#he had hot wheels bedsheets and one of those car beds too

[rinxnie]

heath burns was a hot wheels kid - i will take no criticism

he absolutely had this bed you can't tell me other wise

[yoooori]

Untraditional Loss

mark smut

tw: sex, loss of virginity, smut, heterosexual sex, the act of a man inserting his penis into a woman

"19 and still a virgin... ah, how's life a virgin?" Haechan sighed mockingly, throwing a popcorn at you. You whined. "19 is still young; You're just stupid."

Haechan stuck out his tongue. "Don't say that. At least I got my position without daddy's help."

"You aren't even supposed to be eating here."

"Okay, daddy's daughter."

That set you off. You stood up, walked in front of Haechan, and started pushing his wheeled-chair towards the door of the office.

"I didn't choose to get this position!" you yelled before you tipped over his chair, sending him flying onto the ground, barely saved by his reflexes.

You turned your head around and stuck your tongue at Haechan as he grumbled behind you. "You're rude." he commented as you two got in an elevator.

"So are you, so I think we're even."

Haechan bit his lip, clearly trying to stop himself from talking back.

You turned on your phone, scrolling through pictures of Instagram models.

"Doesn't it get boring?"

You turned around. "What?" you asked.

"Doesn't it get boring," Haechan shrugged. "Watching pretty girls sit around and show ass during your free time?"

You failed to conceal a laughter. "Nah, I watch them for different reasons other than to see them 'show ass'" you gave him a mocking smile.

Ding.

You got off the elevator, stumbling over your high heels (which you never liked). Finally, your working hours were over. You never liked offices, but were inevitably forced into the business world by your father.

You said a quick 'thank you' to the receptionist, nearly falling on your stomach as you rushed to get into your car- or freedom.

Turning on the engine hastily, you drove your way to your favorite spot on Earth: the bar.

You never drank. Wine tasted expensively shitty. Beer tasted strong and yet bland. Normal alcohol just didn't sit right with your tongue.

Instead, you had your eyes on one thing on the menu: mouth-watering crispy french fries that dominated your taste buds.

You soon found yourself in the bar, enjoying a medium bowl of fries. You scrolled through Instagram again, disappointed with yourself.

Your mind wandered to your conversation with Haechan.

"Doesn't it get boring? Watching pretty girls sit around and show ass during your free time?"

"Nah, I watch them for different reasons other than to see them 'show ass'"

You laughed to yourself as you liked another selfie from a popular korean uzzlang. You had lied.

You found the concept simple. They were pretty; you were not. They had the perfect body; you did not. Their face were perfect; yours' wasn't.

You felt your eyes darken.

As simple as the concept was, you never liked to accept it.

"Hello?"

You turned around to meet a man in his mid 20's. "Can I sit here?" he gestured at the seat next to you. You scanned the area quickly. There were no other available seats. You shrugged. "Why not?"

He gave you a tired smile before plopping himself on the chair. He waved to the bartender. "The usual, please."

Your eyes widened as the bartender brought him a cup and 2 full bottles of alcohol.

Before the stranger could take a sip, you stopped him.

"That's way too much."

He raised his eyebrow, amused. "What, you want some?"

You shook your head. "I don't drink, but seriously, that is way too much to be healthy."

He chuckled darkly.

"Why do you care?"

You scoffed at him. "Just don't." you said and offered him a fry. Amused, he took the fry and ate it. You stared at him, with expecting eyes.

His eyes met yours. "Mm? Tastes good." he said in response to your look.

You smiled, satisfied. "You can have mine. I ordered too much."

"How do I know you didn't spike it without me looking?"

In response, you made direct eye contact with the stranger. You took a large handful of fries and stuffed them into your mouth, all while maintaining the eye contact.

He laughed. "After seeing that, I doubt I want to eat any of those fries."

"You're mean," you huffed. "Just like Haechan."

His eyes widened. "You know Haechan?"

Your eyes widened too. "You do too?"

He stared at you for a second before bursting into laughter. "Ah, if you know Haechan, you must be the famous 19 year-old virgin."

You looked away, embarrassed. "Damn, I'm really known for that?" you groaned, covering your face with your hands.

"It's not exactly a bad thing," he shrugged. "Lots of men would want to sleep with you."

You narrowed your eyes, suddenly having a quesion.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Mark."

You fumbled your hands, suddenly turning red. "Mark... You said a lot of guys want to sleep with me?"

Mark nodded. "Mhm."

"....Does that include you?"

He nearly spat out the fry he had took from your plate. Quickly maintaining composure, he couldn't help but look away sheepishly. "At some point, maybe."

"How about now?"

"Why are you asking me that?"

You groaned, embarrassed. "I don't want to be known as a virgin. Seriously..."

Mark laughed. "You'd rather lose it with me? You barely know me."

"That's why I want to lose it with you."

Mark stopped laughing.

"I... I don't want to make things weird if I lose it with my friends. But you- it'll just be much easier." you sputtered.

Mark got up. "Never had a hookup like this, but sure. My place?"

You nodded, suddenly wondering if you're going to regret your decision.

Mark's place was surprisingly.... Suprising.

"You watch Cocomelon?" you snorted, looking at a 3D printed figure of the familiar melon. He swiped it away. "I used to love collecting anything watermelon related." he quickly explained.

you were brought into his bedroom, feeling as un-needy as a person could be. mark sighed. "damn, we both aren't feeling it, huh?"

"we can play minecraft." you suggested.

mark shook his head. "nah, come here. lemme kiss you."

your eyes widened and you burst out laughing. "okay, okay," you snorted, feeling Mark's lips brush against your neck. you gasped unexpectedly as you felt Mark squeeze your waist.

"mm? where did all the lightheartedness go?" Mark hummed, his hands roaming your body. His finger skillfully undid your bra, your breaths shortened by the nervousness and excitement you felt.

Mark smiled to himself, wrapping his arms around your body gently. "I'll be gentle, okay?"

You nodded in response, slightly calmer. Mark lightly pushed you onto the bed, on your back. He went on top of you, classic missionary position.

Your eyes fluttered as you felt Mark's soft lips against your body, gasping a little when you felt his hands working off your skirt. When he got up to look at your face, he moved your skirt to the floor.

"Cute." Mark chuckled, looking at your bear print panties. You looked away, embarrassed. Mark gave a small kiss to the area above your panties as he took them off for you.

"Want to help me to take of my clothes? Experience?" Mark offered, now sitting down. You got on your knees and began to take off his blazer, and then undoing his shirt buttons one by one. You kept your eyes on his neck, too flustered to see his bare chest.

Mark noticed this. Chuckling in a deeper voice, his softly grabbed your shoulders and pulled you back. "You can look, don't worry about looking respectfully now." he whispered.

You did and gasped, your head finding its spot against Mark's neck in a second. Mark laughed at your response. "I'll take off my other clothes for you." he said.

He took off his pants, and then his underwear. Your eyes were glued to a pillow, embarrassed.

"Don't be scared," he whispered to you, pulling you in for a kiss. His tongue and yours interacted against each other, seemingly dancing. "Touch me anywhere you want, baby. Tonight's your night."

Your hands found its way to his abs and chest, feeling the toned muscles. You gasped against Mark's chest, embarrassed yet curious. Your hands went further down and down-

"Fuck," Mark sighed as your hand found itself around his cock.

"Had enough touching, baby?" he asked you, his lid half closed from the feeling of your hand around his cock.

You nodded, lying on your back.

Mark looked at your eyes softly, his lips connecting with yours. You pulled away from his, leaving a small gasp as you felt yourself being filled.

"S-s-stop-" you whispered as it started to hurt. Mark stayed as still as he can, struggling as your walls wrapped around his cock tightly. "O-okay, now you can go."

Mark went inch by inch, stopping when you requested, until he was fully inside you. You squirmed underneath him, feeling filled.

"I'll start moving." he whispered to you. Your eyes stared at him, begging him to kiss you. He bent his head lower, allowing you to kiss his face as you struggled to contain him. Mark started to rock his hips, his length going even deeper inside of you.

He groaned, centimeters away from your face. "Fuck." he moaned, instinctively finding his lips on yours. You whimpered against his lips. You didn't feel much pleasure, but did feel it coming.

You squirmed, lips still desperate to stay with Mark's as you felt the famous pleasure start to sink into you. "Mark" you whispered into the kiss. "Feels good."

"Mm? Good girl, it'll feel much better later." Mark groaned back, restraining himself from rocking his hips faster.

He was right. You grabbed the bedsheets, whimpering as the feeling grew bigger and bigger.

The air was hot between you and Mark. The room was dim and you could barely make out the outline of Mark. The soft sounds of skin slapping were the background noises to you and mark's moans.

You wrapped your arms around Mark, gasping as you felt his cock moving in and out of you. "So-so full-" you gasped. Mark gritted his teeth and hissed in response.

"Li-Like that!" you suddenly let out when you felt Mark's cock brush against a sensitive spot. Mark increased his pace, hitting the spot as many times as he could, sending you into a breathing mess.

You gasped and gasped, feeling your chest rise up and down as you could barely see from the lack of light and the blinding pleasure. "Something's coming." you whimpered against Mark, rocking your hips too to meet his. "Let it go, baby." he whispered back.

You felt the feeling grow like a wave, getting bigger and bigger until-

"Mark"

It was pleasure like you never knew it. The feeling of a giant wave crashing onto you, your legs shaking and your back arching. "Mmm!" you could let out helplessly as you felt pleasure overtake you.

It stopped, leaving you panting and out of breath.

Mark pulled out. You knew what to do- you had an idea, at least. You let him insert his cock into your mouth and sucked on it. He sighed at the feeling, soon letting out a stream of a white milky liquid into your mouth.

You lied down, panting. Mark collapsed next to you on the bed. Mark spooned you, hugging you from behind. You two were too tired to exchange words, falling asleep as soon as his arms were wrapped around your body.

You woke up the next day, groggy. Mark was awake, scrolling through his phone next to you. Seeing that you are awake, he smiled.

"Mind if I get your number?"

[professortennant]

Hello! If you like either of these from the kissing prompts post, I’m partial to #8 (shoulder kiss) because Hannah’s got amazing arms and shoulders and #13 (goodbye kiss) because I’m a sucker for a little angst

this was gonna be a 5 times fic and i was gonna get both of these in here but then i finished 3 and like......couldn’t bring myself to write the angsty goodbye part so INSTEAD have like 2500 words of fluff and light angst

i.

The first time she takes him to the airport, his first season as AFC Richmond’s head coach is over and she has granted him a blissful two months of reprieve from paperwork and contract negotiations. 

(“Are you sure?” he’d asked, looking at her—really looking at her—to make sure she wasn’t putting on a front for him. “Because I can help. I mean, I’m not so hot with laptop thing or the math thing, but I’m pretty good with the people thing.”

“I know,” she’d said, patting his arm gently. “But I can handle it. Go be with your boy.”

He’d let out a little yip, pressed a kiss to her cheek and practically leapt and run out of her office, calling out over his shoulder, “You’re the best boss!”)

It’s a thirty minute drive from her home to his and another hour to Heathrow and Ted spends every last one of those minutes bouncing his leg and checking and re-checking his phone, pulling up the electronic boarding pass as if making sure today was the right day and time and—

“Ted, the plane isn’t going anywhere without you on it.”

“Right, right.” He slipped his phone back into his pocket, twisting in the passenger seat beside her. It felt too impersonal to send her drive to pick him up or to allow him to hire his own driver, not after the hell she’d put him through this season. It was the smallest of steps in her journey to earn back his trust (no matter how many times he’d told her she already had it). 

“Can I tell you something?”

“I sense you will no matter what I say.”

He’d just grinned at that, hands wringing nervously in his lap. “What if too much has changed? What if I get there and Henry and Michelle have formed their own little club that I’m just not part of anymore?”

“Oh, Ted,” she’d sighed, taking her eyes off the road for just a moment to look over at him in sympathy. “That’s—that’s just not going to happen.” 

“But what if I get there and I don’t fit?”

“Ted, I don’t think there’s anywhere on this planet that you don’t fit.” He’d blushed a little at that in an aw shucks way that she found entirely too endearing. She tried to remember her promise to herself: to be more open, to be more available. Right. She adjusted her hands on the steering wheel and flicked her gaze over to him once more, just to make sure he was still listening. “My father was a very successful businessman. He traveled all over the world and was always away from home. I missed him terribly, even if I knew he wasn’t leaving because he wanted to.”

“Not really helping, boss.”

“But,” she continued, glaring at him. “Whenever he came home, it was the best day of the year. He used to gather me up into his arms and swing me around in our front garden and tell me all the stories of the places he’d been to and it wiped away every moment of missing him once he was back. I never felt like he didn’t belong back home. Not once.”

The feeling of Ted’s hand settling atop of hers on the gear shift startled her and she looked down, took in the sight of his tan, calloused hand covering hers. She made the tight turn into the drop-off lane in the Heathrow Departures section of the car park. 

“Thanks, Rebecca. Really. I mean it.”

“Yes, well, family is hard.” And this was the part that would cost her, would hurt like hell. She threw on her hazards and put the car into park. “Ted, while you’re home, I-I want you to think about your position here at Richmond.”

He frowned at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I pulled you away from your family to bring you here and I know things have changed for you, but if you need to leave, if you want to check if Wichita State will take you back while you’re home, I would understand.”

“Rebecca,” Ted said, a small smile on his face. He gripped her hand in his, tugged it into his lap and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles in a soothing manner. “I told you already: You and me have got unfinished business here.”

“But, your fam—”

“I’m coming back.”

When he said it like that, firm and sure and like a promise, she couldn’t help but believe him, the reassurance settling something anxious in her chest, a fear that she didn’t know she was harboring.

He leaned across the console and for the second time in two weeks, pressed a soft, barely-there kiss to the curve of her cheek, his mustache tickling her, before disappearing just as quickly, sliding out the car and ducking back in for a moment to tell her goodbye. “Thanks again for the ride.” He winked at her and then, “See you in two months.”

(About ten hours later, in the middle of the night, she received a text message from Ted: a picture of Ted and Henry in the front yard, Ted’s arms wrapped tightly around the little boy, their heads thrown back and laughing. The picture was blurred enough for her to tell that they were in motion. Ted’s accompanying message read: Thanks for the advice, boss.

She pressed the little heart reaction on each of the messages, just as Sam had shown her last week .)

ii.

 Between the start of the Championship League and Christmas, things had changed around the AFC Richmond clubhouse. Roy now wore a coach’s jacket and lanyard, scowling his way up and down the football pitch. Keeley sported a shiny ring on her left hand and a new title as Richmond’s Media and PR Director. Beard and Nate spent every waking moment attending matches across the country, absorbing the strengths and weaknesses of their opponents and working on ways to incorporate new strategies into their own game.

And over weekends spent exploring the winding cobblestone paths of London’s markets, ducking into older-than-Shakespeare bookshops together and weekends spent cooking barbecue and walking through parks, Ted and Rebecca had found somewhere along the way that they meant more to each other than just boss and gaffer, than just friends.

(He’d always assumed when it happened—if it happened—it would be in a rush of emotion after a big game or in quiet, shared comfort after a loss. But it had nothing to do with AFC Richmond, they came together on their own over a shared love of yellowed paperbacks and the bit of latte foam in his mustache and her gentle, exasperation with him, thumb swiping over his top lip and—and then her mouth on his, his hands on her hip and cradling her face, a murmured, “Finally,” against her lips.)

But tonight is Ted’s last night in London for a week, closing the gap between Boxing Day and the first week of the near year in Kansas City with Henry. They’d fallen into a devastatingly easy intimacy, one she knew she would never recover from. His flat was all but vacant now, most of his clothes and books mixed up with hers—his stack of adventure books and motivational, leadership workbooks on his side of the bed and her stack of mystery novels and Sudoku puzzles on hers, his open jar of peanut butter on her kitchen counter and her sheets smelling of his body wash.

Tonight, they sit up in bed, the soft, yellow light of their bedside lamps allowing them both to read in bed together, glasses perched on the ends of their noses. Beneath the bedsheets, Ted’s toes wiggle excitedly. 

“I don’t know how I’m gonna sleep,” he tells her, dogearing his page and putting the book away, rolling onto his side to face Rebecca. “Feels like Christmas all over again. Two Christmases, Rebecca.” 

She looks at him over the rim of her glasses, smiling ruefully at him. “You better sleep tonight or the jet lag will kill you.”

“So wise,” he teases, leaning over to press a soft kiss to her exposed shoulders. She sighed, and kissed the top of his head before returning back to her book. But Ted didn’t roll back to his side of the bed, instead tracing his fingertips along the hem of her pajama top, lips pressing once more to her shoulders, open-mouthed and enticing.

“Ted,” she warns, voice low and breathy. “What do you think you’re doing?”

His hand slides against her belly, creeping up to cup her breasts and thumb at her nipple while his mouth works over the curve of her shoulder and to her neck, nuzzling against her and encouraging her to tilt her head back to allow him better access. 

“I just thought of a very, very good way to tire myself out and get a good night’s sleep.”

“Oh did you?” She scratched her nails down his back and into his hair, holding his mouth to the place on her neck that made her legs feel like jelly.

He hummed against her skin, reaching blindly for her book to toss it off the bed and settle atop her, mouth working on the underside of her jaw and then to her mouth, kissing her hungrily.

“A week apart, Rebecca,” he gasps against her mouth, pressing his hips against hers and grinding down. “That seems an awful long time.”

She loops her arms around his neck and one leg hitches around his hips, bringing their bodies closer. “A week and then you’re coming back, right?”

She hates that she still has to ask, hates that she needs the reassurance, hates that she is terrified he will leave her behind irreparably broken.

His face softens and he traces a fingertip over her brow and nose and kisses her softly. “Coupon for life, remember, young lady? I ain’t goin’ anywhere without you.”

She presses her forehead to his and breathes him in, tightens her hold on him for a moment and memorizes the feel of him against her. And then he moves against her and it’s a rush of frenzied touches, gasps and moans, slick skin and hurried, whispered assurances. 

When she drops him off at the airport, this time with a soft kiss, and watches him disappear into the sliding double doors of Heathrow, she remembers his words: I’m coming back.

iii.

Their first fight involves raised voices and snappy words and a level of miscommunication that would make Keeley feel ashamed. It starts with a bad day for both of them—frustrating lawyers dragging their feet on salary re-negotiations and a string of vapid, mind numbing conference calls for Rebecca and a team of unmotivated, surly footballers for Ted, in-fighting and dirty scrimmage play making his blood boil. It ends with Rebecca snapping at Ted for not loading the dishwasher properly and Ted accusing her of micromanaging.

“You know what,” he growls, barely keeping a lid on his temper, can feel himself spiraling out of control. “You once told me to leave before I say something I regret and I think I better just do that.”

“Good! Go!”

She watches with a heaving chest and pounding heart as he collects his AFC Richmond puffer jacket, steps into one of his many pairs of Nikes, and storms out the front door into the evening and away from her. 

The moment his form disappears from view, her face crumples and she collapses into the kitchen chair, face buried in her shaking hands. As far as fights went, it certainly wasn’t the worst she’d ever had, her mind helpfully supplying her with flashes of the knockout-dragout fights she and Rupert had frequently engaged in, the cruelty and worst of each of them always sneaking out. 

But cruelty wasn’t in Ted’s bones and it wasn’t in hers either. She didn’t want to fight and she didn’t want to go to bed alone and angry, not after nearly a year of sleeping next to Ted every night.

She sent him a quick text: I’m sorry. Bad day at the office and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. Come back home and we can talk about this.

But no response comes and all she can do is wait, pacing the front hallway, cleaning and cleaning and cleaning the kitchen. She sticks her finger into his peanut butter jar and hopes the sticky substance will help hold her heart together until he comes home. 

Maybe she’d always expected it would come to this—her ruining them, driving him away, just as Rupert had said she’d done to him. 

Not enough, Rebecca. You’re just…not enough for me.

But, she reminds herself, Ted is not Rupert. She and Ted are not she and Rupert. He’ll come back, they’ll fix this, it’ll be fine. Her head repeats it over and over again like a mantra, but her heart is stubborn and frozen in paralyzing fear.

Twenty minutes go by.

Thirty.

Forty. 

An hour later, she picks up her phone, checks it again but there are no messages from him, no indication that he’s coming back. A small, desperate sob slips out from the back of her throat and she presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, willing the sting of tears away.

The sound of the front door opening startles her and before she can rush into the hallway to see if it’s him, Ted stands in the sitting room before her, brambles in his hair. 

“I, uh, got a little lost walking around, got stuck in my head. And, you know, the streets look a lot different at night, so—”

But she doesn’t care if he wandered into a bush or hitchhiked home with an aardvark or whatever ridiculous adventure he’s been on in the last hour, he’s home.

She stands, throws her arms around his neck and shoulders, presses herself against him and buries her face in his neck. “I’m sorry,” she gasps into his skin. “I’m sorry.”

He shushes and soothes her, rubs his palm over her back and up over her head, slipping his fingers into her hair and stroking over and over again. “Hey, hey, none of this, okay? I’m sorry, alright? But we got through our first big fight, right? We’re okay, we’re okay.”

She holds him tighter, turns her head to kiss his neck and cheek and jaw and lips. “I was so worried you weren’t going to—” But she can’t even finish the worry, ashamed she even doubted him, some fears too deeply ingrained. 

Ted cradles her face, rubs his thumb over the curve of her cheek. “I told you, sweetheart, you got me for life. You got your listening ears on?” He reaches up to tug gently on her ears, making her smile. “Okay good, listen up: I will always come back. For as long as you want me, you got me.”

“Okay,” she sighs, turns her head into his palm and kisses the center of his hand. “Okay.”

[cajunquandary]

The One with Red Sky at Morning

Pairing: Dean x Reader, Sam, Castiel

Summary: After a difficult hunt, you and the Winchester brothers want nothing more than to rest. As fate would have it, things don’t go so smoothly.

Warnings: Natural disaster, a little flangsty.

WC: 2300

A/N: This was written for @smol-and-grumpy​ “NAT’S SUPERFRIENDS TITLE CHALLENEGE.” My title was “The One with Red Sky at Morning.” I actually wrote several versions of this but settled on this one. A very similar situation happened to me when I was very young, out hunting with my father deep in the woods of South Georgia. All we had was a four-wheeler and a lot of quick prayers. To this day I don’t know how we made it out alive. Enjoy my first writing back from a three-year hiatus! This might get rough. Suggestions welcome!

Also, sorry not sorry, I was feeling giffy~

“Faster!” You yell, a shriek threatening to escape your core.

“C’mon, Baby,” Dean prays through gritted teeth, both feet forcing the accelerator to the floor. The speedometer stops measuring past a hundred and twenty. You gulp as the RPMs reach past the point of no return.

“We’re not gonna make it, Dean,” Sam goes pale, breaths quick and shallow, voice breaking as he spoke his brother’s name.

In the rearview mirror, you can just make out beads of sweat tracing the concern lines on Dean’s forehead, a black abyss behind him. You grab onto Sam from the back seat, burying your face into his flannel. Dean’s string of curses is soon overpowered by the ghostly sounds emanating from the beasts on your tail.

The air is hot and electric, raising every hair on end. When you hear the crack, your blood runs cold.

This must be it, the end.

You stumble sleepily out of the slight motel bathroom and over to the coffee maker. Without so much as peeking, you masterfully load the grounds and water and press the magic button. Oh, how you love that button. Scratchy bedsheets stir behind you, but you pay no attention. A shadow of a smirk creeps across your face. The holy bean water is ready. You take the much-too-small Styrofoam cup with you to sit at the table by the window. Lifting the chalice of your soul to your lips, you inhale as if you’d been starved of oxygen all night. Your eyes gradually open, adjusting easily to the low light of the room. The sweet scent helps to knock the cobwebs from your mind, the warmth radiating from your palms to the depths of your bones.

What a week it’d been. But right now, you don’t want to think of the vamp nest or their victims. Right now, you revel in the tranquility. In the bed near the door, Sam is rubbing the sleep from his eyes, no doubt about to share some coffee with you at the table. On the couch, Dean’s limbs are sprawled in awkward positions, but he still snores gently.

Finally, a smile graces your lips as you watch Dean. He’s so peaceful. There’re no lines on his forehead or forlorn frown below his freckle dusted cheeks. You almost wish he could stay like that forever—at peace. You also wonder what it might be like to touch him, hold him. After the hunt and almost losing him, being more than a few inches away from the man actually hurts. You couldn’t imagine never again seeing those deep, loving eyes, or the way he sings in the car, or dances when he thinks no one is around.

Catching you just before you jump off the deep end into thoughts and memories of Dean, Sam finds his seat next to you. Trying to brush the obvious daydreaming off as nothing, you take a gulp of coffee, only to grimace in pain as it burns all the way down, leaving your upper lip and tongue tingling.

Sam chuckles. “You know it’s hot, right?”

“Yeah, thanks.” And so is something else in the room, you can’t help but to think to yourself.

You set the rude drink upon the table and stand to open the curtains. With a thrust, the stubborn things release and reveal the world outside.

“Oh, shit,” you gasp. You stare for a moment just to make sure your eyes aren’t deceiving you. You rub them. You stare a moment more, then rub them again. Red skies morning, sailors take warning.

You look over to Sam, your body rigid.

“What is it, Y/N?”

“Sam, check the weather. Now.”

As if on cue, Dean’s phone is the first to sound the alarm, shortly followed by yours and Sam’s.

“It’s a weather alert—severe storms coming,” Sam stood from the table to look outside as well.

Dean groans from the space behind you, “Well then let’s get a move on.”

You don’t even bother getting dressed, instead throwing one of Dean’s old flannels over your thin t-shirt and leggings. Just like your days in EMS, your boots and pack stand ready next to your bed.

Within a minute, everyone slides into the impala, coffee forgotten. As Dean pulls onto the highway, you and Sam map out the fastest way to get home to the bunker with the least amount of bad weather to drive through, looking for a place to stop for food if possible.

Around two hours in, the drive is going decently well, with only a few patches of hail and heavy rain. You begin to doze off to the comforting lull of the Impala and the Allman Brothers.

Your body betrayed you as it twitched violently. Still on edge after the hunt, you jump from the action, accidentally hitting Dean in the shoulder.

“You good?” He glances quickly in your direction, adjusting his hand on the wheel.

Heart beat loud in your ears, you lean back and return a quiet “yeah, I’m okay. Sorry.”

No rest for the wicked or the hunters, you suppose.

Dean hums along to the music. You are powerless watching the vibration of his neck, wondering what it might be like if your lips were to touch the spot where his pulse rippled the skin. You look down at your phone in an attempt to distract yourself.

Pulling up the weather app, you report the developing spot just up ahead. The brothers take note, then you lean against the window and watch the blur of pine forests and rolling fields. Even overcast, the landscape is breathtaking. You reminisce on your days in the back of the “bus,” what it was like when the tone would drop and in seconds you’d be flying down the road, lights and sirens, mentally preparing for the unknowns waiting for you on the scene. After ten years, there wasn’t much you hadn’t seen. This knowledge and wisdom helped but still couldn’t prepare you when a changeling become your patient.

You catch yourself, not wanting to remember the details of the attack, the ambulance rollover, or the death of your partner. You don’t want to imagine what would’ve happened if the Winchester boys hadn’t shone up when they did, or if you’d stayed in that town after the bodies were found.

Wiping an unwelcome tear from the corner of your eye, you refocus on the trees, enjoying their dances under the influence of wind lines.

Until one fell, bending until it snapped, twisting off halfway. Then another, and another.

“Uh, guys?” When had it gotten so dark? You check your phone for the time again. Almost three in the afternoon.

You don’t need to look behind you to know what it is. You don’t get the chance to tell Dean to floor it—he already is. You grip the seat tightly as the car lurches forward, shaking under the speed and the wind force.

It’s as if an invisible giant is stepping down on the forest on both sides of the highway. Oncoming traffic has ceased, some people have already bailed from their cars, seeking scant shelter in the ditches. Leaves and branches now swirl through the sky, littering the road ahead. Dean takes the next exit, not slowing down a bit.

You are so close to the bunker now, but the echoes of the angry titan behind you threaten to devour the Impala before you even have a chance for safety. You hazard a glance behind you.

No more than a mile behind the racing car, the tornado swallows the whole world, preceded by the biggest cloud of debris you’ve ever seen.

“Faster!” You yell, a shriek threatening to escape your core.

“C’mon, Baby,” Dean prays through gritted teeth, both feet forcing the accelerator to the floor. The speedometer stops measuring after a hundred and twenty. You gulp as the RPMs reach past the point of no return.

“We’re not gonna make it, Dean,” Sam goes pale, breaths quick and shallow, voice breaking as he spoke his brother’s name.

In the rearview mirror, you can just make out beads of sweat tracing the concern lines on Dean’s forehead and the rotating black abyss behind him. You grab onto Sam from the back seat, burying your face into his flannel. Dean’s string of curses is soon overpowered by the ghostly sounds emanating from the beasts on your tail.

The air is hot and electric, raising every hair on end. When you hear the crack, your blood runs cold.

You are covered in glass from the back window, the wind sucking the breath from your lungs. Sam reaches over and pulls you into his lap, holding as tightly as your eyes are shut. Dean masterfully swerves in an out, dodging unknown obstacles and navigating winding roads.

You recognize these turns. The bunker!

Castiel is already perched at the edge of the garage when you open your eyes. Still at full speed, Dean swerves the car inside, causing it to slide sideways and leave thick rubber tracks. Castiel struggles against the wind and grabs Dean as he bails from Baby.

“I can’t close it! We have to take cover, now,” Cas yells over the train whistle screams of the tempest.

Not missing a beat, Sam grabs you and doesn’t even pause to set you down. The alarms in the bunker sound off, competing with the storm.

You all finally tumble through the door and slam it locked behind you. You grunt as your ears pop from the pressure change and rub your jaw.

Heavily breathing from the ordeal, the four of you trade nodding glances, indicating that everyone is okay.

You are the first to break the silence, shaking bits of glass from your shirts. “I need a drink.”

Castiel and Sam follow you down the steps, but stop to sit in the war room. Dean trails on your heels, also eager for a drink. You grab the bottle but keep walking, ready to be in your own bed already.

Dean protests. “Hey, you gonna share?”

“Sure, but you’ll have to follow me.”

Once in your room, you take a long draught from the already open bottle of whiskey, then turn and hand it to Dean.

“Close your eyes, Winchester.”

Dean does as told, bottle already suspended at his lips.

You pause for a moment to admire those lips and the way they purse when he swallows. It catches your breath but you turn away, stripping the glass-ridden clothes into a pile on the floor. You curse under your breath as you realize the clothes that other than the ones still in the car, the rest were in the laundry room, several wings down.

You grab a pillow to shield yourself just in time as Dean opens his eyes to see what the matter is. He apologizes quickly and turns away. “What’s wrong?”

“No clothes.”

Without hesitation, he shrugs the shirt from his shoulders and extends it in your direction.

“Thanks.” You are so glad that his eyes are still averted so he can’t see your red face, the blush stretching through your whole body. You quickly slip inside the shirt and bottom it, thankful that it reaches nearly to your knees. You pause at the collar, lifting it to your nose and nearly fall as the heady scent of him fills your senses. Dean, standing now, catches you just in time, closer to you than ever before. His hands rest gently at your sides, and he chuckles sweetly as he leans in to kiss your hair. The whiskey still warming your bones, you wrap your arms around him, interlocking your fingers and burying your face into his bare chest. He pulls you in tighter, squeezing.

The stress of almost losing him on the hunt to that fang and of nearly becoming flying sky trash slowly falls away within the shelter of his embrace. He leans onto the bed and back farther, taking you with him until you’re both under the blankets completely intertwined.

The dim light provided by a small lamp in the corner casts just enough shadow that you can count the freckles dusted on Dean’s cheeks and get lost in the hazel green folds of his eyes. Could this really be happening? Is the hunter you’d be pining for silently for over a year really holding you this closely—in your own bed?

Your breath mixes with his when he leans in even closer and brushes your lips with his. You close your eyes and relish in the warmth and comfort and safety of his arms, the softness and taste of his lips, stubble grazing your chin.

You can still perceive faint sounds of the raging storm outside, but you have no more fear. You pull away slightly to enjoy the sweet smile on Dean’s face until a passing shadow crosses it.

An elated “finally” can be heard near the doorway. Sam winks and closes the door, retreating footsteps resonating down the hall.

A new storm blooms in your core as you surrender yourself to the ease of being so close to Dean. Together, you trade secrets and promises in the intimate moments before slowly falling asleep to the comfort of his voice.

Red skies morning, sailors take warning. Red skies night, sailors delight.

With the red flashes of the bunker floodlights filling the air, you did certainly delight, safe at last. Any wreckage could wait until morning.

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[kimjongdaely]

The Art of Sin [Chapter 8 - END] [M]

Gang!AU, Racer!AU, Tattoo Artist!AU

Pairing: Chen x Reader

Warnings: Language, violence, sexual situations, vandalism

Summary: He’s an artist. He does it all for the ‘art.’ Tattooing. Racing. Sex. All because he thinks they’re beautiful. There’s no one here that doesn’t know his name, because it’s everywhere. On every graffiti-filled wall, every tattooed skin, every cheer of the crowd. His name is there somewhere, because it’s all his—this world. And when he lays his eyes on you—well, he’s never seen anything more beautiful. And he’s going to make you his masterpiece.

Chapter 1│Chapter 2│Chapter 3 [M]│Chapter 4 [M]│Chapter 5 [M]│ Chapter 6│Chapter 7│Chapter 8

You can tell you’re in a hospital.

The smell of antiseptic is strong, stinging your nose. The bed is hard and certainly not your own. You can hear the sound of birds.

There seems to be bandages around your head, so you can’t see.

Your body hurts all over. For a moment you can’t remember what had happened and how you ended up here.

“You awake?”

You recognize this voice. You tilt your head to the left, where he must be standing. “Byun?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” He answers, his voice less cheerful than you remember. He sounds tired, serious, and a little nervous. “I’ll, uh, get the doctor.”

“Wait.” You call, and you hear his footsteps stop. “Where’s Chen? Is he okay?”

“Yeah, he’s a few rooms down. No need to worry, he just broke a few bones and had a few scratches. He’ll be up and running in no time.”

You let out a sigh of relief, relaxing back into the pillow.

“How long have I been out?”

Silence.

“Two weeks.” He says. “I’ll go get the doctor.”

You nod, listening to him walk away. You want to see Chen. You can’t fully relax until you do.

Several moments later you hear him come back with another set of footprints, most likely the doctor. He asks you how you feel, if there’s anywhere that hurts. You tell him you’re fine, a little sore but nothing bad.

“You don’t have any major injuries other than the impact to your head.” He says after a quick checkup. “It’ll take a little longer to heal and, well—”

Your ears ring.

You’re not sure you’re hearing it properly.

You feel your heart stop, your breath hitch, time itself skidding to a halt.

His next words shatter your world.

It’s been about a month. You’re still not entirely convinced what the doctor told you was true. There’s just no way.

The boys from the garage had been coming in often to check up on you. You know they must be busy with their own work. You’ve met every single member other than Chen.

You made it very clear you didn’t want him to see you.

“He knows already.” Suho told you, sitting down next to you on the bed and patting your hand like a brother. “It’s okay to let him in.”

“The wound hasn’t healed yet.” You answered, forcing yourself to sound more casual and cheerful than you feel. “I don’t want him to feel bad. I’ll see him once I’m fully healed.”

Suho understands. Chanyeol and Baekhyun cracks jokes. The others like to come chat with you about their experiences, nothing too detailed, just fun little stories they have.

Suho comes in one day and tells you that Chen had been discharged, and wants to see you. You shake your head and tell him to wait a little longer.

You stumble into the bathroom one night and clutch at the sink, taking deep breaths. You count to calm yourself, and then you reach for the bandages around your head. You take them off, wanting to verify it. Wanting to know.

You touch your face, tracing the line from your forehead down over your eye, stopping right above your cheek. You feel the bump and dip in the skin from the scar.

You blink, and you know.

You can never see again.

You begin to sob, sinking onto the floor as reality hits you hard. You can never see again. You are maimed for life and the scars are there to prove it. You aren’t perfect anymore, aren’t pretty. Chen would definitely be disgusted. He would break up with you in a heart beat and throw you away just like he did with his car.

You’re so scared of that. You don’t want him to see, even if he already knows.

You don’t want him to leave you.

After a while—4 months in the hospital—you’re free to go. Doctors have told you to come back regularly for a checkup for at least a few more months before you’re completely in the green. Head injuries are no joke, they said.

You know that too well.

Slinging your duffel bag over your shoulder—filled with clothes and hygienic products, which you got your friends to bring over the first month of your hospitalization—and take a deep breath, excited to be leaving the hospital after so long.

You know your escort will be here any moment. It’s difficult for you to maneuver around on your own now. You’re still not used to it. 

A knock comes.

 “Come in.”

The slight creak as it opens. Footsteps. You’re surprised by them, recognizing them immediately. You thought he wouldn’t be here, thought he wouldn’t want to see you again now that you look like this.

Your breath hitches when he stands in front of you, so close you can feel his heat, smell is familiar scent. Tears pool in your eyes as the emotions well up inside you, threatening to burst. You missed him. You missed him so much and yet—

You lower your head so he cannot see.

“Ready to go?” His voice comes out smooth and tugs at your heart. There’s an edge to it that you ignore. 

You do your best to smile for him. “Yep.”

“I’ll carry the bag.” He takes it without waiting for an answer. And then he grabs your hand, carefully intertwining your arm with his. This isn’t what you were expecting at all and you’re scared. Nervous. Overjoyed.

He leads you out, through the hallways, down the elevator. You feel the wind and sun against your skin and you breath in the air, feeling rejuvenated and free. 

“Hey,” Chen says, voice dropping low and husky and filled with emotion, his hand coming to grip yours tightly, which was still wrapped around his other arm. “I missed you.”

“Me too.” You smile at him, and you hear his breath hitch and your smile fades away.

“Listen...I’m...I’m so sor—”

“Chen.” You say, smiling again. “Can I stay over tonight?”

He says yes, like you knew he would.

“Jongdae.” He says one day. Too many days have passed in a blur and you’re not sure how many times you’ve stayed over at his place, woken up next to him like it’s meant to be.

“What?”

“My name.” He pulls you closer by the waist, the bedsheets tangled around your intertwined legs. You feel his breath against your shoulder, his lips against your neck. “My real name is Jongdae. You should call me that from now on.”

Your heart nearly bursts. He’s telling you his real identity, this is a big step. The underlying meaning is too heavy to ignore. He wants to be with you—for real. Not just a fling, not something temporary and detached. Something permanent in his life. He wants you to stay. You get choked up and it takes you a while to respond.

“Jongdae.” You whisper, and it feels right.

He holds you tighter, a contented sigh escaping him. “That sounds nice. Say it again?”

“Jongdae.” You repeat, a giggle making it’s way out. “Stop that, you’re tickling me!”

He doesn’t stop, instead his hands begin to wander more, becoming bolder as they trail paths in your skin, filling your veins with fire and love.

You moan, arching against him and you feel him smile against your skin, turning you around so he can have better access to your body, covering yours with his.

And then he kisses you. Gently and then deeply, his tongue meeting yours and you sigh into it, having waited for this moment for eternity.

“Touch me.” He murmurs, grabbing your hand and placing it on his chest, over his heart. You feel it beat fast and hard, matching yours, his skin so hot to the touch.

You begin to explore his body, tracing the lines in his skin, feeling every dip and committing it to memory.

He kisses you again, more desperately, more fiercely. It’s hard to think when pleasure wracks you, the way he moves so lovingly in and out of you.

“You’re so beautiful.” He whispers, over and over again, pressing kisses all over your face, paying special attention to your scars.

Every time he does so, you know he is soothing his own scars, deep inside his heart. Each thrust he makes feels of guilt and anguish. “I’m sorry,” he would occasionally whisper when he gets too lost into the moment. “Please don’t hate me.”

I love you, I love you.

Even now, you still wait for those words.

You wish with all your heart that things could go back to the way they were, to happier times. Wish he would stop sounding so guilty and remorseful and hurt every time he looked at you. Wish you could be with him forever.

Things never go the way you want.

Tears well up again, so much love and sorrow filling you as you pull him closer, gasping his name and wishing this moment would last forever.

You will remember this moment forever.

There’s nothing in the world that can describe how he felt when he woke up to find her gone.

Her side of the bed is cold to the touch. She’s been gone for a while.

There’s a surge of panic as he sits up. He calls for her, wondering if she’s in the bathroom, the living room, kitchen. No response. She’s not in the house.

He feels a wave of things all at once; so much fear and anger then it simmers into guilt, so much guilt. He has to find her. Where could she have gone in her state? What if something happened to her?

He searches for his phone in a frenzy, dialing number after number as he struggles to get on a pair of pants and a shirt, grabbing his keys as he heads towards his car, not caring how disheveled he looks at the moment.

No one has seen or heard from her in the last few hours.

No, please no.

He wracks his brain for places she could go. He went to her house to find it empty. Even her workplace, only to find she’s taken some time off.

He hasn’t heard about this at all. She hasn’t said anything to him.

Nothing at all.

He grips the steering wheel so hard it could snap. He drives around his neighborhood, round and round, hoping she just took a stroll and perhaps got lost. It’s unlikely; why would she go out without telling him?

He went to the garage hoping she had gone to hang out. Still no one has seen her.

He bangs his head against the steering wheel, over and over until he can’t feel the pain anymore.

Why?

Why did she leave? How could she do this to him?

But then how could he make her stay, after what he had done to her? She would never be able to see again all because of his stupid races, his stupid life. 

A little less lucky and she would have died.

He screams and curses, dialing her number over and over and hearing it disconnect each time. He leaves her messages, begging her to come back, asking where she was, asking why she did it.

He was about to say I love you a few times but stops every time. He didn’t want to tell her that like this. He wanted to say it to her face, to kiss her and make love to her and have her say it back.

He knows she loves him. She would’ve definitely be happy to hear those words.

So why didn’t he say them earlier?

Night falls and she still isn’t back. His members have called a few times to ask about her, and then asked if he was okay.

No. He was anything but fine. He was a mess and surely going insane but it’s only been a day and deep down he had a nagging feeling that he would have to live like this for much, much longer.

Nearing midnight he finally gets a message back. A voice message and he listens so eagerly to her lovely voice but her words shatter him.

“Hi Jongdae.” She starts, a little breathy and he loves listening to it. “Sorry I didn’t answer you earlier. I wanted some time alone and to think. I...I think it’s best for us to break up.”

No.

No no no no.

He plays that message back a few times to make sure he was hearing it right, and it hurt more every time he did.

“Don’t be upset, Jongdae.” How could he not? “I’ve just come to realize something. You don’t love me. What you feel for me is guilt. You feel guilty I got hurt because of you, and you want to be there for me. You want to compensate for what you did to me.”

No, you’re wrong. Please stop talking. Don’t do this to me.

“But listen, it wasn’t your fault. It was no one’s. I chose to be in that car, and I chose to be with you. I love you. I really do. But I don’t want to be your burden, I don’t want to tie you down for the rest of your life just because you feel like you made a mistake. You’re going to regret it someday, and so will I. I want you to be free like you always have. I want you to be happy, and I see now that it’s not with me. I’ll be okay. Went to stay with a friend for a bit, so don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”

No no no! This is all wrong. This isn’t true. It’s not because of guilt. It’s not, it’s not.

Isn’t it?

He throws his phone against the wall and hears it crack.

“—don’t let Chen know though...it’d be bad if—”

“Don’t let me know what?”

His members turn to him in surprise, not expecting him to be here. He hasn’t come to the garage for a month now after she left without a word. They tried to get him to at least eat properly, with D.O generously going to his house to cook every few days.

He was a mess the first few days. The boys haven’t ever seen him like that before. Chen was always such a confident, carefree guy who did as he pleased. Although it’s a good lesson for him to be wary of consequences; the price they had to pay this time was too big. It shattered poor Chen’s world, a haunting epiphany that came too late.

He wouldn’t talk for a while, or do anything really. He just curled up in a corner and stayed like that for God knows how long. Barely reacted to anything the members said or did.

He’d replay her messages over and over again just to hear her voice, no matter how painful her words were.

But now he stands in the garage after a month, looking shaggy and disheveled like he just got out of bed, but he’s here.

And no matter how relieved and happy his friends were that he got out of the house for once, he came at a bad time.

“Uh,” Byun started, eyes darting around towards the others as he scrambles to come up with something. “We, uh, might’ve scraped your car a bit but—”

“Suho.” Chen ignores Byun, knowing too well when he’s lying, and turns his attention on the leader who gulps. “What shouldn’t I know?”

There’s a long moment of silence as Suho wonders what to do, but then sighs upon deciding to tell him the truth. It won’t be a pretty sight though. “Jongdae, listen, the gang that you raced last time—” Chen’s fists clench tightly by his side, “—we received news that they’re back in town and—”

“They’re what?” Chen growls out, eyes blazing at the thought. That gang went AWOL after what happened, but now they have the audacity to come back? “Where are they, Myeon?”

“Jongdae—”

“Tell me where they are!” He roars, slamming a fist against the wall, not feeling the pain even as he bleeds. “I need to know, Myeon. I need to!”

“Calm down, Jongdae.” Suho says as soothingly as he can. Sehun and Chanyeol are already getting ready to hold him down if they have to. “I’ll deal with them, okay? I promise they’ll get what they deserve so just relax, alright?”

No! He wants to yell, to make a scene, but he bites his tongue and hangs his head. He’s not a bad fighter but he doesn’t have the confidence to win against his members, many of which are much better at combat than he is.

He’ll find out. He’ll hire a private investigator, or bribe people in other gangs for information if he has to. He’ll find them.

And they’ll pay.

The rushing of water drowns out hushed conversation. Prices are being negotiated, drugs being passed from person to person, pocketed in places hidden from the eye. They hide under the shadow of the bridge, in the middle of the night where patrols rarely wander by.

It wasn’t too hard to find them, and Jongdae knew just where to ask.

He walked up to them like he owned the place, filled with fury and confidence. He had them gathered together and he would pick them off one by one.

“What the—” One of them starts, startled by his appearance. They quickly become alarmed, and a few begin to recognize him.

Jongdae didn’t really bother with the faces. He didn’t really care. He just wanted them to hurt like he was. Like they did to her.

He broke into a sprint right into their group, catching them off-guard. He swung a fucking metal bat towards whoever was nearest to him, feeling the vibrations go all the way up his arm and the sickening clang ring in his ear, but he didn’t care.

He swung and swung and swung, hearing cries and curses. He felt pain when someone snuck up behind him and kicked him in the back. Another punched his face. He didn’t bat an eye and kicked back, aiming the bat towards their head.

He didn’t care.

Jongdae doesn’t know how long it went on for. He was outnumbered, and probably outmatched but like hell he’ll give up, and even if he only got to half of them, that was enough.

People pulled and clawed at him, ganging up on him and he bit back like a feral lion, having lost all sense of sanity or rationality. He just wanted to hurt them. He didn’t know how much damage he wanted to give them, but a small corner in his mind worried he wouldn’t stop with just a few bad bruises and broken bones. No, there was a possibility he would kill someone tonight, and he found that he really, really didn’t care.

Maybe something was wrong with him. Maybe he had broken down the moment she left and he didn’t know what was what anymore. Couldn’t differentiate right from wrong.

Just the image of her in that car.

Bleeding.

Unconscious.

The sight of her on the hospital bed.

The bandages around her head.

The scars.

He snarled, baring his teeth like an animal and lunged at whoever he could, gripping the bat tightly even as people tried to steal it from him. They would pay, he kept thinking, they would pay.

And then the sirens came blaring. 

Someone cursed and yelled, “The cops are coming! Scatter!”

Jongdae watched as they ran away, some too injured to get away by themselves and needed to be carried by two or three. He felt a little proud.

Then his legs gave way and he started to feel the pain. His head felt wet and so did several places on his body but he couldn’t think properly. He just slumped there and listened as the sirens came closer.

“Jongdae!”

He gasped, regaining a piece of his sanity and his head spun towards her voice. It wasn’t a police car that came, but rather a car he recognized from the garage. The sound of sirens are cut off and he realized they faked it.

She was at the door of the car, stumbling out and nearly falling. There were tears streaming down her face as she desperately called for him, arms held out as she tries to feel her surroundings, searching for him.

She couldn’t see him. Couldn’t find him.

That hit him too hard.

He pushed himself up, moving towards her, quickening his pace, wincing at the cuts and bruises littered across his body. He wanted to get to her, to hold her hand so she wouldn’t have to cry anymore, wouldn’t have to fear. He wanted her to find him.

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her towards him, wrapping her tightly in a hug. He missed her so much, so, so much. He whispered her name over and over again, he whispered “I love you” and “please don’t go” and “I’m sorry.”

There’s a part of him that hopes she would see his pitiful state and he could guilt-trip her into staying with him. He would be okay with that, as long as she stayed with him. As long as she doesn’t fly away ever again, doesn’t leave his line of sight.

There’s a part of him that wonders if what he felt was elation when he found out she couldn’t see, so she would always have to depend on him. So she could never go off too far from him.

He is truly a twisted jerk.

“Jongdae, what the fuck!” Chanyeol bellows, storming up towards him, the others following close behind. His eyes are flaming, livid. “You trying to die? You trying to fucking kill someone?”

She’s still crying hysterically, clutching his shirt, hands trembling. Jongdae is blank, unable to answer or react to his friend’s rage.

Chanyeol seethes, pushing a hand through his hair and it feels like he might punch him until Suho steps in, pushing Chanyeol out of the way. Suho does not look pleased.

“Get in the car.” He says. “We’ll get you fixed up. Do you know how worried you made us? How worried she was?”

Jongdae was almost delusional at this point. He felt no remorse, just overbearing joy at the thought that she came. She came to him when he was in trouble. She was worried. She still loved him, cared for him. He had a chance, right? He could have her back?

The boys had to practically carry him into the car. When they tried to move her to the back so they could get him immediate medical attention, he would throw a huge fit and they had no choice but to let them sit close together. Jongdae simply refused to let her go.

Honestly it was starting to get very concerning. Like he had just lost his mind. Suho is wondering if he actually did.

She was still crying softly, sniffling and hiccuping and gripping Jongdae’s hand tightly, to reassure himself or her, no one knows. It seemed to calm Jongdae a bit so at least something was working.

After Jongdae was bandaged up, they sent him home and asked if she could stay with him. She agreed, of course, but the boys were worried. Jongdae seems so out of it and she’s blind; will they be alright? Suho repeated several times for her to call them if anything goes wrong.

Eventually, they stopped fussing and left, though no one felt comfortable about what happened.

You help Jongdae to his bed, sighing out of exhaustion. It was a good thing Byun called you immediately when they found out what Jongdae was doing. You’d hate to think of what would’ve happened if you weren’t there to calm him.

You’ve never experienced Jongdae like this, doubt even his friends have. He just seems so out of it, so different. Perhaps he was drunk, or taking drugs? It’s not impossible.

It’s been a month since you’ve met him, and you’re sad this is how your first meeting goes, though you’re also just glad to meet him. You missed him so much in your time away. You thought he would be happy. Were you wrong?

You hear him shift, mumbling.

“What?” You ask, leaning in closer to hear. “Do you need something?”

He calls your name. Over and over again. He sounds like he’s in a daze and you’re not sure if he actually knows you’re there.

“Jongdae,” you search for his hand, giving it a squeeze. “I’m here. I’m here, don’t worry.”

“Please,” he whimpers, voice cracking and he squeezes back. That’s good, perhaps he’s regaining his senses. “Please don’t leave again. Please. I-I love you. I really do. It’s not guilt, I swear. I loved you way before the accident. I just—I’m not—”

“Shh, shh.” You hush him, trying your best to calm him down. He seems to be crying now, body curling against you. “Let’s talk in the morning, okay? Go to sleep.”

“No.” He whispers, voice trembling. “You’ll leave. I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone.”

“I won’t.” You feel your heart crack, hearing the sheer devastation in his tone. It seems like you really screwed up. You shouldn’t have left, should’ve talked to him properly instead. You lie down, curling yourself into him and pulling him in for a kiss. It seems his lip had been split and you can still taste some blood even after the boys cleaned it. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? I’ll be here in the morning. I’ll be the first thing you see.”

“Really?” His voice is so heartbreakingly small and uncertain. 

“Yes.” You breathe out. “Promise.”

You pull him close, cradling his head against your chest, fingers combing through his hair. His sobs quiet down and soon you hear his breath even out.

Jongdae winces when he opens his eyes. He can hardly remember what happened, just flashes of movement and colors to remind him. He tries to move, but find that it really hurt, and something was keeping him down.

He turns his head and feels his heart swell.

This isn’t a dream, right? She’s really here, beside him. He begins to wonder if the last month was just a really long nightmare, that it never happened at all and she was always right beside him in her rightful place.

But then he sees the red around her eyes, the dried streaks down her face. He frowns. Why was she crying?

He tries moving again and this time it wakes her. He feels guilty for doing so, but couldn’t help but feel so happy to have her in his arms again.

“Jongdae?” She asks, hand moving to rest on his chest, to make sure he’s still there.

“Morning.” He says, voice raspy and surprising himself.

“Oh, thank goodness.” She breathes out, immediately wrapping him into a hug. He breathes her in, feeling his pulse quicken, eyes stinging. This feels so good. “You’re back, you’re okay.”

“I’m back?” He repeats, puzzled. “Did I go somewhere?"

“You—” She purses her lips into a tight line for a moment. “You went to fight that other gang, remember?”

Snippets are coming back and he winces. “Maybe?”

“I was so worried.” She continues. “You were so out of it I thought you’d lost your mind. I was afraid you would stay like that forever.”

“I’m sorry.” He says, eyes downcast. “I think I really did lose my mind last night. I just...lost my grip on reality and let my emotions take over.”

“I know.” She whispers, stroking his hair. “I know it was for me. But please, please promise me it won’t happen again. Please.”

Jongdae hesitates, but seeing the look in her face, seeing the dim look in her eyes, he swallows thickly and agrees.

“Are you leaving?” He asks, voice small. “Are we really done? Do you still love me?”

“I—”

“I love you.” He cuts you off, much to your surprise. His hold tightens on you, desperately, his tone on the verge of hysterics again. “Please, I love you. I love you so much more than even I knew. When you left, I—” He swallows, the past month slamming back into him and knocking the air from his lungs. He can’t go through that again. “Please don’t leave me. I’ll do anything. I love you. I love you so much.”

This wasn’t how either of them imagined the confession to go. Last night he said those words a lot, but he wasn’t himself. Now, she still isn’t too sure he’s completely fine.

If she were to reject him he might really break.

“I...I love you too.” She answers, tears once again stinging her eyes. “I always did. Way before the accident, maybe even the first time I saw you. I’ve loved you since and always will.”

Jongdae breathes out, like a huge weight had been lifted off his chest. Yes, yes! She said she loved him! He had a chance, he didn’t care about anything else. “Then please stay with me. Be my girlfriend. Don’t ever leave me again.”

“I...” She looks lost, and Jongdae began to feel nervous again. His mind was racing with all the conceivable ways he could convince her to be with him, trying to come up with all sorts of scenarios. “I would like that.”

He holds his breath, not sure if he heard correctly. “Really?”

“Yes.” She nods, smiling. The smile he missed. The smile that meant the world to him.

He pulls her to him again, joy bursting through his heart and filling his every cell with elation. They can start over. He can be good to her this time. He can do it right. He won’t ever make her feel like he doesn’t love her. He’ll tell her every waking moment until she’s sick of him and he’ll never let her go.

Never again.

There’s something that feels so good about being in an official relationship. Jongdae never really bothered with it. He’d have flings and short-term girlfriends and sleep around but this...she was different.

She was everything he wanted and he probably knew the second she asked him who he really was at her doorway.

It feels good to have her by his side all the time, to let the whole world know she was his and he was hers. Other gangs would occasionally threaten to hurt her if deals went south, but he was confident he could protect her and his members were no joke.

She had gotten used to her condition and was really good at using a walking stick. She could differentiate footsteps, no matter how sneaky they were trying to be. She liked being in his apartment and wearing his shirts because everything smelled like him and it made her feel safe.

He just...he loves her. More and more every passing moment and sometimes he would think back to the the accident and the month where she left and he would feel his heart prick.

But then he’d hold her close and everything would be fine.

He liked kissing her.

He’d kiss her every chance he’d get, no matter how short or long it was. He wondered why he didn’t do it earlier, why he was so wary of attachment and commitment and admitting his feelings.

Wonder why it took her losing her sight and leaving for him to realize.

“I love you.” He’d whisper into her ear every night they fell asleep and every morning they woke. He loved hearing her say it back. Loved it when she wrapped her arms around his neck and swayed her hips and let him lead her around the house in a careless dance.

Jongdae had never been happier.

Never freer.

She was his butterfly and the masterpiece he was searching for.

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A/N: This was, uh, very long. Long enough to be split into two or even three chaps but I just really wanted to finish it. Hope it didn’t feel rushed. Turned out a little darker than I expected. 

I hope you enjoyed the fic and please do check out the other fics from the collaboration! 😘

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[the-hellion-studio]

Circus night

Words: ≈1500

Joey takes Henry on a sudden adventure in the middle of the night.

“I really wanted to see the elephants, Joey.” Henry mumbled, hugging a pillow.

Earlier that day he and Joey walked past a circus that was installed in town, and of course it was too crowded and noisy for Joey to handle, so they didn’t get in. There was a sign saying that there was elephants and Henry couldn’t seem to shake it off his mind. He really liked animals and wanted to befriend them all.

Joey was perched on the windowsill, an almost finished cigarette between his fingers. He took a long drag and looked outside. The stars were twinkling through a clear sky, the bright smile of the moon watching over them. He looked back at Henry, who was half naked on the bed. He was pretty much ready to go to sleep. Joey sighed a thick cloud of smoke. Henry was supposed to be the smoker, but Joey always stole his packs and certainly smoked more than his boyfriend.

“Let’s go, then.”

He scratched the end of his cigarette under the overhang of the window and threw it outside. He jumped off his spot, landing on the wooden floor without a sound.

“Get dressed, we’re going.”

Henry wasn’t too surprised, Joey was often dragging him in crazy “nightventures”. It was always sudden and random. He was glad he was the origin of tonight’s wandering off. He got out of the bed, picking up his clothes Joey had folded nicely on the chest at the end of the bed. The man in question was already by the door with his coat and hat on, playing with his keys, ready to leave. Henry got dressed quickly and joined his lover in the old staircase of the building. He did his best to shut up and be careful to the steps he shouldn’t step on because they were too noisy. Joey marked them with chalk on the left side of the old wood. They got down the three stories quickly. The night outside was pleasantly cool and soft, with very little wind. There was no noise besides some birds and the sound of their footsteps on the gravel covering the ground. Joey hopped in his hearse, looking at Henry through the window. The other did not really want to step inside the sinister vehicle, as everytime he was in there something bad happened. He gulped, his eyes slowly drifting to his own car, parked on the other side of the street.

“Get in, you chicken.” He challenged Henry, an amused grin on his lips.

Joey turned the engine on suddenly and his car started roaring, wich made Henry take a step back with a yelp. It was not supposed to sound that way for sure.

Think about the elephants, Henry. Breathe.

That’s better.

He gulped and carefully walked towards the Death Machine– that’s how he nicknamed Joey’s hearse. He got into the passenger seat, curling up against his boyfriend, hugging his arm, as it was the only way to be stable as the seatbelt was broken. Joey grumbled, gripping the steering wheel.

“Let’s go see those elephants. I’ll need you to tell me the way, I completely forgot where it is.”

Henry smiled. Typical Joey. The truth is that he knew where it was, but if Henry was distracted he wouldn’t get scared and flip out because of Joey’s original way of interpreting the road code. It perfectly worked, and with the indispensable help of Henry they drove to where the circus was and parked close by. The moment the hearse stopped moving Henry jumped off, trotting away to get to a reasonable distance. Joey rolled his eyes at this and adjusted his hat on his head.

“You’re ridiculous.”

He put his hands in his pockets and got next to Henry.

“One day I won’t wanna get near that horrible machine anymore, you know!”

Joey shrugged, not looking impressed at all.

“Yeah, sure.”

He huffed, amused, and followed Henry who was already walking towards the animal’s enclosures. He was looking around, hoping no one would notice them messing with the animals in the middle of the night. Henry was not so concerned about this, his brain was wired on the elephants only. After a few minutes of walking around in the dark, a big, excited squeal sent the sleeping birds in the trees near by flying away. Joey grinded his teeth together, glaring at Henry.

“May I remind you the owners are sleeping and we shouldn’t be here?” He whispered loudly, worried.

Henry put his hands over his mouth, turning to Joey.

“Sorry!” He whispered back, embarassed. “But look– they’re just there!”

He closed his fists, shaking them a little out of excitement, then pointed at the elephants, sleeping in the grass not so far away. Joey winced upon seeing the creatures. He didn’t want to admit it but large animals scared him a lot. He kept his distances, keeping a calm composure.

“That’s great.”

Henry turned back to the elephants, leaning against the fence, almost vibrating of happiness. Joey looked at him and smiled. Henry’s moods were very contagious. He started climbing the fence, wanting to have a closer look at the grey masses laying in the grass. He approached the elephants carefully, not wanting to scare them. They were still sleeping.

It was not the best idea, but it was fun to watch so Joey didn’t say anything. Still he stayed alert in case someone would come. And he did well. A few minutes later he heard someone walk not so far away.

“Shit. Henry?”

Henry stopped walking and and turned to Joey.

“Mh?” He tilted his head on the side, worried by Joey’s anxious tone.

“Someone’s coming.” He whispered, looking towards where the sound seemed to come from.

“Oops–”

Henry sprinted back to the fence and jumped over it, but stress made him slip and he flopped down on the ground. Joey made fun of him and helped him back on his feet. The footsteps came closer. Joey and Henry started to walk back to Joey’s hell car quickly, trying to be as silent as possible, hiding behind the other cages. Henry stayed close to his boyfriend, making himself as little as possible. They could see a man between the metal bars and sleeping animals, looking for them, possibly very upset. Soon enough they arrived to where the hearse was waiting for them. Joey ran to it and unlocked the doors.

“We’re leaving now. Get in–”

Henry didn’t do as much manners when it came to getting in the hearse. Joey turned on the car and quickly drove away from the circus, taking the road back to his appartment. Henry laughed, nervously at first, but it became genuine as they started driving away, gripping on Joey’s arm happily. Joey was amused as well, now that the stress was fading away.

“Thank you Joey!”

Joey shrugged, letting out an amused bark.

“It was fun. I’m glad you saw your elephants.”

Henry giggled happily, keeping his eyes on Joey to avoid looking at the road.

“Yeah. I wish I could have gotten closer… You know what time is it?”

Joey lended his right wrist to Henry so he could read his watch.

“It’s two and something.” He declared, releasing Joey’s forearm. Even with the biggest efforts, he never figured out how to read the longer needles.

“Fantastic.” Joey crooned, getting his hand back on the wheel.

Henry giggled, resting his head on his boyfriend’s shoulder.

Not so long later, they were back in Joey’s lair. The moment Henry stepped in, he really felt tired. All that unexpected nightly running around drained the last bits of energy in his body. Joey didn’t look tired at all. He was trying hard to convince himself he wasn’t tired,but his will had limits. He put down his coat on the back of his armchair then got to the kitchen to make coffee. Henry settled on a chair next to him.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna sleep instead ?” Henry asked, tapping his fingers on the table.

Joey shook his head, staring at the coffee pot.

“No. There’s work to finish and I know I won’t sleep. I’ll need that still.”

He went to pat the hot metal– just once.

“Ow. Fucking idiot.”

He shook his hand, wincing.

Henry stood up.

“Oh my God are you okay?!”

Joey put his hand under cold water in the sink, a blank look on his face.

“Of course.” He replied sarcastically.

Henry frowned.

“You should sleep.”

“You should sleep.” Joey mocked him, imitating his voice.

“Come on, Joey. It’s with me!”

Joey looked at the floor, his hand still stuck under the faucet. Maybe Henry was right.

“Okay, okay.” He sighed. “Just let me take a shower and do something about my fucking hand first.”

Henry smiled victoriously and went to the bedroom. The moment he slipped under the bedsheets he fell asleep, tonight’s adventure in mind. Joey joined him later in the night once he was clean, and just sat down next to Henry, waiting for the night to pass. He did fall asleep eventually, ending that night’s adventure there.

[jae-ha]

between silence and sound.  »「chapter two 」

Chapter Index (Ao3) // Chapter Index (tumblr)

.summary ––  [ Road trip // slight AU ] - Once Zack and Rachel leave the strange building behind, they realize, on long stretches of road and under diamond-bright stars, there are so many things to be discovered about one another.

.pairing ––  (slight?) ZackRay –– don’t like, don’t read, don’t comment. 

.chapter two » 「as dark things are meant to be loved.」

「 — sunday : 3 a.m. 」

The roadside hotel is a few steps above seedy yet several steps below refined. It smells strongly of some kind of floral detergent and the walls capture and absorb the muggy summer heat, giving the building an atmosphere akin to being inside a large beast’s mouth. The baseboards are laden with dents, the carpeting bears questionable green stains, and the light take a few tries before it turns on. When it does switch on, it does so with a hiss of circuits, illuminating the room for about ten minutes before fizzling out again.

Neither of them took kindly to the idea of sleeping in the car for the third night in a row, so when Rachel pointed out the sputtering neon sign advertising comfy beds and hot showers, Zack didn’t question it. He swerved into the parking lot and the two shambled their way into the establishment and up to the front desk.

It’s only because this hotel room is just a place to sleep and not to sightsee that neither Zack nor Rachel care about its miserable state. At the very most, the wrinkle-laden bedsheets appear newly washed, the bathroom is fully stocked, and the room smells fresh, clean even. Rachel especially desires to make good on the promise of a hot shower.

Zack knows this, and upon dropping the car keys on top of the chestnut-colored dresser and giving the room a judgmental once-over, he turns to her and says, “You go first.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t take all night.” He punctuates the statement by flopping down on the room’s solitary bed to begin digging through the bag they’ve brought with them. It’s filled with supplies, all of which is stolen: a wallet that contains cash and three credit cards, several rolls of bandages, a handful of snacks, an old cellphone, and a few other small trinkets picked up along the way.

Rachel lingers, processing everything slowly, before disappearing into the bathroom. The light there works miraculously better than the main room’s fixture.

She finds a stack of towels folded in a compartment beneath the sink and turns on the shower’s faucet. After a few moments she checks the temperature, ensuring that it isn’t freezing nor scalding before stepping inside. She keeps her shower brief, not knowing if a slipshod hotel like this has a limit on their hot water. Once the grime of three days on the road is washed away, she steps out, dries off, and pulls on an oversized T-shirt and shorts— the only other articles of clothing she’s brought aside from her floaty white sundress.

She dabs at her hair with a towel as she retreats from the bathroom.

“Zack, you can go ahead.”

He slinks past her in wordless response, body slumped with fatigue and eyes as faded as the overhead lights. Rachel assumes he was searching the supplies bag for the roll of bandages he stuffs into his pocket upon passing her.

After folding the damp towel and setting it aside on a stiff-looking armchair, Rachel also sets her eyes on the bag. She’s been meaning to work on the trip’s budget.

She takes a seat on the bed, tucks her legs beneath her, and lays a notebook, calculator, and pen from within the bag before her. The credit cards within the wallet have been taken from three different people, all victims of Zack’s new scythe. Even with the true owners dead and unable to put halts on the card’s use, Rachel prefers to use them sparingly as not to draw too much attention to the card companies. She also knows that the cards will have to be disposed of and replaced when they begin traversing states.

She calculates the amount they’ve spent thus far on their trip, punching numbers in on the calculator and scribbling down values as they come to her. The hotel has been their largest expense with food being a close second, then gas. She remembers an incident only a few days ago when the car ground to a halt in the middle of a side street, the tank finally giving way to emptiness. Zack swore a lot that day— somehow more than usual. He knew neither how to pump gas nor where the nearest station was. After several minutes of trying to get a stable connection on the old stolen cellphone, Rachel determined a gas station forty-five minutes away. The walk took two hours, and by the time they reached the station, purchased four portable containers of gas (Zack wanted to make sure it never happened again), and made it back to the slumbering side street, it was an hour after midnight. He still didn’t know how to pump gas, but Rachel figured that she could look up a video later if the old phone managed to stay alive. If all else failed, she was sure a stranger would be willing to help them, so long as she was the one who asked.

That memory gives way to others, and Rachel soon finds herself lost in thought. For no particular reason (at least, none that she can pinpoint), those thoughts are all centered around Zack.

It isn’t as if he had done anything differently today. He spent most of the day behind the steering wheel, either smiling like a demon as he sped through a light that was quickly fading to red or grinding his teeth in the face of a three-car pileup. Yes, most days on the road repeat themselves, but the nights are always different.

Nighttime means silence, and there are always unfinished stories sewn within the fabric of that silence.

The previous night, Zack eased the car into the parking lot of a liquor store, deciding that it would be the place they’d settle in for the night. Other nights, they were tucked into a shadowy corner of a truck stop or under the large tree of a grocery store parking lot. All were dark with some semblance of coziness, and since it was long past closing hours, the liquor store was no different.

Rachel curled up on the passenger’s seat and waited for oblivion to find her, as was custom on nights where the car took the place of a comfortable bed and the stars selfishly offered no light. And, just as routine would have it, her sleep was choppy, dreamless, and full of holes. Only forty-five minutes passed before some phantom force roused her awake again.

Her eyes fluttered open to the same night-colored parking lot, the hum of some slumberless insect, and Zack watching the window with a faraway gaze. Perhaps it was the sharp edges of broken glass on the asphalt, the obscenities spray-painted onto the side of the liquor store, or the clashing of distant yet fiery voices that made Rachel start to question the location they chose to settle in.

As she quietly untangled her body from its cocoon of blond hair and warmth, she could feel Zack’s eyes following her.

“Can’t sleep?”

His tone wasn’t one of concern nor comfort, but it danced along the serenity of the night as if it naturally belonged there. In fact, in that moment, Zack blended in perfectly with everything the darkness had to offer, and Rachel thought it might’ve been because he had learned to move with it. He’d spent so much time in environments like that that his limbs seemed to disappear and reappear when he wanted them to and his breathing vanished no matter how much Rachel stilled her own in an attempt to hear it.

If the moonlight was just a tad dimmer, she never would’ve known he was still in the car with her.

She lowered her gaze, noticing only then that he was holding one of the plastic water bottles from the supplies bag. He offered it to her, but she refused it with a small shake of her head.

“It’s dangerous here,” she said.

He scoffed and took a sip. “I’m more of a monster than anything you’ll find out there.” As he turned his face to the window again, the moonlight raced to emphasize the features that not even his bandages could cover up— the rigidity of his jawline, the sharp curve of his neck, the bulb of his Adam’s apple, and, of course, that golden eye that glittered as something strange and bewitchingly colorful on a body of dark shades and drab hues.

“Go back to sleep. I’m keeping watch.”

In the hotel room, as her memories poke and prod at her, it’s then that Rachel realizes why Zack is on her mind. It’s the monster in him that captures her interest.

Monster.

Cathy had said it, Danny had said it, even Zack himself had said it. They’ve carved that word into him, stained his bones with it, made it an irrefutable part of him. The concept of it all touches only the edges of Rachel’s understanding. At what threshold does a human disintegrate into less-than human? She’s asked Zack to explain why he chooses to encapsulate himself behind such an ugly word like that, but his answer is vague and foggy, leaving her with questions rather than contentment.

Perhaps they use that word because of his strange appearance, because of the bandages and what hides beneath them. She hasn’t known Zack for any extended period of time, but because everyone else who’s come into her life seems to bear death’s handprint, Zack is now the person she’s known the longest. Even then, she’s never seen underneath his bandages. At least, not the ones above his waist.

She can hypothesize what he looks like beneath them, but actually asking to see him, actually requesting that he let her in that far, to let her be so close that she can see and feel him as he is — without barriers and borders— seems as difficult as crossing a minefield.

The story behind them has piqued Rachel’s interest in the past. Not long ago he told her that the burns he covers up no longer hurt. Regardless of how widespread and severe they had once been, time had healed them as much as they could possibly be healed. With that in mind, Rachel concluded that those bandages were nothing more than his security blanket, despairingly used to hide his most hated flaw.

When she thinks of Zack, she doesn’t initially place him as insecure, but she notices how he dresses, covering every inch of his body behind baggy fabrics and zippers. She notices the way he disregards any concern she shows for him, the way he turns his nose up when she attempts to care for him, as if he’s unable to accept the concept of meaning something to someone.

He’s tightly rooted in the belief that hatred awaits him beneath every stranger’s gaze, and because it’s all an endless cycle, everyone is a stranger. He scoffs at laws and sneers at restraints, not allowing anything the world labels as ‘important’ or ‘sensical’ to sway the way he lives. But there’s a small part of her that feels that some part of him may actually be soft. Something still breathes gently, still exists tenderly, beneath the calloused shell that’s hardened over him. She’s caught a glimpse of it in the way he smiles at her sometimes, the way the corners of his lips rise effortlessly and his eyes twinkle with a light he hasn’t had since he was much, much smaller— when the world handled him delicately.

She’s so lost in these thoughts, so wrapped up in trying to understand what may never be understood that she doesn’t notice when the shoddy overhead light fizzles out or when the shower shuts off. But all at once her body becomes like glass when she feels a small weight press down on her head. She immediately realizes it’s a dish from the hotel’s decor and that Zack is the one who’s placed it there. Said dish —a stained-glass creation fixed out of blue and turquoise pieces— is a stark, colorful contrast to the beige carpet and dingy wallpaper that greeted them upon entrance.

She can feel his eyes on her, assessing her, waiting for a reaction. He’s done this before, sometimes with cups, other times with soda cans. She’s confused each time he does it, and the only reason her body freezes up during this particular instance is because if it falls, there isn’t money in the trip budget to replace it. Or rather, no money she’s willing to spend on replacing it.

Her outward appearance doesn’t change, save for the second-long pause of her hand in the midst of writing a calculation. Her eyes flitter over to him; he appears amused.

“Zack, what are you doing?”

“Trying to get a reaction outta you.”

Her eyebrows knit together. He said something similar the previous times, too. Typically he aims for irritation or anger, but Rachel’s features only respond with confusion.

“I can’t write like this.” She reaches up, removes the dish from her head and puts it in its rightful place on the nightstand before turning back to the trip’s budgeting notebook. Zack responds with a dissatisfied click of his tongue before collapsing onto the bed beside her, causing the springs to groan.

The flurry of his movements allows a curious scent to reach her nose. A kind of citrus? Lemon, maybe? No, it isn’t that distinct or sharp. It’s mellow, something simple and clean. Hotel soap, but not the one she had used. She looks over, observing him for the first time since he arrived beside her.

He’s dressed in usual attire, though his head isn’t nestled beneath his hoodie. His hair is fully exposed, revealing tiny beads of water from the shower he’s just gotten out of. With his body mostly turned away, he’s winding a roll of fresh bandages. She can see that he’s pretty much finished the entire process of wrapping himself already.

Her black pen scratches out the new string of numbers displayed on the calculator. She doesn’t plan to say anything about the bandages in spite of her curiosity, but the bed jolts and an odd noise between a wince and a gasp hits the air.

“Zack?”

He leans sideways, unintentionally allowing her to see him much clearer than before. Pinched between his fingers is something thin and scarlet that he inspects with an expression that can only be described as nonplussed.

Rachel blinks, a phantom look of surprise swims in her eyes. “One of your stitches… It came out.”

“Looks like it.”

The disbelief gradually leaves his face, smoothing over into that look of irritated curiosity he sometimes has. He’s still seated in such a way that Rachel can see his fingers delicately pull back the stitched skin to inspect the affected area. Her stitching is, in no way, poor or inadequate. On the contrary, something has caused it to come undone. Something powerful that’s led to the entire top stitch shearing and falling apart in small bits in Zack’s hand.

With a curse Zack retracts his hand from his stomach which is now spotted with fresh blood.

Before he can say or do anything more, Rachel nudges the budgeting supplies aside, grasps her black pouch, and removes a needle and thread from her sewing kit. She doesn’t feel complete without having one with her, so before they had traveled even ten miles, she requested to purchase a new one as well as a new black purse to hold it in.

“Zack,” she murmurs, “I’ll fix it.”

“Huh? Now?”

She nods, and because he hasn’t any good reason to say no, he turns around and lays down against the pile of pillows at the head of bed.

The bed is wide enough for her to crawl over and sit beside him, though his position forces him to look up at her rather than at eye-level. She can feel his gaze as she observes the only area he hadn’t had a chance to bandage— the crimson-colored gash carved lopsidedly into his torso. The first stitch is completely torn with a thin remnant of loose thread sitting in a bead of blood. The second stitch is weak, threatening to detach and take the other two with it if enough force is applied or if Zack moves too fast or too hard and accidentally pulls it out himself.

Now that the wound is open again — even if that opening is a small one — she rinses her hands in the water from one of the spare water bottles from the supplies bag.

“What happened?”

“When I was breaking out of that shitty jail, some officer fought me head-on. I guess he pulled it loose and I didn’t notice.” There’s a phantom smile on his face, indicating to Rachel that the officer came out the loser in their skirmish. A faint part of her wonders if that man is still alive, though she doubts it highly. Zack has never shown mercy before.

“I’m going to restitch all of them,” she says. Zack responds with a dissenting grunt which Rachel chalks up to him remembering all the discomfort he felt when she initially closed the wound. She doesn’t have cotton balls, so she uses squares of toilet paper to pat away the blood. The area surrounding the injury remains an irritated red.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not yet,” he grumbles, eyeing her wearily.

“I’ll be gentle.”

He grunts again and turns his eyes away.

The first time she brought her needle to him, there was a tinge of urgency. A fire ignited inside her with the same persistence of a flower fighting its way through the dirt to bloom at the surface.

‘I can’t let my god die.’ Those words spilled over her, driving every movement of her small, steady hands.

Things are different now. Zack is no longer the stumbling mess of blood and chaos he had once been, so she allows her eyes to longer for as long as she wishes on what Zack always strives so earnestly to hide. Blotches of discolored skin and trembling red veins ripple out from the wound. She had sewed the injury shut in four stitches, all aligned in a weaving ‘x’ formation. She intends to replicate her work from back then, but she’ll have to undo the sutures first.

“Don’t move,” she instructs him, knowing that the process takes a remarkably steady hand.

He retorts with a simple, “yeah, yeah.”

She knows he uses flippancy to mask his apprehension. His insecurity spills out in the form of tense muscles and averted eyes. Once again, he’s exposing his wounds to her, and once again he can’t bring himself to look at her directly.

Because the hotel light no longer works, she’s forced to lean in closely which probably unsettles him more. Regardless of his discomfort, she can’t keep her eyes from roving and her mind from wandering. According to Zack himself, he doesn’t remember much about the incident surrounding his burns. He’s wiped most of it from his mind, but the evidence of that man’s sin is Zack’s personal souvenir. On his body lingers light and dark: healthy, pale skin juxtaposed against dark, charred shades. He’s not completely ordinary, but not completely abnormal. An uncomfortable in-between.

It all causes a twinge to seize Rachel’s chest, but she isn’t sure if that feeling can be called sympathy. What she does know is that his scars fascinate her. The blemishes he insists on covering up intrigue her. She assumes that he’s been called a monster ever since childhood, but as he breathes fragilely against her touch, vulnerable and open for one of the few times in his life, Rachel is awestruck. He appears so beautiful to her now. There are no burns, only beauty. No scars, only strength.

So she presses her lips to the bottom stitch, intent on validating that beauty.

And he crumbles.

His breath catches in his throat; a shaking hand clenches the sheets. He becomes a whisper, precariously tottering between rejecting the emotion and allowing it to drown him. He stammers out a fragile protest, but Rachel allows it to evaporate into the air. She can’t see his eyes —it’s far too dark— but she knows he’s completely turned his face away, concealing it in the edges of a pillow.

She kisses the next stitch, then the next, enveloping herself in the feeling she had the first time she sewed him back together. Whatever she brought her needle to became hers, perfect and complete. Her father, her puppy, her white bird. But there’s something different about Zack. He appears to her as a fragmented wish. She sews broken things together due to her fascination with the concept of wholeness and purity. But Zack is neither of those things. He’s the most broken thing she’s ever come across and his shards are scattered so far that she isn’t sure that he will ever be whole again. Not only his body, but everything about him is damaged, shattered, and some times fragile, but she’s never seen him as anything less than strong.

Just as she arrives at the broken top stitch, a hand shoves her away. Zack props himself up, adjusting so they’re now eye-level.

“What the hell are you doing?”

His voice is a touch breathless, but mostly riled. Seeing him so close now, she can’t describe the expression he’s giving her, but it makes her heart shiver. His shoulders, all the way down to his hands, are still trembling as if something inside has awoken and is trying to split him open to escape.

Her eyes are glassy as she asks, “Does it hurt?”

He hesitates, and for a split second Rachel can see all of the ghosts he’s held deep inside almost spill out through his gaze.

“No.”

There’s a weak resolution, a dull fire, behind his murmur, and once again he can’t meet her eyes. His fist clenches, his body tightens, but he says nothing more before lying down again. With an exhale he buries the side of his face into a pillow, just as it had been before.

“Just… hurry up and fix the stitch, damn it…”

Rachel nods. She grabs her needle and gets to work.