and reassured the man that you were staying put, unzipping the large duffel bag by the foot of his bed for something to eat. Rummaging through the pockets and corners of the bag, you only fished out some cough drops and an unopened pack of instant congee. Then, your eyes flicked back onto the slices of cake that were just beside you on the table. 

“Do you mind if I eat this piece of cake? I’m getting a bit hungry,” you asked. Sungchan’s father didn’t answer. You took a slice of chocolate cake and pulled a small, heaping piece with your fingers, careful not to leave any icing between your nails. 

“Delicious, but decadent. Too much cream, and it’s a little too sweet! I think they got this from the French bakery that just opened near the station,” you remarked. You scraped off more of the icing and siphoned off a second heaping—this time, a larger mouthful than the first. The only thing you could hear in the room was your teeth gnawing at the soft sponge. After this mouthful, you decided to take a break, taking another fresh towel from the bag to wipe your fingers. You boiled some water in a kettle by the end of the corridor and made tea for the two of you. 

“Do you want something to drink?” You asked, coming back with two mugs filled with corn tea. 

“Cake,” he whispered. 

“Alright, a small slice like that will do. What side do you want? The end bits with more cream, or the middle with more sponge?” 

“Sponge,” he replied with a nod. You adjusted the bed again to how Sungchan had left it when he felt his father. Then, you used a pair of disposable chopsticks from the duffel bag to cut the cake in quarters, flying it into the patient’s mouth like an airplane. After a stern, unreadable expression, Sungchan’s father’s mouth moved from cheek to cheek, finally swallowing the piece after a while. 

“Is that good?” He nodded. 

“Things are better when food tastes good, no? Tasting good food and feeling good about it is kind of proof that you’re alive,” 

He had an entire slice of cake. After he was finished, you filled his glass with water and controlled his sips. He motioned for the bathroom as soon as he was done with his glass, so you took a cup from the foot of his bed and held it under his penis. When he signaled to you that he was done, you emptied its contents in the toilet and washed the cup clean. By the time you came back, you could only throw the tea out where his urine went. 

“How are you feeling now?” You asked. 

“Head… hurts.” He replied. 

“I mean, you did have an operation. I’ve never had one in my entire life, so I don’t know what it’s like.”

“Gongdeok ticket to Sungchan,” he suddenly whispered, saying more than you believed he was capable of. 

“Gongdeok,” he repeated. “Sungchan,”

“Gongdeok?”

“Please,” he said. “Sungchan” 

You couldn’t connect or decipher what he said, so you kept quiet. He, too, was silent for a while. Occasionally, he would muster the exact words again: Gongdeok, ticket, Sungchan. He opened his eyes, peering at you as if demanding your full attention. You knew he was trying to tell you something, but you couldn’t begin to imagine what was so important for you to know. 

All you knew then was that any sign of lifelessness was suddenly animated in his deep, pressing gaze. He now had the strength to raise his arm at you and gripped your wrist tight. This must have had an incredible effect on him, so you returned the favor by slipping your hand in his. With what little remaining strength he could muster, he squeezed your hand and mouthed the word please, now even quieter than a whisper or a secret. 

“No worries, I’ll go take care of Sungchan and Gongdeok,” you responded haphazardly. Then, he suddenly fell flat, chest heaving up and down as a faint snore drifted into your ears. You put two of your fingers next to his lymph nodes to check if he was alive, then, once you felt a pulse, headed out to the hallway for a quick walk. The moment you slid the door of the room shut and allowed the change in environment to settle within you, you realized that you’d grown a liking for this old, shriveled man on the verge of death. 

The old man came back a few moments later, greeting you in the hallway to ask if everything was alright. The only thing you could give him was a frail nod, then excusing yourself to meet Sungchan outside. 

Before you could descend the stairs, you saw him extend a wave toward you at the bottom of the staircase, quickly jogging up to catch up with you. 

“I was just in the parking lot, counting the cars until I fell asleep.” He started. “I did what you told me to do. I just sat there and let my head get empty.”

“How are you feeling now?” You asked. 

“Much better. I’m still tired, but I feel lighter than I ever felt before. I think I’m more tired than I realize.” 

Sungchan’s father was now fast asleep, and there was nothing for the two of you to do, so you went back down to the cafeteria to buy coffee, then stepped out again to smoke. You filled Sungchan in with what happened after he left—that his father slept soundly, then woke up to eat his lunch and a whole slice of cake, then peed. 

“No way, no fucking way.” Sungchan said, startled. “You got him to finish his dinner tray and have him eat half a piece of cake! That’s amazing!” 

“We were all out here going nuts over him starving himself and refusing any food he gave us, but you got him to finish his food!”

“I think he just saw me enjoy the cake and wanted some too,” 

“Either that or you have this thing in you that just relaxes people,”

“Doubt it, I think a lot of people say I’m unsettling,” you laughed. 

“So?” Sungchan asked, shifting the bottle of canned coffee between his hands. “What did you think about my dad?” 

“He’s nice. I mean, I couldn’t have a proper conversation with him, but he seems nice.” 

“He was quiet, wasn’t he?” 

“Very.”

“God, he was much worse a week ago. He went wild in there! Throwing his food around and shit. Telling us that he hoped we’d die. Cancer does that to people. It’s probably the fact that chemo literally kills your cells, but it was the same with my mom. At the last part of her illness, when she was on the brink of death, she yelled at me and said I wasn’t his son. Deep down, I know it wasn’t her, but it affected me so much that I couldn’t bring myself to see her for a while. To think your own mother would say something distasteful, right?” 

“I get it,” you replied, then suddenly remembered the string of words that Sungchan’s father had uttered. 

“A ticket to Gongdeok? What the hell is he trying to say?” 

“Then he said ‘Please’ and ‘Sungchan.’ He either meant, ‘Please take care of Sungchan,’ or he wanted you to go to Gongdeok and buy a ticket. It was such a mess that I couldn’t understand any of it, but who knows? Does Gongdeok ring any bells?” 

Sungchan pondered on the collection of words for while. 

“The only thing I can think of was running away from home, then going to Gongdeok to take the airport link to Gimpo. Back then, when I was ten or so, I was stupid enough to think I could just buy a plane ticket at the desk. I’d heard about a nice aunt who lived in America, so I went to the airport, went to a desk, and asked for a ticket to America, but she refused! Said she would call my house, and I refused to give her an address! Soon enough, though, my dad came to pick me up from Gimpo and then bought me lunch at the airport. He talked to me about all sorts of things, like the war and how he was exempt from conscription because of his astigmatism but still served military service when he was young. Come to think of it, that was the only time I’ve ever had a long conversation with him. God, I wonder what he was like in military service. Lord knows if I’d be like him when I serve.”

“Aren’t you supposed to serve now?” You asked.

“Who knows? I haven’t been called on yet. I think it has something to do with my mom dying, and now my dad being ill. My brother was unlucky, though, he finished his service right as my mom got diagnosed, so he came home from all of that chaos only to find more at home. Anyway, on the train, he told me all sorts of stories. Stuff about the Japanese in Korea, the Americans coming to Seoul, and then, Vietnam! I didn’t even know where that was as a kid, but all his stories always ended with him saying something like, ‘Sungchan, the world’s the same everywhere we go.’ A bit of a depressing conclusion to say to a ten-year-old, but his stories really impressed me.” 

“I see,”

“See what?”

“Why your dad said that,” you muttered under your breath. 

“Did you ever run away from home?” Sungchan asked, cocking his head to the side. 

“No,”

“Why not?” 

“Never thought about it,”

“God, you’re weird!” He exclaimed, as if impressed by your every answer. “Every kid has that point in their life, no?”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“So, what did you say to my dad after that?” 

“I just said I’d take care of you and Gongdeok.”

“Really? You told him you’d take care of me?”

Sungchan looked you straight in the eyes with a grave expression. 

“Yeah, I did, but I really didn’t know what he was saying, and—”

“Don’t worry, I get what you’re trying to say,” he laughed. 

After Sungchan had finished his cigarette, the two of you returned to the room. His father was still fast asleep, and you could still hear his faint snores falling up and down into your ears, as if you had pressed them near his mouth. As the skies turned violet, the lights in the hospital flicked to a dim shade of yellow, reflecting the colors of dead leaves. The flock of birds once perched on the utility pole had all fluttered away. You and Sungchan sat by the window next to his father’s bed, trying your best to exchange words in low conversation. He took the empty mug where you dumped out your cold tea and attempted to read the fortune written in the black specs that adorned the white ceramic, and told you that you would go past a hundred, get your heart broken in a divorce, then die. At the same time, everyone watched you get a heart attack in the grocery store. 

Sungchan’s father woke up at dusk, and Sungchan took his chair, moving it next to his father’s bedside drawer. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, gave him some water straight out of the bottle, and asked him about any pains in his body. A nurse had come by a few moments later to take his temperature, record any of his vitals, and check the IV drips for any faults. You returned to the cafeteria and watched the news on the television. 

After an hour, you returned and told Sungchan you were leaving. To his father, you told him that you had to go back home to study. He turned his head towards you and twitched the corners of his mouth. 

“Thank you so much for today,” Sungchan said when he walked you to the exit. 

“I mean, I didn’t really do anything at all, to be honest, but I’ll come by next week. I’d like to see your father again,” you said. 

“Really?” 

“Being alone in that apartment can get to me from time to time, and who knows? Your brother might bring cake again,”

Sungchan folded his arms and tapped his feet. 

“Well, I’d like to go out with you again,” he said, a valiant smirk etched on his face. 

“What about the porn cinema you promised?”

“We can do that first and then go out to eat while talking about the usual disgusting things that we talk about,”

“You’re the one who brings it up!”

“Sounds like a plan, no? Get super drunk in the afternoon and then pass out in bed,”

“What other fantasies do you have in mind?” 

“We’ll see,” you replied defeatedly. “But I’ll pick you up next week. I’ll try to beat the daily papers, and we can come here together.” 

With that, you bade Sungchan farewell.

post mortem: THIS IS PART TWO OF NEVER MEANT. I REPEAT. PART TWO! GO READ THAT ONE IF YOU HAVEN'T YET. PART THREE COMING SOON

[rinbylin]

"how about this? if you really wish to pay me back, you better not challenge me to a fight again." "i don't need you to teach me how to repay you." (so i will live on for you)

dihua + debts | 莲花楼 mysterious lotus casebook

[winteriron-trash]

rdj the (whitewashed) electric boogaloo

This is a reminder to everyone who's excited about RDJ's casting as Doctor Doom that this casting is whitewashing. Victor Von Doom is a Romani character and has been a Romani character since his introduction in the 1960s. (Fantastic Four Annual #2 [1964]) Not only that, but his Roma identity and the persecution he and his family faced due to it is integral to his character, it is what forms his identity. (Books of Doom by Ed Brubaker) Even if on the off chance this casting is meant to not be Victor but instead be some variant of Tony or whomever else becoming Doctor Doom, it is damaging to the character to rob him of that important cultural background. Doctor Doom does not exist without that history. Fans have been pushing hard to cast Doom as a Romani actor for years, especially since the MCU has whitewashed other Romani characters. (Wanda, Pietro, etc) This casting is not a celebration moment, it's fucking heartbreaking that the MCU repeatedly ignores the important and nuanced cultural backstories of characters.

I know I can't change anybody's mind on whether or not you want to be excited about RDJ's return to the MCU. But I do think at the very least you should be mad that the MCU is baiting us all and destroying nuanced and interesting characters for the sake of self-referential easter eggs and nostalgia bait. Because that's what it is. Feel how you'd like to feel about RDJ's return, but personally, this is soul-sucking. I had such a deep love for the MCU as a teenager, it was obviously something incredibly formative to me, especially Tony Stark. This isn't recreating what I fell in love with the MCU for. This is turning a well-planned and artistic storyline of adaptations into cheap cash grabs and fan service. Because, I think we're past the point of being able to call the MCU an adaptation of anything. They can use existing characters' names and powers, but to say they're being properly adapted is laughable.

This is not an adaptation of Doctor Doom. This is RDJ the Electric Boogaloo because Marvel's fear of losing the interest of dedicated MCU fans overrides their willingness to tell stories that are genuine to the characters. I don't know what there is to be excited about that. The MCU has lost its authenticity and aside from a few projects, feels heartless. Every movie is a copy of a copy. This announcement isn't something celebratory, it feels like a death knell of a cinematic universe that's so desperate to cling to relevancy it's resorting to nostalgia for a character/actor who hasn't even been dead for a decade. We're not getting anything new, we're just rinsing and repeating the same song and dance.

I get it. I love Tony Stark, his death destroyed me and I to this day, rue the ending he got in Endgame. It misunderstood his arc and it robbed him of a satisfying conclusion. But the solution to that isn't dragging the corpse out of the grave five years later to whitewash an existing character with rich and interesting nuance, just to forcibly tie his existence in the MCU to Tony. Whether he is a variant or not. Why would you want someone else's fave's legacy to be destroyed simply so your fave's legacy can go on? Hell, if we were really all so hellbent on the return of RDJ and/or Tony to the MCU, we have the multiverse for a reason. There were other ways to do it that didn't whitewash and ruin someone else. This just. Isn't something to be happy about.

[what-pow-pow-thinks]

GOOD OMENS SEASON 2 SPOILERS

Just thinking about something.

This whole time we've been all like "Crowley has been flirting for years omg, Aziraphale has no idea that they're in love, Crowley is so smitten by him-" all that- but after what Crowley was saying in season 2 im not so sure.

Remember when he kept denying that him and Aziraphale were a thing? Well, obviously because they weren't! And he knows that- but that look on his face had me thinking maybe he didn't even know what he felt for Aziraphale WAS love, up until that day or when Nina and Maggie finally made him realize it.

Aziraphale on the other hand? Well, I feel like he knew he was in love since that day in 194~ (idr and im not doing research rn) after the magic trick, or- in case we weren't paying attention, after he gave him the books and Crowley was walking away and the MUSIC AND AZIRAPHALE'S FACE---

In the same respect with Crowley, though, it's the same its like you can tell on his face and when he talks to Aziraphale so maybe he did know he was in love just started giving up, because of how passionately he was talking about it during the... the scene (ineffable divorce scene) - but im still not so sure.

idk just a random thought to think abt.

[mamawasatesttube]

just remembered how megfitz made tim think about how bernard is so much better than all the other relationships he'd "settled for" and was once again briefly consumed by rage. meghan you apologize to zoanne wilkins right the fuck now

[sysig]

Eyesome propaganda (Patreon)

[miss-allsundays]

hot take: stolas is absolutely fucking right not to feel bad for cheating on stella. the only one that he owes an apology to is octavia, which he DOES!! they talk and he tries to explain that his relationship with her mother has never been good, all while trying not to pit her against stella.

it is also fucking weird how some people want a reason to excuse stella’s behavior so bad. they say they want more nuance to her character but they wouldn’t criticize her this harshly if the roles were reversed and she were the victim

[onioneyez]

Happy 420!

I didn’t want to actually have to pick up the leech or the crane fly larva to pretend to smoke it so please use your imagination

[andnatiabrosca]

heya! How about "talk about one person your muse loves", "describe your muse’s laugh", and "how your muse responds to stress" from the HC asks for Nat and Malachite? :]

ahhh thanks for asking!! and asking for malachite!! I don't get to think about her much even tho I play her like once a week (large-scale nat fic rn lol). these are actually like. big thinker questions for me lolol. I can tell you their governing spirit/demon coins but anything surface level? not really

also I am incapable of being quiet, so uh... here

One person your muse loves

Malachite

Josephine. Good at talking, good at loving, a right bitch sometimes. Cutthroat but so polite you'd never notice until your blood stains the ground. Afraid, sometimes, and afraid to say she is. Ever dedicated to the people and causes she has chosen. Malachite doesn't know how to hide and never wants to; Josephine knows exactly why and when hiding is useful. Josephine's admission of fear after Haven - blink and you'll miss it - lets Malachite admit her own fear, and decide to walk through it.

Nat

I spoke about Malachite's romance, but for Nat we'll go with someone a bit more complicated. Her mother was never kind, was never good to her in the way that mattered. She tried, in the way she knew best, and failed, for the way she feared. Kalah had a thousand decisions and made all of them on fear and pain. Nat hates her, for a very long time. And Nat loves her, because Nat was making the same decisions, for the same fears, and wanted to be loved back. In time, the hate fades and so does the love, muddling into understanding. And Nat takes the love her mother could never receive, the love her mother could never give, and the fear she inherited, and stops running. Her daughter will never know her grandmother - her daughter will know the love that got lost in Dust Town.

Their laugh

Malachite

laughs easily and loudly. She's a Cadash and she's Carta and - to Josephine's dismay - not the gentle sort. But she knows how to laugh as hard as she fights, and with the Breach threatening, she learns to laugh bigger than her fear. Sure, her hands are bloody, and sure, she makes hard decisions, and sure, she doesn't value others the way maybe she should. She still knows how to be light and knows how to make real connections. Her voice is on the higher side and her laugh is waves crashing against the lakeshore.

Nat

is quiet. She's quiet in most ways, and laughing is no different. She can hide behind a big laugh, if asked, but her natural inclination is to hide it in a smile and a shake of the head. She struggles to connect with others, and struggles to balance the demands placed on her. Laughing is a distraction - a danger - for her, not a weapon. Fake laughter can work as a tool, just like speaking Trade or wearing fur in the snow. If you get a real laugh from her, her voice is low and gravelly, laughter like tumbling rocks.

How they respond to stress

Malachite

gets stressed and everything shuts down. She's good at following orders, but giving orders is a whole other beast. Her heart and desire for connection live just above her skin. When she's stressed, she can't hide it, and struggles to do what's needed. If the stressor threatens a loved one, she can use it to her advantage. The breakdown is bypassed by the strength of her connections and love.

Nat

thinks clearer and moves faster. She can follow orders, but put her in command and she will shine. The fear of letting others down - of leading them to damage - terrifies her into success. She doesn't talk much, when she's stressed - Trade is her second language and it goes quickly on her.

[peachdues]

COMPASS

bad boy!Sanemi • gang AU • NSFW

A/N: Peach?? Not having any self control when it comes to writing a fic?? It’s more likely than you think.

This was supposed to be a bad boy!Sanemi takes your virginity drabble that spiraled into a meta-analysis of Sanemi’s self hatred that then blew up into a fic with plot. All of those elements are still present but surprise!! Enjoy 24k words of my brain rot.

Inspired by @homo-homini-lupus-est-1701 ‘s wonderful meta analysis of Sanemi’s self hatred and his scars.

CW: 24k • explicit sexual content • MDNI • gang-related violence • mentions of blood and broken bones • mentions of murder/death • loss of virginity • creampie • vaginal fingering • some angst

I have plenty more of this AU written, so if y’all want more, just let me know 🫡

There are three rules to surviving life in the Corps.

The first is simple: once you’re in, you’re in.

Never outwardly confirm or deny rumors; let others talk, but don’t even think about opening your fucking mouth about the things you see or the whispers you hear.

And don’t be stupid enough to think you can cling onto any vestiges of your old life. There’s no splicing your life within the Corps with the one you’d had before. No separation. You’ve whored yourself to their cause, and for better or worse, you’re there until either someone important says otherwise or you end up in a morgue.

This is especially true for someone like Sanemi, so hopelessly entrenched within the organization that he’d allowed himself to be branded at the age of seventeen upon his ascension from rank-and-file street member to full-blown Hashira — the elite of the Corps, just short of the higher-ups who ran it.

The hot sear of iron between his shoulder blades had hurt like hell, but it was a welcome pain. A reminder that he’d not only outlived his father, but had actually made an impact, enough to be noticed and entrusted with more strenuous duties.

Each Hashira is assigned to a particular field. Uzui, silver haired, boisterous and extravagant, deals in bodies — mostly women, but men too, and he runs all of the strip clubs and escort services west of center city. Kocho, a child prodigy in chemistry, leads an intricate narcotics network.

And then there’s Sanemi: the debt collector.

Largely monetary debts — collecting on behalf of loan sharks, gambling debts, or that which is owed to his fellow Hashira, when their customers forget that there are no friends in business.

But the brand seared into his flesh has nothing to do with money — it is a reminder that above all, he is to ensure debts of another kind are paid.

Life debts.

In the three years since his initiation, Sanemi has only had to carry out this oath twice. Both had been scum, responsible for the deaths of innocents.

Their executions had been quick and without fuss — or much mess. A quick trip to an overpass abridging the Wisteria River. A march to the barrier in the dead of night, when no other cars were out and about to see or hear pleading sobs and bargains for their pathetic lives. A bullet to the head would quiet them, and Sanemi would let the rapids below take care of the clean up for him. Job done.

But even though the spray of their brains hadn’t touched him, their blood still stains Sanemi’s hands.

He will never be able to wash them clean.

But this is the life he chose, so Sanemi will endure the consequences — for the sake of his brother, the only living person on earth he gives a damn about. For whom he’ll do anything — be anyone — if it means Genya does not have to pick up a gun and sell himself to the very gang that owns his elder brother.

The second rule is simpler: no patterns. Patterns signal comfort and comfort may as well be a target on your back, begging for someone to come and take their shot (or several).

And finally, the third and arguably the most important rule, is don’t get attached. Keep your circle small so there’s less collateral to be used against you — against the organization that owns you.

This rule applies to both Corps members and civilians alike.

For the longest time, Sanemi Shinazugawa found Rule Three to be the easiest one to follow. He has his brother and no one else. His parents are dead; he has no friends beyond those in the Corps with him, and he knows better than to get overly invested in any of them. His inner circle is as tight as it can get.

But then he’d chosen your bookstore to hide in and that’s when everything falls apart.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Sanemi mutters, anxious eyes tracking the large hand on his watch as it ticks the seconds by.

They were late.

The job was simple, and well within Sanemi’s capabilities. Maeda, a local dealer in stolen goods, had run up a sizeable bill at one of Uzui’s joints that he’d yet to pay. And while the slippery lech was quick to come sniffing whenever news spread that Iguro, a fellow Hashira, had managed to hijack a semi-truck full of luxury items, he was surprisingly difficult to connect with when it came time for him to pay for company he couldn’t get elsewhere.

He glanced down at his bruised, swollen knuckles and smirked. Sanemi couldn’t say he loved that his worth was measured in the number of bones he could break, or the amount of teeth he could punch out, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t relish the chance to smash the pervert’s face in whenever the opportunity arose. Nor could he deny the rush of satisfaction he’d felt when he’d thrown open the steel door of the Maeda’s small office, crowbar in hand, and watched the snot-nosed pervert piss himself, stumbling over his words as he’d begged for mercy Sanemi hadn’t been hired to give.

The stupid, greasy fuck.

By the time he’d finished, Maeda had been little more than a quivering, helpless lump curled in on himself on the sticky, slate floor. His office had been left in shambles, drawers yanked out and emptied, only to be thrown aside (or cracked over the vermin’s back as he sobbed). But he’d had found the money, right down to the last dollar, just as he knew he would.

And that’s how Sanemi finds himself standing in the alley tucked behind Maeda’s small warehouse, Uzui’s payment split into two rolls that he’d shoved down into boots. All that was left was for the two junior Corps members he’d brought along for watch to bring the car around, and then they’d return to the abandoned factory that served as their headquarters.

Normally, this would have been a solo job, and Sanemi would already be on his bike, speeding off to safety. But he’d received an order to take along two, new Hinoe so they could get experience with higher level jobs.

Conveniently, his instructions had omitted the part the fact that the two lugs were utterly useless, bumbling idiots, contrary to what their recent promotions otherwise suggested.

Because neither of the two juniors are anywhere to be found. Nor is there any sound signaling that his getaway ride is approaching.

Sharp, lavender eyes scan the alley before him, but to his dismay, it remains empty — disquietingly so.

Leave it to a couple of rookies to set his teeth on edge.

Sanemi’s eyes drop down to follow the large hand of his watch as yet another minute ticks by. It’s been six minutes and their window had only allowed for four.

He knows how to be patient when the circumstances call for it, but now is not one of those times.

One minute, he decides, shifting his weight between his feet. They get one more fucking minute and then he splits —

A sudden screech of tires at the opposite end of the alley makes his stomach flip. Sanemi looks up just in time to see his escape car grind to a sharp halt, its rear jolting up as the driver slams on the brakes.

The passenger door flings open, and one of the Hinoe stumbles out, his feet barely connecting with the pavement before the car guns away, the side door flapping open.

The familiar howl of police sirens accompanied by distant shouts is enough for Sanemi to know this simple little debt collection has now gone tits-up.

“Pigs!” The Hinoe who stumbled out of the getaway car calls to him. “Pigs!”

“Shit,” Sanemi growls. No doubt Maeda’s bruised ego sold them out. He should’ve taken the time to smash the asshole’s phone.

He’ll be dealt with later — and with relish. But right now, Sanemi needs to get the fuck away.

Part of following Rule Three means not worrying about your fellow comrades when the cops come. None of them are stupid enough to actually risk talking to law enforcement about the Corps’ operations, but the fewer of them who get caught, the better.

So Sanemi takes off, adrenaline pumping fast and jot in his veins as he hears the swine behind him split off. He can’t be sure, but he can make out two, maybe three pairs of footsteps trailing behind him.

He scowls; shaking one cop is a breeze; having to shake off three is a bitch.

He hurtles over a pile of wooden crates and shoves a stack of delivery pallets over behind him as he runs, darting down random alleys and side streets that he knows will eventually lead him to a safe house.

The backstreet he shoots down is a fork, but only the path straight through will lead him to a rust yard of abandoned warehouses and shipping containers that Sanemi knows like the back of his hand. He could lose them there, could vanish between freights and wait the bastards out, and once clear, he could slip back into the district marking the outer territory of the Silo and get back home.

Iron pumps hotly in his veins. Almost there, almost there —

A car skids to a stop at the end of the middle ting of the alley, police lights flashing and alarms blaring.

No good.

“Fuck.” It isn’t the end of the world, but the blocking of the alley meant he had to reevaluate his escape. While he’s familiar with the path now obstructed by the police cruiser ahead, he hadn’t the chance to fully scope out his only other two options — the side streets to the left and right.

Without much thought, Sanemi darts sharply left and prays to whatever deity is listening that he hasn’t fully fucked himself.

Only one shop remains open; a tiny hole in the wall, tucked in between two old apartment buildings at the end of the street — one that borders the city’s western wing.

It’ll have to do, he decides, especially as the police sirens grow louder with each passing second.

He explodes through the front door, wide eyed and panting. Vaguely, it registers to him that this is a bookshop — a thankfully empty, cluttered bookshop.

But his abrupt arrival does reveal that the shop is not totally empty. There is one other — the store’s lone employee, who startles out of her seat behind the clerk’s counter, nearly knocking over a small cup of coffee.

He regards her for a moment, and she him, with matching expressions of wariness and shock at the presence of the other.

Behind him, the police sirens grow louder; more urgent.

It’s now or never. And, because he’s desperate enough to try, he risks a move he knows better than to take.

“You got someplace I can hide?”

——-

You blink, stunned as you stare at the frantic, pleading man anxiously looking between you and the door behind him.

His name registers dimly in the back of your mind. Here. In your store. And, evidently, on the run, if the distant echoes of police sirens growing steadily closer to your store is any indication.

Sanemi Shinazugawa.

You know him; you’d known him most of your life, even if you’d never spoken to him. You’d gone to the same school in your youth — all thirteen years of it, in fact. He’d been an abrasive loudmouth in the hallways, but a quiet, even polite boy in the classroom.

You know he’s from the Silo — a worn down, derelict part of the City that housed only the poorest residents. A cruel nickname meant to mock the poverty of its population.

But the Silo was also well known for being the epicenter of operations for the notorious group known only as the Corps.

It was the Corps who owned a majority of the City, its reach extending from the Silo, through the West and East wings, and all the way into Midtown. And, as was the case with most leeches, the Corps relied on the most desperate and hungry to carry out its biddings, offering some level of protection and security for the poor souls who needed it most.

Hence, its presence in the Silo.

So you hadn’t been surprised when you’d heard Sanemi had joined the Corps. Most kids from the Silo did; what had surprised you were the rumors that he became a high-rank member by the ripe age of seventeen, before he’d even graduated high school.

You shudder to think what he had to have done — what he’d become — in order to achieve such status and notoriety.

If he’d been anyone else, you wouldn’t have helped; you would’ve screamed, alerted the police to his presence, maybe even outed him as a suspected Hashira.

But you owed him.

Years ago, before either you or your siblings could drive, you all relied on the city bus to get to and from school.

But one afternoon, when you’d had to stay late for a club meeting, your little sister accidentally got on the wrong bus. Rather than being dropped safe and sound a block away from home, she’d ended up in a bad part of town that just so happened to have been the stomping grounds of the scowling delinquent now shoved under your cabinet, contorted between boxes of blank receipt rolls and stacks of returns.

Had anyone else found your sister, there would be no telling what would have happened to her. The Silo was not a place known to be kind to lost little girls.

But it was Sanemi who discovered her, sniffling and red-faced at the dilapidated bus stop. And though he’d been nothing more than a scrawny ten year old, he’d put your sister on his back and carried her not just the six miles back to safe part of town, but the additional two that led right to the front doorstep of your parents’ home.

You’d watched him curiously from the stairs as your parents profusely thanked your sister’s white-haired savior. They’d offered Sanemi dinner, or at least some sort of reward for his efforts, but he’d only waved them off, briskly telling them it was “no big deal.” As though carrying a six-year-old nearly eight miles was par for the course, as far as he was concerned.

His eyes had flitted over to you once during the exchange, briefly lingering before he turned and left, a single hand held up in casual farewell.

You’d been ten at the time. And now, here you are, twenty years old, running a shabby bookstore, and the opportunity to pay him back has finally arrived. The chance to show your gratitude for sparing your sister of a fate he himself, had not been able to escape.

Quickly, you motion him to you and without explanation, you cram him under the clerk’s counter, holding the cabinet door shut with your knee just as the police burst through the store entrance.

There are three of them, and they do not bother announcing themselves to you. Instead, they begin to prowl through your aisles, flashlights out and guns drawn while they comb the quiet corners of the store, searching for signs of anything that did not belong; anything misplaced.

A bead of sweat slides down the back of your neck, but you keep your face and your stance casual. Below the counter you cross your fingers, hoping and praying that the criminal stuffed inside your cabinet isn’t stupid enough to try and shift.

One officer rounds back into the main part of the store and locks in on you, stiff and anxious behind the counter.“You haven’t seen anything suspicious?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what you mean.”

The cop grimaces. “You haven’t seen anyone who looks out of place? Maybe seems like they’re running?”

You feign an easy, sweet smile, even as the leg holding the cabinet door shut begins to tremble. “I’m afraid you’re my first customer of the day, sir.”

The officer grumbles under his breath something along the lines of not your customer, but he questions you no further. He only waves to his comrades and the three of them shuffle out through the door, one muttering into the walkie strapped to his shoulder.

Several moments pass, tense and thick. The silence is broken only by the sound of your heart hammering against your sternum. You remain still, fingers curled tight against the counter’s edge listening for any sound signaling the cops have returned, that their stiff departure had been a ruse to lull you into a false sense of security, as they waited for you to reveal your deception.

But all remains quiet. And you cannot stomach the silence any longer.

“They’re gone,” you mutter, finally moving aside to let the cabinet door below you swing open.

There’s a faint thumping and a few, muffled curses as the scar-speckled fugitive unfolds himself and spills free from the under-cabinet.

In a way, Sanemi still resembles the boy of your memories. His eyes and hair have always been distinctive: a shocking contrast of violet framed by thick, dark lashes that do not match the mop of silvery-white atop his head. But it’s the faint scowl he wears as he stands, the tinge of annoyance that tugs at the corners of his mouth, that scrunches his pale eyebrows, that feels familiar.

That expression, a portrait of vague irritation with the world around him, was one you came to know well — at least, at a distance. One that remained constant even as you grew; his default.

However, it is still not nearly as memorable as the shy embarrassment that had turned his cheeks slightly pink, had made him cast his eyes down as your parents showered him with gratitude.

But that earnest bashfulness is nowhere to be found now.

He wears a patterned, short-sleeved button down. Though rumpled and a tad dirty, you suspect the top three buttons were left open intentionally, rather than being the product of whatever scuffle he’d found himself in before he decided to make it your problem.

You try not to linger on the very obvious hint of the well-defined muscles revealed by his open collar. Nor do you let yourself consider the bulging mass of his biceps as he runs a hand through his cornsilk hair.

He has scars he’d not had in your youth — jagged, silvery lines that cut halfway across his cheek and forehead. Yet their presence does not dull his good looks.

A scrawny ten year old no longer; Sanemi Shinazugawa is now tall and roguishly handsome. But his infuriating good looks aside, your debt to him has been repaid; now, he needs to get the fuck away.

“Can’t thank ya enough,” he shoots you a devilish smile as he straightens his shirt. “You really saved my ass —“

“Get out of my store.” You order, your voice hard. “Take your trouble somewhere else and leave me out of it.”

Sanemi’s eyes narrow at your use of the word trouble, but he says nothing. Instead, he only rounds the counter with a loping, infuriating swagger, his hands shoved in his pockets.

“As you wish, Princess,” and you bristle at the sarcasm dropping from the word. He pauses to scan the shelf marked New Releases. “Just need somethin’ for the road.”

He snags a small novel — a fantasy story, judging by the cover - and he tucks it under his arm.

“Later,” he calls, waving a lazy hand over his shoulder.

You stare after him, slack-jawed and incensed. “You have to pay for —“

But the door bangs shut behind him, and Sanemi Shinazugawa disappears into the night.

—-

By the time Sanemi returns to his shabby apartment, it is well after midnight. He’d met up with Uzui and forked over Maeda’s payment. Though, the Corp’s head pimp hadn’t been particularly pleased that his money rolls had been shoved deep down in his boots, his nose wrinkling as Sanemi dropped the crumpled, slightly damp wads of cash into his waiting, magenta-nailed hands.

As it turned out, Maeda hadn’t sold them out. Rather, one of the Hinoe had stupidly gotten into a scuffle with some brash, young teenager and in his anger, pulled his gun on the kid.

Right in front of two, marked cop cars.

One of the idiots had been caught and cuffed, and was now spending his evening locked in the damp, cold jailhouse pending bond. The other — the driver — had managed to escape, though he’d been carted off to Iguro for punishment.

There’s a reason he prefers working alone, he thinks bitterly as he kicks his boots off. He fucking loathes incompetence.

He pulls his gun free from its place in his waistband and sets it gently atop his ratty kitchen table. Sanemi then trudges over to his futon, collapsing heavily on it with a groan. A shit day, he decides, pulling the stack of cash he’d received as his cut for the job free from his pocket, thumbing through it. A shit day with shit juniors.

He shifts against a lump that sits under his ass. Frowning, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the book he’d swiped from your store and turns it over in his hands. Surprisingly, it has managed to remain in pristine condition despite its rather unceremonious storage in his pocket.

Your face flashes in his mind, but before he can fully appreciate it, your words echo in his ears.

Take your trouble somewhere else.

Sanemi scowls, tossing the book onto his coffee table, annoyed. The implication underlying your use of trouble and the venom with which you’d spoken it is a thorn in his side he cannot ignore.

You know what — who — he is. In Sanemi’s world, that’s a liability.

Though, in fairness, he can’t really be surprised that you do. Gossip is a free commodity in this town, and it’s a coveted one. It wouldn’t be a stretch to conclude that you’d overheard one of the rumors about him and his ties to the Corps.

What concerns him is he doesn’t know what your connection is, if any, to his world. Maybe you’re really just a girl in a bookshop who paid back a decade-old favor.

Or maybe you’ve got an in with them.

The Corps isn’t the only gang operating within the city; there is another, crueler and far more violent that had arisen west of the Silo.

The Kizuki.

In the last six months, the Kizuki have managed to overtake the Western Wing, nearly expanding their reach into center city.

Their takeover had been swift; practically achieved overnight, following the systematic execution of every known Corps members in the area. And their violence hadn’t been limited to active members; the Kizuki had brutally maimed and murdered anyone tangentially connected to those Corps members.

Neither women nor their children were spared. And now, it seemed the Kizuki had set their sights on the Silo.

There are whispers that they’ve expanded into their operations into the neighborhood adjacent to the one in which the bookstore sits. That alone is enough to make Sanemi suspicious — perhaps you’re in league with them, and you’ll hand him over the moment it’s most convenient for you to do so.

Admittedly, that theory seems doubtful. You’re a bookseller. Not the kind of girl he knows is prone to becoming involved with the seedy underground world of organized crime. And your apparent disdain for him and his trouble only supports that theory.

But that’s an assumption, and in his line of work, assumptions are precarious; risky. Too much so for comfort.

Either way, he doesn’t know, and that uncertainty is a breeding ground for the parasite that is doubt. Toxic enough that were it to take root in his brain, his judgment could be compromised, leading him to mistakes he can’t afford to make.

Sanemi doesn’t tolerate blind spots. He will keep you on his radar until he determines the threat you pose and once he knows its severity, he’ll decide how to proceed.

He eyes the book he’d swiped from your store. He likes reading, though he hasn’t had much time for it lately (or, ever). But, if he’s going to hang around you while trying to identify the threat you pose, he might as well have a strategy for getting you to talk.

Sighing, he grabs the novel from his table and thumbs to the first page as he pads into his kitchen, in search of something to quell the grumble in his stomach.

—

His inquiries into you and your life reveal shockingly little.

You work at a bookstore. Your parents sold off your childhood home and retired to some beach down south. Your siblings are spread out across other cities and don’t visit home often, if ever.

Only you remain, abandoned by your family to fend for yourself in a crumbling city with only a shabby bookshop that sits on the furthest end of an otherwise safe street to keep you busy.

Truthfully, the bookstore probably is more interesting than you, at least on paper. But it’s that dirge of information that piques his interest; makes him look at you more as a mystery worth unraveling.

Besides, the smart thing for him would be to keep a tab on you until he can confirm you are in fact, as boring as you appear.

Or so he tells himself.

The image of a ten-year-old you peering at him from your parents’ stairwell flashes through his mind once more.

He’d felt your gaze burning a hole into his head, and shyly, he’d looked back at you, only to find himself unable to look away. Only your mother’s prodding about him joining your family for dinner had broken your temporary enchantment over him.

The memory of how you’d looked at him — a mixture of curiosity and awe highlighted by a faint blush in your cheeks when he’d met your stare head on — remained fixed in his brain for years after.

And though the two of you never spoke, you always smiled at him whenever you locked eyes in the school hallway or cafeteria. A real, genuine smile.

He wonders if he ever smiled back and finds himself irritated that he can’t remember if he had. He should’ve; especially now when it seems as though he’s unlikely to ever see that gentle, radiant smile again.

Sanemi’s phone pings and all thoughts of you come to a screeching halt. The message that flashes on his screen — instructions, only by way of an address and an amount — chase away the images of you and your sweet smile, like a hand scattering smoke.

With a sigh, Sanemi dials the number for two, lower-ranked Corps members to serve as scouts. With watch secured, he shoves his phone into his pocket and runs a tired hand over his face.

He wonders what will kill him first — whether it will be a bullet or whether it will be because there’s nothing left of him to whore out on the Corp’s behalf.

Ultimately, he knows it doesn’t really matter. He won’t die as himself; as Sanemi, the boy from the Silo who wants a life that’s anything but this. He’ll die only as Shinazugawa the Hashira. He’ll die under the mask he’s forced to wear so often, he wonders if it hasn’t yet bonded with his skin.

But as long as he remains in one piece, he must continue on as a puppet in this this tedious show. So, Sanemi grabs his gun from where he’d placed it on atop the cheap plastic of his kitchen table and he tucks it into his waistband.

And by the time his apartment door slams shut behind him, Sanemi has slipped the mask down over his face, and he is Shinazugawa once more.

—

Two weeks pass before he ends up back in front of your bookstore.

Sanemi doesn’t really remember how he got here. He awoke well before sunrise to his phone chiming with orders that he go collect on a sizeable gambling debt owed by one of Iguro’s regulars, an owner of some pawn shop.

The sun was already high overhead when he finally left the pawn shop, knuckles bruised and arm aching. He’d kicked his bike into gear in a familiar daze, one that always slipped over him after he completed a job. A kind of numb quiet that settled into his bones, a dull static in his brain that did not fade until the tremor in his hands subsided.

That paralysis needs to be broken. Contrary to popular belief, desensitization was not an ideal state of being for someone like him. It made him apathetic and careless to the world around him, and that was little better than painting a giant target on his back, begging his enemies to come and do their worst.

So, when the numbness still lingered by the time his bike roars past a rusted water tower that marks the outer limit of the Silo, Sanemi knows of only one cure. His go-to.

His bike is still hot by the time he lifts his phone to his ear, just outside his shithole of an apartment.

He doesn’t know her by name — only by description, as told by the series of emojis that accompany her number on his phone. But it’s surprisingly easy to charm her, though perhaps that’s because she’s looking for an escape just as much as he is.

Less than ten minutes later, the girl pulls up beside him in the parking lot.

Her hands are already roaming down his chest and playing with the buckle on his belt as Sanemi unlocks his door and pushes her inside.

At some point between the front door and his bedroom, the girl has stripped herself of her outer clothing, leaving her only in her undergarments as she tugs Sanemi down by his neck and into her kiss. She’s licking and nipping at his lips in a way he’s not sure he likes, but he allows it because his cock is painfully hard and throbbing where it strains against his pants.

And, after all, he’s the one desperate for relief.

“I’ve only got ten minutes,” she warns, kicking off her underwear as she falls back onto his bed. Sanemi only smirks as he slides his hand down the length of her leg, gripping her by the ankle and flipping her to her stomach.

He shifts away long enough to quickly wiggle free of his pants. He grabs a condom from his nightstand and rips the foil with his teeth. Fingers toying with the girl’s clit as she moans into his mattress, Sanemi rolls the latex down his cock. Protection secured, he reaches for her again, yanking her by her hips until her backside is flush against him. One hand pushes down between her shoulder blades while the other snakes up her neck, and Sanemi nudges the tip of his cock up against her entrance.

“Don’t worry, darlin’,” he winds the long tresses of her hair around his fist and gives her a sharp tug. “We’ll be done in five.”

—-

Even an hour after he tossed the girl her clothing and not so casually suggested she leave his apartment, Sanemi still feels restless.

He cannot shake the images of the afternoon from his mind, and so, Sanemi resorts to walking.

He does so without thought as to destination or the rapidly setting sun. Sanemi only focuses on the activity itself. One foot in front of the other; pace even and quick, each step accompanied by a flash of that day’s sins.

The crash of a garage door as it slammed back against the wall. Wide eyes that quickly filled with panic at the sight of him and the flash of metal tucked against his hip.

Step.

A plea; a desperate promise to pay, one that he’d heard a thousand times from a thousand different mouths. None of them ever seemed to understand their word wasn’t worth shit when they’d already defaulted on their obligations. Yet still, they begged.

Step.

The breaking of teeth beneath his fists.

Step.

The crush of bone under the iron pipe he’d found discarded on the garage floor. The agonized futility of trying to scoot back and away from him, despite a shattered leg.

Green; the color of the money he’d found stashed in a duffel, the debtor’s desperate attempt to hoard the wealth owed to the Corps.

Step. Step. Step. All the way down the street leading until he finds himself on a distantly familiar stretch of pavement that ends at the bookstore’s front steps.

For a moment, he lingers outside the shop, hesitant. He should turn around; there is no reason for him to be here. His investigation into you is not a priority by any means, especially where whatever poking he has done has revealed so little.

The book he lifted from the New Releases shelf is tucked carefully in his jacket pocket. He doesn’t know why he’s carried it around with him, all this time. Sanemi finished the novel the very night you’d helped hide him from the cops.

He should leave; but then his feet carry him up the walk leading to the store, and he’s pushing the door open.

His arrival is punctuated by a cheerful ring of the old bell nailed above the door. At first, the store appears deserted; but then you pop up from under the counter, surprise coloring your features.

That surprise melts quickly into cold disdain that makes something in his chest flutter as he strolls toward you. With every step, that numb haze of his disperses and instead, Sanemi feels himself returning to normal the closer he brings himself to you.

“This isn’t a library,” you chide when he plops his borrowed novel back down on your counter. “You have to pay for the books here.”

It’s incredible how easily he is able to slip back into the skin of the suave, smug playboy, and your adorable glare only makes him smirk. “I brought it back, didn’t I? Look — didn’t even crack the spine.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you reply coolly, snatching the book up and tossing it on a small cart marked Restock. “That loss came out of my paycheck — which is scant enough.”

That piques his attention. “Didn’t you say this was your store?”

His question makes you turn pink, and you’re quick to put your back to him, pretending to shuffle through new releases waiting to be shelved. “I work here,” you mutter quietly, but when you turn back around, you stick your chin out, defiant. “But I am the only employee, so it is my store, in a sense. The owner doesn’t ever come by.”

You wrinkle your nose. “So yes, lost profits affect me, and me alone, you thief.”

Sanemi cocks his head, his eyes running over you in consideration.

You’re beautiful; he’s always found you cute, even as a kid, but the transition between your teen years and adulthood have been kind. Even if you’re glaring at him like you would a crushed bug stuck to the bottom of your shoe.

But your words strike a chord in him. His job is to collect money from those greedy lowlifes who waste it; who use money to carry out their bad deeds, who use it to fuck over others.

He doesn’t take it from those who need it; from those who are barely scraping. by. Sanemi knows the agony of having to choose between keeping the lights on or feeding a hungry stomach far, far too well.

“Fine, here,” he tosses a random novel on your counter and a crumpled twenty dollar note. You ring him up, eyes flicking up to glare at him every so often as you count out his change.

He only continues to watch you, the heat of his stare ignites an itch under your skin that makes you squirm.

Your restlessness boils over. “What?”

“Nothin,” he shrugs. “Just think it’s interesting that you of all people are still lingering in this shit hole.”

Your head snaps up, your task of totaling out his change forgotten. “I live here, idiot.”

He snorts. “Didn’t you want outta here? Do somethin’ different?” He leans forward, elbows propped on your counter as he rests his chin on his fist.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” He’s dancing dangerously close to a sore spot of yours — that you are alone in your hometown, working at a failing bookshop, with no one and nothing to justify your stagnancy.

“This can’t be your dream life.”

You don’t have to answer; you know that. But his line of questioning is puzzling. Because, no matter how casual he manages to keep his tone, his nonchalance is betrayed by his eyes, sharp and inquisitive.

Like he’s waiting to dissect whatever answer you give him.

Sanemi continues. “It’s strange for people not to want for more — to not dream about somethin’ different.”

“And who are you to say I don’t?” You bristle, slamming your cash drawer shut with more force than necessary. “I have a dream of my own. Just because it’s not one you would pick for yourself doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

He blinks, taken aback. “Woah, woah, I never meant any offense.” He pushes back from the counter. “My bad.”

His response feels genuine but your ego is already bruised. Stiffly, you finish counting out his change and drop it into his waiting palm.

You slide his book across the counter. “Have the day you deserve.”

His surprise morphs into amusement at your iciness. So haughty, he winks. “You too, Princess.”

You turn aside in clear dismissal. He makes a show of taking out his wallet and stuffing his change inside, but your pointed ignorance of him means you don’t see him toss another note on the counter.

He’s already halfway out the door when you call after him, urgent. “Sir, you dropped your —“

“Nah, I didn’t,” he raises his hand in farewell as the bookstore door bangs shut behind him, leaving you to stare open-mouthed after him.

Clutched tightly in your hand is his crisp, one hundred dollar note.

—

His next visit is unplanned, but not in the way that Sanemi avoids routine. It’s unplanned in that he’s annoyed and it’s partially your fault, so that means the onus is on you to fix it.

You’re in the process of double checking delivery logs to ensure all your new inventory has arrived when a large thud against the clerk’s counter startles you.

You frown. It’s him again — all ivory hair and silvery facial scars that somehow are less imposing than the irritated scowl he wears.

“This book was shit,” he scoots the novel across the counter to you with distaste. “I want a refund.”

You level his pout with a frosty glare of your own. Wordlessly, you lean over the counter and tap a single finger against a laminated sign duck-taped to its edge.

Return-exchange only. No refunds.

“But it was shit,” he repeats, as though that will somehow spur you to change a policy you didn’t create. “You let me waste twenty bucks.”

“I did nothing,” you rustle the pages of your delivery log in pointed dismissal. “You’re the one who decided to buy a book before checking it out.”

You glance down at the discarded novel. “Figures,” you scoff. “He’s not even an author. He uses ghost writers and takes all the credit.”

“Woulda been nice if you’d told me that before you let me give him my money.”

You hum idly as you cross off the log’s boxes for new releases. “I suppose I was too stunned that you even knew how to read. Guess I wasn’t really paying attention to your shit choices.”

“Oh?” And you glance up to see Sanemi smirking at you. “The Princess has claws, does she?” He leans against the counter, propping his cheek under a loose fist. “So, what are your recommendations, gorgeous?”

“I’m not your Princess,” you snap imbuing the nickname with as much venom as you can muster. “Call me by my name or call me nothing at all.”

His eyes drop to your name-tag, pinned neatly on the front of your sweater. That insufferable smirk of his only widens. “Alright, alright. What are your recommendations, Y/N?”

The syllables sound rich and honeyed and suddenly, you wish you’d let him stick with Princess, as grating as it was.

Because your name should not sound so sweet, should not roll off his tongue so seamlessly, as it just did.

You’ve never been one to indulge in rumors. But in this city, as economically fractured as it is, gossip is a currency everyone keeps in their back pocket. And though you keep your head down and mind your own business, even you have heard the rumors swirling around town about the eldest Shinazugawa child.

Rumors that he has ascended the ranks of the same Mob that claimed the life of his deadbeat father long before the bastard was shived in the back for a debt he’d owed (their words, never yours).

Rumors that he holds a unique position within the gang, known clandestinely only as the Corps, and that position requires him to do things most won’t speak about.

But the rumor that screeches to the forefront of your mind has nothing to do with his alleged status with the Corps. It’s his reputation as a flirt; a rumored womanizer, through and through, that is a splinter under your skin.

Determined to pick him out, a wicked idea blossoms. “Fine, here.” You stalk purposefully to the section marked Literature. Your finger drags down a line of titles before finally settling on one. You pull it free with a soft grunt, the book sitting thick and heavy in your hand as you dump it into Sanemi’s.

“Read that.”

His eyes flick between its cover and you, incredulous. “This ain’t a book; it’s a brick.”

“It’s a classic,” you counter. “One that examines age-old question of destiny versus free will, generational curses.” Your head cocks to the side, a challenging smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Love and lust.”

His eyebrow raises and you cross your fingers. If he falls for it and ultimately ends up hating the book, then perhaps he’ll decide your taste in reading material is indeed shit, and maybe then he’ll leave you alone.

Sanemi considers you for a moment but then he takes the bait. “If you say so,” he sighs. “But if it’s shit, I’m taking my refund.” And then he leans in close, so close that you can feel the warmth radiating off his body.

His breath is hot against your ear. “Regardless of your shitty little policy.”

You refuse to let him see how much he’s knocked you off-kilter. “So I can expect to be robbed? Will it be at gun or knifepoint? Just so I’m prepared.”

His chuckle, low and dark sends goosebumps skittering down your arms. “Worse,” he promises before he draws back. His grin is wolfish, all teeth and feral hunger. “You’ll owe me a date.”

He looses a low, appreciate whistle as he steps back and takes his eyes over your rigid form. “Though, I might just take you out anyway.”

“You assume I’ll say yes — or are you planning on kidnapping me? I’m sure you’re rather proficient at it, given your occupation.”

Something dark flashes across his face, and it’s enough to make you step back, a sudden fear creeping up the back of your spine.

Stupid, you chastise yourself. You never know when to keep your mouth shut.

But the shadows in his features recede as quickly as they appeared, and Sanemi’s mouth eases back into that same, cocky smile.

“You’ll say yes, Princess. You won’t be able to resist the temptation.”

“Temptation?” You force out a laugh. “And what makes you think I can’t?”

Sanemi’s eyes find your current read, open flipped over on the counter, marking your current page.

It’s a mystery novel. Your third of the month, born of a new hyperfixation on the genre.

You want nothing more than to wipe that smug grin of his clean from his face. He gives an affectionate snake of his head as he turns and makes his way toward the door. “Habits, Y/N. It all comes down to habits.”

You should throw it at his head, but Sanemi exits the store before your hand can find its spine.

——-

Over two weeks pass without so much as a whisper from the enigma that is Sanemi Shinazugawa.

Loath though you are to give him that sort of credit, you cannot deny that he utterly confounds you. He is everything you expected while simultaneously nothing at all what you’d imagined. He is brash and cocky, and he struts around with an insufferable self-importance that can only come from years of being at the top of his game (no matter how he got there).

Yet, he also reads. Enough to have opinions, even decent ones, about certain authors, and he’s open minded enough to accept your recommendation even if it feels as though he has an ulterior motive for doing so.

And, he’d been bothered by the dock in your pay as a result of his mischief; so much so, that he’d slipped you more than enough to make up the loss. That is the action that puzzles you the most, even weeks later. You’d assumed that someone like him, so used to ensnaring people into various schemes, wouldn’t have given two shits if he’d stolen money from some broke girl at a bookstore. After all, his business was all about money — and the lengths some would go to keep it.

Yet he’d paid you back — paid you more than you needed, if you were honest.

Since that day, you’ve had your ears tuned to any mention of his name, any whispers of the mysterious, scarred gang-member who has occupied nearly all the open space in your head. You’ve managed to glean small things here and there. That he’s a Hashira, and Hashira means he’s only one step below what is known ominously as the Master Family — the heads of the entire organization.

That he’s rather feared, even among seasoned Corps members; that he’s known for his swift brutality.

That he’s more than just a flirt; he’s a virile lover. Not picky in the slightest about who warms his bed, though no one has ever been able to pin him down longer than a handful of one-night stands.

You stop poking around after that particular revelation, embarrassed that you now know exactly what makes him so popular.

Apparently, his flexibility pairs well with his near inhuman stamina. And he’s said to be very well-endowed.

It’s more information than you care to know, but you can’t deny that your curiosity lingers.

You brush aside your inquisitiveness as nothing more than a natural side effect of your own inexperience. And you’ll be damned before admitting that your interest in Sanemi Shinazugawa isn’t limited to rumors of how good he is in bed. That, perhaps your curiosity stems from something deeper, from a desire to know if that bad boy persona is authentic or a mere facade, and boy on the stoop still lurks somewhere beneath his mask.

—

“You look like shit.”

You startle up from where you’d been resting your head on your arm, wavering between consciousness and sleep.

You know that gravelly voice before you lay your eyes on him, and your irritation is quick to flicker to life.

Nearly a month has passed since your last encounter, and for a moment, you’d thought you’d been freed from his nuisance. But now, Sanemi stands in your store, wearing a half-amused expression on his stupidly handsome face.

“Is that the only descriptor you know?” You ask miserably, hands working quickly to smooth down your mused hair. “Is everything either shit or not-shit to you?”

Sanemi shrugs. “Pretty much,” and he holds something out to you, waiting. “Here.”

It’s a to-go bag from a cafe two blocks away. One known for their almond croissants, for which you have a particular penchant.

Your stomach grumbles fiercely. You’d foregone eating breakfast when you realized you’d overslept your alarm, and had to rush out of your apartment to ensure you’d be here in time for the weekly delivery truck.

The sweet scent of butter and sugar wafting from the bag makes your mouth water.

But this is Sanemi Shinazugawa, and you should think to know better. “Is it poisoned?”

He rolls his eyes. “If I wanted to drug you, sweetheart, I’d pick a far more convenient way to do it — and one that didn’t involve me getting up at the ass crack of dawn for some overpriced pastries.”

Warily, you accept the paper bag, and Sanemi surprises you again by handing you a to-go cup of coffee. He watches as you, ever the dramatic, sniff tentatively at the lid and frown, apparently dissatisfied that you can discern nothing but the rich, aromatic scent of espresso.

Sanemi takes a deep drink from his own cup. “It’s a thank you. For that book you recommended,” He smirks. “It wasn’t shit. It was good.”

You fish a pastry out of the bag, and nearly drool as you behold its buttery, flaky goodness. “You sound surprised.”

“Maybe I was. Your success rate was only fifty-fifty. I had every right to be skeptical.”

“You’re the one who grabbed that last book,” you take a large bite out of your croissant and you fight to keep yourself from moaning. “That had nothing to do with me.” You swallow thickly before taking a large sip of coffee to wash down the pastry. “So, no date, then?”

The smile he gives you is almost apologetic. “Sorry, beautiful. I don’t actually date.” And you nearly double over at the bewildering taste of disappointment creeping sourly up the back of your throat. “Gotta keep things casual in my world.”

The once-over he gives you is razor-sharp. “And you don’t look like a casual girl.”

You resist the urge to cross your arms. “You seem awfully certain, Shinazugawa.”

“Experience,” he offers easily. “I know casual women.” He turns his head away before quietly adding, “And you ain’t one of ‘em.”

It’s odd; you know of his rather wild reputation among women, and yet he seems almost embarrassed by its acknowledgment. But as you’re slowly learning, Sanemi Shinazugawa is a conundrum you haven’t yet been able to pick apart.

You could throw it in his face; you could spew some barb about his experience, rub your salt right into his obvious wound. You have no reason to spare his feelings, not when he’s been such a consistent pain in your ass.

Your eyes drift to the empty pastry bag and coffee cup before they find him again, and suddenly, you don’t see the swaggering, cocky Corps member with a reputation for being just as dangerous and violent as he is flirtatious.

You see only the boy on your stoop; the one who’d gently removed your sister from her place on his back and handed her back to your tearful, relieved parents.

And it’s because you cannot stop seeing that boy, that you offer before you lose the courage to ask, “So, friends, then?”

Sanemi whips back to you, surprise coloring his features that quickly melts into a smile — a real, genuine smile.

And thus, Sanemi Shinazugawa, ruthless member of the Corps and a ranked Hashira, befriends a girl who runs a bookshop.

—-

In retrospect, Sanemi knows he’s probably fucked himself.

His only intention in visiting your shop after that first day had been to discern what level of threat you posed to him, if any, and to address it accordingly. Befriending you was never his goal. After all, he prided himself on his staunch ability in following the unspoken Rules of the Corps — number Three, in particular.

But he has always interpreted Three has a warning against forming bonds within the Corps. And though he knows it’s good practice to keep his circle outside its operations small as well, he rations he’s entitled to indulge his curiosity in you. He doesn’t have friends, not really. Just Genya, and his little brother lives well over an hour away, enrolled in a school in a far better — far safer — city.

It would be nice to have someone a little closer to home that he could relax around.

Yet, he can’t recall whether Rule Three would bar him from associating you outside work hours. Caution would dictate he shouldn’t, but Sanemi never claimed to be a careful man.

He never visits the same day or at the same time. Rule Two says no patterns, and though he’s steadily blurring the lines of Rule Three with each passing day, he convinces himself that as long as he abides by the first two, he won’t be in as deep shit as he, in theory, could be.

It starts out slow; tentative. Despite what he’d thought otherwise, you’re not nearly as prim and haughty as you’d tried to make him believe.

You’re sweet. Genuine, in a way that’s rare for him to encounter in his world.

Gradually, he begins spending more time with you. At first, your relationship is confined strictly to discussions of books. You swap favorites, debate which author is at the top of their genre, and you occasionally needle each other over your respective guilty pleasure: yours, bodice rippers. His, fairytales.

He spends a great deal of his free time at the bookstore, though he’s never consistent with his visits. You never ask him about it, and for that, he’s grateful. But eventually, your conversation turns to other interests — movies, shows, music — and each new mutual interest only further enamors him with you.

And when you invite him over one day after you close the shop to watch an old movie you’d swiped from the store’s limited collection, he can’t find it in him to tell you no.

The first time he visits your apartment, he is appalled.

For starters, the neighborhood you live in isn’t the safest. It’s not the Silo, by any means, but it’s an area he frequents as part of his job and that fact alone sets him on edge. He knows what kind of people linger here; knows that they tend to borrow cash that ends up in Uzui’s business — another Hashira.

And when he sees the shoebox you live in (a studio, you’d proudly boasted, as though the distraction of exposed brick and industrial piping made up for its shit location and shit security), Sanemi finds himself clutching his proverbial pearls.

He supposes he can see its appeal — you’ve certainly turned it into a home.

You’ve made a small living room out of a single couch, thrifted coffee table, and a faintly stained rug. Your TV is laughably small, but he supposes it gets the job done.

A small kitchen stands to the right of the entryway, and there is a bathroom to the left. You have a wall of closets with folding doors, and the wall directly opposite of him boasts three large, arched windows. Sanemi supposes during the day, they provide enough natural sunlight to negate any need for any overhead lighting, of which you have none. But he can’t tell if they open from the outside, so he resolves to furtively check once you’re distracted.

Your bed stands on the furthest wall, tucked into a corner and laden heavy with colorful pillows and plush throws. Books are stacked everywhere — in shelves, in corners, by plants and furniture. All well-worn and loved, their spines cracked and covers stained.

It’s lively; warm. And it has you written all over it. That alone is enough to slightly endear the place to him.

But it’s still a shit apartment in a shit neighborhood.

Worse, your door is little more than a flimsy piece of wood that latches with a single turn lock — the easiest to break, if someone was determined enough to try. He tells you as much and you roll your eyes, brushing aside his concerns as though he’s not precisely aware of what kind of filth might linger around the corner.

The next day, he brings over a deadbolt, a chain, and a drill. He bats off your indignant protests as he installs it on your door. And, because he’s petty, he forces you to sit through a painfully detailed demonstration of how to properly latch and unlatch the chain once he’s finished.

The weeks blend seamlessly into months, and Sanemi finds himself spending more and more of his free time with you. It doesn’t matter whether you’re working at the bookstore or enjoying a night of brain-rotting entertainment on your shitty little television. He just wants to be near you, and he finds himself unable to stay away.

Four months into your friendship, you start a weekly movie night, though the date is always subject to change. Still, Sanemi finds himself craving more of that precious time with you. The hours spent in your store or at your apartment fill a void in his chest he hadn’t realized he’d been harboring, and it’s a fullness he quickly becomes addicted to.

It is an odd thing, this new ritual (never routine) of his. The alternation between visiting the scum indebted to the Corps, to feel bones crush and snap beneath his hands or the iron of a spare crowbar, or blood griming to his knuckles, only to return to your bookshop or apartment, cheap beer and greasy takeout in hand, isn’t the kind of switch he imagined he’d ever make. But you make taking off his Hashira mask so damn easy, and every time he leaves he finds it more difficult to slip back on.

With each passing day, he learns you more and more. He gathers information like a dragon hoards its jewels, each new tidbit a precious gem that he tucks safely away in a mental box labeled with your name.

He learns that, while he prefers tea, you prefer coffee, but you’re picky about your order. If it’s hot, you want it black or with only the faintest splash of cream. If it’s cold, however, you want every sweet syrup and topping known to man, even though it only makes you crash like a freight train once the sugar high wears off.

He learns you think cooking means pouring yourself a bowl of cereal and calling it a day, and it’s a revelation that makes him have to walk away and collect himself, lest he start lecturing you on the importance of proper nutrition, just as he does with his brother.

In exchange, he opens up about the more sacred aspects of his life — namely, Genya. He confides in you the great pride and adoration he has for his little brother, and admits his deep-seated fear that Genya will somehow be pulled into his violent, hostile world of his. And each time Sanemi begins to feel that anxiety rear its ugly head, threaten to settle into the marrow of his bones and send him into a spiral, you’re always there to pull him back.

Sometimes you ask questions, and Sanemi tries to answer them as best he can. But there are some subjects he can never touch. Never wants to.

He can’t tell you whose blood stains his knuckles or is splattered across his shoes. He can’t tell you where he goes when his phone vibrates late at night or at random during the day. He can’t tell you what his fellow Hashira do; the specialties they oversee.

Sanemi does make a point to assure you there is one sacred creed by which they all abide: no kids. This seems to put you at ease, as though this tepid moral line somehow absolves him of the other shit he’s guilty for.

It’s selfish, this thing he has created with you. He knows that. And his blossoming friendship with you likely breaks more than one of the sacred precepts of the Corps. But you’re the first person he’s met since his initiation who knows what he is and doesn’t cower in fear, and that makes him desperate to cling onto you. You know what an ugly, beastly creature he is, and yet you do not run away from him. Even when you probably should.

So, he makes a promise. He won’t show you the Shinazugawa who belongs to the Corps; a formidable member of the Hashira, known because of the things he can do to others to make sure they pay their debts. What he does to them when they don’t.

With you, he wants to be Sanemi; only Sanemi.

And so it goes, for the better part of a year, the two of you learning one another, pretending the ease you feel in the company of the other is merely the product of two people relieved to find a friend in a city that cautions against such ties, and not something in danger of becoming more.

As though the metamorphosis hasn’t already set in.

—

“You never told me what your dream was, y’know.” Sanemi says one night while you finish up inventory at the store.

“What dream?” You hum as you scan the shelves reserved for non-fiction releases, your lips pressed into a firm line as you run your pen down the entries of your log.

He leans against the bookshelf, arms folded across the considerable mass of his chest. “Your big dream — the one you bit my head off for insulting that one time.”

You look up long enough to roll your eyes at him. “Where’s this coming from?”

“Dunno. Curious.”

“Thought you’re not supposed to ask questions in your line of work.” And you shoot him a sly grin. “You ought to be careful.”

Sanemi snorts but he nudges your foot with his. “I’m serious.”

Your eyes dance back and forth between him and the log before you. There’s no real harm in it, you decide. After all, he’s the only friend you have. “I want my own bookstore.”

“Yeah?” He raises a pale brow and waves his hand vaguely around behind him. “Aren’t you practically running this one? That ain’t enough?”

“I don’t own it, though.” You frown, setting your clipboard down. “I just work here. You’ve seen my paycheck.”

And he had, having found a paystub when he’d gone snooping under your counter. You would’ve been furious at his invasion of your privacy had you not been so mortified at the way he’d stared in horror at the pitiful figure reflecting your earnings after two, grueling weeks of work.

His insistence on bringing you meals at any and every opportunity afterward only compounded your embarrassment.

“I want something that’s mine — that I own.” You continue. “I’ve begged the owner to let me organize author meet-and-greets as a way to promote the store for months, and he always says no. If I owned my own store, I wouldn’t need anyone’s permission.”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth. “I wouldn’t have to live under anyone’s thumb.”

Something shifts in the way Sanemi watches you, a certain profundity creeping into his eyes.

Your cheeks heat. “I know it sounds stupid —“

“It doesn’t,” Sanemi says earnestly. “Wanting your freedom can never be stupid.”

You soften then, as understanding passes between you. Of course he would know all about that — arguably better than anyone you know.

Sanemi clears his throat. “So, a bookstore?” And he gives you a broad smile as he pulls out his wallet and tosses you a twenty dollar note. “Consider me your first investor.”

—

Sanemi spends the rest of the evening watching you work, fascinated by the way you meticulously organize your store shelves, and count the cash in your register. When it comes time for you to heave boxes of excess inventory to the back storeroom so they can be shipped back to their distributors, Sanemi plucks them from your hands, batting off your protests as he carries them for you.

By the time closing arrives, every new shipment has been unpacked and its contents have been shelved.

You flick off the overhead lights in the main store, relying on the backlight of the exit door to light your way out. You tug on your coat and find him watching you, expectantly. “Are you walking me home?”

“Tch. Don’t I always, when I can?”

You grin and it’s enough to chase away some of the sourness twisting in his gut. He shouldn’t do it, as often as he does. He’s risking enough as it is by constantly redrawing the lines around Rule Three to justify the way he’s beginning to bend the parameters around the rule against patterns. But it’s dark and late, and you don’t have a car, and he’ll be damned if he lets you brave the walk home alone.

Better he’s there to protect you from the dangers he can anticipate and see than to stick to his code and risk your harm from those he cannot.

Thankfully, the journey back to your apartment takes no more than fifteen minutes, even when he stops to thumb free a cigarette from the spare carton he keeps tucked in his jacket. You wrinkle your nose at him in mock-disgust as he lights it, the smoke curling out of his mouth reminiscent of a fire-breathing dragon.

He wouldn’t do it if he knew it truly bothered you. But you’d once shyly confessed you liked the faint smell of tobacco that clung to his jacket, especially in cold air like this. So he only shoots you a wink as he brings it to his lips and takes a long drag.

Besides, he thinks as he looses a slow exhale. He needs something to help him take the edge off; to guide him in making that transition between Hashira and Sanemi.

He escorts you all the way to your front door, the two of you trading quips and jokes. And Sanemi savors how utterly extraordinary something as ordinary as walking you to your door feels. Almost as if he’s ordinary, the way he so desperately wishes he could be.

You fidget with your keys, sliding them into your lock. “Did you finish that series I recommended?”

Sanemi grins. “Last night. I think it was your best suggestion yet.”

You duck your head, a bashful smile spreading across your pretty lips and its sight fills him with a golden warmth.

Your door gives way and you turn back to him. “‘Til next time?”

It was what you always said; you never asked him when you could expect to see him again, and he appreciated it. Appreciated not having to explain himself, when most outside his world would likely demand he try.

“‘Til next time,” he confirms, returning your smile with one of his own.

You hover in your doorway, fingers drumming on the frame, eyes roaming his.

“You never told me yours — what your dream is.”

He should leave. You’re treading in murky waters, ones made dangerous because he almost wants to tell you — tell you the truth, at that.

That he dreams of more. More life. More stability. More everything. He’d settle for anything, really; anything at all.

As long as it was more than this.

But Sanemi only responds with a wry grin. “To wake up in the morning, Princess. That’s all I can ask for.”

———

Sanemi’s answer lingers with you long after you emerge from your shower, warm and toweling your damp hair.

To wake up in the morning, Princess.

He’s full of shit and you know it.

Over the course of the last year, you’ve learned a handful of crucial details that make up Sanemi Shinazugawa.

You’ve learned he loves matcha, but he really loves the expensive kind. While you can’t afford to buy the high quality powder, you make do with what you can afford at the grocery, and you make it for him as often as you can.

He drinks it every time, bitter dregs and all.

More importantly, you’ve learned what it means to have a friend involved in the Corps. Not that he’s merely involved with the notorious gang — at least, not any more than the two of you are just “friends.”

Town gossip aside, Sanemi’s affiliation with the Corps is made obvious by his own actions. Like the way the two of you only ever hang out at the bookstore or your apartment; how he never invites you to visit his place, over in the Silo.

Or how he insists on scoping out your apartment every time he comes over, his eyes alert and sharp as his hand lingers at his hip, ready to pull out the gun you know he keeps tucked into his waistband at all times.

It’s evident in the way Sanemi never sticks to a consistent schedule. He varies the days and times of his visits at random, never allowing himself to settle into a routine, even if that means going an entire week or longer without seeing you.

But perhaps the most significant detail you’ve learned about Sanemi over the year of your friendship is this:

He wants out. Dreams of it, even.

This revelation does not come from the scarred Hashira himself. It is the product of months of observation, of studying how his face darkens when his phone pings! while you’re watching some sitcom on television, or when he sees a familiar face pass by your shop window, and suddenly he has to leave because he must be Shinazugawa again, and you won’t see him for the rest of the day.

It is evident in the way he talks of his younger brother, who, by all accounts is a star student and athlete, with a promising future in collegiate archery.

Sanemi is saving every penny he can to send his brother — Genya — to school, far, far away from the Silo. The conviction with which he speaks of Genya’s future, full of college and internships and promise, breaks your heart, because you know Sanemi hadn’t anyone to want those things for him.

Sanemi does not speak of any future of his. You suspect it’s because he doesn’t believe he will have one.

That has to be why he answered your question with his vague desire to wake up every morning. It was an easy answer. One that relied on you making certain connections between his life and his words and deduce that he truly had nothing more to live for other than life itself.

A cop-out, is what it is.

But his reading habits betray his darkest secret — betray the truth — and that’s exactly how you know his flippant answer is utter bullshit.

The book Sanemi carries around the most is a series of classic fairy tales, bought off your sale table a few months back. He’s read the whole thing cover to cover, but he keeps a bookmark on one specific page, and periodically, you catch him flipping back to it.

He made the mistake of leaving the book on your coffee table one night when he excused himself to use your bathroom. Realistically, you knew it was no big deal to flip through it, but somehow, the thought still felt like an invasion of his privacy.

But your curiosity got the better of you so you snatched it up, and thumb quickly to the bookmarked page, desperate to know which story has so captivated him.

You opened to the first page of of a tale — an old French story, about the daughter of a merchant who is sent to life with a beast in a distant castle, as penance for his theft of the beast’s rose.

You smiled to yourself; you were familiar with the story. You know how it goes — the beast everyone believes to be the villain is saved by the woman, and revealed to be a handsome prince. And the two live happily ever after.

Your smile faded as you recalled how the woman saved her Beast. True love’s kiss, or something along those lines.

True love.

And as Sanemi returned from the bathroom and plopped down next to you on your couch to watch a rerun of some old sitcom before he has to leave for the night, you mulled over Sanemi’s apparent fascination with the tale of the beast and the beauty.

And that’s how you drew the series of conclusions which enabled you to see right through his thin facade.

He wants out.

He wants a happily ever after. He doesn’t think he’ll get it.

And, above all, he dreams of love.

—

If any doubt lingered as to the magnitude of his ties to the Corps, it disintegrates one night, about eight months after he’d first burst into your bookstore.

It is well after midnight, but you are still awake, too engrossed in a new fantasy novel to pay particular attention to the lateness of the hour when your phone buzzes on your bedside table.

Sanemi’s name lingers above the notification, which reads simply, Outside.

You untangle yourself from your blankets and pad over to your front door, hastily tugging on a pair of sleep boxers over your underwear.

You open the door and the flutter of excitement you’d felt upon seeing his text is chased away by shock at the sight before you.

There is a bruise forming along Sanemi’s cheek that you almost would have mistaken for dirt if not for the swelling. His hair is rumpled, his clothes in disarray. Though it winks away the second he sets his gaze on you, you swear you were able a cold fury in his eyes; foreign, and violent.

The fury that belongs to a Hashira, not to the friend you know.

Wordlessly, you step back and allow him to limp past you.

“You got liniment?” He rasps, plopping heavily down in your kitchen chair. “And water?”

“You mean icy-hot?” You’re already filling a glass from the tap that you set on the table next to him before you retreat to your bathroom to rummage the cabinets.

You return a few moments later, tub of minty topical gel clutched in hand. You nearly drop it when you realize that Sanemi has stripped himself of his shirt already and is now bare from the waist-up, his forehead resting against his arms where they’re propped up on the back of your chair.

You’ve known for a long while that Sanemi is well-built (obscenely so).

Once, in the early days of your friendship, you’d snapped at him to button his shirt properly if he insisted on hanging around your store, dramatizing over how obscene it was for him to prance around with his chest half-exposed.

Sanemi had only grinned at you before he unbuttoned two more, revealing a generous glimpse of infuriatingly toned abs. Your open-mouthed, scandalized stare was met only with a wink.

He kept his shirt like that for the remainder of the day. You’d hardly been able to look at him without flushing a deep scarlet that only seemed to inflate his already generous ego even further.

But, you’re only human. And as the months passed by, and your friendship with the scarred mobster grew, you found yourself sneaking the odd peek every now and then. A glimpse of pectoral here; a hint of his rigid v-line when he stretched his arms over his head there.

And now, here he is, sitting in your small kitchen area awaiting the relief of the icy hot clutched in the tub that grew more slippery between your rapidly sweaty palms, every mouth watering inch of his upper body on display.

Beautiful. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him. Sanemi is unbelievably beautiful.

“Need ya to rub it into my shoulder, if you don’t mind,” his voice is muffled against his arm. “I hate asking, but I dislocated the damn thing and had to reset it — fuckin’ hurts, now.”

You know better than to suggest he go get an x-ray. No hospitals, he’d once explained. Not unless you’re bleeding out.

You also know better than to ask how he dislocated it, and so you only pad silently over to him, grateful he’s turned away from you so he cannot see the tremble in your hands or the blush creeping across your cheeks.

Eager to give yourself something to do besides ogling, you focus on unscrewing the lid on the jar of liniment, your nose wrinkling under the burn of its stringent odor. You scoop a generous amount of the salve into your palms and warm it between your hands.

“Motherfucker,” Sanemi hisses as your hands spread gently across his shoulder, your fingers gingerly massaging the topical into his swollen joint. “Shit stings.”

“You’re lucky it’s not broken,” you chide, carefully prodding along the joint in search of anything that may be amiss — an odd lump or gap, signaling something hasn’t been reset properly. “At least, I don’t think it is.”

“Your medical expertise is astounding,” Sanemi drolls, but he winces again as your fingers press against a particularly tender spot. You step away from him with a huff and fish your phone out of your pocket, hands still slathered with ointment.

“I’m not a doctor,” you shoot back. “And since you refuse to go see one, the best I can do it give you the advice of the internet.”

You ignore his grumblings as you search for treatments for dislocated joints. You tap on the first link that appears and scroll, eyes narrowed as you read.

“You’re in luck. It seems like you won’t die,” you say dryly. “But you’re going to have a nasty bruise.” You purse your lips, eyes scanning the article on your phone. “And this says you’re supposed to rest — not overexert the joint.” You reach to tug playfully on a lock of his hair. “I don’t suppose you’re actually going to do that, though.”

He twists and flashes you a mischievous smirk over his shoulder. “You know me too well, Princess.”

You roll your eyes and snort, tossing your phone onto your table in favor of reaching for a discarded kitchen towel to wipe off the excess icy hot from your hands.

You’re about to tell him to put his shirt back on and stop flaunting the muscles he just can’t seem to help but show everyone he has when your eyes snag on a mark that rests squarely between his shoulder blades.

You wouldn’t have noticed it but for the shiny redness surrounding it, a clear contrast to the rest of his skin. But the longer your stare at it, the more clear its abnormality. The mark is puffy and raised, but there’s a distinct pattern to it that makes the hair on the back of your neck curl.

A brand, you realize with horror. Someone has branded him like cattle.

Your finger reaches to trace over the ridges seared into his skin before you can think the better of it. Sanemi twitches under your touch, a small shudder skirting down his spine as he tilts his head back toward you.

“Ugly, ain’t it?” His tone is unreadable. “Like a collar, ‘cept it’s permanent.”

Though he tends to err on the side of caution when it comes to discussing the Corps, you at least know what is role is within it. He told you: debt collector. Mostly monetary debts.

But the brand has nothing to do with money. No, the symbol burned into his skin — the one that stands for Kill — is a neon sign of a reminder that Sanemi’s duties can and do entail another kind of collection.

A chill snakes down your spine. You’d had your suspicions, of course, you’re not stupid. But seeing it confirmed by a brand of all things is a lightning rod through your chest.

Sanemi must sense your stare against his back, and you hear his rueful smile though you can’t see his face. “Guess it’s fitting, since I’m their dog.”

There it is; confirmation of what he is, as though it were possible to forget. You don’t know why you’d held out in letting its weight settle over you. Nor do you know why your brain had refused, for a moment, to reconcile the Sanemi who brought cheap beer and greasy fast food to your apartment for a night of trash television and book reviews with the one before you now, branded with inexorable reminder of what his duties are when he steps outside and debts go unpaid; when scores go uneven.

Your eyes slide to his gun, resting atop your table. It may has well have been smoking.

“It’s barbaric,” you murmur. You never offer much of an opinion on the tidbits of information about his life he shares with you, unwilling to make him feel as though you aren’t someone he can confide in.

But the sight of the brand scorched between his shoulder blades stokes something ugly and angry within you. You’re grateful his back is to you so you can furtively rub your hand over your prickling eyes before he can see you do something stupid, like cry.

He tilts his head back until it rests against your abdomen. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting shut.

You freeze for a moment, your anger temporarily suspended against your uncertainty of whether you should step back or remain. You’ve touched Sanemi a thousand different ways — you’ve grabbed his arm, smacked him upside his thick head, and elbowed him more times than you can count.

But this; this is something far different from your teasing nudges of the past. This small gesture feels infinitely more tender. Gentle.

Intimate.

Sanemi has never not been the picture of cocky brashness, especially around you. His priggish smirk was a constant, only ever dampened by the occasional alert on his phone — the one that meant he had to stop being yours for the night, and go be theirs.

But this Sanemi? This peaceful, eased, vulnerable version of your best friend is wholly uncharted territory. And perhaps it’s because he looks so unguarded this way, his face relaxed and his eyes closed, that you feel so flustered.

You brush his hair away from his forehead. At the first graze of your fingers along his scalp, Sanemi leans further into you with something akin to a moan.

Hot; everything feels so damn hot, the air in your apartment suddenly too thick. Too oppressive.

Yet, you don’t stop; your fingers keep raking through his hair, surprisingly silky.

You think he may have fallen asleep in your chair, but after another moment of your hands carding through his hair, Sanemi stands. You step away instantly, and you avert your eyes while he pulls his shirt back over his head, cursing softly as he works it over his injured shoulder.

Sanemi turns to you and clears his throat roughly. “Thanks again. Don’t know what I would’ve done without ya.”

You wave him off with an exaggerated eye roll, eager to conceal the redness in your cheeks. “Oh please, I’m just your neighborhood book supplier and occasional first aid nurse.”

A sudden sobriety passes over his features, clouding over that all too familiar smirk with something heavier.

“No,” he murmurs and his hand absently lifts to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “No, you’re more than that.” His palm lingers against your cheek and his voice quiets to a hoarse whisper. “Much more.”

For a moment, you wonder if he’ll lean in; if he’ll show you whether his lips are as warm as his touch.

His eyes drop briefly to your mouth and your stomach somersaults at the thought he might be considering it, too. But the clouds part and Sanemi withdraws from you with an affection flick against the tip of your nose.

And then he turns and leaves.

You sink back against your door after you close it behind him and slide to your floor. You remain there for a long while after, your mind little more than a gnarled tangle of brambles you can’t begin to pick through. But even despite the complicated mess of thoughts and emotions knotted together in your head, one thing stands clear: you’d wanted to kiss him.

And for a moment, you swear he’d wanted to, as well.

An old rumor, one you hadn’t considered since your very first interaction with him, resurfaces in your mind. The one that had less to do with him in the Corps, and more so involved his activities outside of it.

The rumor that he cycles through the bodies he uses to warm his bed more frequently than you change the sheets on yours.

Your cheeks heat, and you shake your head to clear away the sudden, intrusive images of Sanemi tangled in the throes of passion with some faceless stranger that fill your imagination. You don’t care what those blasted rumors claim; you know him. And what’s more, you know that what you feel for him is stronger than anything you’ve ever felt toward anyone.

You’re in love with Sanemi.

It is his face you see at night before you fall asleep; it’s his touch you imagine in those secret moments in your bed or in the shower, when you’re desperate and aching.

It’s he who makes you feel most at ease; the one person you feel truly sees you, thinks you’re actually worth something.

You’ve never really known love before. But it’s because you’re such a novice that you know your feelings are true; powerful. You know what he is — what he thinks he is. And you know that you will never want anyone else; you can’t.

You won’t.

—

Three rules. That’s all he had to do, was follow three simple fucking rules.

Don’t speak. No patterns. And don’t get overly attached.

It had been easy, so easy, to follow them. If there was one thing Sanemi believed he could pride himself on, it had been his steadfast adherence to the Corps’ rules. Number three, in particular.

Until you. Until the day he’d chosen your bookstore to hide in.

Because that was when Sanemi decided that those rules were really more like guidelines; malleable. He’d let himself cast them aside out of a desperation for human connection. And he’d justified his carelessness by convincing himself that as long as he maintained some semblance compliance with the unspoken code of the Corps.

Sanemi had built his own set of rules around the foundation of his friendship with you, a wall of stone around the glass castle meant to ensure you would not be cut by its shards should it ever shatter.

He would not be your liability, nor would you be his.

But now, he’s too deep; Sanemi knows he’s gotten in way too fucking deep with you.

Until this moment, he imagined he’d managed to toe the line of this internal code that applied only to his relationship with you, save a handful of instances when he’d let himself blur it.

As it turns out, he’d been dead fucking wrong. Because he’s pretty sure you just asked him to cross the last major boundary he’d set for himself when it came to you.

So, Sanemi only gapes at you. “What?”

You huff, impatient. “I want you to fuck me.”

You say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world — as though you haven’t just ripped the floor out from beneath him and sent him falling directly on his ass.

If he didn’t know you were dead serious, he would’ve laughed in your face. And that’s how he knows he’s fucked.

You’re a virgin; he knows that, because you’d drunkenly confessed it to him two weeks prior, tipsy on the cheap beer he’d brought over for your weekly movie night together.

Admittedly, he’d been surprised. You were beautiful — not that beauty was a requirement for a good fuck, but you didn’t seem the type to go for random hookups, unlike him. Still, he would’ve thought you’d had some prior relationship where the opportunity would have arisen.

As it turned out, you’d never been in a relationship, either.

Between long gulps of your drink, you’d asked him to fix it and he’d turned you down — his tolerance for watery beer far surpassed your own, and Sanemi Shinazugawa wasn’t the type to sleep with someone who couldn’t fully consent.

So he’d let you down — but not before he kissed you. It was only once; soft, the way you deserved to be kissed. His lips met yours and suddenly, the gaping hole in his chest felt smaller; fuller. Kissing you felt like coming home, even though Sanemi was sure he’d never fully known what home truly felt like.

And then he parted from you with an affectionate flick on your nose to cover the way his heart clenched at the visible disappointment in your eyes.

He’d boldly kissed you twice more after that night — one a quick, cheeky peck when you went in to hug him, an act done more to fluster you than to sate any desire of his, no matter how he craved more of you.

The other happened only three nights prior, and it was anything but soft and sweet.

One of Sanemi’s fellow Hashira, Kanae, hadn’t been seen in several days, and no one had been able to get in touch with her. When she’d missed a scheduled patrol of one of the neighborhoods in the Silo, he and another member, Iguro, had been sent to check on her.

They’d found her in the kitchen of the small home she’d shared with her two sisters with a hole in her head and her brains splattered across the floor.

Curled under the protective stretch of her limp arms, had been her two sisters, both bearing matching bullet wounds to their skulls.

Kizuki, most likely. They were the only ones brave enough to target someone as high ranked as Kanae.

Their blood had still been fresh, and the stench of decay and rot hadn’t yet set in, which only told them that the girls had been held for several days, forced to endure unknown horrors at the hands of their murderers.

He hadn’t been particularly close with the woman, but as his rank equal, she’d had his respect. But now she and her adolescent sisters were nothing more than smears of brain matter and skull fragments to be scraped off the linoleum of their kitchen floor and quietly buried. Forgotten.

The hours passed by in a blur once Kocho’s death was called into the higher-ups, and Sanemi didn’t remember cleaning up the scene anymore than he remembered the solitary trek back. His mind and his body disconnected, and he only snapped back to reality when he realized he was standing in front of your apartment, unsure of how or when he’d begun walking in its direction.

He knew he should turn around and go home; there was nothing you could do for him right then, he shouldn’t bother you —

His fist was pounding on your door before he could think better of it.

Despite the late hour, you’d greeted him with a broad smile and a shy hi. Your hair had been damp, and he could smell the floral sweetness of your shampoo still mixed with the steam from your shower as it spilled into the hall.

Safe; you were safe.

Your door had still been hanging wide open as Sanemi surged forward, trapping your face in his hands to crash his lips down against yours, his kiss heavy and hot.

You’d broken away long enough to ask, “S-Sanemi — what —?”

“Shut up,” he’d snarled, slanting his mouth back over yours, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip. He’d half expected you to shove him away, perhaps to even aim a knee right at his crotch, yet you’d only buried your fingers in his hair and tugged him closer.

He backed you up against the wall opposite of your entryway, though he’d moved his hand to cup the back of your head to keep it from banging against the exposed brick.

You moaned into the kiss and Sanemi lost whatever shred of sense he’d managed to cling onto. His tongue swept along your bottom lip, and the hand cupping the back of your head loosely pulled at your hair, tugging your head to the side and signaling you to open up — to let him in.

And you did. And the first brush of his tongue against yours as he licked into your mouth ignited an inferno within him that he did not know how to tame.

His hands pushed under your sweatshirt, seeking out the comforting warmth of your skin. Higher and higher they rose, until they came to rest against your ribs, and Sanemi realized you were bare — completely bare — beneath your hoodie.

That you’d allowed him to toe so dangerously close to a line neither of you could cross had clouded every bit of his judgment. The thought that he’d only have to move his hands mere centimeters to touch you in a way no other had before had sent him reeling, and his hips were beyond his control when they pinned yours against the wall and ground into you.

But your single gasp into his mouth broke the spell, and with more regret than Sanemi knew he should feel, he broke away, leaving you both breathless and panting.

Without a word, he’d turned around and stalked right back out of your apartment, closing your door firmly behind him.

He’d sent a text only a few minutes later — a single, ominous reminder to you to lock your door, deadbolt and all.

He hadn’t the stomach to explain his cryptic warning; not as the sight of Kocho remained burned into his retinas.

So, yes, he’s blurred a few lines when it comes to you. But those had only been kisses; heavy touching aside, he’d never allowed himself to go further than that.

No matter how much he wanted to.

And it’s because he knows he can’t cross this last line — can’t open you up to risk more than he already has, that he meets your expectant stare with a rueful smile.

“You’re better off asking someone else, Princess. You don’t want to get tangled up with someone like me.”

Never mind that you’re already tangled up with him — but he’s managed to uphold this last boundary, and Sanemi has convinced himself that as long as it remains in place, he can’t ruin you the way Kocho and her young sisters were ruined.

“I don’t want to ask someone else,” you fold your arms across your chest and cock your hip out, defiant. Normally, Sanemi finds your stubbornness endearing, if not adorable, but not now; not when you should know better.

A low growl of your name is his warning. “You don’t know what you’re asking —“

“It’s you I want. I don’t care what the rumors say, I don’t care what anyone thinks — including you.”

The sincerity in your eyes nearly scalds him. “And I am not asking as a friend. You and I both know this is more than that.”

He wants to throttle you. Not literally of course, he could never — but he wants to shake the sense you’re so clearly lacking back into you until you see; until you understand.

Of course he wants you. He has wanted you for months — so much so, he hardly can focus on anything else. And he’s pent up. He hasn’t had the stomach to fuck anyone else. Not since he began falling asleep and waking up to thoughts of you and your touch, of how you might look under or above him, wanton and desperate. Or how you might feel in his arms; on his tongue.

Really, it’s been quite a blow to his rather wild reputation throughout the Silo. But God knows he has tried to fill the you-shaped void in his heart, but nothing — no one — has come close.

More than anything, he wants you to be his, and for him to be yours. He longs to be the Sanemi who takes you out on dates, who kisses you freely without the compulsive need to check over his shoulder, to make sure there aren’t any enemies watching and plotting to strike him right where he’s weak. He wants to be the Sanemi you come home to after a long day at the bookstore. The one with whom you plan a future, utterly and completely yours.

But he can never be just Sanemi. He is nothing more than the property of the very organization he’s sworn allegiance to; the group whose brand he bears on his skin.

He is not good. He is a curse that will infect you, a poison to your life.

He will rot you from the inside, out.

His friendship with you is selfish. He knows that — he’s always known that, and yet he did not stop. It is selfish because he deluded himself into believing he could actually be someone else when he was with you. Someone worth befriending; perhaps someone worth a little more.

You were right to call him a thief, that day. All he does is take your time and affection when he knows damn well he won’t give you anything in return, no matter how he wishes he could.

Sanemi won’t label that thing he holds deep inside his heart which is formed in the shape of your name; not when it could so easily doom you both. But he knows his feelings for you are dangerous, and he cannot allow you to sniff them out.

Because if he does, then this only ends one or two ways: either he lets you in only for you to abandon him once you realize the truth of what he is, or you’re used as a weapon against him.

In either event, he loses you. So it is better to cut this off now, to force you away before either of you become more invested than you already are.

He will not hurt you, but neither will he allow himself to be hurt by you.

You take a step toward him, and the soft whisper of his name sounds like a holy prayer on your lips and that’s how he knows this is wrong.

Your obstinate refusal to recognize him for what he is is a needle digging into his skin, one that whittles away at every wall he has managed to build around his heart, that damnable, soft, dangerous thing that he will not allow you to find; he cannot.

You’re confusing your roles. He is the vulture and you are his prey, not the other way around. he is not here to give. He is here only to take, and you will let him and then he will leave.

And he will not be the carcass you pick clean only to discard once you’ve had your fill.

(A lie, but it’s one Sanemi almost believes. Almost.)

But Sanemi knows you; he knows you better than he knows anything else. You are a constant he has become far too dependent upon, and you are precious — far too precious to him to continue to indulging.

He knows you are too good, too loyal in your feelings to forget about him, even if he disappeared from your life entirely.

A clean break. it is the only thing that will force you to forget him and move on, find another, someone good and whole and not a broken, misshapen thing like him.

He will show you who he really is. He will show you that he could never be just Sanemi, and he sure as hell can’t ever be yours.

Better; you deserve better, so he will become worse.

He advances on you, his step heavy and imposing, and you have enough sense to scurry back from him. But he is too quick and soon he has you caged against the wall of your studio, literally backed into a corner.

“You want me?” He is scathing and he loathes himself for it, but he can’t stop. Not when he’s desperate to save you from the blight of himself.

You shouldn’t; you can’t.

But you nod, damn you. Wide-eyed, you nod and he resents the certainty reflected in your gaze.

His mouth twists into a cruel sneer. “You want to say you’ve had a taste of the lowlife, huh?“

Your eyebrows knit together. “Sanemi, that’s not —“

But he can’t stop his venom. “Bragging rights, that’s all you’re after, right? You want to be like one of the characters in your stories — the good girl who makes an honest man outta the good-for-nothing villain.”

“Stop it,” you bite, and your eyes harden. “You’re acting like an asshole.”

You’re angry. Good. Sanemi knows how to deal in anger.

“Hate to break it to ya, sweetheart, but I’m not acting like an asshole. I am one.”

Your hackles raise, and you step away from the wall and toward him, bold in your fury. “I know you want to believe you are, but you’re not —“

Sanemi’s hand shoots out to grab a fistful of your hair. “Is that so?” You yelp as he wrenches your head back, your neck straining. “Then maybe I oughta bend you over and fuck you like I would any other cheap whore. Then you can tell me what you think I am.”

Your eyes water as the grip in your hair tightens.

Good, he thinks savagely. Let you see the monster he truly was, let you know he was his bastard father’s son, and that he’d be no different, no different at all. He’s a brute, and you don’t want that, you don’t want him —

“You can do whatever it is you want,” you manage, you throat tight. And Sanemi’s eyes blow wide at the soft, watery smile that forms on your lips despite the tears that escape the corners of your eyes. “Do to me what you like; I don’t mind, as long as it’s you.”

All at once, his ire with you and your bewildering devotion to him melts away, leaving nothing behind but a deep well of guilt, bitter and acerbic.

It isn’t that you think he might take you forcefully and harshly; after all, he’s only shown you he’s entirely capable of doing so.

It’s that you would let him. Without a shred of doubt, he knows you would offer yourself to him to use however he wants, and that you’d do it with a smile not unlike the one you’re wearing right now, soft and earnest.

Fuck, you just did.

And it’s that realization that has Sanemi’s hand loosening from your hair, his eyes softening. An errant tear escapes down your cheek and he moves to brush it away, but you close your eyes the moment you spy his knuckle nearing your face.

You do not flinch, but you are steeling yourself in anticipation of expected cruelty, and the front he’s put forth crumbles to dust.

He is a monster, but not for the reasons he’s used to justify this ugly display of his. He’s a monster because he has made you believe that this treatment is acceptable — an unavoidable cost of intimacy, no matter how fleeting.

Worse, he’s done the one thing he’d sworn never to do to any woman, let alone someone as good and as dear as you.

He’d only wanted to disgust you; enrage you, so that you would kick him out of both your apartment and your life, right out on his sorry ass like he deserved.

But this is worse. He has frightened you.

He recoils from you like a kicked dog. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He stands awkwardly as you stare at him, wide-eyed and uncertain, and each second that ticks silently by only amplifies the oily well of guilt in his stomach.

He clears his throat. “I’ll go,” he says roughly, too ashamed to meet your eyes. “‘M sorry, I didn’t —“

Your hand grabs his bicep, anchoring him in place. “I want you to stay.”

“You don’t owe me anything —“

“It’s not about owing you,” you interject, lifting your hands to take his face between your palms. “I want you. I want this.”

You prove your point by taking his hand and guiding it to your waist. You hold it there, mouth set in a determined line as you inch closer to him.

“You deserve someone else,” Sanemi can’t stop the admission from rolling off his tongue. “Better.”

But you’re already shaking your head, as though you somehow know different. “There is no one better; I only want you.”

Idiot, he thinks as you rise up on your tiptoes, your arms winding around his shoulders as the distance between your bodies grows narrower. You’re an idiot.

You can’t possibly believe he’s as good as it gets. He’s used you as a distraction this whole time, a chance to forget the things he’s done and what he’ll be required to do in the future. Surely, you must know that.

He will hurt you; it’s in his nature. It’s unavoidable. He can’t be what you deserve.

But then your lips brush gently against his and the last of his resolve crumbles.

Sanemi melts into your kiss. He brings one hand to cradle the side of your face as the one braced against your waist shorts, until he wraps his arms around you and tugs you closer to him.

This kiss is gentle in every way the last was not. Sanemi’s lips are soft moving against yours, his hands almost hesitant in how they hold you. For a moment, he imagines himself not as the selfish, hard brute he knows he is, but instead as the gentle, giving lover he wants so desperately to be. One who is worthy of someone as kind and vibrant as you, and not the trash you’d be better off leaving out on the street.

The tentativeness with which he kisses you tempers some as his tongue flicks out against your bottom lip. You answer his silent request with enthusiasm, your fingers burying themselves in his hair as you haul yourself closer. The moment Sanemi’s tongue sweeps into your waiting mouth, you buckle against him with the sweetest sigh he’s ever heard. One of pure relief, as though you’d been burning and he was your balm.

Ironic, considering he’s only adding gasoline to this fire between you.

But there’s nothing he can do now except allow the flames to consume you both.

Soon, the shy curiosity with which he explores your mouth gives way to a mutual hunger, evident by how he feels as though he’s boiling alive while you gasp and sigh into him, your fingers tugging pleadingly at his hair.

You want more, and he needs you, too.

His nose nuzzles against yours as he bends down, his hands running along the bare expanse of your legs. The ground beneath your feet disappears as Sanemi gathers you up easily into his arms.

One of your arms is looped around his neck while your other hand cups his face, turning it toward yours as he carries you to your bed. Your thumb smooths absently over the scar that cuts across his cheek and then your lips seek out his once more. His kiss is as gentle as the hand squeezing your waist, his fingers slotting into the gap between your sweatshirt and the top of your sleep shorts, stroking your skin.

He lays you out upon your mattress, grateful you’d at least purchased a full bed rather than some shitty twin. Your hands untangle themselves from his hair and instead seek out the waistband of your sleep shorts, but Sanemi covers them with his, halting you.

“Don’t,” he murmurs between quick, messy kisses. “Let me — please.”

Before you can respond, Sanemi sits back and grabs a fistful of his own shirt, yanking it over his head.

Your pupils blow wide at the sight of him and he feels himself hesitate. Sanemi has always felt an easy self confidence when it came to stripping in front of his partners for the night. He’d always been quite proud of his physique, relying on his considerable muscles to mask his deep loathing of his scars.

But in front of you, all sense of self-assuredness goes flying out the window, and suddenly he feels too exposed. His eyes drop to scour the planes of his chest — have his scars always been this prominent? This thick?

“Holy shit,” your soft sigh snaps his attention away from the howling inside his head. For one, petrifying moment, he thinks that you are as disgusted with his body as he is, but then he sees the pink flush staining your cheeks.

Your eyes roam hungrily over him and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. You meet his gaze and your pupils are blown wide with desire — rich, hot need for him.

Your voice is little more than a sultry whisper. “Come here.”

He moves eagerly to cover your body with his, his hair rumpled and his eyes bright as his lips press hurriedly against yours. Your hands smooth over his pectorals and tease down his abdomen until he’s panting, but the moment your nails rake along the skin on either side of his navel, Sanemi moans.

More. He needs more.

He hauls you up from the bed, straddling you across his lap, his hands notched behind your knees as they press into the mattress. You reconnect your lips in a heated kiss, one hand playing with the ends of his snowy hair, the other dropping down his back, settling over the brand seared between his shoulder blades. Covering it.

Yes, he thinks as he nips your bottom lip, urging your mouth to open so he can slide his tongue in to dance with yours. Yes, this is fitting. Because in his ideal world, his life with you would come before any other — including his with the Corps.

Sanemi’s lips begin trailing hotly down your jaw, pausing when he reaches your neck. He finds a particularly sensitive spot with a nip of his teeth that he soothes with his tongue, and he hums in approval at the faint, breathy whimpers that squeak past your lips as you tilt your head, offering more of yourself to him.

The ache burgeoning in his groin in response to your display is enough to drive him insane; he has never wanted anything in his life as badly as he wants this — you.

As his mouth continues its heated path, his hands find the hem of your hoodie. With a gentleness that surprises even him, Sanemi begins charting your skin with his fingers. With every new plane of your body he explores, he pushes your sweatshirt up, up, up, until he guides it over your head.

He tosses it to the side, not caring for where it lands. His attention is focused solely on you as you fall back against your bed, now bare from the waist up.

“Beautiful,” he marvels, eyes running over the slope of your shoulder and tracing the curve of your breasts. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

He savors every hitched breath, every chill that ripples over your skin as he explores your body with his mouth and hands. Over the years, Sanemi has become well acquainted with the magic of the female body. He’s always liked how soft women were compared to him. He isn’t a picky man; he’ll celebrate them all, regardless of their shape or size.

But you? Celebration isn’t enough; you deserve nothing less than outright worship.

“You feel so damn good,” he mutters against your breast before closing his lips over your nipple and sucking hard. You bow off the bed with a keening moan that gutters out into something more ragged as his hand covers the other, pinching and rolling your stiffened bud between his fingers.

He could spend all night like this, lavishing your soft mounds with his mouth. But Sanemi knows that won’t be enough to satisfy the hunger gnawing at both of you, so with a tinge of regret, he forces himself to move on, descending your body in alternating kisses and nips.

He reaches the waistband of your shorts and his eyes flash to yours as he tugs on it with his teeth. The hot exhale of his breath below your navel sends goosebumps across your skin. Sanemi’s fingers inch below the hem of your shorts until he loops his hands around the waistband, and he yanks them down your legs in a single, fluid motion.

His eyes rake down your body, taking in every beautiful inch. A blush forms on his cheeks as he realizes all that separates you from him is your simple pair of black underwear.

He sits back, eager to join your near-nudity. His hands are quick, if not a little clumsy, as he finds his belt buckle. The instant the metal clicks and the leather around his hips loosens, Sanemi shoves off his pants, eagerly kicking them off your bed until he is left in nothing but his briefs.

Your eyes fall to where the evidence of his desire protrudes stiffly from between his legs. Sanemi watches your throat pulse as you try to stifle your small gulp, your thighs tensing beneath him in an effort to press together.

He can sense your nerves; can see by the way your eyes dart anxiously between his and the rigid tent in his briefs.

With a gentle smile, Sanemi leans in and soothes your unease with his lips. “We’ll take it as slow as you want. I’m not in any rush.”

“N-now?” You murmur between kisses, and he nearly seizes at the hesitant, questioning brush of your fingers against the underside of his shaft.

“Not yet,” he groans against your mouth. “I gotta make sure you’re ready first.”

“I am ready -“

“Not like that,” he cuts off your protest by ghosting his fingers up the covered seam of you. Sanemi circles his finger around where he thinks your clit is, and he smirks when your head tips back against your pillow, your mouth widening in a silent o.

“Found you,” he croons, repeating the movement again until your legs begin to twitch beneath him.

He makes quick work of your underwear, tossing them over the side of your bed without much thought. The sight of you bare beneath him nearly stops his heart dead in his chest. His eyes drop to the neat thatch of curls resting at the apex of your thighs, and his mouth waters.

You blush under the intensity of his appreciative stare, and your legs twitch, as though you mean to close them.

A hand sliding between your thighs restrains you from doing so. “Uh-uh,” he tuts. “Can’t hide from me now, sweetheart’.”

He smooths his hand down the length of your leg until it hovers just outside where he’s most eager to explore. The heat radiating from sends his pulse skyrocketing.

One, tentative finger circles your entrance, testing. Sanemi leans in to capture your lips with his as he pushes in, swallowing your soft gasp with his tongue that he slides into your parted mouth.

A moan vibrates in his chest in time with a faint whimper that sounds in the back of your throat as Sanemi begins exploring you. You’re tight; almost impossibly so, clenching and pulsing around the single finger he gradually sinks inside you, pushing deeper with every gentle pump of his hand.

The thought of your tight, wet heat constricting around the aching length of him just as you were around his finger makes him dizzy with want.

He won’t go down on you, he decides. Not tonight. Not when he’s throbbing this badly after just a couple of fingers; not when your breasts are so plush and soft pressed against his chest where you’re already arcing up into him, sending his mind wild with thoughts of how you’ll move under him; how you’ll moan.

His lips are hot against your neck, trailing down past your collarbone. Left behind are a series of purplish-maroon whorls blooming beneath his mouth, your skin quickly becoming a tapestry for him to display how badly he wants this. You.

You cling to him, one hand buried in his hair, pulling and tugging at him as the other clutches wildly at his shoulder, your fingers digging hard into his muscles. Your teeth are buried into your bottom lip in an effort to stifle your whimpers, but a needy whine slips out as Sanemi sucks one, soft breast into his mouth, his tongue flicking out across your pert nipple.

Another finger slides into your entrance as his thumb works your clit, and before long, you’re vibrating beneath him, unrestrained in how you moan and cry out for him so beautifully.

“Sanemi! I think — oh, I think I’m -“ but then he crooks his fingers, brushing against a rough spot deep within you that makes you writhe. You thrash back hard against the bed, your hips grinding against his hand with abandon.

He smothers a curse into your skin. You’re close and he knows it; can feel it in the way your walls flutter and pulse around him. And as desperate as he is to study how you fall apart, it’s too soon.

“Not yet,” he pants against your breast, circling your nipple with his tongue before imparting a final nip at the soft flesh and drawing back.

Remorseful, he pulls his fingers away from you, leaving you panting and flushed under him. But the hot, searing flames of desire burning beneath his skin intensify still, as he takes your hand and guides it between your legs.

“There. Feel how wet you are?” His voice is husky with want. You peer up at him through heavily lidded eyes as you nod, a whimper vibrating in your throat as Sanemi grinds your hand against your sensitive flesh.

“For you,” your voice is syrupy and warm, and damn if Sanemi doesn’t feel like he could get drunk on it. “It’s all for you.”

His tone sharpens into something possessive; hungry. “That’s right,” and he pushes your hand firmly against your clit and rotates it, eliciting a deep moan from you. “Because you’re mine.“

It’s not fair. But he wants to pretend like it’s true, if only for a while.

Once your fingers are sufficiently shiny with your own wetness, he brings your hand to his mouth, his tongue peeking out from between his lips. Slowly and languidly, he drags it up the side of your digits, and his eyes burn into yours as he slides your fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean.

It takes everything in him not to moan at the sweet taste of you that floods his tongue.

He’d made the right decision in not going down on you. If he had, he’d never be able to pull away; not until his face had become so adorned with your essence that he could not comprehend anything that wasn’t you. Not until you were trembling under him and begging for a break.

The first time you cum will be on him; with him. So as much as it pains him, he resists your temptation.

But not before you know; not before you understand exactly how wild you drive him. How much you threaten his sanity.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasps as he pulls your hand away from his mouth. “Here.”

His hand his gentle but firm as he grips your chin, squeezing your jaw until your mouth parts. The question in your gaze dissolves, your eyes instead rolling back into your head, as Sanemi slides the two fingers he’d just had between your thighs, still covered in your wetness, past your lips.

“Go on,” he orders, his other hand brushing your hair from your face. “Taste how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

The moan that slips free from your lips is one he wishes he could bottle up as your tongue caresses his fingers, your cheeks hollowing so fucking perfectly around him as you dutifully clean yourself from him.

Fuck, you’re trying to kill him.

But some of the burning he feels ebbs as the sobering weight of what’s to come settles over him; the magnitude of what he is about to do. Because no matter what happens after, nothing between you will be the same. Whatever else you are after tonight — whether that’s something or nothing — you will never be just friends again.

Sanemi supposes the punishment fits his crime; this is what he gets for getting in too deep with you, even if it means losing you entirely.

He chases away those thoughts by running his hands down your sides before he pulls back, leaving you in favor of shucking his briefs down his thighs.

Finally bare, he’s quick to drape his body over yours once more, his hands smoothing up and down your sides, unable to quench his need to feel your skin against his. But a foreign uncertainty stills him, and his eyes flash to yours, hesitant.

“Are you sure?”

You answer only by reaching to grip the back of his neck, tugging him down to meet your lips, your kiss feverish and urgent.

He doesn’t have a condom but he’s in too deep now to stop. In a way, what is about to happen is new to him as well. He’s never fucked anyone raw before. No matter who he’d had in his bed, no matter how much they begged him or assured him they were on birth control, he’d always been sure to have protection on hand.

Children are a gift, but he’d be damned if anyone tried to come after him and demand he raise one in his fucked up world. Either Sanemi got out or he never became a parent; there was no middle ground.

But once again, he is blurring boundaries where you were concerned, and Sanemi doesn’t think he knows how to stop himself from having the full taste in the indulgence that was you.

“It might hurt a moment,” he admits against your mouth, his voice raspy. “But I promise I’ll be gentle — as gentle as I can.”

You stretch to kiss him again, your lips soft and warm and everything he loves. “I trust you.”

You shouldn’t, he wants to say. You shouldn’t, and you should run far away from this — from me.

But Sanemi knows you won’t just as much as he knows he doesn’t have it in him to try and chase you away, and so he only kisses you back, slow and indulgent.

He breaks away from you with a soft groan and sits up on his knees. His back straight, Sanemi’s hands curl around your hips and he tugs you forward until your backside is flush against his thighs.

The heat radiating from you pulls him in like a magnet as he lines the tip of his cock up with your entrance. A vein above his brow ticks, the only outward sign of the battle raging within him as his self restraint wars with his tantalizing urge to impale you on the thick, throbbing length of him, desperate for the sweet relief only your body can give.

Every inch of him trembles as Sanemi presses his hips forward. “Fuck,” he exhales shakily, pushing his tip past your entrance. “Fuck.”

His head falls back and the muscles in his throat strain. Some small, needy sound leaves him and the fingers on your hip tighten nearly to the point of pain.

The noise registers in the back of your mind, and vaguely, you recognize it as a whimper. You wonder whether he makes that sound for the others; somehow you doubt it, given that he does it again, only now in the shape of your name.

The rumors always said he never asked for names; he was a one-and-done kind of man. A great fuck, but not someone to go to if you were looking for comfort; softness.

Once again, Sanemi is nothing but a collection of contradictions, especially where you’re concerned.

Sanemi hisses as he slowly eases into you. Despite your wetness, you’re impossibly tight, and your body is a live wire hell bent on pushing out his intrusion.

With a deep groan, he falls forward, one arm shooting out to land near your head to catch himself before he can crash into you. His weight carefully braced above you, Sanemi shifts, widening the stance of his knees. Your legs slide up his waist, locking at your ankles at the base of his spine.

His cock is barely a quarter of the way inside your heat when he pulls out. A whine of protest mounts in your throat, but it quickly flickers out when he presses his leaking tip to your clit and grinds. A soft moan slips out of you when he repeats the movement again, and your thighs widen, your hips tilting up to allow him easier access.

Sanemi circles the head of his cock once more against your sensitive nub, coating himself in more of your sticky wetness, before he slides back into your entrance. This time, your body parts more easily around him, sucking him in rather than trying to squeeze him out.

“There you go, that’s it,” his breath is hot against your ear, his lips trailing silkily across your jaw. “That’s my girl.”

Halfway in, Sanemi brushes against that thin barrier that separates him from the rest of you, and he stills.

He pulls his head back from your neck, and moves his hand out from between your legs to cup your cheek.

“Ready?” His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, tender and soft.

There is a tightness building in your abdomen, a foreign pressure that isn’t entirely unwelcome, but neither is it wholly comfortable. You brace a hand at your side, balling your sheets into your fist as you steady yourself, flushed and panting beneath the scar speckled man holding rigidly still above you.

Your eyes flick up once, and you see the tightness in his jaw; the tremble in his limbs as he fights against the urge to relief the friction mounting where you are joined.

You swallow around the lump of anticipation lodged in your throat. Your breath is shaky, but at last, you manage a single “Please.”

With a groan, he grips himself around his base and slowly, he presses forward. There is a sharp prick that shoots deep in your lower abdomen as Sanemi surges past that thin inner wall.

You cannot stop your cry of discomfort from ringing out anymore than you can stop the surprised tears which escape the corners of your eyes as the sharp pain between your legs intensifies.

But then Sanemi’s lips are there, kissing away your tears, and the hand he’d used to guide himself into your body skims along the outside of your thigh, hiking your leg higher up his waist before it drops to rub gentle circles into your hip.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs between soothing caresses of his lips against your cheeks and across your eyelids. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He coos his string of apologies as his cock continues to push into you. On and on he sinks, his length endless, and you begin to think your body will split in two before you find the end of his.

Just before you reach your limit, Sanemi stills, fully embedded in your heat. He pants through gritted teeth, his jaw locked against the way you’re constricting around him so tightly it’s nearly painful.

It’s unreal; not only does Sanemi realize how much fucking better sex feels without the restriction of a condom, but he’s also bashed over the head with the realization that you were made for him. For nothing, no one has ever felt as incredible as you.

Nothing in his life has ever felt so right.

Sanemi has always been someone who fucks fast and hard. He’d had no objective other than to escape for a few, blissful moments in the body of another as he pretended not to feel the hollowness in his chest, or the throb of his own self-loathing.

With you, however, he wants nothing more than to relish every movement of your body against his, to savor your every gasp and sigh; to learn what makes you lose control.

You are no temporary distraction; he wants to know you.

He drops his forehead against yours and waits, allowing you to adjust to the intrusion of him.

He trails his lips across your collar bone and down to the twin swells of your breasts, sucking softly at your plush skin as you fidget and squirm beneath him. One broad hand skirts down the outside of your thigh until he finds your knee, and gently he guides your leg around his hips. The other he leaves relaxed against the bed, your foot resting somewhere against his calf.

When your eyes flutter open and find his, he knows you’re ready. So he moves his arm out from between your bodies and winds it instead around your waist, deepening the arch in your back until his chest is flush with yours.

His lips press to your forehead, a silent warning that he is about to move.

And then Sanemi begins molding your body to the shape of his.

He starts slow. He doesn’t withdraw far from you, instead focusing on rolling his hips against yours. Each churn of his groin pushes his cock deeper into your warmth, and soon, your timid whimpers melt into soft moans as your initial discomfort gives way to pleasure.

Encouraged by the way your body starts to relax in his embrace, Sanemi tests drawing his cock out a few inches before plunging back into you.

Before long, the room fills with the lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin, and Sanemi’s moans join yours as he rapidly becomes lost in the euphoria of your wet, tight heat.

One of your arms jumps to lock around his ribs, your nails sinking into his skin as you anchor yourself to him.

His hand snakes across the sheets in search of yours. When he finds it, fisted against your sheets, he pries your fingers loose, winding them with his and he wraps your arm around his shoulders.

“Tighter,” he gasps. “Hold me tighter. Please.”

Your fingers dig into the muscles of his back and Sanemi groans his approval.

And then he’s rolling to his side, pulling you along with him until you’re stretched out across the length of your mattress, chest to chest.

His hand grips under your thigh, tugging it over his hip as he rocks harder into you. “Talk to me, angel,” the hand under your thigh moves to splay across your rear, pushing and pulling your hips in time with his as he grinds. “Tell me how you feel — tell me what you want.”

You cry out, mournful, as Sanemi draws out his cock nearly to its tip before he plunges back into you.

The fullness you feel is overwhelming. You can’t stand that empty feeling, even for a moment. So you hitch your leg higher around his hip, and dig the heel of your foot into the firmness of his ass, limiting his movements.

“Closer!” You gasp. “I — I need you closer.”

He needs that too, he decides; craves it. He doesn’t want to feel any space between your bodies. He wants — he needs — to be so enraptured with you that there is no point in trying to separate. That way, he might get to keep you for just a little longer.

Sanemi’s hand massages your backside, his cock throbbing with every push into you. “Deeper,” he confirms between throaty groans. “You want me deeper?”

You bury your face into his shoulder. Your teeth sink into his skin and with a moan, you nod.

He can do that; is more than happy to, as a matter of fact.

So, with a faint snarl, Sanemi grips the fat of your ass and spreads you wide, and he begins thrusting, hard.

The new angle allows the tip of his cock to bump up against a sweet spot deep inside you. Sanemi’s eyes narrow at the way your head drops back, a loud cry tearing from your throat.

Determined to hit that point within you again and again, he shifts his hips under you while hiking your leg higher up his hip, his fingers digging into the curve of your ass.

It’s a success; soon, your wails echo throughout your studio, punctuated by every punishing slap of his skin against yours.

Really, he can’t give less of a damn at how thin your apartment walls are. The sounds pouring from your mouth are the prettiest fucking thing he’s ever heard.

Something hot and electric mounts quickly in your stomach with each of his frenetic movements. You’ve come before with your own hand, but this — this is something different. Something far more intense, something that threatens to rip you apart from your very sanity until you know nothing but him.

You try and tell him you’re losing control but all that comes out is a pitiful whimper.

But he knows; he knows exactly what you need.

“I’m here, baby, I’m here. I’ve got you.” And with that, Sanemi rolls you back underneath him, settling into the cradle of your thighs and pushing his cock faster and deeper into you. His arms gently unwind yours from his shoulders, and he brings them up over your head, one large hand pinning them down.

“I’ll take care of you, sweet girl,” he promises, and he weaves the fingers of the hand keeping you pressed against the mattress with your own. “Just keep your legs around me.”

Your thighs squeeze his waist in silent answer, your mind far too suspended in the throes of your pleasure to do anything else.

With his lips trailing along your neck leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses in its wake, his free hand slides between your sweat-slicked bodies. He wedges it between where his groin is pressed to yours, and he searches along your sensitive, swollen folds, seeking the spot between your thighs that made you tremble and whine for him earlier.

You jolt under him as his fingers find you again, that foreign, electric sensation sparking deep in your abdomen. “Sanemi —“

“It’s okay,” he murmurs sweetly, pressing down on your clit until you arch further into him with a gasp. “It’s gonna feel so good, baby, I promise. Just focus on me.”

Each rotation of his hand against your sensitive bead matched the deep, pointed roll of his groin, with Sanemi capping the end of every powerful thrust with alternating pulses of his thumb. The pressure he uses mounts with every churn of his hips, and the moan vibrating in your chest as another surge of sticky wetness gushes from your thighs is the sweetest sound he thinks he’s ever heard.

A broken chant of please please please stutters its way out of you, spurning him to go faster; hit deeper.

And Sanemi only knows how to oblige you.

“You’re doing so fucking good, sweetheart. Just keep letting me take care of you —- that’s it.” He curses as you clench down around him, crying out in approval at his praise. “Yeah, yeah. You’re my fuckin’ girl, aren’t you?”

A single wail of his name is your only response, but it’s enough of a confirmation to damn you both.

“You are,” he affirms, his voice taking on the timber of a growl. “Mine. You’re fuckin’ mine.”

His thrusts grow sloppier with every second, though each is punctuated by a silent, recurring chant of mine, mine, mine. Though your eyes are closed, Sanemi can spy a faint sliver of white peeking out from between your eyelids.

You’re close; he can feel it. And he knows, as the walls of your cunt flutter and tighten around him, that your climax will be his undoing.

The hands he has pinned against the mattress over your head flex as you twist and writhe beneath him. your head tosses from from side to side, and the vibrato of your cries rises octave by octave. Every muscle in your body is tense; you are a live wire thrumming with a need to come apart that he knows you do not fully understand.

Sanemi grunts as he fucks you harder into your bed, no longer concerned with keeping his weight off you. He will show you; he will show you how to shatter, and then he too, will break.

But he needs to see you, first.

“Look at me,” his voice beckons you back from the precipice of ruin. “Look at me, Y/N.”

Your eyes open to meet his and suddenly you’re right back at that edge, only this time, you’re falling freely over it, plummeting down a drop that has no end.

“S-Sanemi —!” It’s all you can manage before the knot steadily building in your stomach unravels. Your back arcs sharply away from your bed, and Sanemi ducks his head to smother his own cry against your breast as he takes its tip into his hot mouth.

Your hips jerk and twitch against his, your cunt seizing around him with force that threatens to squeeze the life out of him. Above you, your arms strain and pull against his grip as you writhe and sing for him.

“That’s it baby, that’s it,” Sanemi’s praise is muffled against your sternum, though it is strangled as he nears his own end. “Fuck!“

He’ll have to buy you the morning-after pill tomorrow, he realizes as you continue to come apart so beautifully on his cock, a soft chant of his name the only thing on your lips. He will not force you to bear the consequences of his own selfishness; he will not saddle you with his burden.

But he’s also not strong enough to pull out; not when your body feels like it was made for him, not when your sweet cunt is gripping him this hard, is this wet — all because of him.

He is selfish and he is weak; it’s a toxic combination, and yet he knows cannot stop.

Sanemi’s hips snap a final time against yours, pushing them up and away from the mattress, pressing deeper than he thought possible. His eyes roll back as his own orgasm rocks through him, powerful and blinding, and the growl that built in his throat melts into a strained groan.

He holds you in place, his cock pulsing in time with your cunt while the two of you ride out the waves of your climax together, his cum steadily filling you with his warmth. Your hands skirt down the length of his arms, blindly searching for his hips. When you find him, you pull and tug, a faint whine sounding from the back of your throat. Sanemi answers your plea with a broken moan of his own and he rocks against you, your hips circling with his until he finally lets you collapse against your mattress, limp-limbed and exhausted.

He follows you down, smothering you with his weight as he clings to you like a lifeline, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

“Fuck, you did so good, sweetheart. So fuckin’ good.” He moans into your ear before he pulls back, his eyes searching your face as he pants.

One hand cradles your jaw and his thumb strokes repeatedly over the flushed curve of your cheek. “You okay?”

You don’t answer right away, your eyes shut tight, and Sanemi feels panic bubble hot in his stomach. The hand cupping your face tightens with his worried call of your name, his fear rearing its ugly head, ready to rip him apart, to turn him into the horrid monster he’s always known he was —

“I love you,” and then you’re peering up at him, eyes round and shining with emotion he does not deserve to feel. “I love you, Sanemi.”

It would’ve hurt less if you’d shot him.

Whatever wall remained around his heart cracks and crumbles under the weight of your confession. Sanemi does not answer, cannot find the words to adequately capture the depth of his feelings.

Instead, he snatches you up into his arms, crushing your body against his.

He kisses your lips and then your cheek. One hand cups the back of your head, his fingers burying into your hair as he presses your face into his chest. His arms tremble as he holds you close, every hard ridge of him cradled against your soft curves. He feels your smile against his collarbone, and the way your fingers dance up and down his spine that makes him melt.

It hits him, then. You aren’t waiting for an answer — you said it only so he would know, and you’d not expected anything in return.

All you’d done was give while he took and took. Your body. Your love.

He doesn’t deserve any of it.

Whatever or whomever came after this would never compare to you. Truthfully, Sanemi doesn’t think it would be worth trying anything different. Everything now began and ended with you — including him.

He twists his head to kiss you again and again, your lips meeting his with a sleepy enthusiasm.

He pants as he breaks away. “‘M gonna pull out — might be uncomfortable for a second.”

You wince at the sudden stab of cold left behind by Sanemi’s retreating warmth. He shifts back onto his knees and slides his hands down your thighs, parting them.

A low whistle blows past his lips. “Damn, I made a mess outta you.”

For a moment, Sanemi can’t tear his eyes away from the sight between your legs; the sight of him trickling out you, staining the sheets below. But some of that hot, possessive pride that wells in his chest tempers at the small smear of blood staining your inner thigh.

His fingers massage your legs in silent apology. “Let me clean you up.”

Your hands shoot to grasp at his shoulders, a pleading whimper on your lips. “Don’t leave — not yet.” You bite your lip, your eyes wide and anxious. “Please, can you just hold me for a bit?”

Sanemi’s eyes soften and his heart throbs painfully in his chest. He can’t imagine leaving you; not now, not ever. No matter how stupid and selfish that makes him.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t know the source of your anxiety — or that you didn’t have reason for it. Sanemi isn’t known for lingering.

But this is different — you’re different. You’re not some temporary distraction. You’re everything. His everything.

“Shhh,” he maneuvers you easily atop him, settling you in against the length of his torso, his hands smoothing up and down the column of your spine. “I’m staying right here, sweet girl. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

He seals his promise with a gentle kiss against your forehead before laying his cheek against your temple, cradling you to his chest.

Finally, you relax against him, convinced. He lays with you for a long time after, one hand on the back of your head, his fingers rubbing against your scalp until you fall asleep on against him, safe and sound and warm.

Minutes pass, or maybe hours. But Sanemi’s head does not quiet, not even under the soothing sounds of your deep, slow breaths as you dream.

He must have lost his mind. There is no other explanation for the way he’s disregarded every rule, every boundary he’s ever made sense of, all in the name of you. In a single evening, you managed to obliterate every last defense, every barricade he’d safely cowered behind, and now that the castle has fallen, he isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to do with the rubble.

What he does know is that there’s no putting things back to how they were.

His eyes search your sleeping face because if you were able to make him question nearly everything that made sense in his life, then surely you must also have the answers he needs to re-strike balance in his tilted world. Maybe they lie among the lashes that tickle your cheek, or in the occasional twitch of your mouth between your deep inhales.

But Sanemi is only left feeling more confused the longer he watches you. Because, despite the way he feels vulnerable and exposed at how easily he has been stripped of his guard, he can’t quite bring himself to believe it was entirely your doing.

His eyes widen. There’s his answer.

Perhaps you are not trying to sink your nails into his flesh to peel it back, to demand he be stripped to the bone for you to inspect, to scrutinize and use as you please.

Perhaps that is what you’ve done to yourself, and you’re waiting to see if you will join you; to know if he can volunteer his vulnerability, rather than wait for someone to come and force it from him.

He cannot make any promises. He has spent so much of his life cowering behind the armor he crafted out of his scars and his sneers and barks that were always more ferocious than his bite, that he does not know how to take it off. He does not know how to navigate the world without its weight, both his safety net and his chain. And there is an understanding in your eyes that signals you know that, too.

But he can try.

He mouths I love you against your hairline — he does not voice it, not yet, though it’s what he feels. But your love is a compass that just might point him down the road the leads to a life he so desperately wants; to you.

And he’ll get there, maybe.

In time.

LIKES, REBLOGS, COMMENTS APPRECIATED!

[hoseoksluna]

LIQUID STARS | jjk

pairing: fuck buddy!jungkook x f. reader (feat. bam)

genre: angst, smut

word count: 11.8k

summary: to seal the deal, you give jungkook what he wants—your kiss, your cunt and your virginity.

playlist: liquid stars / pinterest board: wine

warnings: size kink, heavy dd/lg themes, provocation, dry humping, dirty talk, mentions of porn, oral sex (f. + m. receiving), multiple orgasms & countdown, dom/sub dynamics, reader has daddy issues (like the writer), first time, jealousy, inner child healing, plushie used during intercourse, jungkook fucks her numb & dumb, praise kink, cum eating, pet names and the establishment of a title, bondage, raw sex, tummy bulge, desperation, pain felt during intercourse, squirting

note: as difficult as it was to write this, i'm immensely thankful. this changed my life; it healed me and i'll dream about it for a long, long time. i was as exhausted as oc once i finished this, because i truly did give my all. everyone, this is part four to my series 'wine' and therefore the very end. this is the very beginning of jungkook's and oc's relationship. can be read as a standalone as there aren't any quirks from the other parts (except for bunny), though if you wish to read them now, now is the perfect time. now you can see the beautiful gradual development of their relationship. please, enjoy as you read and let me know your favorite parts bc i need to talk about this. heed the warnings as there are dd/lg themes that can be uncomfortable for some. thank you! and thank you for all the love on this series. i'll never forget it. i love you, guys. ʚɞ

side note: give some round of applause for 3D daddy provider jungkook everyone!! he deserves it!!!

Silky lilac bows adorn the tops of your pigtails that cascade down in loose braids, sprawled on the cotton of his pillow and on the soft belly of a bunny plushie. There are still traces of sunlight left on the bedding, which dissolve, little by little, into nothingness as the large star goes down, saying goodbye. It’s lightweight, the atmosphere—homely almost. And much to your surprise, you feel relatively at ease, despite the fact a man lies on top of you—a man you have a certain liking for. 

It was natural for you to end up here and you, yourself, wished for it, even. Deemed it was only right after the man took you around for a walk while his silly Doberman guarded each and every step both of you had taken in sync, especially so when he persisted in buying you a small plastic ring of the same bunny you’re lying against. He didn’t even forget about his own canine friend waiting outside patiently like the obedient dog he is, and fed him the snackies he got for him as soon as he returned from the shop. You swore Bam was as giddy as you when he received his gift. 

Now the ring glints in the last rays of the sun. His, too. 

While yours is as white as the cloudy morning sky, Jungkook’s is as black as the drowsily dozing night sky. You think it’s the perfect contrast between the pair of you. Not that you should be noting these things, considering you’re just friends. But his skin is satiny soft, painted in impressionist tattoos, while his muscles, that his well-fitted T-shirt graciously allows you to see, are strong. You’re sure he could just lift you and throw you around without much of a strain. And it certainly doesn’t help that he’s such a striking image of pure beauty. How could you not notice these intertwinings when they’re this lovely?

You like him—without a shadow of doubt. Can feel the call of an emotional attachment forming the more he studies your skin with the tip of his index finger, embellished with the Miffy ring, and it’s owed to the fact you’ve never been touched this way before. No one has ever come this close, no one has ever been interested in the moles scattered upon your shoulders, in the veins that make the pathway to the column of your neck. No one has ever gazed twice at them—but Jungkook?

He hasn’t stopped looking at them ever since he laid you down in the middle of his bed. 

How could you stop such a call? Such a lull, such a magnetic pull. You know you should, but for the meantime, you simply don’t want to. Can’t lose this moment, can’t lose this once in a lifetime opportunity—

Jungkook presses his lips against the prominent mole in the center of your left shoulder. Those pretty, puffy lips, closing against your skin, the smallest dart of tongue swiping past. It shocks you for a moment before the feeling dissolves beneath, adjusting within the freshness of your system. How could you refuse such dynamic poetry, expressed against your own forlorn body? When it’s so blatant that it’s natural, that your body willingly accepts it without a fight. 

You couldn’t. 

Stretching your fingers between the thick strands of his hair, you close your eyes to savor the feeling of being wanted. The movement of his mouth, going even as far as to the first vein rooted in your arm—following it with those half-closed pillows. Up, up until he finds the line of your collarbone. Jungkook pauses there, simply breathes against you before he interperses little pecks there, nibbles and gentle swipes of tongue. The lining of your top won’t let him go further down, so he changes direction—relies on the pathway of your veins to guide him to your neck. And there… at the first contact, you grip the roots of his hair. 

His kisses and nibbles are much harder here. And what’s worse, he takes the sensitive skin into his mouth and sucks. You fail at containing the whimpers that break out of your mouth and Jungkook reacts to them. Hums ever so deeply, rocks his hips against the mattress. You wish you were a bit bigger so you could feel the collision, but you’re just so small compared to his large form. You imagine he’s writing down the poems collecting inside of him with each cursive roll of his tongue. Wonder if there’s enough paper on your skin for all his words. 

“You sweet little thing,” Jungkook coos onto the crook of your neck, dragging his lips up and down before he stops at your jaw. You feel the warmth of his breath and his body heat seeps into yours, creating unity, blackening the ink. It feels strange, it feels so new. Brisk and springlike, like fresh air in a stuffed room. You want to stay here for a long time, tasting the wholeness of spring captured in him. You want his words to flush you red with the tinge of the entire sunlight that opens the buds of flowers during all seasons in a loop. “Can I kiss you?”

You haven’t gone beyond the innocent touching of hands with him. You brim with a tight feeling of thankfulness that he asked you such a graceful question, although something else steals your attention entirely. 

“Little?” you say, the smile on your lips pulled so taut that it quivers ever so slightly. It makes you crazy that he calls you that, but you play the game. Revel in it. “What do you mean little? I’m bigger than you.”

Jungkook cocks his brow at you, mouth falling into a lopsided grin. He sits back and you feel a whiff of coldness pass by the perimeter of your body, as if someone opened the window and let the winter air in, when it’s just his brief distance that caused it. The forming attachment in you tenses and before you can think about your actions, your hand finds his knee, his thigh and traces slow patterns there. Jungkook suddenly squeezes your waist, surprising you, and the ecstatic fluttering of butterfly wings break havoc all over your body. The solidness of his hands, their weight, their firmness, giving life to your body, meaning. You note how his fingers touch when he has his hands enveloped around you like that. And the inkling that your body matters in his hands like that slips into your mind, spreading through its axis. 

You bite your lower lip. A small ache begins to grow in your intimate parts. It’s so nice to be wanted, to be considered good enough to be touched, to be kissed. 

“You? Bigger than me?” Jungkook squeezes your waist again. Sucks in a breath through his teeth. Smiles softly; in a way that you find unbearably endearing. “No, you’re just little. Just a tiny, little bug. So tiny in my hands.” 

For the breath he inhaled, you exhale it. 

He leaves his hands there when he bends over you, hovering his lips over yours. His weight, his heat. You sigh against him in relief, in a newly blossoming excitement that he’s back again. You spread your legs wider, feet grazing his calves—

“Let me kiss you, please.” 

You’d give in, but the game is just so pleasurable. 

Your laugh is but a breath. “You wanna kiss me?” 

You exhaled, he inhaled. 

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“Since when do friends kiss?” You cock your eyebrow at him just like he did, prodding your tongue on the inside of your cheek. 

He hovers a little bit higher above you, hanging his head in defeat, sighing. Places his hands in fists on either side of you, caging you in. 

“Premium friends do,” he mutters, lifting his head, face all serious. You dig your toe into the toned muscle of his thigh, twirling sweet little circles, gliding up and down. Watch as his eyes lid and he tries to control it. “Don’t do that or I’ll fuck you.” 

Your body panics, but you will it to relax. 

“Does that come with the premium subscription?” 

Jungkook purses his lips, supports his weight on one hand as the other, the tattooed one, grips your jaw. He squishes your cheeks, bites his lip once—seemingly ponders whether he should play your game or not before he lets go of your pout, but still keeps his hand there. He traces the shape of your lips with this thumb, feeding his desire to kiss you with scraps. 

“Yes,” he utters. “Kisses, orgasms, my dog. It’s all—”

Orgasms, not just sex. Orgasms. 

“I get to take Bam?” 

Jungkook tuts at you. “You get to take me,” he corrects you. “Though, can even such a little thing like you take me?” 

Probably not. Definitely not. 

“But what about Bam?” 

He looks at you as if he couldn’t believe the words you’re saying, turning his head slightly to hear you better. Then, he scoffs, running his tongue across his lips swiftly, letting them express the enjoyment of your provocation by stretching into a smirk. He places his hand back on the right side of you, thinking over his words. 

“Bam is mine, but you can pet him. You can kiss him.” You can hear the feigned venom in that word as he spits it and you grin, pleased with yourself. You enjoy doing this to him. “And if you’re good, I’ll let you take him out for his walkies.” 

You gasp slowly, fingers absentmindedly gripping his thigh. Butterflies buzz you with a mere hint of arousal and to convey it, you wet your top lip with the tip of your tongue. The dominance, the principle of proving to him whether you’re deserving of something. Your heartbeat quickens, reaching for him with each swell. 

Oh, you’ll be good. You’ll be good until he’s sick of it. 

It seems he’s as pleased with himself as you were with yourself, reading your body language as he beams down at you, dimples poking holes in his cheeks. You want to stick your fingers there, pinch the skin at the corners of his mouth. Feel them, kiss them—

“Deal.” 

Jungkook blinks at you. He most likely expected you to be difficult. You like the look of surprise on him. A sweet kind of glint perches itself upon his irises. You’re at awe of how he manages to be so adorable and alluring at the same time. You could never understand it. You deem he must be otherworldly. 

“A kiss to seal the deal?” he tries, raising his brows, lowering himself to his elbows. 

He skims his lips across your cheek, descending to your neck. Places one, singular kiss there. Lifts his head to hear your answer, a soft curtain of hair falling across his forehead. 

You make a face as if you’re thinking about it. 

Jungkook groans. 

It’s cold, the way he turns away from you and it startles you—but then he slides his hands under your back and lifts you with ease, sitting you down on his lap. He moves you from the muscles on his thighs to the hardness of his intimate parts and you groan at the feeling of it. You’re wearing an airy short skirt with tights and knee socks underneath, the barrier so thin that you feel the solid, thick shape of him right under your femininity. 

You rock against him once. Jungkook lets out a sound akin to yours, fingers flexing—hands almost reaching for your behind before he decides against it and keeps them planted against your back. 

He desires your consent. And that makes you feel light-headed. Tipsy on the wholeness of him, on the pleasure coursing through your body. 

You rock your hips again—and this time, Jungkook whimpers. 

You take your hands and, slowly, you make a pathway down his chiseled chest. He twitches against you when your fingers pass by his nipples, his body following and squirming along. And once you reach the definition of his abdomen, your hands rise and fall against its quickening movement as his lungs heave. You’re mesmerized by his reaction to your touch. It’s as if it was his first time as well and something about that makes you woozy, savage and absolutely feline. 

And something about the way you’re allowed to do as you please, whereas he’s not, strengthens that state of mind, enriches it, thoroughly worsens it. 

You want him. 

It began with a ring and ended right here. 

And the process of your decision starts at his hips, finalizes at the pebbles of his nipples and finishes completely at the sides of his neck. He gives you the same, if not better, reaction, his manhood moving against you, and it’s settled. 

The giving of virginity to seal the deal, not just a kiss. 

Hovering your lips against his, you slip your hand to the place where you’re connected to feel up the shape of him. You moan onto him, vigorous power seizing you, propelling you to wrap your fingers around him. The breaths Jungkook emits are desperate, tortured, wafting over you, intoxicating you. It fills you with confidence unlike any other that you’re able to coax such a thing of beauty out of him—that you, the artist, have the upper hand momentarily while he doesn’t. 

And he waits, depends on you. You want to cry due to how happy it makes you, due to the way it suffuses an empty part of you, left abandoned by someone who should’ve taken care of it a long, long time ago. 

Because of that—if it’s kisses that he wants, you’ll give him as many as his body desires as a thank you. 

“You’re so hard against me,” you whisper. 

Jungkook grips your waist hard. 

“If you want it, you have to seal the deal,” he mimics your intonation, voice deep, tingling your tummy. 

“I want it.” You clutch both of your hands on his jawline, thumbs finding the invisible dimples. 

“Kiss me, then.” 

You whimper at the longing to do so. Your tummy clenches, butterflies inside swarm around and—

When you close your lips against his top lip, they burst into smithereens. Jungkook sighs in relief, enveloping you in his warmth. 

The kiss is hungry. You expected his first taste of you to be careful, contemplative, but he goes all in. Takes charge of the lip lock, swallowing you whole, moving against you, uttering low sounds that make your head spin and you just comply. Accept that you’re the one who submits to his craving and you find yourself liking it; find yourself wanting to deepen your submission. 

You wrap your legs around his waist, your head tilted as you reciprocate all of those hard kisses. When he comes up for air, he just gazes down at you, out of breath. One hand still on your back, the other cradles your cheek. There’s something puzzling in his eyes, as if he was fighting something within. You’re radiated by that energy, heavied down by it, letting him pet you like a puppy while you wait for the next step. 

“You’re so good that I’m considering letting you take Bam out,” he breathes, curling a wisp of your hair behind your ear. “Sweet little thing.” 

He pecks you once. You grind against his manhood and as he shortly groans onto your mouth, you splutter into giggles. Behind you, as if he heard him, the dog peeks his head out of the door, giving his Daddy a questioning look. Jungkook chuckles. 

“Bam, house.” 

The dog leaves and Jungkook sinks his fingers into your hair, sighing. Kisses you, again without tongue—only does what you’ve allowed him, but you overflow with the desire for more. He’s so considerate, so respectful and while you’re grateful for it, you want to break it. Your trust in him, made whole by all that he’s done for you, settled within you, made a bed in the sensitive parts of you that now shine. He doesn’t need to remain there—you want to go beyond that. 

“Touch me, please.” You look up into his eyes as you say it, willing them to see with all your energy how much you want him. 

He rubs soothing circles on your back. “If I touch you, I’ll fuck you, sweetheart.” 

You lift your butt ever so slightly and bounce down on him, your skirt furling. Jungkook moans, pleasing you to the core. It’s bratty of you, but it serves him right for being so stubborn, so firm in his control. You want to break him. 

“Can’t you see how much I want that?” you purr, bunching the cotton of his T-shirt in your fists. 

He merely shakes his head, licking his lower lip, fucking with you. He tugs on one of your braided pigtail, the other hand gliding to your hipbone. “This little girl is horny? I couldn’t tell.” 

A yellow light, sleepy in nature, spills through the blinds, latching onto the side of your neck. His eyes flick to it and his teeth sink into the wetness of his lip. He looks back at you when he says, “what was it that made you horny? The neck kisses?” 

He straps both of his hands to your hipbones now, adjusting you so your sweetest spot rests against his cock, rocking your hips like he wants them to. He swallows down his noises, makes room for yours. You figure he wants to hear them. 

You think about what made you horny. His respectful behavior. An electric spark spasms in your core at the memory and you roll your body against his at the impact—nipples pebbled, grazing below the hardness of his pecks. You moan loudly. He breathes heavily, can’t for the life of him contain that, gripping you with strength that will surely leave bruises. You add it to the list. 

His control—the momentary, delicious lack of it, too. The dominance that follows it. His noises and how unrestrained he is when it comes to them. The allure and the attractive charm of his looks, blended with that insufferable cutesiness. His hard cock. The neck kisses, too, of course. 

You summarize your answer and you tell him, “you.” 

A hitch in his throat. “Fuck.” 

Fuck, indeed. Fuck the steady rhythm—Jungkook speeds up your movement, the pace so fast your pigtails and your ribbons bounce, tits following suit. Your breath falls in step, moans echo within the walls of his room. He kisses you harshly, but that doesn’t silence you. He swallows your noises down, grunting. 

“You wanna know what made me hard for you?” 

You nod your head, lips forming a natural pout at the loss of contact. 

“Those fucking pigtails of yours. The knee socks. How tiny you are in my hands. Seeing you lose your fucking mind when I kissed your neck. Those marks I left behind, hm, fuck yes. Those marks made me crazy,” he mutters, staring you down. “And you know what else?” 

You wait for his answer as white flashes blind you, your roaring orgasm beckoning you close. He doesn’t stop rocking you against him, not once. Fills your brain with emptiness with his words coated wet by his dominant energy. You feel your own wetness soaking the fabric of your panties. 

“Your brattiness,” he says. “I want to fuck it out of you and make a good girl out of you that won’t misbehave again with her smart words.” 

A faint part of you, half affected by the pleasure he gives you, arises to stand up for you. “But I was good and you said so.” 

He clicks his tongue, disapprovingly shaking his head. Slows down the pace so you’re able to hear him loud and clear, your orgasm backing away. “You see the thing is with little bratty girls like you, even when they act good for me, there’s still that dark little side of them that hides. Unless I fuck it out of them, they play with me. And trust me, I like the game until I don’t.” 

You frown at him, but a moan betrays you. A fight throngs inside of you, his dominance yet again permeating you, causing you to flourish, but on the other hand, you don’t like being added to the mix. You want to be the only one—and it makes you angry that he had someone like you before you, that he even said it altogether. Though unfortunately, that’s something you can only keep to yourself. 

The forming attachment breaks, splitting into two, with the knowledge that your wish is futile. You understand he said it for the sake of the role-play that you both naturally, wordlessly established through sexual attraction, but you still have a lot of getting used to within the dynamic. He’s experienced, you’re not. Though, when you think about it, he doesn’t know a thing about your purity. You never told him. 

You blame yourself for your own pain. It’s your fault—you should’ve had a conversation with him about it before you let him do anything to you, instead of playing flirty games with him. You wouldn’t have gotten hurt, if he knew you were a virgin. The thought of what you’ve done stains you, makes you feel filthy, but you will it to kneel inside of you like a wounded animal. You need to be strong if you don’t want to storm out of his room in tears. 

No attachment, no liking. 

Just sex. 

There’s still a frown to your face, despite the fact you set yourself free with your decision. Jungkook chuckles at it, oblivious to your internal storm. 

“You didn’t like that, did you?” You didn’t like being compared to other girls he’d been with; there’s nothing to be said of the like about the role-play aspect. Being called bratty did rouse a moan out of you. “You prove my words right.” 

You roll your eyes. Jungkook grips your ass hard and spanks you. As the sting reverberates, along with it comes the realization you got what you wanted. 

You broke him. 

And now you have to face the repercussions. 

Good thing you’ve sobered up from the stupefaction of your arousal. 

You cradle his face and kiss him deeply in effort to change the narrative. No feeling of affection from earlier hangs upon your heart and you find that it’s easier like this. No strings, no pain. It relieves you—so much that you sense a layer of lightness to your body and tiny, manageable tears well in your eyes. You get to enjoy this after all. 

There’s radiance to your eyes, rooted in hope, and true softness to your words when you say, “I want you to fuck it out of me. I want you to be my first.” 

You want to be different—your pride is uninfluenced by your decision. If he fucks it out of you, the new narrative you’re longing for will fully take place and make living through this bearable. You know you can’t have him the way you’d like, but if fate wrote that you’re to have him this way—you don’t mind altering it to the little desires you’re allowing yourself to have. 

Once in a lifetime opportunity. You can’t lose it. 

Jungkook is left astounded by your words, eyes widening, shock evident on his features. Like your words, he softens, unclenching his fingers from your suppleness, the darkness in his irises making a way for gentleness to come through. He rubs the small of your back, hands ascending to your spine, feeling the clip of your bra, until he finds the nape of your neck. He holds you there, tenderly, as if you were a porcelain doll he now was careful not to break. 

The change in his demeanor is stark. It surprises you as well—and like everything that has happened within the hour, it isn’t something you expected from him. The emotion that emerges from the roundness of his eyes touches the hardness of your decision, tries to get through, pokes a gap inside, letting the light in. 

He tucks his darkness back inside. Strokes the back of your head, the silky ends of your ribbons sifting through his slender fingers. You relax against him and your body does it for you. It welcomes his tenderness, glad for the truth to be out. You fight against it—against yourself, willing your decision not to break but remain firm. 

No strings, no pain.

But to no avail. The light spreads. His light. Celestial twinkles of stars, small parts of him that make him who he is. 

“You’ve never had anyone before me?” he husks, regret glossing over his eyes, holding your head firmly as he awaits your answer. More stars spill like liquid. 

You shake your head ‘no’, your chest tightening. 

He kisses you and there’s something different about the way he does it. Now you can sense the carefulness you searched for earlier and you taste the primal core of loving care in the movement of his lips. The kisses are long, deep. As if you’re a different person now, a girl unlike any of the ones he mentioned. Someone who matters, someone who’s solid. You’re back at the beginning. 

A lump forms in your throat. 

“You sure about this?” he asks. 

One part of you, greater and illuminated by his stars, wants it gently like this, with flowers of innocence and purity besprinkled across his features, never leaving you out of his sight, taking care of you. But you fear that if you allow him to be tender, your heart will choose him again and cling to his side. The other, more faint part of you, affected by your decision, thinks it’s better to stick to the role-play, for there’s the aspect of illusoriness that will not bruise anyone’s hearts, especially not yours. It will make you horny, Jungkook will get you off and, glowing, you’ll go home.

You can’t decide. It’s too much of a heavy weight to bear on your shoulders. You can’t do it.

You need him to say the word. You need him to decide what will be the face of the trajectory of your premium friendship. 

Flowery or deceitful? 

A small candlelight in you hopes for gentleness and purity before your fear unfairly puffs it out. 

“Yes, I’m sure. I want you.” 

Jungkook lays you down and, at last, you feel his manhood against you. He bends to pepper apologetic kisses along the column of your neck and you feel the authenticity of his regret, thrumming against you warmly. Your breath hitches in your throat, the principle of the candlelight in you not being a high hope after all—

“I’m sorry. I should’ve gone about this better.” A kiss to your cheek; you stifle your sobs. “I should’ve checked in with you, but I jumped straight in. This was a mistake on my part. I’m sorry.”

He blames himself, not you. 

You want to remain stoic, but his authenticity beckons yours to come out and envelop him whole, gives access to your emotions and you can’t stop the miniature teardrop from flowing down the side of your nose. Neither can you stop the words that follow its footsteps. 

“I should’ve told you first,” you whisper, sniffling. Jungkook furrows his brows at the expression of your pain in tender emotion, wiping it away. “But I was bad—reckless.” 

He chuckles softly, caressing your hair. “You’re an angel. Sent to my side for me. You weren’t bad. I didn’t mean what I'd said.” 

His words, his touch, the kiss he adds to your cheek to punctuate his sentence—Jungkook erases everything that has just happened. 

Newness rushes in your chest, the pouring of spring into summer permeates your whole being. You hear the birds sing, the rustle of flimsy flower petals on tree branches as the warm wind grazes it with its touch. Jungkook seals this feeling by pressing a kiss to your sternum. 

He said it, so it must be so. You trust him. 

The firmness of the cage around your decision unlatches. Doesn’t fly away like the birds. Is a little bit afraid of peeking out. The candlelight returns to light up the room around that cage, blossoming into the sun. 

“We don’t have to do anything, if you don’t want to,” he says, looking up at you from the place where he dragged your top down to kiss your skin. 

The sun rays in you absorb all of the darkness. The firmness extends one wing. 

You run your fingers through his hair. Figure the only thing the summer in you is missing is the heat. You want him, you want sex and you don’t want to think about feelings or consequences. You don’t want to choose between anything anymore. You just want to enjoy yourself. 

“I meant it when I said that I want you to be my first,” you say, fingers curling around his ear. Jungkook leans into your touch and it’s as if he’s massaging the wing to alleviate it from a cramp due to being tucked in for so long. 

“Okay,” he sighs, taking your hands and pinning them on the pillow and bunny above your head. He sits up, examines you and you wonder if he can see how truly fragile you feel. “Do you trust me?” 

He’s had half a year of going out with you, mingling his life with yours, spending money on you and treating you like an absolute treasure to build your overall trust. And what he did just now? How he erased your pain? Your nod is immediate; you don’t need to think twice. 

“Of course I trust you.” 

“Good.” A soft smile. “I’ll make sure your first time will be beautiful for you.” 

Your heart thuds. His words steal all the breath in your lungs, smoothing out the surface of your body for his stars to fill. Tears prick at your waterline. 

“Are you scared?” 

You’re an empty canvas. 

“Not anymore.” 

Jungkook nods, gladness pulsating off of him. “I’ll be here the whole time. I won’t leave you, not even once, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

He finds the zipper on the side of your skirt and yanks it down. “How many times do you wanna come?” 

The ridiculousness of the question makes you laugh and you hide your face beneath your palms. “To be honest, I don’t expect to come at all. It is my first time after all.” 

You marvel at the honesty seeping out of you. His work, no doubt. 

Jungkook frowns, ridding you of the skirt, fingers hooking under the hem of your top. At the reveal of your pink, flowery, see-through bra, he stops altogether, stunned. He fondles the material, grazing over your soft nipples, at last reaching the embroidery of the small petals. He gasps in wonder, eyes flicking to your intimate parts to see if you’re wearing a matching set. 

The same flowers adorn the suppleness of your tummy. 

Jungkook smiles at his discovery. Is hasty as he drags the nylon of your tights down your legs, along with your knee socks. 

“I’ll decide how many times you come for me, then.” 

Heat pools in your femininity. There it is, the dominance that you love. Yet this time, it’s laced with his gentleness. Heaven on earth—a meadow full of flowers in the middle of summer. Like the ones on your lingerie. 

Joy grasps your heart. “Do I get to know before you start?” 

Jungkook chuckles, pressing a kiss on your tummy. “What, you wanna count them down for me?” 

You asked just because, but the idea excites you. You nod. 

Your response prolongs the rumble of his laughter and you feel its vibration as he kisses his way up to your clothed breasts. You’d think he’d focus his attention on them, but he straightens—reaches for something behind him and retrieves your white knee socks. He bunches them in his hands and puts them on you as if he were dressing a child. 

Paradoxically, goosebumps spread all over your thighs. 

Smoothing the material over your thighs, he lies back down against you, lips latching on the spillage of your breasts that your bra gives him. While it feels dizzying, you still want to know the number. You poke him in the bulging muscle of his arm and in the process, you flush his cheeks red. 

Jungkook pushes your tits together and licks over the line in the middle. The sight of the shine of his wet tongue against it drenches your pussy, ruining your pretty underwear, and you want him there, on your sweetest spot. Your nipples stand to attention and Jungkook listens to their call, thumbs brushing across them. 

You mewl, grinding your hips against his stomach. 

“Two times when I eat you out; two times around my cock,” he answers finally, awakening your butterflies. “How many times is that, then?” 

Amidst the pleasure, you do the math. “Four.” 

“That’s right. You think you can do that for me?” 

You’re not sure. In fact, you’re not sure of anything—lost in his touch, in his energy. 

“I don’t know,” you say, truthfully, skimming his face for a sliver of disappointment in his features. 

You find none. Only tenderness—round, soft eyes, brown in the light he radiates, nose and mouth buried in your tits, sucking on the skin, making you feel good. 

“That’s okay. We’ll try together. Nothing bad is gonna happen to you if you don’t come as many times. Or at all. I promise.” 

Your chest clenches. You grab his face and kiss him, licking over his bottom lip before you slip your tongue inside. Jungkook grunts, rolls his own muscle over yours, tasting you, feeling you. He inhales sharply against you, once again taking charge of the kiss, taking each and every thought and negative feeling you had and crushing it to smithereens. 

He lifts you and switches places with you, sitting you down on his lap with your back supported by his chest. He roams his hands all over you—tits, tummy, hips, sides and thighs while he busies his mouth on your shoulder. As your eyes follow each movement, you notice the marks he embellished your breasts with and your arousal grows—so much that you take his wandering hands and hook them under the waistband of your underwear, guiding them down your thighs. 

There’s a change to his breath when his index and middle finger feels up the fleshiness of your cunt for the first time. Hard, raggedy and absolutely tormented. He glides those digits up and down your dewiness, listening for the squelching sound that makes his cock twitch beneath you. 

He moans onto your neck, nose tracing the column on its way to your ear.  “How do you touch yourself?” 

A sudden shyness overtakes you and you turn your head, needing to hide in his neck this time. You remain silent, the words lodged in your throat. 

Jungkook sees you. 

“Do you rub your little clit from side to side or in circles?” he questions, helping you answer. 

“I—I like both,” you whisper onto his skin, moving your hips so his fingers slip to your clit, the sweet spot where you need him the most. He grabs the back of your thigh and lifts it, spreading you open, meanwhile you chase the firmness of his fingers.

“Just like that, ride them,” he husks, eyes dazed, fixed on the roll of your pelvis. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” 

Head on top of yours, you nod, never ceasing your movement, transfixed, just like him, by the constant way the pads of his fingers fondle your clit before dipping between your lips. The heat of the summer tightens in your lower belly and it’s a desperate litany of begging what your mouth utters, despite the fact you’re not really sure what you’re asking for, but you let him hear it. You’re close, so unbelievably close, yet still have a road to walk on before you, and you close your eyes to feel the delight of his touch more deeply, only to find that you manage to do nothing of the kind. 

When you sense his eyes on you and by instinct you reciprocate his stare, that’s when you feel the depth you sought after. Mouth parted, pupils dilated, eyelashes a drowsy catastrophe, messy hair casting a soft shadow over the planes of his blissed-out face. You want to kiss him. You want to make him feel as good as he’s making you feel—

“Let me do it now,” Jungkook says hurriedly, sensing the nearness of your climax. 

“Yes,” you croak out, halting the movement of your hips—and ‘yes’ is the word that ripples out of your mouth a hundred, a thousand more times when he spreads you wider and rubs his fingers on your clit from side to side. 

He feels the pleasure in sync with you, accepting all of your yes’, twisting his face the moment yours does, quickening the rapidness of his hand once he switches to circles to carry you to your summer-breathed paradise. 

And when you come all over his hand, he slips two fingers inside your hole.

He stills the buck of your hips. 

You widen your eyes at the new feeling of fullness and, panicking and constricting around him, you look at Jungkook, who merely strengthens his hold around you. 

“Trust me,” he says, breathing heavily. He doesn’t move his fingers past his first knuckles; he lets you adjust to the size. Gives you a kiss full of tongue to distract you. “Does it burn?”

You begin to pant against his mouth, the high of your orgasm long gone. You’re uncertain to count it as one when it was so short lived, ruined by the sudden plunge of his digits. But much to your surprise, you don’t detect any burn in your walls that he speaks of, which you realize was his intention.

“No, it just feels a bit uncomfortable.” 

He kisses you again. You feel your lips go numb, eyes lidding at the pressure you feel as he sinks his fingers a little bit deeper and begins to move them sluggishly, your slick creating another ring for him around his fingers. You try to meet his thrusts as the visceral sensation of being filled by longer, thicker fingers settles within you and takes roots. You discover that movement is the key to parting the uncomfortable feeling and it steps to the side to let the pleasure walk forward.  

Jungkook presses his palm flat against your clit, guides the pleasure to envelop your body when he plunges his fingers deeper, past the second knuckles and fucks you in swift jerks. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan and he fills in the sound, expressing his fiery delight for you at the clench of your walls against him, accommodating for him, for his desire to stretch you out, so when he finally enters you, no pain comes to greet you. 

Deeper and harder—yes, that’s what feels good. You roll your body, becoming waves of the sea as wetness and the build up of pleasure—seafoam—is all your senses wrap around. 

“Feels good, baby?” 

His need to check in with you speeds up the nearing expansion of your orgasm. Pointer and pinky finger digging into the skin of your backside, you watch the in and out motion, the digits coming out wetter and wetter each time.

“Feels so fucking good. I’m gonna come. I’m so close.” 

It’s quicker. Way quicker than your first tiny orgasm. He slips in and out of you so smoothly—you’re obsessed with the sight, ravaged by it entirely. You grind your hips and fuck yourself back, picking up the pace but slowing down instantly when you feel yourself at the peak of your climax.

You want to prolong it. You love the feeling too much to end it too soon.

Jungkook stops your movements fully.

“I want to be the one who makes you come,” he murmurs. “I want to be the one who fucks your brain out. I want to feel you squeeze around my fingers. Fuck, I want it so bad.” 

His hand drifts to your neck just to hold you there, the other, the busy one, fingers you harder, your fast approaching orgasm blinding your senses. Your drenched cunt squelches around him, the sound so lewd it causes you to seek comfort—your hand flies to his on your throat, fingers wrapping around his wrist, the tip of your pointer reaching the fat bulb of bunny’s head on his ring. 

Harder and faster. A scalding fire burns you and you just take it. Loll your head back against his shoulder, giving him the space to grip your jawline. Flames grow closer and closer, leaving a layer of sheen on your body in its wake. You feel the sudden need to pee.

“Oh my god, Gguk—” Your muscles tense. Close, so close. “Gguk, Gguk—”

“What, baby? What’s the matter?” he husks, squeezing your neck once. “You’re gonna come for me? Gonna come on my fingers?” 

You nod quickly, too quickly. Flames of the sun, licking you. Flames of the summer heat. Just what you wanted. 

Jungkook opens your jaw, swirling his tongue around yours. “Let go. Come for me. You can do it, I got you—I got you. Come for me, baby, please.”

Obeying his desperate order, you do.

A small stream of your pleasure, a faint fountain, trickles out of you and into his hand. He gasps, in unison with your whimpers, and you’re transmitted elsewhere. The wildly colorful, blooming meadow on a hill, overlooking the languorous sea and he’s there. Reaches behind himself. Offers you his hand. The wind ruffles his black hair, sweeps it back and you’re giddy—as giddy as Bam, as giddy as you were in the moment the slid the white bunny ring on your finger—to take the last two of his slender fingers, the pinky and the ring, and sit with him by the edge of the cliff. 

“Did so well for me.” 

The whisper takes you back and you awake. 

You’re different. Incandescent. Of life, of stars and its light, of growing fondness for the man you sit perched on the lap of, whose fingers still remain sheathed inside of you. He changed you. Perpetually, absolutely. He changed you and made you into something new. Something that is softer, more elegant—smaller but assertive. Alluring and kind. Indisputably good. 

He fucked everything negative out of you with his fingers. Left the vast canvas of stars inside of you.

You’re no longer a plain spread of cotton, but a living, breathing artwork. His artwork.

Once he fucks you with his cock, you wonder what further internal changes are going to occur within you.

You feel a great deal of gratitude for him—and you want to reciprocate all that he’s done for you. You want to work hard at it. Spoil him. Make him whimper. You believe he deserves it.   

“You finger yourself often? How come you took my fingers so well, hm?” 

You’re panting, unable to speak. Absorbing the sharpness of the stars, acclimatizing to the change. 

“I guess you do, huh?” he deduces. “Good little girl, preparing herself for me.” 

For the life of you, you can’t catch your breath.

Jungkook kisses your cheek deeply. Pecks you on the same spot a hundred times, slowly taking out his fingers. Lets you see your slick coating his fingers and, softly, you gasp at the little ripples of wrinkles upon the tips of his fingers, mouth parting.

And then he sinks them into your mouth. 

His hardness twitches behind you and you moan, your daintily bittersweet taste making your head spin. And when you look at him, you’re met with the utmost pink-dusted adoration painted on his face. You kiss it, inhaling it, letting it flow into your system so it suffuses your bloodstream, letting him taste you. You may not feel your lips, but the sentient poetry of the stars begins to sing in you. His stars. You feel like a flushed floweret visited by a bee. Spent, but happy. 

Happy to be wanted.

Good, because he said you were.

As if internally intertwined with him, you feel the identical heat tinge your cheeks. 

He says nothing as he lays you down and spreads your legs back to the way they were. Though when he’s graced with the sight of your bare cunt in all her glory, his face says everything that his mouth isn’t capable of. Hunger and torture—lips agape, corners of the mouth shiny with the rush of drool and Jungkook wipes it away, then lowers his fingers to your clit, to your lips, becoming more acquainted with this intimate part of you that no one had seen before him. He traces your small hole, even going as far as to your other, tinier hole and you yelp, stopping his exploration. 

Jungkook merely chuckles, eyes darting to yours. “You’re so pretty.” You grow so hot that you think you must be on fire. “Especially there.” 

You mewl, shrinking, hands looking for anything to hold and finding his bunny plushie. You take her into your arms, inhaling a scent that could never be hers. You recognize immediately whose it is. 

Musk, vanilla, wood. 

The thought of Jungkook cradling her while he sleeps moves you and you pout. 

“How we feeling?” he asks, still caressing your fleshy cunt, dripping with dew. 

Overjoyed. Overstimulated.

Heavenly.

“Good.” 

A foxy smile. “How many orgasms was that, hm?” 

You don’t know where your shyness comes from and why it chokes all of the words you want to say. You bury your face in bunny for a moment, taking a breath to fight against it, so you can please him because that’s all you yearn to do. 

You open your mouth, but no words come out. 

Jungkook stifles a laugh and it makes you feel terrible. And it’s worse when he leans over to kiss you, turns his head at the last moment and faces bunny.

“Bunny, how many times did she come?” he asks her, offering her his ear to hear her answer. Looks at you. Widens his eyes. Gasps. “Two,” he mouths. Listens some more. Nods. “I know she thought she wouldn’t come at all. Crazy, right?” Then he lets out an endearing sound. “She said she’d believed you could do it the moment you said it. She’s so happy for you. How cute,” he coos. 

You giggle, the bridge in your throat loosening, light flooding you, over and over, until you think you can’t take any more of it. You feel so full, so happy and the sensation threatens to pour out of your tear ducts. 

It heals something within you—that he treats you like this at your most vulnerable state. Your inner child flares, the stars the strength that fixes her stoop, helping her arise, stand straight, stand powerfully. 

He smiles down fondly at you. “So what number are we at?” 

You hide your face behind your hands. “Two.” 

“What did you say? I didn’t catch that.” 

You drop your hands and with as much energy as you can muster, you repeat the number. 

He purrs, caressing your cheek. “Good girl.” As a reward, as if the praise wasn’t enough, he kisses you deeply. “Will you let me taste you?” 

You swallow his desire, but speak up your own, “I want to taste you first, please.” 

Jungkook hums, curses under his breath. He straightens and kneels before your form, fingers pinching the back of his T-shirt and pulling it over his body. You catch the sight of his broad shoulders, of each dip and muscle, and your irises grown in width. Him ridding himself of his clothes dishevels his hair and as he untangles his arms from the material, he smiles down at you, noticing your stare. 

He caresses the back of your thigh before his hand flies to his hard length. He palms himself once, then continues to undress—tugs his sweatpants down to his knees, though he doesn’t bother himself to fully take them off. The shape of him is more prominent through the fabric of his white Calvins, the bulge of his mushroom wet and pellucid, and you sit up, hand itching to touch him, to join his in making him feel good, but he cups your chin—forcing you to look up at him. 

He swipes his thumb over your lips. “You want it?” 

You nod. “So bad.” 

Jungkook curses again, the sound low and rough. 

“Touch it,” he orders and both of your hands listen, wrapping around his girth, squeezing beneath the head of his cock. The thickness of him makes you see the light of the stars that you sense fluttering feverishly inside of you. Your mind is too empty, too washed out by your orgasm, by the change that you don’t even think about how you’re going to take him. Jungkook hisses, tilting his head back before he looks down at you intently. “You did this before?” 

You’ve never seen one in real life before, let alone touched one.

“I’ve never let anyone get this close.” 

Jungkook strokes your pigtails. “How come you know what to do then?” 

Instinct or memory from porn you watched—you don’t know, it all blends together within the fuzziness of your mind. And you tell him.

“I watch a lot of porn.” 

Jungkook smiles coyly and it strikes you. You’ve never seen him smile this way before or, even, feel this way before. All you know from him is dominance, dominance and dominance. 

You release him from the confines of his boxers and repress your gasp. His ever glistening tip reaches just below his navel and the thickness of his girth obscures most of his pubic hair. Along with the sound of your surprise, you also have a hard time swallowing the saliva collecting in your mouth. 

“I want you so bad,” you whisper, needy eyes looking up at him. Shy, too shy to let your gaze linger at the most intimate part of him. 

He sucks in a breath at your words, hissing. And you need him inside of you all over again. 

Fuck fuzzines in your mind. You’re fuzzy all over. Wrecked with nerves, suddenly. Your hands tremble, hovering in front of his manhood. Jungkook covers them with his, soothing you, and guides you to his shaft. Wraps your fingers around him. Doesn’t let go. 

The feel of him under his supervision is slow. He allows you to take in every ridge of him, every vein—the softness of his skin, the warmth and the weight. Round after round, up and down, until you get familiarized with him. A trickle of his male essence drips down the side of him and your tongue instinctively darts out. Like your hands, Jungkook’s breath shakes and he anticipates your next move, despite the fact he’s in charge. 

He’s been patient all this time, giving you the time you needed. But that hardly applies when you have him in your hands, when you own his neediness. His whimpers while he waits coax your slick out of you, soaking the bedding beneath you and you can’t take it anymore. 

Neither, evidently, can he. 

“Baby, please,” Jungkook croaks out. Tortured, so terribly tortured. Grip tight and clammy around your hands. 

So vulnerable. 

You ache. 

You lick up a stripe of his essence on the side of his cock and Jungkook shudders. Shifting onto your knees, you show him the milkie on the tip of your tongue and Jungkook pulls your hair, tilting your head back. Kisses you nastily, licking into your mouth. Moans, lowly. Then, he holds his girth at the base and pushes your head. 

When you take him, a mewl ripples around the thickness of him. His eyes roll back and his grasp of your hair tightens, burning your scalp, adding to the fire. He lets you feel it out; lets you figure out what to do, testing your knowledge from the porn you’ve watched. And the tensing of his stomach divulges his strained effort not to fuck your mouth. 

You go slow about it. Swirling your tongue around that rosy head of his, along that delicious ridge, licking a flat stripe across that line of his slit. Getting to know him in all those intimate places, relying on your senses—on them to tell you what he likes. Your hand begins to move on its own, gliding back and forth in tandem with your tongue stimulating his sensitivity. You try not to think about how you can barely fit him in your mouth, because if you do—you’ll ruin his bedsheets. 

But then Jungkook hums in approval, sending a gush of wetness out of you and you whimper—you whimper at the worsening ache you feel, at the helplessness that pools in your system by being just so filthily wet and horny. 

He moves your hand faster. Breath jagged, bedroom eyes zeroing down on you. And then—

Jungkook moans your name. Over and over, clenching and unclenching his hand on the back of your head. 

“Don’t have to teach you shit,” he spits. “You just watch porn all day, don’t you? Naughty girl.” 

Losing control for a split second, he rams his cock into your throat—and you don’t panic, you don’t yelp. Instead, you groan. 

He pulls you away from him with a sharp tug. Kisses you harshly. Shoves you down into the pillows with one push on your sternum.

Bending you in half, he drinks your cunt. Lips immediately suck on your needy bundle of nerves and it’s so fast you don’t even know which part of you he’s focusing on because he’s everywhere. Clit, hole, clit, hole—sucking, licking. Alternating, alternating so swiftly and deliciously that you completely lose your mind. 

And then he lifts your hips and holds them in the air, wanting you to see what he’s doing to you. Like you, he darts out his tongue and teases you, hovering the muscle above your clit. Shiny, nimble, capable of doing unspeakable things to you. He watches as your pussy drools for him and he chuckles darkly. Tongue lowering to collect it, but unlike you he never does it. He lets the dew trickle down your skin. 

“Cute little pussy. So wet. Wetter than when I fucked it. You liked playing with me on your knees, didn’t you?” 

With your fucked out brain, you don’t think it’s taunting what he’s doing. You deem it’s just him reveling in what he’s able to do to your body—in the fact that he owns it, that he teaches it new things. The glint in his dusky, lustful eyes proves it. 

Jungkook drags a long stripe on your clit, making your eyes flutter closed and your teeth to sink into your bottom lip to cage in your moans. 

“Talk to me.” 

You can’t. You don’t know how to talk. 

He stares you down. 

No answer from you. Just hard pants. Pussy drooling. 

“I won’t play with you, then.” 

Panic. “No.” 

He cocks a brow at you. “No?” 

Silence. 

He begins to lower you down but you grip his forearm. 

“Jungkook.” 

Bent over above you, head low, he merely flicks his eyes to yours. Duskiness, such blackening duskiness in those orbs. 

“Beg.” 

All your muscles tense. Wetness gushes out of you. 

Lucky for you, that word he wants is the one you haven’t forgotten. 

“Please.” 

“Please what?” 

You groan in frustration. 

“Be nice or—”

“Please, lick me.” 

That dark chuckle. You feel yourself becoming obsessed with it. 

“Where?” 

A challenge. Your throat dries up. 

“There.” 

He shakes his head disapprovingly, making a sound that expresses just how much he didn’t like that. 

“Try again. Last chance, little girl.” 

The loving smile on his face says everything about how that threat is feigned. You hear it tell you—you have as many chances as you need. He’s merely encouraging you to step out of your comfort zone. 

And something about that mellow, hidden kindness gently ushers you to do just that. 

“Lick my clit, please.” 

A hum. A long stripe on that sensitive, thumping spot. A roll of his tongue forward and backward.  

“Like this?” 

You choke out a moan. 

“Yes, please.” 

“Or—” He blows on you, causing you to tremble. “Like this?”

He shakes his head against you briskly, not yet at a full tilt. Just like his, your body shudders in his hands and he tightens his grip on your supple hips. You can’t take it, the pleasure is overwhelming and—

“Look at me,” he orders and you open your eyes, immediately. “Like this?” 

Jungkook adds more pressure and rapidness to the movement, leaving you glazed sweetly in the sheen of his saliva. He moves your hips up and down on the firmness of his tongue and you scream, taking a strong hold of his hair.

“Oh my god, yes, fuck, Daddy—”

Shocked, Jungkook groans against your pussy, slowing down to ingest what your mouth has just uttered. It’s more than natural to call him by a title like this, instinctual, innate. It fits him so well and it drenches your pussy, your slick amalgamating with his liquid love. You’re certain he feels the rush.

Your Daddy. 

You roll your hips against his tongue. Dark and more dark, those eyes of his. Bottomless pit.

“Fuck yes, call me Daddy again.” 

The whimpers you let out are pathetic and Jungkook shudders at them, groaning. You whine the title over and over again, a verdant, dreamlike litany of your feminine sexuality pampered, cared for, supervised. Jungkook accepts the gravity of it all, each declaration propelling him to suck your clit harder, bruises forming on your hips from his deathly grip, black eyes never leaving yours, hypnotizing you. 

And when you come like this, it’s unification what happens. 

You’re bound to him and he’s bound to you. 

Daddy and little girl. 

Throughout your sexual experience today, you had a hard time accepting things but this—this is something that slept inside of you all your life and just now has been awoken to a flickering canvas of bright stars. You feel it blink, adjust to the piercing light, before it smiles dolefully—happy to be conscious, happy to be caressed.

Jungkook kisses you and takes his time. The taste of your femininity, the fresh coldness of your change, the strong wine of his desire. You’re drunk. You’re slurring your mewls. 

And one thing about unification, it’s a mirror. 

You swallow down the same mewls, uttered by his throat. 

“Daddy’s gonna give it to you,” he whispers, adjusting between your legs. “Will be gentle. You’re safe with me.” 

He rakes the tip of his length along the entirety of your little sea-kissed seashell. 

“You want it? You want Daddy’s cock inside of you?” 

Jungkook looks into your eyes deeply as he asks you that question, the tip ready at your significantly smaller hole. He peppers kisses along your jawline and chin. 

“I’m scared it’ll hurt,” you murmur, brows furrowed. 

He kisses your cheek, the corner of your mouth. 

“We’ll chase the pain away,” he promises.

Your frown deepens. 

“But what if it doesn’t fit?” 

You expect him to chuckle, but he does no such thing. He absorbs your worry by kissing you tenderly. Then he glances at your body. Remembers he never took off your bra and fixes his mistake. 

“You may be small, but you were made to take me,” he says and your heart skips a beat; you wonder if he understands the gravity of his words as they take roots within you, rising to bloom into splendid flowers. “Besides, my dick is tiny. You won’t even feel it.” 

It is so far from the truth that you burst into giggles. He laughs along with you—a mirror reflected. 

Stars and flowers. Sea and freshness. You were made to take him. You trust him. 

He kisses your breasts, licking over your nipple—but briefly. Holding his shaft, he asks if you’re ready. You nod, your fingers desperately searching for his and Jungkook notices. Sinking slowly inside of you, he grabs his bunny plushie and tucks her into the crook of your elbow. 

There’s a pinch of pain, blended with the feeling of discomfort as your walls stretch around his head. 

Seeing it painted on your face, Jungkook draws close, enveloping you and bunny in his heat. Pushes a little more in. You wail softly, the pain intensifying. Fear intermingles with your features and Jungkook—the worry in his countenance makes you almost weep.

“Hold onto me,” he says, brows scrunched, so—so serious. “Relax, baby. I got you.”

You hook your arms around his neck, bunny sandwiched between your chest and his. Jungkook saves this time to let you adjust around him. 

“I know it hurts,” he whispers onto your mouth, index finger, the ringed one, stretching to graze your cheek. “Just relax your muscles for me. It’ll feel good soon.” 

You nod, trusting him. 

He pecks you. Smiles. 

“How many orgasms are we at?” 

You roll your eyes, your own smile threatening your lips. “Three.”

Jungkook hums. Pecks you again. You feel your walls loosening, little by little.

A smug smirk. “You didn’t expect that, did you?” 

“You obliterated my expectations.” 

“Just wait until I fuck you properly.” 

You blush, eyes twinkling. 

“Pretty girl.” He kisses you and you feel your attachment forming again, though this time—newly. As light, as free as an entanglement of seaweed upon seashore, you and him. Connected. Bound. No fear, not even a hint of it. “I heard you watch porn.” 

Your flush deepens. Jungkook sinks a little deeper. A faint pain—nothing bad. 

“Who told you?” You laugh, the sound ridding you of your shyness. 

But Jungkook grows solemn.

“Tell me what kind you watch,” he whispers, angling his head to give you a tiny kiss. 

Your cheeks hurt from the smiling, from the onrush of emotions within you, sloshing to and fro. You feel hot all over.

“The one where all the focus is on the girl,” you whisper back. “The guy uses all kinds of toys on her and she just takes it. Comes so many times and there’s a countdown for it.”

Humming, he begins to nibble on the skin beneath your jaw, making your breath shallow. He pushes in another inch—and the pain is worse. You tighten your grip around him.

“And how many times do you come when you watch it?” Deep, deep is his voice, the calmness to your nerves due to the pricking you feel. 

“I don’t stop coming.” 

Jungkook swears under his breath and clenches his digits into a fist beside your head.

“And you finger yourself?” 

You nod, confidently. Another inch. He smiles at your confirmation of his deduction.

“How many fingers?” 

You scoff. “Just one.” 

“Well done,” he praises, kissing you once, keeping his mouth on you even as he asks, “ready?” 

You nod, again, even though there’s fright to your eyes. He sees it and he brushes his eyelashes against your eyelids while he kisses you, taking it all away. And he doesn’t stop, even as he pulls out and thrusts back into your heat. Gently, so awfully gently. 

He didn’t break his promise. 

Jungkook rocks his hips in slow, sensual, prolonged staccatos, moaning into your parted mouth. You’re so focused on him—on the bulging of his muscles on the either side of your head, the broadness of his shoulders, the slick sweat dripping down his neck, right from the top of his tattoo; on the sheerness of his pleasure as he moves in and out, carefully so as to not frighten you, that the pain quickly subsides. 

And there you feel it. 

The sensation unlike any other. 

He rams into you, seeing the wrinkle between your brows smoothing, the lust clouding your eyes as the delight spreads all over your body, bringing along little dots of goosebumps. The night sea, windless, still hot from the afternoon’s goodbye kiss. You feel it—and you feel it deeply, sinking inside of you with every inch of his manhood. So much that you meet his thrusts. 

“That’s it, baby. Fuck yes,” Jungkook murmurs, enraging the waves within. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Being fucked?” 

Stars and its light. He picks up the pace, hooking your leg over his shoulder, entering you deeper and deeper, giving you more than half. The thrill of feeling so full—you curse, you moan, you can’t hold it in, even if you tried. And Jungkook coos at your conveyance of the pleasure he’s giving you, never lifting his eyes off of yours, off of your features, your emotions. Surveying you, controlling you, making sure you’re okay—more than okay.

You sense the pressure coil deep within your core, the sense of your climax approaching and you’re astonished at how quick it is. You halt your own movements, needing—wanting him to be the one to get you there, the one who owns your orgasms. 

“Gguk, Gguk, fuck—”

“I know,” he breathes. “I’m gonna make you come all over my cock.” 

He fucks you harder, making you cry out. Deep, deep staccatos, so different from the slow, languid ones. You can’t catch your breath, the sea within you sloshes violently and then—

Softly, you sprinkle him with your fountain of pleasure. Not enough to drive him out, but sweetly enough to force him to groan against you and pound you harder into the mattress. Continuing as if you hadn’t come. 

You don’t have the time or the space to think about what just happened—he fucks each and every thought of you. 

“My little squirter,” Jungkook mutters, kissing you. “One more, baby. One more for me and I’ll paint you with my cummie. Hm, you want that?” You’re gone, flung out of this world into a tranquil island. The palm trees, the sea and his cock. Your emotions are numb, body limp. All you feel is his cock, ramming and ramming into you. “Or you wanna swallow it for me like a good girl?” 

“Swallow, please,” you croak out and Jungkook makes a sound of approval. Rewards you by giving you the full thing, filling you balls-deep. 

“You feel me?” He kisses you, tugging your bottom lip with his teeth. 

Glorious, glorious delight. You can’t breathe. Too much. 

“I feel you—” You lift your head to look down where you’re connected. “I—I feel you in my stomach.” 

Sitting back, he lifts your hips and palms the bulge just a little bit above your mound. Feels it move under him once he resumes fucking you. He replaces his hand with yours, keeping you distracted as he undoes the ribbon in your hair and ties your wrists with it. Right there above the bulge, where he fucks you. Then he latches onto your hips and jackhammers his cock into you, watching as your tits along with bunny bounce with each slam. 

“You look so pretty like this, tied up for me, taking all that I’m giving you,” he says, thumbing your clit, making you cry out. “Such a good fucking girl for me. I’m bringing you up so well.” 

“Daddy,” you call out and Jungkook nods.

“Yes, that’s right. Daddy is fucking you so good.” 

White flashes. Seafoam. The pressure in your tummy deepening and deepening. The roar of the night sea and your body following—you come all over him, painting him iridescent with your dewiness. His joggers, dragged halfway down his thighs, his boxers are all ruined—pelvis, thighs and cock glistening. It’s such a beautiful image to you that it suffuses you with energy and you begin to speak. 

“Please, come for me.” 

Surprised, Jungkook chuckles. “Don’t you have orgasms to count down?” 

The ever persistent need for control. You kiss him, slip your tongue into his mouth to shut him up and you struggle against your ribbon, for the feeling of kissing him without your hands makes you feel iffy.

“Five. I came five times for you just like you wanted,” you whisper. “You fucked me so good. I’ll never forget it.” 

And it’s the truth.

Jungkook pecks you once deeply, humming into the kiss. He pulls out of you and whilst he strokes his cock, his fingers tug down the ribbon around your wrists. You take your place on your knees, gazing with awe and hunger at his shiny length. And as if he needed it, he plunges his fingers into your mouth for more lubrication. Then, grabbing your jawline gently, he pulls you in towards his cock, letting your lips play with his tip the way you like it as he jerks himself off. You flick your tongue under the ridge of his head and his length twitches, stunning you. You do it again, more rapidly, and you don’t stop until Jungkook begins to tremble. Pulling him inside your mouth, then out, flicking faster and faster. Repeat. 

Jungkook grunts. 

“Yes, like that, princess. Fuck, I’m gonna come for you.” 

He announces it, but it still comes as a surprise when the first rope of hot cum spills onto your flushed cheek. You suck him harder for a moment before you stick out your tongue, eyes flick up, as he empties his balls for you, his hand never ceasing the swift tug on his length. 

And he just keeps coming. Rope after rope. Liquid star after star.

And you swallow it all. 

Spent, sweaty and breathless, he helps you swallow it. Dragging his fingers to the places your tongue can’t reach, he feeds you his cum and you suck on his digits. Your heart thuds in your ribcage, especially when he begins to play with your tongue, smiling down at you in that dopey way. 

He pats you on the cheek once you show him you’ve swallowed it all. 

“Good girl. Good little princess.” 

That you are. A changed person for all eternity.

“Is your tummy full?” 

You nod, beaming vehemently up at him, the aftertaste of the bitterness of his liquid stars still wafting through your senses.

The three forbidden words rise in your tongue, even though you don’t believe them—you think it’s just the opulence of new emotions and experience that forces those words on your tongue. But they remain adamant when he bathes you clean, when he brushes your hair and gives you his clothes to wear to bed. They provoke you right there on the tip of your tongue when he gives you his zipper hoodie to wear on his balcony once you tell him you need a smoke and he joins you, giving you his pack of cigarettes. 

And they come off the edge, in a different form, when you tell him of how he changed you while you hold his hand and he caresses your damp strands with a cigarette propped between his index and middle fingers, kissing your cheek. The smoke fixes a makeshift halo around both of your heads. One body, one halo. Bound.

“You’re such a lovable person, Gguk.”

What you don’t know is that those mere words changed the entire trajectory of his life. Yours, too.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist / read part one, read part two, part three

[melzula]

well since requests are open i wanted to request a zuko fic?

zuko x waterbender reader in which someone from team avatar walks in on them kissing?

i feel like it’d be funny idk lol 😂

a/n: i love this trope it’s so funny. also it’s like subtly mentioned reader is a water bender since i didn’t wanna just shove it in there awkwardly. anyway hope you enjoy!

summary: a private moment between you and your boyfriend is interrupted by your unsuspecting friends

“Are you sure no one saw you come in here?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Zuko says with a huff after closing the flaps of your tent. “You know, I’m starting to think you’re embarrassed to be seen with me.”

“You know that’s not true,” you argue with a frown. “I just enjoy having some privacy. I know those guys are going to make a big deal about us being together, and I just want to enjoy our relationship without having to deal with any prying eyes.”

“I know,” he admits with a sigh. “I’m just tired of sneaking around. Do you know how difficult it is not to kiss you or check on you after a fight with my sister? It’s torture.”

“It’s just until the war is over. There’s a lot at stake right now, and it would be a weird time to come clean. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“I hope you’re right,” Zuko murmurs with a frown, one that immediately melts away at the feel of your arms wrapping around his midsection. It’s hard to be upset when you’re smiling up at him with the purest look of adoration in your eyes. Despite everything, all of his flaws and mistakes and cruelty, you love him, and it fuels the warmth inside of his heart knowing he has someone like you. Maybe he would have joined the Avatar and his friends sooner if he knew it would lead him to you.

“At least we’re finally alone,” he notes with a faint smile before leaning down to press his lips against your own in a long awaited kiss. He hasn’t been able to give or receive affection all day, and it isn’t until now with your chest pressed against his own that he’s finally able to truly feel relaxed.

Unfortunately, you’re both too engrossed in each other to notice the rustling of your tent flaps as Sokka and Toph let themselves in without a second thought.

“Hey, y/n, Toph and I are gonna head into town, do you want to- oh, gross!” He cries after catching Zuko and yourself mid lip lock.

You both jump at the intrusion, knocking your head together on accident and groaning in unison at the impact.

“Sokka!” You cry out in embarrassment. “Monkey feathers, don’t you knock?!”

“It’s a tent! There is no knocking!” He yells back defensively, equally as upset as you are. “I can’t believe you guys were kissing!”

“We weren’t kissing,” Zuko argues, his face red with embarrassment. “We were… hugging… with our… mouths?”

“Oh, spirits,” you groan, your palm hitting your forehead in embarrassment at Zuko’s horrible attempt at lying. For a Prince, he has a terrible way with words. You’d think all that time spent with his Uncle would make his vocabulary more eloquent.

“If Toph could see she’d be very upset right now!” Sokka scolds, but the girl beside him simply shrugs.

“Actually, this works out great for me. Katara owes me five gold pieces now,” she says with a grin.

“You guys knew they were dating and didn’t tell me?!” The water tribe boy says in offense.

“I had a hunch, but Katara disagreed, so we made a bet.”

“Enough already! This is mortifying enough as it is,” you groan impatiently. “Sokka, we’ll talk about this later. For now, I need both of you out!”

After getting the two to leave the tent, you shut it closed with an irritated sigh. You’re absolutely humiliated, and you don’t think you can show your face to your friends ever again.

“So much for keeping it a secret,” the fire bender mutters.

“You,” you say with an accusatory finger pointed at the Prince, “need to learn how to lie better.”

“I know,” he admits meekly, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. Sighing, you open your water pouch and tend to the growing bump on his head from your previous collision. You can’t stay mad at him when he looks so flustered and sweet, so instead you merely throw your arms around his neck and pull him back in for another kiss.

You can focus on coming clean later. For now, you just want to enjoy your moment of peace with the boy you love.

| zuko tags: @thebluelcdy @royahllty @the-firebender-girl @ilovespideyyy @yiyibetch @eridanuswave @lammello @a-monsters-love @knaite-solo @taeeemin @lora21

[risuola]

YOU CRYIN'? — F. READER x GOJO SATORU

You and Gojo know each other since high school, and since then, you also hate each other. He bites and you always bite back, the constant argument creates tension that everybody, except you two, seem to notice. One time you said too much, causing Gojo’s self-control to snap.

cw: smut, unprotected sex, creampie, cursing, mentions of bullying (Satoru is a meanie, ok?), overstimulation, enemies to lovers kind of vibe, I feel like the "you cryin'?" line in itself is a warning if you heard the dub version of it, reader discretion is advised — 1,4k words

» PART TWO

"You cryin'?", Satoru taunted, thrusting his hips relentlessly into yours, with a handful of your hair in his unforgiving grip. Standing behind you, with one hand digging into the supple flesh of your side to steady himself, he was pounding behavior into you.

You and Satoru Gojo have a history of never-ending venom-spitting and it's safe to say you hated the man and the man hated you with passion for years now. It started in high school, where you just couldn't stand how full of himself he was, looking at everybody from above as if he was so much better than everyone and yes, you are aware of how powerful of an individual he is but the arrogance that came with it was just unbearable. Much more you liked his closest friend Suguru, but as years passed, you found yourself working closely with Gojo more and more often, because you decided to stay at Jujutsu high in Tokyo to help students learn. You were strong enough to be considered a high 1st grade sorcerer and everything you achieved, you earned by hard work and stubbornness but that didn’t stop the know-it-all from bullying you, no. He had an awful habit of pouring more fuel into the constant fire of argument between you two and you never owed him, always biting back. That being said, your constant bickering with Satoru successfully brought you to where you were now.

Pressed against the wooden desk, sweaty and exhausted as your body was chasing the fourth orgasm with no break in between. It was a torture – the way he was slamming his cock inside of you at the pace that left you breathless, it hurt from overstimulation and burned with pleasure at the same time. You always acted tough, but now you couldn't stop the tear rolling down your cheek as his grip on your hair tightened and his teeth sank into the delicate skin between your neck and shoulder.

"You’re really cryin’”, he grinned teasingly and turned your head more to the side, kissing the tear away. Delighted at the sight, Satoru pulled back and flipped you over so he could see your pretty face when he pushed his girth back onto your swollen insides, kissing every oversensitive spot on his way while hooking your thighs over his hips. You dug fingers into his skin, leaving crescent moon shapes of your nails engraved into his flesh and you once again could feel his pace picking up. Naively, you grabbed at his hip, trying to slow him down but with no effect.

"So pretty, fuck, when you cry like that," he grunted, kissing along the salty trace on your face and down your neck to see the bruising mark of his teeth was already blooming with reds and purples. "Think you have few more in you?", he asked and the thought of few more orgasms terrified you. "You'll have to, 'm nowhere near to be done, wit' ya," a chuckle echoed in his chest and you couldn't tell if his objective was to kill you in the most humiliating way possible or what.

"N-no," you protested and he laughed once more, pulling out almost completely.

"No?", Satoru grined in his usual, annoyingly handsome manner but you barely saw him through the collage of stars in your sight, "'ts too bad you've been naughty lately. Need to fuck some behavior into you."

"Gojo-", you whined, helpless against his muscular body as he was ramming ruthlessly, abusing your swollen oversensitive insides to your limits.

"Nuh-uh", he wrapped his slender fingers around your throat, putting no pressure, but redirecting your head so you looked him in the eyes and you could drown in the crystalline blue tones surrounded by thick snowy eyelashes if you wouldn't know better. "That's not my name, sweetheart."

"Go to hell, Goj-, fuck", you whined and he thrusted harder, your back was slamming against the wooden counter but he was unbothered by the echoing pounding sound that clearly was indicating what was happening in his office.

"That's. not. my. name.", he growled, accentuating every word with a particularly sharp thrust and it was enough for you to drown in the haziness.

"Sa-, uh", you tried, but his pace was unforgiving, his cock fucking you dumb but he hummed teasingly, encouraging you to speak. "'toru- fuck. Satoru, please."

"There we go, wasn't that hard now, was it?", smiling, the sorcerer lifted you up, angling his hips upwards, his cock reaching even deeper although you thought it's impossible. The blunt head kissed every spot inside you and you felt another orgasm approaching. Satoru groaned at how your walls were flexing around his girth and this time, he chased his own, the first one, the one he's been denying himself in order to drive you insane.

He was panting heavily, groaning against your neck, profanities slipping through his mouth as he twitched inside you. Suddenly he grabbed you harshly, nails digging into your trembling thighs and he lowered himself on the expensive leathery chair, giving you a slap to the tender skin, silently ordering you to work. You straddled him, supporting your hands over his shoulders and you pushed him against the back rest, surely bruising his muscles with the harsh grip you had on him. You were desperate to finish him off, to put an end to the torture he’s subjected you to for talking too much. At this point you don’t even remember what caused his composure to snap, what has gotten you into the endless spiral of agonizing pleasure with a man you despised. The man that now you were riding with the last bits of your power, fighting the mind-numbing rush of your own release to bring him to his and you could tell how close he was. Satoru’s jaws were clenched, his fingers were digging harshly into the tender skin of your sides and his hips were bucking up uncontrollably, desperate to reach the blissful relief. His abs were flexing, cock was twitching and his tone became ragged as he groaned what sounded like your name entwined with endless amounts of fucks and yeses. His eyes closed shut and he threw his head back, suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling that began uncoiling in his entire body. You grabbed at his white hair, smearing open mouthed kisses all over his throat and collar bones, and your movements stuttered with your dripping pussy squelching for the nth time. That was enough for Satoru – he gave in, allowing his muscles to contract one last time as he spilled his load into you, filling you completely with warmth and you were quick to come right after him. Your ups and downs became sloppy, uneven as you slowly ride your highs out and finally, you raised your hips just enough to have him out.

Falling back heavily against his body, you leaned your head over his shoulder in hopes to calm the panting. You felt your heart drumming against your ribcage, you felt the concoction of juices running down your thigh and dripping onto Satoru’s legs, but you couldn’t care less. With his hands releasing your flesh that he was squeezing unwaveringly, you felt your body finally relaxing, your mind coming back to senses and it slowly came to you, what just happened.

Never, not even once in your life, you considered even willing to kiss Gojo Satoru. Yes, he’s annoyingly handsome; yes, his eyes are the most beautiful, magical blue crystalline spheres nature could ever create, and yes – there was a tension between you two since the day you met him, or at least everyone around always pointed that out but you never truly considered him an option and yet, you not only kissed him, but spend god-knows-how-long fucking him – or rather being fucked by him.

“You have to misbehave more often”, he teased, finally able to form his words coherently and you looked at him, eyes still cloudy but you could tell with no mistake that his lips were curled up in a smirk. You almost heard him smirking, that’s how obvious it was. You blinked, clearing your vision to take in his view. Gojo’s face was blissfully tired, he still was breathing though his mouth and the snowy peaks of his hair clung artistically to his sweaty forehead. He was stunning like this, so fucked out, he looked like he’s high and you took few mental pictures of his handsome daze. You also noted to yourself that you, indeed, need to misbehave more frequently.

» PART TWO

[hazelfoureyes]

A boiling frog (Alastor x Reader smut)

saw someone talk about “boiling frog syndrome”, when a situation becomes dire so slowly you don’t realize how dangerous it is until it’s too late, like a frog slipping into death as the cold water comes to a boil, never trying to leap out. Made me think of Louisiana frog legs and, of course, our self obsessed deer demon. my longwinded ass used restraint and went for a PWP (I hope…. No, theres still plot. I’m a slut for plot. Sorry?)

Your companionship was peppered onto Alastor so gently and slowly he didn’t realize he was too far gone until he was hopelessly dependent on your attention. He decides the only remedy is to drown you in his.

tags/warnings/promises: Alastor x fem reader, cunnilingus, biting, work attire, realistic descriptions of yet another job I once had, fingering, mentions of my favorite alcoholic beverage, southern shit, filing, that asshole in room 127

Minors DNI

When you first arrived at the hotel, Alastor was pleased to have some help. Charlie informed him of your experience on earth managing apartments and how you would be taking on the role of ‘Resident Relations Manager’. Any issues, complaints, or room adjustments would go to you first. Marvelous. As his underling, you often came to him with your own gripes and stories of the latest drama around the hotel. It became a sort of ritual to meet at the bar after work, talking about the day’s trivial matters over two fingers of rye and a cassis orange. One morning you joined him for coffee in the sunroom he added shortly after your arrival, silently enjoying the view. Then you returned the next day. At some point you started filling his mug and bringing it to the chair he always used. Neither of you spoke, which he found refreshing.

The group dinners were never his scene, the familiarity they bore was uncomfortable and dangerous to his plans. But he overheard your laughter as you and Angel teased each other about what could or couldn’t be defined as a kink. When he joined the table, he was pleasantly surprised at the in-depth conversations you sparked among the band of hopeless fools he’d come to enjoy.

So when he entered the sunroom one morning to see his cup, but not you, it ruffled his fur, so to speak. At dinner, he heard from Charlie you were eating in your office. The bar was full of residents and yet empty all the same when you never arrived.

Three days was all it took. Three days of not seeing you. When he walked past the bar at 9pm to see just Angel and Husk, he continued onward until in the safety of the darkened hall. Licking his teeth, he found himself getting angry. Annoyed that he was promised, by your actions, interesting conversation and like-minded company. His fists curled out of frustration, lights strobing as he stalked down the hall.

But that melted into something even more upsetting, he felt… worried. Not that his smile showed it, passing Vaggie with a nod of his head.

When did you manage to creep into his mind? Like an overlord taking territory, you had taken space in his thoughts with ruthless speed. Never one to be passive in competition, he realized he needed to take drastic measures to catch up to you. He knew of many ways to get *ahead, but he found an ambush always worked like a charm.

Alastor’s shadows gathered before he rose from the floor of your office.

You were standing near a filing cabinet, looking intently at something, “Hello there Alastor, to what-“ you turned the page, not looking at him, “do I owe the pleasure?” You hadn’t actually lifted your head from the file until you felt a hand in the small of your back. You flinched and took a step away, turning around to ask what he was doing when you noticed you weren’t in your office anymore.

The large hole in the wall that led into an endless swamp of a forest hinted at whose room this was.

Closing the file with one hand, you gestured around the room, “Is there a reason I’m here?”

He motioned for you to sit on the bed, and when you laughed he used the microphone to corral you to the edge. “You’ve been busy, as of late.”

“Swamped.” Usually your puns would get atleast a chuckle from your boss, but this time he passed right over it.

“I realized today we haven’t had one of our usual chats in quite a while. What’s been keeping you oh-so-occupied?” He pushed down on your shoulders until you came to rest on the bed.

Nervously, you scooted back a little from him, “Well, so many new residents has meant so many petty little issues. This guy on the 34th floor is angry that the man who killed him is on 37– Alastor?!” He had knelt down and lifted your ankle, slipping your shoe off.

“And?”

“What are you doing?”

“Isn't it obvious?" He picked up the other ankle, "Listening. Continue.”

You laughed breathlessly, “wha-,” but the way he looked up at you seemed to catch your tongue, “uhm, so- yeah so he doesn’t think his killer deserves redemption-,” the other shoe was taken off, neatly set besides its twin. You took a deep breath to try and calm down, “and even if he does, he shouldn’t be—,”Alastor’s hand slipped up your right thigh, fingers taking your stocking and rolling it down. His gaze on your face never wavering.

“Keep going.” The look in his eyes told you he wasn’t just suggesting it.

“-be on a higher floor.” He peeled the left stocking down, delicately pulling it over your toes.

You forgot to breath for a second. Instinctively you brought your knees together.

“That is quite annoying! What ever will you do?” That toothy grin widened as he looked up at you. His hand began to massage the sole of your right foot.

“Huh? Do what?”

“About the man on 34’s complaint”, his hand then moved up to your calf, he hummed, “what supple flesh, my dear.”

“Thank you?” Should you be scared or horny? Was he tenderizing his dinner? He looked up at you expectantly. “I told him if the angels return, higher floors would be the most dangerous.”

"Ha! Quite a clever response! Did it placate him?" He raised your right knee to his mouth, placing his lips above the joint. You felt his breath over your inner thigh as he let out a soft huff of a laugh, a reaction to your confused face. You were absolutely panicked; frozen. That wild look you were giving him, if he could he would drown himself in those eyes. Alastor felt his own excitement build, a twitch pressing his cock against the zipper of his dress pants. What a delicious reaction. His long hands crawled under your work skirt, nails grazing your skin as he grabbed the sides of your panties, "It's rude to leave someone waiting, dear."

You shook your head, crawling backward on the bed, "Okay, I get it. Ha ha, you managed to frazzle me."

A darkness fell over his face, "I don't think you do get it." He opened his mouth and dragged his teeth over the skin of your inner thigh, "You've neglected me quite rudely! Most people wouldn't dare such a thing and yet you don't even seem slightly concerned about it."

Rude? "Alastor, oh my god. What did I do? I've been at work every morning on time, if not early. I have been staying up late to make sure the resident files are up to date. I've been meeting with Charlie like you wanted about-,” He brought the panties down your thighs.

"It is what you haven't been doing, mon cher.” He pulled them clear of one leg, leaving them to hang off the ankle of the other leg. "I've been drinking my coffee alone in the sunroom, do you think I had the set of rocking chairs delivered for my own amusement? Dinner has been monotonous without your conversation. And what about our nightly gossip at the bar?" When he lifted your leg and hooked your knee over his shoulder, you fell back on your elbows to keep from lying flat.

"Listen-- Alastor!" His name was squeaked out as a bite stung you, dangerously close to your now naked pussy.

"Sir." He chided.

"Sir?!" He pushed your skirt up, exposing you, "Sir. I don't really like people going down on me."

"That's odd.” His hands gripped your thighs and dragged your ass to the edge of the bed, your pussy now inches from his face. His eyes rolled from left to right, “I don’t remember asking.” Your other leg was pulled over his shoulder, causing you to finally fall onto your back.

A long, wide tongue licked from mid thigh to the place where your legs met your crotch. You felt the heat of his mouth before he finally made contact with your core, one long lick from entrance to clit.

You buried your face inside the file, inhaling the smell of ink and paper with each pant. Your heart was pounding, the rush of blood from your head to your lap left you dizzy and seeing spots.

“Ah ah! I need your full attention.” He took the file and tossed it to the side. He needed to see your face, this was pointless if he couldn’t watch you go dumb in his mouth.

He had started this wanting to ensure you would be thinking about him as much as he had been you, but the way you couldn’t even speak when he touched you shifted his mission. Now, he wanted to win. Maybe he would be bothered by the absence of your presence in the sunroom, but you’d lie awake at night pained by the absence of his tongue in your cunt.

“I haven’t been with anyone in a long time.” Your face was beet red.

“Good. I’ve never been very fond of sharing my toys.” His nose grazed your already throbbing clit as he sunk his tongue into you. Reflexively your thighs pressed against his ears, his head keeping you from closing them entirely. His tongue seemed to lick at your walls as if reaching for something, the sensation wet and warm. You whined, embarrassed at how you were twitching against his lips.

You could feel his smile widen, thumb pressing down on your clit. Gripping the sheets you tried to ease away, the pressure too rough. His nails dug into your left leg, keeping you from making any real difference.

As he dragged his tongue along your walls you felt something you normally didn’t when getting eaten out; the beginning tension of an orgasm slinking into your stomach.

When his mouth left your cunt you gasped, the air stinging at your wet hole and thighs.

“Starting from the morning, tell me exactly what you did today that was so important you didn’t feel the need to entertain me with your company. If your mouth stops moving, so will mine.” He brought his lips to your other thigh, nipping at the skin.

“I made your coffee but got a call about a resident.” His finger pressed against your entrance before breaching.

“Oh, it has been awhile. I thought you were just being modest”, he laughed, your embarrassed expression spurring him forward. He hadn’t expected you to be so tight on just a single digit.

“She feels unsafe, there’s a jackal demon on her floor who keeps”, his finger curled, hitting that bundle of nerves that made your eyes cross, “who is giving her really scary looks.” He bit down again, breaking the skin. You yelled, yanking your leg back but he didn’t release you. “Alastor- please. This is cruel enough.”

“You haven’t even begun to see me be cruel.” He lapped at the wound, finger in you slowly dragging out before entering again. Still bent, it would hit your spongey g-spot with every move. “After that?”

“I had a meeting with Charlie. About the different growth activities.” Eyes closed, you could feel your pleasure slowly inching up that peak. “I needed to organize the files first, so I ate at my desk again.”

His lips cupped your clit as he began to suck. Your hips rose off the bed and his mouth went with you.

“It’s a lot of paperwork, you won’t let me use a computer for it.” His hand pulled back as a second finger joined. The way your cunt was gripping his fingers, he couldn’t imagine how much you’d hiss around his cock. His hips rutted against the air beside the bed, out of your view.

You put your arm over your eyes to hide yourself in some way, breath hitching when his fingers began pumping in and out of you. The moans tumbling from your mouth made Alastor’s grip on you tighten further. His cock leaking into the front of his pants.

When his tongue stopped flitting over your clit you groaned a complaint.

“Ffuuuck, Alastor. D- Uh, Room 127 hates the view o-,” your jaw clenched around the words, “something something blah blah blah —nngh” your head went back, your hips now fully grinding into his mouth. You needed more friction, your orgasm rolling just to the precipice.

His tongue slowed.

“He- he uh, I said he could move,” his fingers curled, pressing over and over into your g-spot, “when he stops being such an asshole. fuck me, please don’t stop—,” you reached down for his head and took a fist full of hair, earning you a surprised moan from him.

Alastor removed his hand from your leg to palm his clothed erection. His nose buried into your bush as his own breathing picked up.

So close.

“-and now I’m here and you’re here,” your words breathy, “and I’m gonna cum—I’m so close, so close,” your lips tingled from the way you were panting.

You choked out a moan as your orgasm reached its climax and pleasure wracked your body. Your grip on his hair stinging, your pussy sucked his fingers in with so much need he closed his eyes and let himself cum against his palm at the thought of his cock in their place. He felt the warmth soak into his pants.

Both of your hands came to your face, too embarrassed to speak.

Alastor placed your shoes and tights beside you, and rested both of his elbows on either side of your head. His weight pressed into you, and you finally looked at him. He was resting his chin on his cradled hands, staring down at you.

With a smug grin and raised his eyebrows he said, “Apology accepted.” He pushed off of you, bringing both fingers to his mouth and sucking them clean with a wet ‘pop’. “See you in the sun room at 8am! Bring that cheery smile I’ve come to enjoy!” He sunk back into the shadows and was gone.

You looked around, you were back in your office. He’d transported you seamlessly from lying on his bed to lying on your desk.

“Yes, sir.”

*get it? He wanted to “get ahead”… head. The slang for cunnilingus ? I’ll see myself out

༻Masterlist༺

[pynkfairyheart]

pairings: ony x reader

warnings: violence...kinda (reader throws a phone at ony), smut 18+, mentions of infidelity,

a/n: did i proof read this? no. so squint if you see imperfections

Accusations & Apologies

“Onyyy, slow down” You cried, your hand behind your back in an attempt to slow his relentless thrusts.

“Nah, cause a minute ago it was ‘fuck you’ right? Now you wanna be a fuckin cry baby” He hissed.

You knew better. Ony was the love of your life, the one who stood beside you no matter the circumstance, even when times were rocky. You knew he'd never do anything to hurt you, yet all rational thinking left the building the moment you saw the notification.

“Who the fuck is Ayesha, Onyankopon?” His phone clattering to the floor as it bounced off his chest, the moment he stepped foot into the room. 

“Ow, did you just throw my fuckin phone?” Inked hand rubbing the area as he bent down, examining the device before tossing it back on the bed.

“You picked the shit up didn't you?” You huffed in annoyance.

Confused about your unusual behavior and attitude he walked over to you. His calloused hands gripping your jaw softly as he forced you to look at him. “The fuck going on, ma? Talk to me. We don't do this acting out shit"

A part of you knew your behavior was unnecessary, and irrational, but the other half was too afraid of being hurt to stop and truly think about the situation.

“What's going on is you got some bitch blowing up your phone talking bout she misses you. Are you cheating on me, Ony?" Voice raising to hide the growing anxiety in your chest as you pushed his hand away

“Are you serious? After everything we've been through, you gon accuse me of cheating?” His voice gradually raising to meet yours

“Then explain yourself. Who is she and why is she on your phone?” You shouted

He was trying his best to stay calm, aware that you were afraid, but he was getting frustrated. Anyone who knew you and Ony could easily tell he'd rather die than think of another woman the way he thought of you. So why couldn't you just stop for a second and think?

“Some girl from high school, we used to be cool but I cut her off when I met you.” The annoyance etched on his features was evident as he ran his hands over his face. 

“Then why is she texting you? How'd she get your number? You think I'm stupid or something?” You narrowed your eyes.

“Right now? Yeah. Cause clearly you done lost all your goddamn brain cells if you think I'm cheating.” He shrugged, tired of your accusations.

The nonchalant tone of his voice irritated the fuck out of you and made what he said ten times worse.

“Man, fuck you” You stood, hands pressed against his chest in an attempt to push him out of your way, anger wavering when he didn't move an inch, and instead, his large hands gripped your wrist, dark eyes glaring down into yours as he clenched his jaw.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

“Please, Ony” You whined, legs trembling as he tightened his grip on your hips, forcing you back onto him as he pounded into you.

“Why you like being mean to me, huh? What daddy do to deserve this?” He spat, thumbs kneading into the flesh of your lower back before delivering a heavy slap to your ass, groan emitting from his lips at the squeeze your pussy gave him.

“I don't mean to, daddy, I'm sorry, just- fuck slow down” You cried. Teary eyes looking back at him as you pleaded.

With a hand wrapped around your throat, he leaned down, pressing a sloppy kiss to your glossy lips, string of your mixed saliva connecting you two as he pulled away.

“You the only girl I want, ma. You ain't never gotta worry about that shit. I love you and only you, rather die than think about some other girl” He whispered in your ear, emphasizing each word with deep thrust as he made you look back at him, your big eyes staring into his as he kissed all over your face, pink muscle licking up the tears that raced down your cheeks.

“You hear me?” His teeth grazing your earlobe as his free hand rubbed figure eights on your throbbing clit.

“Mhmmm, y-yes, Ony” Your head bobbing up and down rapidly as a response.

“Yeah? Then tell me whose dick this is, mama?” Both hands back on your hips as he let you fall back onto the bed.

“I-It's mine, Ony” Nails gripping the sheets as his hips ricocheted off your ass at a rapid pace

“Mhm- fuck say that shit again” Quickly pulling out before he flipped you onto your back, giving you .5 seconds to recover before he was ramming back into you. The sticky white ring around his thick base and pelvis contributing to the pornographic sounds bouncing off the walls. 

“What I say, ma?” Pearly whites on display as he bit his lip.

“You're mine, baby. Fuck right there.” Legs closing around his waist as your hands searched for anything to grip on to.

“Y-yeah only yours, ma.” Shaky breath indicating he was close as his fingers interlocked with yours.

“Come on, nut on your dick, baby” He whispered, rocking his hips into yours as the tip of his tongue ran over the small purple marks along your neck from your earlier endeavors.

Low moans escaped you as you gushed around him, freshly done acrylics leaving welts along his chocolate skin.

“Shit, baby” He groaned, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he came, the twitching of his dick mimicking a heartbeat as he pumped out ropes of milky white cum into your walls.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

“I'm sorry, you know. For hitting you with your phone and accusing you.” Your whisper, breaking the silence of the room as you laid in each other's embrace under a thin blanket.

“Yeah?” The vibration of his deep voice contrasting yours as he repositioned your bodies so you were now straddling him.

“Mhm” Bottom lip trapped in between your teeth as you felt him growing against the soft flesh of your ass

“Prove it”

[tunatoge]

little lunch mishap - s. gojo x reader

contents: fem!reader (called mom/momma), mentions of eating, gojo sucks at packing lunches for his kids, written a little after gojo finds megumi and tsumiki

when gojo first met megumi, he’d made sure his infinity was on; he had you and shoko throw random things at him from across the field with and without cursed energy to make sure it worked properly. now, two years later, he doesn’t even realize that it’s off around the seven-year-old kid—not until megumi nails him in the face with an unripe clementine.

“ow!” gojo exclaims, bringing his hand up to his cheek as he lets his sunglasses clatter to the floor. “what was that for, megs?”

megumi glares at gojo, holding a softer and riper clementine in his grasp. you glance over at them from the kitchen as they stare each other down.

“that was the fruit you put in my lunch,” megumi grumbles as he sinks his little fingers into his ripe clementine. “i know you packed it ‘cause mom normally peels them for me.”

“okay,” gojo starts as he leans over and picks up the clementine megumi threw at him, the skin split and the sticky juice dripping all over the tiled floor and his hands. he places the ruined fruit on the counter, bending over again and picking up his sunglasses. “momma had a mission this morning, so me—your amazing and awesome dad—packed your lunch and tsumiki’s,” gojo says with gritted teeth, putting unnecessary stress on the word ‘dad’. “and by the way,” he adds as an afterthought, “tsumiki ate all of her’s.” gojo puffs his chest triumphantly, settling his glasses back onto his face.

you glance at tsumiki as she does her homework, stifling your laughter when a small grimace washes over her features.

“was it that bad?” you ask her in a quiet whisper, making sure gojo and megumi don’t hear you.

tsumiki looks up at you and nods, “satoru made us sandwiches but i think he used the bread that you told him to throw out; it was kind of moldy.” she takes in your wide eyes and adds: “i didn’t eat it, i threw it away.”

you let out a relieved sigh, turning back around to pick up a plate of sliced apples and a cup of peanut butter. you place it down on the kitchen island next to tsumiki as she thanks you. megumi finishes shoving his peeled clementine in his mouth, passing the peel off to gojo as he takes a seat next to his sister.

“are you making lunch tomorrow for school?” he asks you, picking up an apple slice and taking a bite out of it.

you hum in response, scooping out some marshmallow fluff fruit dip you’d made a few days ago. you set it in front of gojo who begrudgingly reaches over and takes an apple slice. you stop megumi from slapping the fruit out of gojo’s hand.

“hey! it wasn’t that bad,” gojo insists through a mouthful of apple. megumi looks at him in disgust. “you had veggies, fruits, and a main meal! i even packed a snack in there!”

you sigh, “‘gumi, what did satoru pack you?”

megumi wipes his hands on a napkin as he looks at you. he makes a point to swallow before speaking. “an unripe clementine, a whole unpeeled carrot from the garden with its top still on, a moldy sandwich, and a family sized bag of skittles.” he swings his feet back and forth under the kitchen island, “i ate the carrot.”

you glance at satoru who reddens at megumi’s words, “okay… tsumiki, what was in yours?” you turn your attention to the little girl who sits next to megumi.

tsumiki glances at gojo in sympathy, “a moldy sandwich, a whole avocado, a green tomato that he picked from the garden even though megumi said it was unready, and a chocolate bar.” she looks at you with a smile, “i ate the avocado. i also had a square from the chocolate bar.”

you frown as you turn back around and pull out a bag of bread and an open bag of chips. gojo watches as you easily slather two slices of bread in peanut butter and strawberry jam, slicing it diagonally and placing the pieces on two different plates. you dump a generous amount of chips on each plate before placing them in front of megumi and tsumiki. you turn around and pick up the marshmallow fluff dip, sliding it into the fridge and shutting the door with your hip. gojo unabashedly stares at your ass when you bend over.

“okay, satoru,” you sigh as you turn towards him. he looks up at you with bright eyes, smiling into his palm. his glasses are on the counter. “from now on, you’ll take my morning missions and i’ll make their lunches.” you watch from the corner of your eye as megumi eagerly eats his chips and sandwich. “and you’ll throw out the bread when i tell you it’s gone bad.”

gojo drops his head on the counter. “you know, you’re so pretty, baby.” he looks up at you through his lashes, batting them intensely. “i’m truthfully so lucky to have you in my life.”

you look at him blankly. “and you’ll be doing the dishes for the next two weeks.”

“WHAT?”