ASH

firefly; i was cracking myself up just writing this, sukuna probably:

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“What’s that look for?” Chris asked eventually after y/n kept giving him shy glances 

“What look? I’m not doing anything.” y/n said, hardly even looking at Chris. Sometimes, his eyes just made her too nervous. They were always filled with so much affection for her, it was overwhelming. 

Chris pushes himself over towards his girlfriend who’s sitting on the couch cushion next to him, and raises a hand to her cheek. His palm is hot on her cheek, as he slowly rubs his thumb in a soothing motion, to get her to look at him. 

“You looked mad,” Chris said as he looked at his girl with such loving eyes. 

“I’m not mad.” y/n says as she looks up at him through her lashes. Still a little too shy to look at him properly. 

“I know you aren’t. You just had that look. Still feel like there’s something wrong.” he said as he kissed her cheek. 

“No, there’s nothing wrong.” y/n mutters as Chris brings his hand down off her cheek. The second his hand is off her cheek, Chris sees her face form into a small frown. Y/n’s eyebrows furrow just a smidge, and her lips form a small pout. She shyly glances at his face and then down to the hand that was just holding her cheek.

“Hey. There’s that face again. Are you sure there’s nothing wrong, babygirl?” Chris chuckles but reaches his hand back for her cheek. 

The second his hand is back on her cheek, it's like y/n’s entire body relaxed. Her shoulders dropping, leaning her face into his touch, letting herself feel his big, warm hand be so soft on her cheek. 

“No, I’m really not mad. I just… I just wanted this. I wanted to feel your skin on mine, and know that you’re there.” y/n muttered shyly, hiding her face in her hands. “I think I also just really want a hug.” She giggles as she hides her face deeper, not being able to look at his loving eyes. 

“Aww. Babygirl, really? This is all you wanted? Just some physical touch. You are absolutely adorable.” He says, bringing his hands up to her wrist to reveal her face. “C’mon baby. Let me see that sweet face of yours.” He chuckles as he watches her hide her face for a few more seconds before finally giving into his wishes. 

Chris pulls her forward by her waist, maneuvering her around to sit right in his lap. Wrapping his muscular arms around her waist, and squeezing her in a bone crushing hug that they both needed so terribly. 

Y/n lets a little squeak as she wraps her arms around his neck, burying her face into the crook where his neck and shoulder meet. Not being able to resist, she pressed light kisses to his neck. 

eliciting a loud yawn, with his entire frame filling up the entrance sukuna scratches his head looking you up and down,

“what are you doing, woman?”

“oh just grilling a steak, want some?” you didn’t know why he’d ask you that, frankly it was too late at night for you to tolerate such stupid questions.

“no silly!” yuji chimed in, “mama peeing” atleast someone here was sensible.

your husband just nods in acknowledgement, arms crossed leaning on the door,

watching you.

seriously?

“hello?” you wave your hand at sukuna, motioning him to leave “what happened to privacy?” you question.

“yeah son, ya’ gotta go mom needs space” he tilts his head towards yuji who just sticks his tongue out. guess stubbornness ran in the family.

you narrow your eyes at him.

“i married you and impregnated you and saw you give birth and we have a son together wife, so really what privacy?”

“touché” you click your tongue. seriously, the irony in your whole family watching you pee wasn’t lost on you.

then, mid-stream, he whistles at you.

“you look sexy as hell right now”

“ryo!” you clutch your stomach, trying not to laugh, “i’m trying to pee!”

“by all means, don’t let me stop you” he raises both hands as if in mock surrender.

“i wasn’t gonna!” you chuckle while wiping yourself.

you pull your pants up and walk towards the sink.

turning on the tap you hiss at the ice cold water hitting your poor, previously warm fingers.

yuji circles about in the limited space of the bathroom, singing “wash, wash, wash” his kindergarten teacher probably taught him that.

“can you not stay even a second away from me?” you question as you feel sukuna’s arms snake around your waist.

his heavy breath tickles your neck making you shudder.

“i can”

“so why are you here?”

a beat of contemplation, perhaps.

“okay, i can’t”

you giggle again, moving to wipe your hands on the towel all nice and dry.

“alright party people, we’re done here” you announce walking out of the bathroom with your ducklings husband, and son following suit.

firefly; i’m back with more baby!yuji who else cheered?

you rack through your memories, replaying every single moment from you entering to park to the last time you saw him.

the food stalls.

you grip sukuna’s arm harsher than needed, albeit it does not hurt him, and march towards the stalls.

sukuna starts asking the vendors for a kid with a similar hair color to him. they all shake their heads mumbling excuses.

“nonsense” sukuna mutters to himself, “everyone here is a fool”

“not more than us” you sigh gripping your chest in an attempt to slow down the incoming panic coursing through your veins.

“listen” sukuna suggests, “we should split up”

“bad idea, better we stick together unless we start going in circles” you breathe hard, gasping out the last few words, worst case scenarios flashing through your mind.

sukuna grabs you by both your arms, you shake your head in protest and he grips you harder, not bruising just firm.

“listen to me” he speaks and you nod, “we’ll find him okay? and damn the heavens if i leave this place without my son”

you lick your lips, “yeah let’s..um call me, text, whatever just..”

the world seems to move in a blur.

you’d been so happy, all of you, yuji insisted on coming here and you obliged ofcourse, you’d do anything for your son. yuji’s laughter on the rides, sukuna carrying yuji on his shoulders, yuji’s cotton candy stuffed cheeks.

you inhale shakily.

“i will,” sukuna calls out starting to walk away.

you turn around in haste, praying, praying, praying.

please let my baby be safe.

until—

“may we have your attention, please.”

your pulse jumps in your throat.

“the parent or guardian of a young boy waiting with our lost and found team is requested to proceed to the main entrance.”

you turn around searching for sukuna to find his eyes already on you.

“again, the parent or guardian of a young boy waiting with our lost and found team, please make your way to the main entrance. thank you.”

before your mind could catch up, you’re running. with sukuna only a step behind you, you both make for the main entrance.

closing up to it you spot him instantly, and you stop in your tracks.

sukuna walks ahead, speaking to the security guard who just laughs while saying something, but you’re too busy to notice. your eyes are frantic you scan your son head to toe.

he’s fine, he’s okay.

the rope of panic that had tightened around your chest loosens. you watch from a distance as yuji bounces on his feet, asking sukuna to pick him up while your husband rubs his neck, thanking the security guard for keeping your son safe.

and then yuji’s eyes flick over to yours.

“mama!!” he comes running.

you hadn’t realized how much that sound had meant to you, not until you’d been faced with the possibility of losing it.

you bend down scooping baby!yuji up into your arms and peppering his face with kisses, while he squeals and giggles.

opening up his hand, yuji proudly shows you a fidget spinner as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t been lost “gun man gave me a gift!”

children were so clueless.

and you were too elated to speak, this just the act of holding your son, having him in your arms again meant everything.

“did you say thankyou, to the security guard?”

“duh” he droned, already looking around for some mischief to get up to.

you felt sukuna’s arms close around the both of you pulling you into a hug. he kissed the side of your head for a moment too long and you understood.

this had been just as frightening for sukuna.

though he’d never admit it.

but you knew, just from the way he slightly rubbed your shoulder and listened to yuji’s rambles attentively.

“he’s smart” his voice came out rough,

you leaned your head back against his chest, raising a brow in question.

“found the security guard himself, told him that he couldn’t find his mama and papa” he chuckled slightly, “brat didn’t even cry one bit”

you buried your nose in yuji’s hair and sighed contentedly.

“and here i was losing my mind” you murmured.

sukuna shrugged, “…and here we were”

yuji crawled out of your grip onto sukuna’s shoulders, cheerfully pointing around,

“can we go on that next?”

firefly; i’ve had this idea for so long, i just figured out how to execute it ❀ུ͏  

you unlock the door, push it open,

and immediately wish you hadn’t.

seungcheol. on the couch. fisting his cock.

your brain short-circuits. like, full shutdown, blue screen, cease all functioning mode.

the man is spread out—legs wide, head tipped back, theres a drop of sweat that drips from his neck aand land in the middle of his chest. hes exposing his toned abs that clench with every up and down of his hand. and his cock is huge. thick from the base to the top and flushed deep red at the tip, veins prominent as his fist works over it.

he’s so lost in it that he doesn’t even register your presence at first, not until he finally cracks his eyes open and sees you standing there, frozen stunned into silence.

the next few seconds happen in slow motion.

his eyes widen. his entire body stiffens. his hand stops.

“WHAT THE FUCK—”

seungcheol scrambles to cover himself, reaching for the nearest thing—which, unfortunately for him, is a shirt that does nothing to hide the absolute tent he’s pitching. his face goes red, splotchy from the neck up, and he looks so flustered that for a split second, you almost feel bad.

“why the fuck are you here?!” he practically barks at you, voice ragged from whatever the fuck he was doing before you ruined his life.

you blink, still processing the image that’s now burned into your brain for eternity. “uh. joshua?”

“what about joshua?!”

“he… he needed a document.”

seungcheol lets out a sound that is so frustrated, so exasperated, that it almost doesn’t register as human. “and you didn’t think to knock?!”

“why would i knock?! i didn’t think anyone would be jerking off in the living room like a fucking pervert—”

“IT’S MY APARTMENT.”

“IT’S JOSHUA’S TOO.”

“HE’S NOT HERE.”

“WELL, NEITHER AM I, NOW.” you turn on your heel, hand reaching for the doorknob. “i’ll just get the doc later—”

but before you can escape, he rasps, “don’t you dare tell joshua about this.”

you pause. smirk. oh, this is fun.

back still facing him, fingers still wrapped around the doorknob. you should leave. should pretend none of this ever happened. but something—some sick, wrong part of you—doesn’t want to.

so you turn. lean back against the door. cross your arms.

“what?” he snaps, shifting on the couch, the shirt still pitifully draped over his lap.

you tilt your head, dragging your gaze slowly down his body—his hard nipples, the taut muscles in his arms, the way his thighs tense like he’s fighting the urge to close them. you can see the way he twitches under the shirt.

“you’re still hard,” you note, your voice syrupy sweet, but your eyes gleam meanly.

seungcheol tenses. “so?”

“so… you’re mad at me for walking in,” you say, cocking a brow, “but you’re still hard as fuck.”

he grits his teeth, but his silence is loud as hell.

so you take a step forward. just one.

his breath hitches.

“cheol.” you coo at him. “you sure you hate me?”

he glares, but it’s weaker now, faltering under your scrutiny. you can see it—the slight tremor in his fingers, the way his pulse jumps in his throat, the way he’s not telling you to stop.

so you take another step.

and another.

until you’re standing right in front of him, the shirt the only barrier between his cock and your eyes.

his jaw tightens. “don’t.”

“don’t what?” you murmur, reaching forward to trace your fingers over his wrist—the one that was just wrapped around his cock. “don’t call you out? don’t get closer? don’t—”

in a flash, he grabs your wrist, yanking you down.

you gasp as you land on his lap, his hands firm on your hips, his cock pressing against your ass through the thin barrier of the shirt and your clothes.

his lips are right by your ear when he growls, “don’t fucking test me.”

you shiver, but you’re not scared, you’re thrilled.

so you shift, pressing back against him, and smirk when he lets out a sharp breath through his nose.

“or what?” you whisper.

his grip tightens. “you really wanna find out?”

your fingers curl into his hair, tugging just enough to make him hiss.

“yeah,” you breathe, lips brushing his jaw. “i do.”

he snaps.

the shirt under you is gone.

his mouth crashes into yours, hot and angry, his hands gripping your waist like he’s trying to burn the shape of you into his palms. his teeth nip at your bottom lip, his tongue prying your mouth open, swallowing the gasp you let out when his fingers dig into your hips.

you grind down, moaning into his mouth when you feel just how fucking thick he is, leaking against your skirt. 

his hands are rough when he yanks your skirt up, bunching the fabric around your waist with no intention of letting it fall back down. you barely have a second to breathe before his fingers push past your thighs, finding the front of your panties hooking his thumb into the damp fabric and pulling it to the side.

the rush of cold air makes you gasp, thighs trying to snap shut, but his thighs pins them open. and maybe, he has a shred of decency in him, because he lets out a low breath and murmurs, “this is gonna be rough.”

no warning. just that.

you should stop him. you should tell him to go slow, to prep you, to at least spit on it—but you don’t, you need to feel this big cock stretching you until every single thought inside your head gets completely erased.

there’s no lube, no prep besides the mess between your thighs, just the torturous process of sinking down.

seungcheol watches all of it. watches the way your lips part, how your lashes flutter, how your nails dig into the skin of his shoulders the lower you go. he’s leaning back against the couch, one hand gripping the plush of your ass, the other wrapped around his base, guiding you onto him like you’re something delicate. like he’s trying to help.

but he’s not.

because he knows what he’s doing when he taps his cockhead against your clit first, dragging the tip through your slick, coaxing out little whimpers that make him smirk. he knows what he’s doing when he presses up, just the tip slipping inside, barely enough to be satisfying but more than enough to make your thighs twitch.

your breath catches in your throat, your whole body twitching up as you take the next inch too fast. your brain is empty, your body is working on instinct, thighs shaking as you brace yourself against him, trying—failing—to push down further.

and he sees it. sees how you’re struggling, sees how your muscles twitch like you’re about to give out, sees how you want to take it but your body is fighting the stretch.

so he helps.

his hands clamp down on your waist.

and then he slams you down.

the sound that leaves your throat is so ruined that he cant help but feel a bit of compassion.

because suddenly you’re full. suddenly you’re sitting completely in his lap, completely engulfed in him, your thighs flush against his, his cock buried so fucking deep that you can feel it pressing up against every nerve inside you.

but when you try to move, try to lift yourself even an inch—nothing.

your thighs won’t cooperate. your muscles won’t listen.

you can’t move.

“oh?” seungcheol tilts his head, smug grin curling at his lips as he grinds up, watching the way your mouth falls open at the sensation.

“too big for you, baby?”

you whimper.

“thought so.”

and then he takes control, because you can’t move—so he does it for you. his hands lift you effortlessly, dragging your hips up before slamming you back down, setting the pace, forcing your body to take what it’s given.

and you can’t think straight anymore. every thrust knocks the air from your lungs, every time he slams you down it punches little whimpers from your throat that only make him hungrier.

“awww… thought you were so tough. but you can’t even fuck yourself on my cock, huh?”

you cry out, body giving up, melting against his chest as you desperately try to follow his rhythm, hips twitching with little, pathetic attempts to keep up. your body isn’t even yours anymore—just a toy, something for seungcheol to use, something he’s breaking in with every brutal roll of his hips. 

his fingers dig into your waist, gripping you so tight it hurts, but the pleasure drowns it out. you’re so deep into it, into him, that every ounce of shame has left your body, every shred of dignity gone. because you can’t do anything but take it, can’t do anything but let him use you like you were made for this.

he tilts his head, watching you fall apart, watching how your thighs tremble with every slap of his hips against yours.

“damn,” he laughs, licking his lips, voice mocking. “you’re making such a fucking mess of yourself.”

you whimper, forehead pressing against his collarbone.

and then he grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“mm-mm, don’t hide now,” he says, smirking. “be a good girl and let me see that dumb little face while i ruin you.”

a sob rips from your throat, high-pitched and wrecked.

he groans, grinding up into you.

“fuck. bet the neighbors can hear you, huh? joshua’s gonna be so fucking embarrassed when he gets a noise complaint for his dumb little best friend getting dicked down like a whore.”

your whole body jerks, a whimper escaping your lips at the humiliation, the filth dripping from his tongue.

and he sees it.

his grin turns cruel.

“oh, you like that?” he taunts, thrusting up so deep your back arches. “you like knowing that you’re loud enough to make it everyone’s fucking problem? that you’re such a good little fucktoy for me that i can’t even keep you quiet?”

you nod, because you can’t lie. his fingers tighten around your jaw, his lips brushing against yours as he coos.

“poor little thing.”

he thrusts up again, so hard, so deep that your whole body bounces, hands scrambling against his chest, voice cracking in a choked-out sob.

and he moans, deep and satisfied, because you’re so fucking perfect for him. because your body is his to use, to mold, to ruin.

“joshua’s gonna kill me c-cheol.”

his hips snap up again, knocking the breath from your lungs.

“but you’ll tell him it was worth it, won’t you, baby?”

he smooths one over your back, pressing down so your tits rub against his burning skin, while the other stays firm on your hip, keeping you still. your body jerks with every pulse of his cock inside you, twitching as you flutter around him, so overstimulated you can’t tell where the pleasure starts or ends.

“s-seungcheol—” his name is nothing but a broken cry, muffled against his neck, but he’s relentless. he doesn’t even let you finish, just shifts his knees slightly and thrusts up into you with all the power in his core.

“fuck,” he hisses when you clamp down, crying out into his skin, and he wraps an arm fully around you to hold you up. “shh, baby, you’re being so loud.”

his hand snakes up your back, fingers tangling into your hair, forcing you to lift your head. you meet his gaze, and it knocks the breath from your lungs. he looks fucked, mouth parted, sweat dripping from his hairline, chest heaving, but he still manages to look at you like he’s about to devour you whole.

“c’mon,” he coos, tilting his head, his grip tightening just enough to make your scalp tingle. “tell me it was worth it. tell me how good my cock is.”

he punctuates it with a sharp snap of his hips and you keen, trying to lift yourself, trying to relieve some of the intensity, but your thighs betray you. seungcheol laughs, breathless but smug, and his fingers press bruises into your skin as he maneuvers you like you weigh nothing.

“see? can’t even move, huh? my poor baby,” he murmurs, voice syrupy sweet, his free hand cupping your cheek now. “you’re just gonna sit here and take it like the perfect fucktoy you are.”

heat prickles at your skin at the words, your brain too fogged up to be embarrassed, too fucked out to do anything but let him guide you. he rocks you against him, making sure you feel every inch of him dragging against your walls, rubbing at all the right places, pressing into you deeper than you thought was even possible.

“you take me so well, baby,” he praises, leaning in to press his lips against yours, just enough to tease. “so fuckin’ tight, so warm—fucking heaven.”

his hand slides between your bodies, two fingers finding your swollen, neglected clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over it. the sensation makes your thighs twitch, your nails dig into his back, a fresh wave of tears pooling at the corners of your eyes.

“shhh, i got you, baby,” he whispers, kissing your jaw now, your temple. his fingers on your clit work in time with the slow, torturous grind of his hips. “i got you, yeah? you gonna cum for me? hm?”

he kisses you full on the mouth when you sob, swallowing the sound like he wants to keep it forever. and then he speeds up just a little, rolling your clit with more pressure, meeting every rut of your hips with a firm thrust up.

you shatter.

your whole body seizes, a strangled moan tearing from your throat as you clamp down so tight on him that it sends him tumbling over the edge with you. he groans, long and low, holding you so tight against him that you can feel every pulse of his cum inside you, hot and deep. his hips jerk once, twice more before he stills, forehead pressed against yours as you both gasp for air.

it’s quiet for a moment, the only sounds are the distant hum of the city outside the window, and the soft squelch when he finally shifts, making you both moan.

your body trembles like a leaf caught in the wind, and seungcheol drinks it in, the heat of your overstimulated form twitching against his chest as he presses slow, lingering kisses into the curve of your neck. his lips move down, sucking at the pulse point that hammers beneath your skin. your breath stutters. his fingers, nails just barely grazing, trail down the arch of your spine, featherlight but enough to make you shiver. you barely even realize you’re moving, the last bit of strength in your boneless limbs used to weakly push yourself up, to let his cock slip free from where it’s buried inside you. 

the second it leaves you, your body gives out. you collapse right into his chest, heavier than before, spent and trembling, the exhaustion hitting all at once. you can’t even pretend to be embarrassed about it. you just sigh, your lips brushing the base of his throat as you settle against him, body limp.

seungcheol holds you steady with both hands, like he’s afraid you might melt right into the couch and disappear. his broad palm cradles the back of your head, fingers splaying across your scalp, scratching at your roots. he keeps the other hand wrapped around your waist, thumb stroking absentmindedly against your ribs. the tension in his body hasn’t left yet. his shoulders are still tight. you know him well enough to know what’s coming before he even says it.

“you good?” 

you hum in response, nuzzling into his chest as your fingers curl weakly against his pecs. “just a little sore.”

he exhales through his nose. shifts beneath you. you can feel his fingers flex where they rest on your waist, like he wants to squeeze but holds himself back. then, with zero effort, he grips the back of your neck and lifts you up, just enough to force you to look at him. your lids are heavy, half-lidded, dazed, and fuck, that shouldn’t make him feel so possessive, but it does.

his thumb sweeps across your cheek, his jaw tensing. “shit. i’m sorry,” he murmurs, eyes scanning over your features like he’s searching for anything more than just exhaustion. “lemme take care of you, hm?”

you don’t have it in you to resist, don’t even want to. you let him move you, let him handle you like you weigh nothing as he lifts you from his lap and shifts you onto the couch, laying you down as if you’re something delicate. and maybe you are, now, after the way he ruined you. maybe that’s why you don’t fight him when he presses your thighs apart, watching as they just fall open on their own, spread wide like a doll.

you don’t have the strength to do much else than whimper softly as his thumbs spread you further, gaze locked onto your swollen cunt, still so slick from where he fucked you. his jaw clenches.

you don’t even get a warning before he moves in, before his hands grip your thighs to keep them open as he dives between them, mouth sealing over your clit in one slow stroke of his tongue.

you jolt, a weak little gasp punching from your lungs. your fingers barely find the energy to tangle into his hair, and the grip is nowhere near as firm as it usually is, but he groans anyway. whether it’s from the feeling of your grip or from the way you instantly react to him, you don’t know. but he doesn’t stop.

his tongue moves slow, warm and so fucking wet as he licks broad, flat strokes over your sensitive flesh, working you open again with patience. he isn’t trying to overstimulate, isn’t trying to get you off again—though you can already tell it wouldn’t take much. his focus is entirely on easing the ache, on massaging every tender inch of you with his mouth, his lips, his tongue.

“feels good?” his voice is muffled against you, but it vibrates in just the right way.

you nod, breath hitching when he sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue rolling it in slow circles. your body twitches, heat curling at the base of your spine. “cheol…”

he moans against you, and presses you down harder against his face. your hips jump, an embarrassing whimper breaking free as his tongue dips lower, tracing around your entrance before dragging back up, collecting every bit of slick along the way.

you whine, fingers curling tighter in his hair. he doesn’t tease. doesn’t prolong it. just keeps his pace slow and steady, gentle enough to soothe, firm enough to keep you on the edge of something, even if you’re too sensitive to chase it. and if the way he’s grinding his hips into the couch tells you anything—it’s that he’s just as affected as you are.

he’s not eating you out to get himself off, but fuck if it isn’t working.

the obscene sounds of his mouth working between your thighs filling the entire apartment, mixing in with your breathless moans and the way he groans right into your cunt. you don’t even have it in you to be embarrassed about the way your cum is smeared all over his chin, his jaw, his cheeks—how it drips down onto the couch below with every intentional roll of his tongue against your entrance.

his tongue works in circles, pressing flat to your hole before dragging up again, tasting every bit of your arousal as it gushes out onto his lips. his mouth is open the entire time, tongue rolling and flicking, nose nudging against your clit as he angles his head lower. he flattens his tongue, groaning as he drags it up through your folds before plunging it into you, so messy that you swear you see white behind your eyelids.

your back arches, chest rising in sharp, hiccupped gasps, every single nerve in your body on flames. your thighs twitch in his grasp, and he squeezes them tighter, keeping you spread open just for him. his hands slide up, one wrapping firmly around your waist, keeping you pinned in place, while the other travels up, up—his fingers finding the stiff peaks of your nipples.

your eyes snap open, a gasp catching in your throat as he rolls one between his fingertips, twisting just enough to make your eyes roll. you swear you hear him chuckle against you, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“breathe,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your clit before sucking it between his teeth, tongue rolling in lazy, teasing circles on the swollen bud. “breathe for me, baby.”

you try. you really do. but the way his mouth moves, the way his fingers tweak and pull, it’s too much. you’re spiraling. you feel another orgasm creeping up so fast it steals the air right out of your lungs.

he sees it. he knows.

his grip tightens on your thigh, his tongue flicking faster, working you open as his free hand continues to play with your tits, kneading the soft flesh, fingers rolling your nipples in rhythm with the lazy grind of his tongue against your clit.

your moans turn high-pitched, desperate. your body twists beneath him, unable to keep still as the pleasure builds, climbing higher and higher.

but then—a whimper.

not from you.

from him.

you force your heavy lids open, head lolling to the side as you try to focus on him. and fuck, the sight that greets you is almost enough to make you cum then and there.

seungcheol is rutting against the couch. grinding, fucking humping it like a damn dog, his hips rolling in slow thrusts, his rock-hard cock straining against his stomach, smearing precum all over his abs and the fabric beneath him.

he whimpers again, this time louder, his brows furrowed, his breath coming in short, uneven pants.

“fuck,” he groans, mouth still pressed against you, voice muffled by the way his tongue keeps working you over. he pulls back just enough to speak, his lips glistening, his chin soaked. his eyes are dark, glassy, pupils blown wide as he looks up at you. “can’t—fuck, i can’t stop. you taste too good.”

your chest tightens, a desperate, aching cry slipping from your lips as you clutch at his hair, thighs twitching in his grasp. “cheol—gonna—gonna cum, oh my god—”

he moans, actually fucking moans, his hips grinding down harder against the couch as he redoubles his efforts, tongue circling your clit in precise, teasing flicks, his fingers pinching your nipples just hard enough to send you over the edge.

your body locks up. your back arches. your mouth falls open, a silent scream tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you, all-consuming.

seungcheol doesn’t stop. doesn’t slow down. he works you through it like it’s his mission, licking you clean, his tongue rolling over your entrance, collecting every last drop as your body trembles violently beneath him.

your chest heaves, your vision blurring, but even through the haze, you can feel him still grinding against the couch, still so fucking hard and desperate, all because of you.

your brain is slow. dial-up connection slow. everything feels like it’s underwater, your body floating somewhere between consciousness and the best orgasm-induced coma of your life. it’s warm, so warm, like your body is still riding out the fever of your high, tongue pressed against the roof of your mouth, throat dry, muscles heavy like they’re full of sand.

you don’t even remember when it happened—when you blacked out, when you got moved. just flashes of cool wipes dragging over your skin, a damp cloth pressed between your thighs, seungcheol’s hands gentle, careful, murmuring something you were too gone to comprehend. like déjà vu, like something out of a dream.

but you’re awake now. sort of. and you’re in his bed.

the sheets are soft, cool against your fevered skin, and it feels so good that you can’t help the tired, pleased moan that slips past your lips, involuntary, barely conscious.

but it’s enough to make him look at you.

you blink, vision still a little hazy, but yeah, that’s definitely seungcheol, sitting at his desk, dressed in a loose shirt and sweats, hair damp, probably from a shower. there’s a slight smirk on his lips, but his eyes are soft as they sweep over you, taking in the way you’re still half-buried in his sheets, limbs heavy, body relaxed.

then it hits you.

the documents.

joshua.

fuck.

your eyes widen, and you jolt up too fast, regretting it immediately when the soreness between your thighs protests, a sharp ache shooting up your spine. “fuck—”

seungcheol’s already up, one hand pressing to your shoulder, guiding you back down before you can do any more damage. “hey, hey, relax. you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“the—documents,” you mumble, eyes fluttering shut again as the exhaustion creeps back in. “joshua.”

he chuckles, and you open your eyes just in time to see him shaking a small stack of papers in his hand. “yeah, yeah. i got it. sent them over while you were passed out.”

you frown, groggy. “i was supposed to send them.”

“and joshua needs to get used to me handling shit for you,” he says, grinning as he sets the papers down. “besides, he’d probably prefer not to get another noise complaint under his name.”

your face heats up instantly. “oh my god.”

“mhmm,” seungcheol hums, tilting his head. “wanna know how loud you were?”

“no.”

he laughs, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, thumb tracing your cheek. “then go back to sleep, baby.”

you glare at him. or, at least, you try to. it’s weak, and he knows it, because all it takes is one more stroke of his thumb before your eyes flutter shut again, body sinking further into his bed.

drunk!caleb who forgets how huge he is, all corded muscles and broad shoulders as he wraps his arms around you, kissing your face and mumbling a mantra of “i love you, you’re everything to me" pinning you beneath him like second nature, only to let you flip him on his back with the softest touches

drunk!caleb who gets pouty if you’re on your phone or paying attention to anything that’s not him. he lets out a small huff, bottom lip jutted out slightly before he decides enough is enough and takes the phone out of your hand

“caleb!” you scold, putting your hand out so he can return your phone.

“no, pay attention to me, no more phone for you tonight pips,” he tries to sound like his usual self, stern and self assured, but his words slur together as he tries to make the room stop spinning as he squints.

“‘leb im ordering the takeout you just said you wanted.”

oh. he gives you a sheepish smile as he places your phone back in your hands, lips finding your cheek as he whines.

“i love you, please never leave me.”

drunk!caleb who stares at you with all the love in the world as you change him out of his clothes and help brush his teeth, who would wag his tail if he had one when you give him gentle praises for following your directions

drunk!caleb who is extremely compliant when you tell him to stop making a fuss and go to bed, “one more shot!” “put the bottle down or i won’t kiss you again” caleb hadn’t moved that quickly since his rookie DAA days

drunk!caleb who holds you a little closer as he sobers up while the two of you lay in bed together, eyes closed as you run your fingers through his hair while he explains things about the ship he pilots for the fleet, excitement lacing his words when he tells you of any new tech or advancements.

drunk!caleb who falls asleep to the sound of your voice and your gentle touches, mouth slightly open as he snores softly, mind completely at peace for the first time in a while

caleb who wakes up the next morning hungover but immediately gets up to make the two of you breakfast, heart squeezing when he sees the note you must’ve written before helping him to sleep.

i know you’ll somehow wake up before me >:( take these before you even try and make me breakfast i love you <3

a/n: i love him bad </3

He somehow stumbles into a makeshift safe-house. The bullet that had pierced his upper chest is still lodged somewhere between his rippling flesh. Warm, sticky blood oozes out of the deep cut slashed across his chest, splitting his skin apart.

Outside, it is a cacophony of shots being fired and the constant thuds of bodies that follow. He doesn’t remember when was the last time he inhaled air that wasn’t saturated with soot and the metallic scent of blood…or when was it that he looked up and saw a clear sky instead of the orange fumes of fire, death and decay.

There is no sensation in his left leg anymore...just angry violet skin hosting several broken bones within. The iron smell of his own blood and that of others around him swarm his senses as he waits it out.

Just a few more hours.

Ceasefire for the day.

Someone would come and help him. They ought to.

For now, he must find some way to avoid attracting attention with his garbled moans of pain. His fingers shake, or perhaps it’s his vision wobbling with intense agony, as he reaches down in his pocket to retrieve a long, sweat soaked strand of wool. It must’ve been white someday, but now, it is more rusted from dirt, blood and overuse. Yet he holds it reverently between his fingers and begins looping, spinning and tangling it between his digits. The machine guns dull, his vision clears and through the dense war around him, something soft and pure envelopes him.

Between his fingers is now stretched a smiling string figure. A doll. The tear that clings to his lower lash is thicker than the rest, heavier with meaning and memory and love. He carefully bunches the thread up and places it back into his pocket. His chest feels warmer now.

Or perhaps, it's just his shirt soaked with his blood.

(three years later) Manhattan, New York, 1921

The woman in the turquoise cloche hat rolls her eyes when her weepy husband demands yet another napkin from her. She reaches for her purse regardless, shoving another bunched up piece of clean fabric in his fist for his damp cheeks. 

“Keep it down, will you?” she hisses, embarrassed eyes darting around apologetically when he sniffles again. 

But the man grumbles something fleetingly unkind about women and their inability to interpret and empathize with art, and ruins another one of her lacey handkerchiefs with an abhorrent mixture of snot and tears. 

The woman only shakes her head. 

He has always been like this—loudly and pretentiously emotional over things that might barely jerk a half-hearted wince out of her at best. 

Now, before one labels her apathetic—she has tried...heavens know how hard. 

For him, she has pretended to laugh until her cheeks hurt at the unfunny displays of rowdy caricatures of foreigners at the theaters. 

For him, she has dabbed corners of her drier-than-the-Arizona-summer eyes after his colleague’s daughter’s revoltingly off-tuned piano recitals. 

For him, she has ooh-ed and aah-ed at the paintings of things that don’t matter simply because he rejoiced when someone validated what he deemed was the reasoning behind the choice of a certain hue by the artist. 

But it’s not the early 1900s anymore and she’s no longer his shy, teen bride. They’ve been married for over twenty years, and even the most skilled actresses can perform for so long. 

Now she only waits for his seemingly endless sobbing to halt so that she can focus on what remains of the film casting greys and blacks on the ivory sheet. 

The movie—sensational among the crowds of her husband’s likeness, and laced with a very predictable ending—that plays in front of her is named ‘Fool’s Paradise.’ 

What an appropriate name, she thinks to herself while eying her husband clench the fabric in his wrinkled fists and stare wide-eyed at the screen as if it were some holy revelation. 

She grows wary of the sight pretty quickly, and returns her focus back on the screen only to be ambushed by the sudden appearance of half a dozen alligators whom the once blind hero tries to fight to win over his lover. 

Exasperated, the woman wrings her head away from the screen, from her husband, from the lazy reconciliation that’s bound to happen on screen, counting down minutes until she can leave her seat. 

A rosy valentine’s evening—wasted. 

As she mulls over her fate, still soured over the now wasted tickets to a new and emerging jazz singer from the orient, Lee Seokmin's show that she had wanted to attend instead of coming to the cinema, a brief movement outside the flapping wooden paneled door catches her eye. 

The figure looming outside is hidden under a huge hat, an enormous tweed coat and looks fragile and small…perhaps a young boy?

Strange. 

It’s the last show of the day. Then what is he waiting outside for?

His occasional peeping through the gaps puts her on alert. Something about the jittery energy, the nervous fidgeting, the constant hiding and seeking makes her conclude that it must be a pickpocket—there have been way too many of them in Manhattan lately. 

The thunderous round of applause, the final few sniffs and the spluttering compliments as the movie ends drown out the alarms ringing in the woman’s head. But she’s already on her toes, determined to corner the supposed crook before he can wipe his hands on the bulging wallets of New York’s nouveau elite. 

“Hey, you!” she calls out as soon as she bursts out. 

She gears up her throat to scream for help in case the figure attacks her or makes a run for the exit. But her angry exclamation only makes him flinch. He buries his flushed face deeper into the scarf. 

Behind them, the cinema-goers have already begun milling out of the stuffy, dark room—immersed deep into the discourse about the actress’s beauty and blissfully unaware of what’s unfolding at the entrance. 

The woman takes a closer look, or attempts to, because her captive is already fleeing. But instead of running away, he seems to be sliding towards where she has just emerged out of. 

Taking advantage of his lithe body, he attempts to slip inside the now emptying room—no visible solicitation of theft or mischief. 

But the woman is smart enough to grab onto the sleeve of his coat, even though he begins wringing his hand. 

Something is not right about the person in front of her. 

It takes her a moment to realize what it is that grated on her about this overenthusiastic attendant in the first place…the softness of face, the swell of chest under the low buttons of the coat, the doe-eyes…

No.

That’s an absurd thought. 

The community here is still too conservative for that.

So she presses on:

“The show has ended.” She exclaims, “you cannot go inside now.”

Another short lived struggle. Another hand tightening over the coat. The flesh under her fingers seems too soft to belong to a… 

“Let me go.” The person grumbles. 

Any doubts that were holding the woman away from believing what her gut had concluded melt away the moment her captive lets their voice slip out. The person in the woman’s stronghold isn’t some naughty pickpocket or a bony little servant—but a young girl dressed in a man’s clothes. 

The woman lets her go at once, and when she does, a soft strand of the girl’s hair escapes from her hat which she quickly tucks back in and disappears inside the dark room leaving the woman more confused than she was before. 

The projector inside the room is dying slowly—nothing more than a haggard glow trembling in the stale air—and her husband is glancing impatiently at his pocket watch as he waits for her outside the theater. 

“What was that about?” He asks, only having witnessed a sliver of the encounter. “Who was the boy?”

“Pippa’s son.” The woman lies, tightening her shawl over her shoulders. “Told him to say hi to his mother for me.”

⸻

You look around one last time. 

Fifty odd seats. All empty. 

Still, just for precaution, you crouch down and search underneath them too. 

Once you’re satisfied that you’re alone in the room with a flickering projection of ‘Thank you!’ on a washed blanket, you finally clutch the hat in one hand and the scarf in another and free yourself from the claws of their itching, swampy heat. 

Your skin sighs deeper than your lungs, the scarlet flush watering down to a faint pink as you begin unbuttoning the coat several sizes too big on you. The air inside the room is stagnant and salty with all the tears it has witnessed today, but it seems as good as a fresh morning’s breeze when it settles in your hair. 

Maybe it’s the freedom from your hefty paraphernalia, maybe it’s the tingling, funny feeling beginning to climb its way from the butterflies in your stomach to the fireflies in your chest—but you find yourself giggling mere moments before he creeps up behind you to cage you and pull your back flush to his chest. 

“Hansol!” you laugh, even when nothing about the little kiss he presses against your temple is funny. 

But perhaps laughter is the only sound of homecoming. 

“You almost got caught there.” He remarks, resting his chin over your shoulder and slipping his fingers over your own to undo the last few buttons of your coat. 

You help him take it off you by shrugging your shoulders out, “I thought she was about to screech and cause a scene.”

“Well, you are unchaperoned and cross-dressed in Raymond’s cinema house.” He drapes the coat over a seat lazily, “and if that’s not scandalous enough, you’re trespassing at midnight.”

“Oh, please.” you huff out, plopping onto the cushiony seat and tapping the one next to you for him, “there’s women out there finishing off their evening shifts right now and having a smoke in the parlour next door. Not my fault your employer is still stuck at least half a century behind.”

Hansol tries his best to block your view of the giant pamphlet peeling off a corner on the side wall that reads, ‘NO UNCHAPERONED WOMEN ALLOWED PAST SIX IN THE EVENING’  among other outdated rules. 

But you read it out loud, like you do every night you come and visit him. Always alone. Always disguised.

“You know Raymond only keeps that up because he’s terrified his clientele will complain…the people around here are still too traditional about stuff like that,” he mutters, sinking down beside you. “If it were up to him, he’d let dogs and ghosts in, so long as they paid.”

“And yet,” you say, plucking an invisible piece of lint from his lapel with theatrical delicacy, “here I am. A woman. A scandalously unaccompanied one at that. And your ghosts-and-dogs-loving boss would have a fit.”

Hansol brushes a hand, warm and careful, against your jaw. 

“You aren’t unaccompanied. Not anymore.”

“That’s what makes it worse,” you tease. “I’ve been accompanied by a criminal.”

“A criminal?” He blinks. 

“Aiding and abetting, Hansol. Harboring a fugitive in your cinema of all places.”

He laughs quietly—soft, pressed-through-his-teeth, the kind of laugh he only ever lets out when he knows the walls won’t listen. The lamp behind the projector sputters one last time, dimming the room into an amber-tinted hush. Outside in the street, taxis honk and someone shouts a drunken goodbye; the world moves on without knowing you’re here, perched between shadows and the sweet leftover scent of celluloid.

He leans back, shoulders touching yours, knees angled towards you like he’s always been pulled by your gravity. For a long moment you listen to the projector cool, clicking and shrinking as metal contracts.

He reaches for your fingers—tentatively, as though asking without words—and you let him lace them between his.

“You looked so terrified when she held you,” he murmurs. “Sure you’re alright?”

“I am…now,” you assure him, resting your head on his shoulder. The rhythm of his heartbeat under your cheek slows your blood down. His shirt smells faintly of the oil used on film reels—sharp, metallic—but underneath it is something familiar, something that always softens the parts of you the world keeps trying to harden. His shirt brushes your jawline as you curl instinctively closer.

He adjusts you slightly in his arms, like it is nothing and everything all at once.

Hansol hums. “I hate that you have to hide like this…by dressing up like—”

“A man?” you supply. “I think I make a fine one.”

“You make a terrible one,” he corrects, grinning now. “You’re too pretty for it.”

That makes you kiss him. Just a quick peck—short, but oh so sweet. 

“Happy Valentine’s day, Hansol.” 

You begin to pull away, but his hand cups your face—calloused yet gentle—stationing you nearer for him to kiss you better. Deeper. Tentative yet passionate at the same time. His breath shudders before it mingles with yours, warming every single fibre of your physicality.

The kiss is slow…so slow that it makes you feel every single movement, every single touch, with such profoundness that it almost aches. Almost. Because Hansol has this way of dulling every pain that exists in your being until it withers down into nothing but a blossoming warmth in your spine. 

And just like that, something scarlet blends into the night-sky. 

“Happy Valentine’s, my love,” he mumbles against your skin. And then, as if the kiss was still unfinished in his books, he recaptures your trembling lips with his scorching ones. This time, more territorial and surer, like a dying flame leaping right back onto a new, diesel drenched log. Your knuckles shiver as they graze his jaw, too stimulated by his kiss.

By the time your bodies detangle, your toes hurt from curling too much inside your shoes and the perfume on your wrists has fully bled into his collar. 

Instinctually, you suck your bottom lip in, wanting to soak whatever it is of him that’s lingering on them. 

An affectionate titter escapes him at the sight of you so wrecked and gone by a simple kiss. He cradles your head, resting his forehead against yours, “I need to show you something.”

You take a moment to catch your breath before whispering: “Go ahead.”

The knot in your belly tightens with anticipation when he gives you another little kiss, gets up and disappears behind the seats. You hear the familiar whirring of metal and plastic as he skillfully loads a strip of film on the reel, adjusts the apparatus and after a few short minutes, the once ghastly white sheet in front of you is drenched in sepia tones again. 

“Is this some new movie?” You ask when he reappears. 

“Yes, I want you to be the first one to see it.”

“Oh, lovely,” you squeal, winding your arms around his bicep when he leans closer to you, “what’s it called?”

“Rites of Passage.”

Displeased, you scowl, “what an unfortunate name.”  

You had expected it to be a romantic melodrama—they’re all the rage these days. 

As if sensing your unease, he assures, “it is a love story.”

“I hope it doesn’t have a tragic ending.” 

Hansol stays silent at that. 

And then, “it ends the way it needs to.”

“Do they find happiness in the end?” 

He smiles, “yes…yes, they do.” 

“Then I have no qualms with what happens in the rest of the story.” 

Before you, the first flicker of a vibrant amber light quivers on the makeshift screen. Dust motes drift lazily through the projector beam, catching gold as the picture sharpens into focus. You lean further into Hansol’s chest, watching it half-heartedly, expecting the familiar grand opening shot—rolling hills, a train station, something suitably dramatic.

But the opening is rather quaint and even though it is a new one, you feel like you’ve seen this film before. 

A serene shot of a garden tucked somewhere between a row of terraced houses—narrow, almost secret, the sort of place only two kids would know how to find. The projection is all black and white, like new movies always are before they rot into sepia. But you think you know just exactly what the color of flowers that the little boy picks in a little basket is, or what shade of green is the little girl’s coat. There is no sound, but you’re already in on the jokes the boy tells to make the girl laugh. 

Not like an imagination. But like a memory. 

Hansol rests his cheek on the crown of your head, his warm breath brushing over the wisps of your loose hair. 

The boy on the screen tangles a long strand of wool between his little fingers, spins it around skillfully, and in a matter of seconds, conjures up what seems like a string doll between his stretched palms. 

“Remember when you used to perform these string tricks?” you ask him, fondly remembering all the different stars and animals and figures he’d entertain you with. 

He laughs, soft and balmy, “yes, and you’d always ask me to make a doll at the end of them all.” 

“I loved the string-dolls you’d make.”

“I know, dolly.” You feel his fingers tighten over your shoulders when calls you by the name only he ever calls you by. 

Before you, childhood matures into teenage—an uneven mix of awkward yearning and silent confessions. Distances grow, but so do the depths of feelings. Glances in public squares or intense staring under the old pine tree on a hill-top—as if the juvenile hero wishes to etch every curve and blip in the heroine’s face into his psyche.

It is so saccharine, so dreamy. 

Yet you feel a build-up…like any moment now, the bubbling potion of love is going to tip over and spill into a dark, rotten goo. Like every little dream that floats over a cloud for so long, this one too is about to meet its scorching fate when it crosses the sun. 

Your breath hitches and with the sudden tension in Hansol’s jaw, you wonder if he feels it too—this near dread. 

But before anything could happen—a villain bursting in and kidnapping the girl, or the ground splitting open by some ancient curse and swallowing the hero whole and leaving her to embark on a quest to bring her lover back—the reel stutters. 

The sound is jarring, like something snapping between the rusty metal but refusing to let up. A rhythm of defiance to break, but also a refusal to let the pictures move forward leaving you stuck with a static scene where the hero is halfway through a door as the heroine holds his hand back. 

“It’s stuck.” Hansol announces, gently unwrapping you from around him to go examine the projector, “I guess we overused it.”

“But we couldn’t even make it until the intermission.” You pout, a bit too upset over not finishing a movie you had no intention of seeing in the first place. 

“Next time, dolly,” he promises, still fiddling with the film-strip. 

You stay at the cinema for a little while after that, carefully vigilant yet carelessly in love at the same time. You whisper the happenings of your weeks to him so softly that even the room seems to shrink smaller for the walls to be able to hear you clearer. But the very next moment, you fail to swallow in your overenthusiastic squeaks when Hansol shares just what new movies Raymond plans to showcase at the theater next week. 

He shushes you, barely controlling his own beaming smile at your fanatic spirits. 

“Ah, Rudolph Valentino is so charming in the posters,” you exclaim, clasping your palms together, “I’ve heard it got a background score so romantic that it makes the audience weep!” 

“We plan on handling the weeping by playing the new movie of that Chaplin fella right after,” he says, “what’s it called…’the kid’?”

“Oh Hansol… I feel so alive these days.” You have no idea where it comes from, but the sparkle in your eyes is enough to light up the whole midnight. “These films…these flickering little miracles—they’re not just stories. They’re… they’re the city.”

He tilts his head, and you lift your hands as if sculpting the feeling out of thin dust motes drifting through the projector beam.

“New York is growing so fast I can hardly ever catch my breath. Every week there’s a new building stretching higher, a new crowd pushing through Times Square like they’ve been summoned by some invisible conductor. And these movies…they move just like the city moves. Quick. Restless. Unafraid.”

You turn to him and aren’t surprised when you find his face mirroring the utter reverence your words hold for a place that others might brush off as nothing more than an amalgamation of concrete and blinding lights. Maybe this is why you hold all your words, all your thoughts within yourself all day long—as excruciating as it is—because you know no one that’s not him would ever listen to you with this relevance. 

There seems to be this invisible thread that ties the centre of your chest with his and syncs your heartbeats until they’re nothing more than a background score for the movie that is the city you both grew up in. 

“Sometimes I think New York is dreaming right through us. That she’s sitting in these seats with us, humming along to the Valentino score, laughing with Chaplin. She’s becoming something bigger than any of us can grasp, and the cinema… it’s the only place I can hear her properly.”

Hansol watches you, the corners of his lips tugging upward with a quiet awe. You feel a blush rise, but you continue, unable to stop now that the words have burst open.

“I love this city like I love you,” you confess. “Like a friend, or a secret, or something I’m afraid to lose. And when I watch these films…these new, daring, impossible films, I feel like I’m watching someone I adore so deeply grow up in front of me.”

Outside, a distant streetcar clangs its bell—sharp, urgent, alive. The sound threads into the stillness of the empty theater.

“Ah,” you breathe, sitting back with a little laugh. “Hear that? That’s the city reminding us she’s awake. She never sleeps anymore.”

“She never sleeps,” he agrees, something softer than mere amusement in his eyes…deeper and more sincere, like devotion. “But I know she sighs when you talk about her like that.” 

Your lips dip into an irrepressible smile. He always does this—effortlessly putting these profound conclusions to your spirited ramblings as if putting a final bow on a bunch of randomly picked wildflowers and turning it into an expensive bouquet.  

It only motivates you to carry on with a discourse that many would brush off as nothing more than a nonsensical love letter penned by a dramatic, young girl towards something so inanimate. “People say the rush in the veins of this city is unbearable now…this maddening passion—they think it's ruinous.”

“Isn’t that exactly what they used to say about us when we were growing up?” Hansol prods, “it is always unnerving for them to see life stretch and expand in its own skin. The city, just like kids, isn’t pliant anymore…you cannot hold it back from chasing what it seeks.” Finally, his eyes settle on yours, “just how they couldn’t hold us.”

Your lashes flutter shut, your face inching further closer into the curve of his shoulder. Your voice is half muffled into his sweater when you speak, “I wish we were as brave as New York. I wish that we didn’t have to hide, that we could just run wild like her.”

Hansol doesn’t immediately answer, he lets your rueful grief settle down in the air around you—breathing it, soaking it. And once he can feel the shallowness dissipate from your inhales, he speaks, “you know why the lights here shine so bright now?”

There are a hundred logical explanations to that, but you’re aware that logic is long forgotten in this exchange between you and him. 

He continues, “you light a flame to illuminate something. But it also means you’re casting a shadow at something else at the same time—something you don’t want to see. It only makes you think, there could be so many secrets New York nurtures in these shadows behind its bright lights.”

“Just like us?” You ask.

“Just like us.” he affirms, his low voice the only evidence of his existence in the pitch darkness that envelopes you. 

You wonder what would happen if someday the spotlight tilts and shines directly at the two of you, when no matter how hard you try to outrun it and seek the shadows, it catches up to you. Because that’s what light does, doesn’t it? Finds and blinds. 

But for now, you choose to hide here—shadowed enough that the world can’t quite catch you, yet bright enough that he can. 

⸻

Lee Seokmin’s birthday arrives every year with a reminder of whom he shares it with. 

He tries to cheer up, attempts to brighten the gold in his smile even more on this particular day, answers all the letters and cards he receives. But always, in the back of his mind, there’s the shadow. His shadow. It’s been over three years, yet there’s no escaping the truth behind the life that he lives now. The ring on his finger. The woman who resides in his guest-room.

On this particular day, she sleeps until late noon.  

Good, he tells himself as he pretends to read through the details of the show he is supposed to sing at the upcoming week, it’s good that she’s resting. 

The flimsy curtains do little to stop the breeze that carries the remaining frost of the East-coast winter inside his townhouse. Seokmin stutters, contemplating shutting the glass-panels up, but ends up deciding otherwise and rather walks towards the open balcony to feel the sun on his skin. 

It’s a serene neighborhood, safe, suburban and saturated with greens—of nature, and of money. The houses all around are occupied by people like him, people whose life flourished when the city began flourishing a few years back. Bankers, performers, business owners, hoteliers…he’s the only celebrated Jazz singer around, though. 

So celebrated, in fact, that the glimmer of his raw talent and the honey in his voice drown out the color of his skin. There’s white men begging him for tickets to his shows now—can you imagine? 

He should gloat and yet, he doesn’t. Because Seokmin, before anything else, is someone who is aware. He worked hard for this, trained until his throat felt akin to sandpaper, sang like a madman at gigs that paid him in half a loaf of bread. But he also knows that all that talent, grit and experience can only mask so much about his identity that the people in this country are ‘willing’ to tolerate. 

His fame and riches helped him gloss over his foreignness, but he can never overlook the significance of the attribute that the woman fast asleep right now adds to his life. 

Slotting himself into the New York high-society as a Korean man with nothing but sheer luck and acumen to back it up is one thing. 

Trying to explain why he had no wife or fiancee or any romantic inclination towards women without painting himself red like a target is another.

Thus, there’s nothing for him to gloat about without first acknowledging the lifeline he has been given by his ‘wife’, even if it means that he has to—

“Good afternoon,” your voice is softer today, yet strong enough to pull his attention back inside the house, “and happy birthday, Mr. Lee.”

You’re all dressed up already. A giant coat that hides whatever it is that you’re wearing, only a hint of your stockings and the new pair of your low-heeled Mary Janes visible for him. Despite all the color that you’ve dusted over your face, the softened edges of your features and the droplets of water still clinging on to the tips of your hair make you feel strangely unfinished. Like a painting waiting for its final stroke. 

“Thank you,” he smiles, clearing his throat. 

This…arrangement, carefully crafted and deliberated on by the both of you, has allowed the two of you to co-exist for almost half a decade now. Yet, he still finds himself at a loss of proper words that he can say to you. Where are the lines here? What are the oddities? 

You seem more at ease around him than he does, though. Because you’re beaming, extending something towards him. That’s when he notices it—the tray full of little sweet treats clutched between your palms. 

“Oh, right.” he stutters, quickly grabbing the first dessert his fingers reach and scarfs it down whole. 

Thank God, they had been on the cooling rack for a while, or else he would have put himself out of business for a week by burning his throat with molten sugar straight out of the oven. 

That makes you laugh. This awkward, nervous energy which you’ve tried to soothe out of him through repeated assurances and affirmations. You always tell him that you feel safe around him and that you can just exist like friends. Perhaps, siblings? 

But he finds it hard to come around. 

And considering just how grave his situation already is when it comes to definitions and labels, you let him be. 

You place the tray back onto the counter but box two pieces of cakes into a tin container, clearly planning on taking it out with you. 

“It’s his birthday too, you know?” You inform Seokmin, even though he doesn’t ask. 

Seokmin considers his words for a long moment, still standing in the middle of the room, his hands sticky with the powdered sugar. 

“Ah yes,” he finally says, “I remember. Vernon—”

“Hansol,” you correct him sharper than you intended. 

Seokmin blinks, watching you uncertainly as this strange rage surges and ebbs within a split second between your brows. 

“I…I’m sorry,” you stutter, “he just…Hansol is his true name, you know?”

“Yes,” Seokmin nods, “yes, indeed. We ought to respect that.”

“I am glad you understand.” You lower your gaze, feeling impossibly ashamed of your little outburst. 

The next few moments pass in thick silence as you press the lid shut and move towards the coat-rack to fetch your hat. 

Seokmin tries to ease what just happened there. 

“It’s a bit too obsolete,” he points at your enormous hat, clearly teasing, “don’t you think?”

You scrunch your nose in faux annoyance, “but I love it. Even though it's a thing of the past.”

Seokmin’s smile flutters at the corners but you miss it completely, too busy smoothing over your outfit one last time before you leave. 

“Things of the past…” he mumbles, strolling back inside the kitchen. “Things of the past.”

⸻

You meet Hansol again on his birthday, four days after the eventful valentine’s evening. This time, you don’t have to crossdress as a man to enter Raymond’s cinema-house. 

‘I took special permission to have you here today.’ Hansol had told you, while gearing up the projector to reload the movie, ‘The rite of passage’, that you had left unfinished from your last meeting. 

Strangely enough, the reel ended up getting stuck again, this time, a mere thirty minutes before the ending. That wouldn’t have dejected you as much had you not been left hanging at a rather depressing part of the story—a scene where the boy gets drafted to be shipped off across the Atlantic for war. 

Turns out, the plot twist whose dread you could feel in your bones ever since the movie began only took a mere five minutes to play out on the screen. A letter, a summon—decisive and final. 

A crest in the budding romance. A tearful goodbye. An anxious audience. 

Uncharacteristically, you had burst into tears…not when the scene played out, but when it got stuck on the creased forehead of the heroine. Almost like you were being made to wait with her for her lover’s return. 

“Do you…do you think he’ll come back?” you ask, the wet patch under your temple on his sweater beginning to dry now that you’ve gotten a better hold over your tears. 

Hansol’s voice reverbates under your cheek pressed to his chest, “people do not always return from wars, dolly.”

“But you did,” you whisper, “you came back.”

You begin to sit up, the damp strands of wild grass poke into your skin through the flimsy fabric of your stockings as you shift from his lap and onto the ground. 

Hansol follows you, sitting halfway up and leaning back against his palms planted over the mud. 

The hillside he brought you on for a stroll after seeing just how wrecked the abrupt interruption made you is a mere blip against the New York skyline. The city throbs below you like it is preparing for bed, muted pastels washing over every building as the sun begins to soften. The skyline stands tall, quiet and sure, like it has seen generations of lovers unravel and rebuild on the very patch of soft foliage you are sitting on. 

He watches the infamous city-lights begin to flicker to life, one-by-one, before finally answering you. 

“I came back, but not the same.”

You shift to look at him, but he’s staring into nothingness, like he’s also still remembering that movie scene from before. The frozen moment of grief suspended in dim light. A soldier arrested in time, a girl paused at the edge of loss.

You don’t know whether he’s thinking of his own war that shaped him, or the years between then and now.

But after a moment, he turns to you, eyes gentler than his voice.

“Not the same…” you hate the way his words tremble, like he has to forcibly wring them out and leave them to find their own meaning. 

So far, your lives have been shaped by circumstances so colossal and way beyond your control that persistence is not just a trait, but a mechanism of survival. It is the only way you know how to keep moving—through grief, through joy, through the quiet, brittle moments that fall somewhere in between. 

Thus, even in the fragility of this dipping evening, your persistence to make this better stands its stubborn ground. 

“Things don’t have to remain the same for them to be good.” You eagerly cup his face between your cold palms, “don’t you always say how change is the only constant?”

That reminder of hope, of those tid-bits of philosophy that have somehow succeeded in not letting his smile succumb to the horrors that life has thrown at him—it gently guides him back to you. 

The veil of the past grows thinner and thinner over his eyes, and it only encourages you to distract him more. 

“I mean look,” you laugh, trying your best to mask the nervousness as you begin unbuttoning your coat. “You always make fun of me for wearing those drab, shapeless garments, don’t you?”

The coat slips off your shoulders, pooling around your knees pressed on the soft grass. Underneath, the curves of your body sway shyly under a weightless fabric that, surprisingly, ends at your mid-thighs. 

You had felt too brave putting it on earlier in the day. The dress, a gift from your friend Mildred who insisted it was all the rage these days, was so unlike your usual tailored attires of long skirts and lace-colored blouses. The thin straps barely holding the attire together make you feel so naked to a point that the blush on your cheeks flushes down and settles over the exposed skin of your shoulders, prickling it with this strange sense of heat. 

“It’s the flapper look,” you explain to his gawking eyes as Hansol watches you as though you’re something holy and forbidden. “I thought it was time for some change in myself.”

For a long moment, he says nothing. Just looks.

His throat bobs. Once. Twice. Like he’s trying to swallow down everything he’s feeling in the moment—wonder, fear, longing, the aching edges of a man who doesn’t know if he’s allowed to want something soft again.

Finally, quietly, he murmurs, “You look like trouble.”

You huff a laugh, pretending it doesn’t shake. “Good trouble, I hope.”

“The best kind,” he says, more like a revelation to himself than a confession to you. 

Your fingers brush over the loose fabric skimming your hips. You curl them into fists, trying to subdue the itch which makes you want to grab your coat and put it back on and just bolt away—but not before making Hansol promise that he’d forget what he just saw…what you made him witness…what you just offered... 

But his fingers work faster than yours, curling over your waist and pulling you flush until your chest mashes against his. Little knots of burning desire bunch up and explode all at once in every single inch of your body when he does that. Your lips part at the audacity—of his, and that of yours—and the sight of you like this…shell-shocked and wild-haired twists something carnal in him. 

Instead of pulling you out of this state of collapse, he only submerges you deeper when he kisses you like he has never before. Hungry, open-mouthed, lustful. You don’t even attempt to fight it when his tongue slips inside your mouth, stealing away the sweetness that lingers inside of you. 

And that act of submission only seems to fuel him further into searing his touch deeper into the form of you. 

“Divine,” he pulls away just enough to whisper that, his voice dark and hoarse, “that’s what you are.”

He worships you with his words and his tongue some more before he’s pushing you around until your back meets the ground with a harsh impact. It’s not enough to hurt you, but just right to make you moan. 

“Hansol,” you plead. For what? You have no answer. 

His lips come down on whatever trembling flesh he can find—your wrists, your collarbones, your shoulders, the slight swell of your chest. 

He moves lower and lower until your thighs press together with the foretaste of what’s about to follow. 

No matter how many times you’ve been here in this exact state, the sight of his face pressed between your legs—curious eyes gaging every little scowl, every little whimper that escapes you while his parched tongue laps at you, prods against you, cajoles you to let him in deeper—never fails to ravage your sanity. 

Hansol can’t help but grin when the much shorter, looser skirt pools around your hips on its own. His fingers have already worked through the layers of fabric that shield you from him and when the slickness that has gathered at your apex coats the tips of them, his head spins. 

“Oh, heavens,” he huffs out, dipping his finger deeper into your fluttering walls. The warmth, the soft clench, coupled with how you clasp your eyes shut but the tears still roll down—it almost undoes him right then and there. 

His breaths turn ragged with every plunge of his fingers that make you convulse and arch off the ground. Air, he needs some air in his brain to better remember what is unfolding before him until eternity. He half-heartedly unlatches his fingers from your weeping core after a particularly passionate stroke against your nub to remove his sweater. All through it, you continue to tremble on the ground, cold mud clinging onto your skin as you attempt to reach out for him with your arms. 

“Hansol,” you call him back, “please…”

“I know, love, I know.” He muses, still lost in the fierce gravity of you. 

You feel something small and hard pelt against your skin—the buttons of his shirt as he wildly rips it open. 

The white linen finally gives way for your vision to settle on his skin—taut with labor and illuminated just by the moonlight under this pine tree. 

The need to touch him that emerges out of you is so palpable, that it makes him lean down a bit, allowing your fingers to rake all over the hardened ridges on his abdomen to the smooth expanse of skin over his chest. His heartbeat turns chaotic and relentless when your touch lingers on the long, scarlet scar that runs across his sternum—a ghost of his skin that they took away from you. 

“You’re perfect,” you admit, regardless. 

“I’m yours.” He echoes, like that somehow concludes the whole truth of him. 

You don’t falter, “then make me yours, too.” 

A guttural sound escapes from the back of his throat as he half undoes, half rips your undergarments and kisses you down there with this undeniable hunger. You can only arch further into him, offering more. The taste of you never ceases to tip him over the edge of control. 

He eats you out greedily, alternating between long stripes and shameless, open-mouthed kisses to a point where every exhale of yours comes out with a desperate moan. He sucks you so hard that you feel he intends to break you. 

Your fingers fist around the strands of something—his hair or the grass, you can’t discern anymore. As a matter of fact, you don’t want to. Because that would mean shifting a part of your attention from him towards something that’s not him. And you don’t want to do that, not even for a split second. 

“I wish you could see how you look right now,” he mumbles, the vibration of his voice amplifying your pleasure tenfolds. “So ruined already…yet begging for more.”

That prompts you to imagine—your body, lying dishevelled and open on a patch of grass somewhere so public as clay accumulates underneath your fingernails while he buries his face deeper and deeper between your legs like a parched man searching for an oasis. 

You feel your limbs beginning to go limp under his ministrations, a telltale sign of the arrival of something that snatches all your coherence away from you and leaves you a blushing, blubbering mess of Hansol. He makes you welcome it with open arms with a final, scorching kiss on top of your aching folds, right over the little root of pleasure that has been bearing the delicious torment of his calloused fingers. 

By the time the coil of tension snaps, you are sobbing. Tears flow freely down your face, collecting the dirt that has gathered on your face from the struggle.

A molten blush crawls up from the column of his neck and flushes throughout his face when he re-emerges from between your legs that lie listless on either side of his body. From one side, the city lights cast just enough illumination across his face for your half-lidded gaze to catch the thick arousal that coats his gleaming lips. 

The sight makes you shut your eyes close for good before you lose your mind. 

Strong hands wrap around your thighs, angling your ankles to settle around his waist while he holds you down with his body weight. Your lips part with an involuntary moan as humiliation of reveling in the feeling of being overpowered this way begins shrouding your mind. 

Hansol calls your name under his breath, then his hand departs from fondling your chest in favor of his rock-hard length.

He lines himself up with your entrance, the blunt head positioned right by your gaping, quivering hole. He nips at your skin once, perhaps to distract you from the overwhelming pleasure laced with pain as he pushes deeper into you. 

But the ache doesn’t subside, not when your hips gyrate against him eagerly, effectively pulling him halfway inside of you. 

You mewl, suddenly too aware of the fact that you can never get used to the feeling of that first stretch, that delicious ache. 

“Doll…be patient.” He begs. 

“N-need you…Hansol.”

“I know, love, it’s written all across your body.” He slots his fingers with yours, “breathe for me, go on, breathe.”

You obey, or try to. Because every single one of your inhales crests, and every single exhale splutters. The only thing you can do without struggling is calling out his name again and again. 

Hansol whimpers when you cry, the pressure of your walls around him an intoxicating bliss. He plunges his remaining length inside of you with a breathless gasp causing your vision to blur. 

The fact that you can’t determine where pain melts into pleasure and where you end and he begins is already so nervewrecking. So when he begins rocking in and out of you, gentle one moment and reckless the other, you find yourself scrambling for control before Hansol can drive you to utter lunacy. You don’t know how it happens, but you succeed in pushing him until he’s on his back. His length slips out of you in this brief tussle, making you whine. But you don’t stay at loss for long because the very next moment, you’re climbing on top of him. His whole body jerks as he pants and the only thing that makes sense is for you to push him back inside your sensitive core.

The lust on his face makes you shiver when you brace your hands on top of his broad shoulders for support. 

Grass and dirt dig deeper into your knees as you begin moving up and down over and over again on his hard length. Your entire body convulses with every debauched plunge, your breaths breaking before they can even make it out of your throat. 

Below you, Hansol watches you with actual stars in his eyes, his mouth still wet and pupils blown out yet gleaming with the brilliance of a thousand moons even in the exhausted darkness. 

It is a trance—nothing more, nothing less. 

He smoothes his palms under the hem of your dress to clutch either side of your waist, providing you additional support with your erratic movements. The action aids you gain better control, but your desperation is no less frantic. 

You clench him like you’re proving some claim. You call out his name like that’s the only prayer you ever learnt. 

You begin to find a rhythm in how to roll your hips in a way that pleasures you both, but your lover offtracks your entire train of thoughts when he begins angling his hips to meet you halfway up. Even from underneath you, he dominates this sinful act as he begins pistoning in and out of you, forcing you to adjust to the pace he sets for the both of you. 

You have no choice but to clamp your drooling mouth over his and oblige. His grip over your waist tightens like a punishment as he penetrates your tight heat, making you succumb entirely to his mercy.

This isn’t just sex, this isn’t some fleeting desire. 

This is love, finally given an act…and boy does Hansol make you perform. 

The hot, white daze rapidly expanding from the corners of your vision quickly overtakes your senses, choking you with overwhelming pleasure as he continues to sink in and out of the messy wetness between your thighs. You shatter with a broken gasp on top of him and like he had been waiting for just that, he quickly follows suit. Warmth and bliss bloom into something tangible and thick inside of you as he fills you with all he has to give you in the moment. 

“I love you,” you break apart, sure and unwavering even when his eyes turn into a shade of onyx that you cannot recognize—such is the intensity of this moment. 

“I love you,” you drawl, your eyes rolling behind your lids as your bodies sway in tandem in the aftermath of this heat. 

“I have loved you,” he says, long after your world has suspended. “And I will always love you.”

⸻

The water instantly turns murky with dirt when Seokmin rinses the washcloth in it. 

The household helper changes the basin almost instantly, bringing in another set of fresh towels before leaving the couple in the privacy of their bedroom. 

Seokmin tries again, softer this time. The water is warmer, but the grime plastered behind your ear is impossibly stubborn—won’t come loose unless he applies at least some pressure against your raw skin. 

Your face scrunches up in pain and you hiss, the sound is so soft, so little, that it shatters him all at once. He pauses, letting you shift into a more comfortable position. There are no visible injuries on your body, just a weary kind of damage.Your skin is chilled to the touch, still holding onto the bite of a cold night’s wind even though you’ve been inside for nearly an hour. Tiny goosebumps pebble your arms and legs, never fully settling. The dirt isn’t just on your face; it’s dusted throughout your hair, accumulating under your nails and in the little crevices of your arms. 

“Shall I?” he asks, long fingers fisted over the damp, warm towel. 

Meekly, you nod. 

He pats your skin with utmost tenderness, wiping away the little trails of mud with his thumbs, picking the dried bits of dead leaves and shriveled flowers from your hair. The tactile act provides the benevolence needed in this moment against the things that hang heavy and unsaid in the air between you two. 

“Staying out all night like that,” Seokmin finally thaws the uncomfortable ice, “I thought you were smarter than that.”

The light rebuke isn’t that of annoyance, but rather disappointment. Your lashes cast down with a prickling sense of shame. 

“Your temperature is abnormal,” he continues, quite concern weighing his expressions down, “there’s a possibility that the scratch on your knee is infected…we need to—”

“It’s not fair.” 

Your voice comes out so hoarse and jagged and you immediately wince when your throat burns. 

Your statement startles Seokmin. What exactly is unfair—his rightly placed concern? The cruel gossip amidst the servants outside? 

“What is not fair?” he asks quietly. 

Your lips part, but your voice betrays you—still too raw to be overused. 

Seokmin shakes his head pitifully, offering you a cup of warm water and honey. But you don’t even attempt to reach for it—your wild eyes focused in a corner of the room where the carpet peels off the floor. 

Just when he tips the cup closer towards your cracked lips:

“It’s not fair that Raymond keeps him away from me all the time,” you begin to complain, “he had to leave for work before I could even wake up.”

The cup almost slips out of Seokmin’s grasp, but he quickly recovers. By now, he is very well versed with the drill. 

You barely even notice that though, because you’re already off on a tangent of your own. 

“I must talk to Raymond about this,” you declare, fumbling with the blanket draped over your knees, “this is simply cruel and inhumane!”

Your resolve doesn’t falter when you finally look at a very stoic looking Seokmin with this impervious hope, “say, Mr. Lee, you’d employ Hansol to work for you, won’t you? I don’t know how that never crossed my mind—”

Before he responds to you, he abruptly gets up from the bed and asks the servants waiting for his next orders outside of the room to just take it off for the day. 

Then, he marches back into your bedroom and opens the curtains wide. 

You squeeze your eyes shut at the onslaught of sunlight, your lids flutter as they struggle to adjust to the sudden brightness. They feel impossibly dry, yet brimming with tears at the same time. 

Seokmin calls out your name—not like a command, but more like an urge. He’s holding your elbows, you realize. By the time you finally recover, the first thing you gage is the absolute anxiety over Seokmin’s face. This pale look of utter horror and discomfort like he’s choking onto something—perhaps his own words. 

“Mr. Lee,” you whisper, it comes out like a question. “Why are you holding me back? I need to—”

Seokmin says your name again, softer this time. And then, “please, listen to me.”

“But it’s—”

“No, please. Just breathe for a moment.”

“But Hansol—”

“Isn’t here anymore!” Seokmin didn’t mean to blurt it out like that, but he does.

And with how the color drains from your face, he instantly regrets it. 

He can see the truth that you’ve stitched deep inside your bones, in an attempt to forget, curl its way up your spine and towards your head. But there’s still that stark defiance that your heart pumps in your very veins—one that you’ll let yourself be blinded by, even if it means never seeing even a speck of light ever again. 

Seokmin tries to fight it on your behalf, “he isn’t here…hasn’t been for years. Ever since—”

You jerk your arms away from his hold. 

“Stop lying!” you scream, “all you do is lie. Your entire existence is a lie!” 

Seokmin knows exactly what’s happening—this provocation, this reflection of pain turned outward because your mind cannot hold it in any longer. It’s the same script every time, but it never gets easier to watch.

“You just…you just don’t want me to be with him because that ruins your perfect little plan,” you speak more to yourself than to Seokmin now, “because if Raymond lets him go, you’re afraid you’d lose your pretend-wife and hence, your reputation. People will know you only married me to save face! That you prefer men over women!”

“Hansol is not here,” he repeats, barely audible. “You know this. You do know this, even if you—”

You press your palms over your ears, cheeks completely soaked with hot, uncontrolled tears. 

“Stop it! Stop lying to me Mr. Lee…” you stumble off the bed, away from him, “for the love of God, stop being so cruel!” 

Seokmin can feel his own composure beginning to fracture, but he pushes through it, because someone has to stay steady. And it will never be you.

He takes a step forward as you struggle to put your coat back on, his hand carefully extended towards you. But you gasp with sheer horror, your eyes bulging wide as you flinch away from him like he’s your predator. 

“I can’t—I can’t do this anymore.” You shake your head frantically, “I can’t stay married to you to save your face while the love of my life rots away in a dingy cinema-room loading and unloading love stories that he might never get to live.”

Seokmin watches you helplessly as you put your shoes on with this haphazard urgency. Like if you don’t act now, something precious and pure will once again be swallowed into the belly of the Earth. A vicious act of thievery, a cruel annihilation of love. 

“I need to finish watching the movie…” you repeat, “I must finish watching the movie…”

Seokmin knows better than to stop you right now, so he waits for a beat until you disappear down the stairs and then, he follows you to the theater where your childhood sweetheart Hansol once worked before getting forcefully conscripted into the army half a decade ago. 

⸻

Raymond sees her every time when she pretends to sneak in, but never stops her. His weathered, grey irises are full of sorrow for the poor girl. 

Today, she rushes in unabashedly. No disguise. No attempt to be invisible. 

Her steps are erratic, her coat half unbuttoned. Her hair sticks to her sweaty forehead in rivulets and if anyone saw her eyes, they’d be flinching away from her as if she were a rabid animal. 

Raymond considers going after her when she barges inside an empty cinema-room, one that she always slips into. The same one that her lover once helped operate. 

Sometimes, she stays there for a few minutes. Most times, she spends hours. 

Just when he’s about to check in on her, a hand clasps his shoulder. Lee Seokmin, the jazz singer…her husband. 

“Please…just, let her be.” He pleads, reaching inside his pocket to settle whatever loss this interruption would cause Raymond. 

Raymond doesn’t accept the wad of cash. 

Just walks up to the chalkboard and erases all the schedules for the day.

⸻

The screen is already drenched in the images stuck where you had left them. Hansol must’ve loaded the projector already. Hopefully, this time, it won’t stop…even though you wish it did.

“Hansol…” you call out in the dark, this little beacon of naive hope shadowing what you already know—that perhaps, now, he won’t show up. 

Persistence—the language of your love letters to him. 

You try to wield its powers again. “Hansol, love, don’t hide now. I have enough saved…even if Mr. Lee refuses to help us, we can go—”

A loud screech, the tell-tale sound of plastic reel spinning against metal. 

The movie…the rite of passage…begins to play again. 

What a grotesque name. 

You refuse to acknowledge it by prying your eyes away from it even though the faces on the screen begin morphing into the ones you recognize. Yours. His. Seokmin’s. 

You try to run away, but something cements you on spot. 

‘I need to show you something…’

Lovers severed by war and tethered by longing. 

‘...it is a story of love…’

And one of loss, too.

‘...it ends the way it needs to…’

An ending stripped off contentment for anyone involved. 

You feel a strange sensation—something whirring inside your ears and making your focus wobble…a weird vertigo. Almost like you’re peering down the edge of a cliff, your naked feet sweat-slicked and taut over the loosening sand. 

The world seems like a single flip away from something irreversible…yet, inevitable. Time. Like you’re one with the clock. No coming back. No bringing back. 

On the screen, the hero is plucked out of his lover's arms and given an anglicised name. 

Vernon, a name that traces back to an alder tree. Hansol, a name linked to a pine tree. 

Did everyone who ever named him felt his presence akin to a balmy shade of a tree as well? Away from the blinding lights…a soft life that tumbles and giggles in the shadows. 

At the end of the movie, the hero dies. 

The heroine goes mad. 

The once opaque, ivory sheet of the projector turns into a mirror. 

There’s a gap inside of you now…like something scooped out of you. Something akin to a sweet poison which had to be sucked out or else it would have melted your insides. 

You wonder if you would have liked that gradual necrosis. If that heaviness that seems to have been vaporized out of you was the only thing harnessing you here. 

The hinges of the door creak when it opens and Seokmin enters, the matured yellow of the afternoon sun slanting its brilliance on you. 

But you don’t shrivel away anymore…you don’t close your eyes. 

fin.

author's note: i am genuinely sorry.

permanent tags:@mellowamour @lovelylonelinesssvt @gyuguys @scoupscious

@jicheolsol-lover @sumzysworld @lllucere @seungcheolsblackcard @wakandabiitch2

@helloiliketits @J3nnch3ls3a @princessjazzyjazz @livelaughloveseventeen

@sousydive @izzyy-recs @livmarauder @vwintershire @cherrymayz

special tag for @luvrung for this one <3

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