elastic heart

look away, traveler, eyes are not meant to see this. mortals are not meant to lay eyes on such an ethereal thing, such an abomination of nature, such a petrifying sight. see, no matter how our little witch boasts (blood pure, magic a birthright laid out for her and her solely) there’s nothing divine about the “magic” that is to occur here.

that is, there’s nothing magical about this. that is, organ harvesting, i mean.

but bex would not have been an opportunist at heart (wicked, selfish, nasty little thing she is) had she not taken this chance. for what better chance would she have than this—to have the fragile delicacy of a fae’s wings offered up to wandering feet and curious hands—to have sunseong in ruins and ripe for picking?

she might not have been the instigator but far be it from her to be above prospering from the spoils of someone else’s war.

which leaves our little wicked thing here, knees digging into soft dirt, fingers dipping through sliced skin. rightfully, she will not deny the disgust that rises with the act, the putrid stench of blood and fae magic reigns pungent to her olfactory organs, swirls in her head and leaves her lightheaded, eyes watering, and teeth gritted. but there is no magic without sacrifice, no victory without blood spilt—if she wanted something, at least, when it comes to magic, she would work for it herself.

(or rather, one could say she simply didn’t trust the simpletons of sunseong (read, our little witch’s waning collection of “friends”) enough to correctly retrieve what she needed.)

that is, wings of a fae for its vitality (magic she could harness). that is, the third rib from the clavicle down for its protection (wards she could spell).

the former is easy when it came down to it, something akin to ripping off a bandaid, the dead fae’s wings lay intact beside the two, gleaming in the moonlight despite the fraying of its owner’s body beside it.

it is the latter that proves to be far more difficult. that is, messy.

evidently, there is no clean way to remove a rib; especially with bare hands, when the blood still runs a warm red and the hole in the creature’s chest is not big enough to retrieve the bone. bex has no other option but to tear the flesh apart, exposing more of the innards of the fae to the night chill—intestines, kidneys, missing heart (positively tasteful of those barbaric dogs pressed under the chaos controller’s thumb) and all—to wrap around the bone, slicked fingers sliding along the smooth curve as she mutters the needed incantation.

it’s just that easy when it came down to it. so long as she doesn’t get caught, that is.

but when have we known our little witch to ever be afraid of something like that?

or rather to even be unprepared for something like that to begin with? of course, that would be assuming her guard dog paid enough attention to their surroundings while she busied herself.

“sehun...” his name slips past in the most delicious ways, relishing in the way the scuffle behind her seems to indicate the vampire’s snap to attention at her call. “are you keeping an eye out?” the witch questions casually, more amused than she really should be—considering the circumstances, where the bodies of various supernaturals still hung from all over the city.

she shouldn’t be here. that much is known. in its vast grandeur, the charming castle is one to behold day or night, the picturesque fairytale castle that girls like her could only dream of (because fairytales only ever apply to girls like her when she is the villain in the matter) — it’s splendid in its own right, a kingdom living under false pretenses. after all, it was no longer a kingdom theirs.

mother had been kind in that regard, allowing the charmings’ to continue live on in their faux lives with their riches and royalty with the promise of their loyalty to her—in malvana’s eyes, it had been the best of many worst case scenarios, one made possible by her own efforts.

( she’d never plead, mother despised any show of weakness, though it’s inevitable that the mistress of evil would piece two and two together regarding her daughter’s affections for the charming boy—and malvana was lucky that all mother wanted in return was her word and loyalty in finishing the task she was sent to do. at least, at the time, she had felt that she was lucky. )

and though she had every right to be here, though the kingdom had long been under the rule of volcain, malvana knew very well that she shouldn’t—at least, not here, where wisps of green slither through open balcony doors to take form of a woman clad in lace and black, not here, where sharp eyes search for life in a bedroom barren of any. not here, in the bedroom of leopold sinclair charming. 

( yes, certainly not here, when her skin tingles with the ghost of another prince’s lips, when her hair and dress reeks of another’s cologne. not here, when he spent the majority of the night engrossed in another—skin white as snow, yet malvana wanted to see nothing more than violent red (violent as she feels, red as she sees) spilled over alabaster—be it by his own conviction or not. not here, when the damned valentine’s day gala is the reason behind the petulant cocktail of emotions that swept her up and leaves her a contorted mess of hurt and bitter in a place she had no right in being. yes, she shouldn’t be here. she shouldn’t. )

but the human heart is weak, frail, and she had only inherited half of her mother’s prowess (half of the mistress of evil’s aptitude for prioritizing power over love—and yet her heart wavers constantly, caught between a promise to kin and the agonizing realization of the hearts she’s willingly tearing apart, piece by piece; hers and his) — none of which keeps her safe from the fate’s cruel twists and turns. none of which she’s ever been prepared to feel. 

leopold’s room is bare, a factor the half faery isn’t entirely sure is a good thing (sure, she shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be seen, shouldn’t be slipping into the room of the very person that has her heart wild, mind scattered, and conscience thrown out of the window—it’s better that leo isn’t here, better that she’s alone. but where is he then? if not here? in the arms of another? vana doesn’t dare think further.) — but she supposes she hadn’t the slightest idea of what to say, no right to, if she’s honest, and that the charming twin’s lack of appearance marks a better alternative to what might’ve happened from this impulsive trip over.

( what could she say? knowing that she stood, impure, stripped of any right to be angry. nothing. 

she really shouldn’t be here. )

it takes little to make her way over, knuckles pressed into the surface of his night table with a slight pause—here vana dares a breath, dares to inhale the bittersweet soothe of an ambrosial scent, teeth torturing a quivering lip, acutely aware of the lump lodged in her throat (of the helplessness that strikes, hands tied and unable to do anything about the ache that grips onto the innermost corners of her heart)—and when she releases her grip, it’s to drop silver cufflinks and a small card onto the table.

happy valentines, it says, scribbled across the card and signed with her initial, words she presumes are better conveyed when actually spoken. but little is actually better in positions like this, in bruises that mark her skin and ghost hands that linger—hands that aren’t his—no, vana supposes tonight is not the night for that.

instead, slender fingers slide over the card, plucking it off the table after a second, more pessimistic thought as she spares the links ( rubies caught in the brilliance of moonlight, rubies that match those she adorned on her lobes) another glance, pivoting on her heel to leave without a second longer; jaw locked at the disappointingly bitter sort of yearning settling in her chest.

her first valentine’s day, she remembers well. a day dedicated to love, though mortals later would love to boast and credit the fourteenth to chaucer, had always been a day blessed by aphrodite’s admiration of humankind’s ability to love—rashly, fiercely, passionately. back then, it had been a day for the people on earth to fold into the embrace of their loved ones, whisper sweet nothings into keen ears and envelop themselves fully in love’s tender kisses, saccharine smiles and addicting warmth. 

but warmth is a concept lost in the barren grounds of the underworld, cast aside by the chill of death that hangs in the air like pestilence. persephone is wholly aware of the decisions that brought her here—the lord of the underworld was a temptation she couldn’t resist, beckoning at the stirring in her chest, the first taste of sweet pomegranate on a hungered insipid tongue—kept her here (for deep in her heart she’d known it was a moment’s impulse, moment’s of defiance, of tender maiden’s wavering heart in the face of distress that crosses her fair king’s chiseled features) for at least another month. 

and beyond the obsession—it is what it is, she shan’t dare spit on ahprodite’s good name and call it love—for the king of the underworld, she finds herself with crippled by a yearning for warmth the land of the dead couldn’t offer up. warmth that sun-kissed goddesses like her deserves, warmth that accursed immortal beings like hades hasn’t seen in for years to come. 

in hindsight, she should have seen this coming—should have anticipated the pros and cons of being hades’ bride—mother had raised her to be everything from tender to nurturing but cautious, but humble. and so she’s left like this, a woman driven by fixation, driven by the enticement of a dangerous sort of unknown; no longer a maiden blessed by helios’ chariot and her mother’s flourish but one left to her own devices on a throne made of stone and bone, her husband’s hand in hers—cold. 

yes, the first few months following her decision to stay had been differing degrees of cold. 

but persephone had expected it, to a degree, perhaps, hades claims to love her yet the god does not know how—has never known how—and she’s known less, despite the years spent listening in on aphrodite retell tales of her favorite mortal love stories (she’s said that they love stupidly, blindly, even more passionately than the gods without the promise of immortality), and here, on this day, persephone finds she misses the ability to confide in the goddess of love the most.

love is instinct, aphrodite would say, a feeling unable to be fully addressed in words—wiser men has tried, and not even athena’s brilliance could have lead them down a proper path of doing so—a feeling better conveyed through gestures, as grandeur as one would wish or as simple as they could dream, at the end of the day the decision lies with them.

but persephone couldn’t have conveyed herself properly if she tried, body pure body untouched, her heart pounded the hardest the day her eyes met his—how she’s supposed to convey that she’s not entirely sure.

still, she makes an effort on this day.

we return to the fact that the underworld is barren in its ability to grow any of persephone’s favorite carnations or tulips, stripping her of any resemblance to home—but she finds flourish (grotesque beauty in its muted, ghostly petals) in the asphodel meadows and despite having heeded hades’ warning early on to stray (for the souls of the dead swarm at any presence, mute yet their presence threatens to consume anyone’s cries) our temerarious queen ventures into without a second thought.

(for she hadn’t known how to convey love without a gesture, a gift, and hades may have shining gold and sparkling jewelry at her disposal, but nothing came from the heart enough than this—this, persephone feels with a trickle of warmth and a whiff of nostalgia when she plucks the prettiest sprig from its bed and presses it close to her chest. this, she hopes he’ll like.)

“hades,” she readily greets the brooding king, perched upon his throne as perhaps the most magnificent thing to behold in the underworld (in any world), persephone plays her fingers over the sprig pressed behind her back, hesitating for a fraction of a second. the sight of the striking king makes her acutely aware of her appearance, almost embarrassed by her frazzled hair—teased by unforgiving branches of the grove she ran past—disheveled dress and dirt that covered her fingers and feet. 

oh, but she’s always been like this—her mother would testify if she hadn’t been furious with the likes of the king of the dead (never her, mother would never admit that it was her that took the seeds)—hasn’t she?

always some modicum of wild, some modicum of carefree; wasn’t that what he saw in her? persephone, of beauty, persephone, of wilderness, persephone who stood now, feet stinging and chest heaving and cheeks flush—alive, warm. perhaps too pleased at her own recklessness.

(but that’s what love’s about, isn’t it?)

all men fear death. god built his children to be this way, so-called apex predators, top of the food chain, smartest creatures on the planet—but none of which actually mattered in the face of frailty; of wilting youth, aging flesh and muscle, and weakening bone. but as a near immortal creature of the sea, sehun fears naught. death doesn’t drape himself over his shoulders in any discomfiting manner, doesn’t push down on broad shoulders till he frets over a sort of unknown darkness out there waiting to swallow him up. 

no, he supposes he doesn’t fear what mortals fear, that frailty doesn’t touch him (his skin is tough (durable), sun-kissed and marred only by serrated ivory of his kin, by sins of blood) and death doesn’t nearly come as easy as it does to mortals (in his younger days, he’d try, driven by a crushing sensation humans would refer to as heartbreak over the exile of his kin (exile, being the better way to phrase it—at least, in comparison to being left for dead); a devastating hollowness that youth shouldn’t feel) — and here, on land, he was the apex predator, the scariest thing around. him and only him stood at top of the food chain.

at least, that’s how it had been in the years he’s stayed on land.

but the recent days spells otherwise, spells a certain sweet scent that wafts through the sea air that sehun cannot deny (in that it has his insides churn, stomach quivering in anticipation, greedy for more), spells something that wasn’t human lurking near the shores of incheon.

of course, he wasn’t as sure as to what—didn’t know what to think beyond the peculiar lust for more and looming paranoia about the return of his kin—but stark curiosity alone has him stalking through the beach side near his flat day in and out, unable to shake off the anxiety (he refuses to call it fear, but bone chill easily lodges in his throat at the thought) that something wicked lurks in wait.

and years of living on land (alone, coldly discarded with hopes of having perished) has prompted him with the need to be steps ahead.

even now, with flash flood warnings ringing in his ear, the beating heart (harsh in the way it thumps, unease surging through every busy vein) has him stepping out of the warmth of his flat and into the cold of incheon’s seaside and its unforgiving weather. rain, a sharp merciless downpour that instantly attacks the black canopy over his head like an onslaught of gunshots, greets him haughty with the way it partners with the wind to aim icy cold droplets at his face, threatens to overturn the umbrella in his grasp.

sehun finds this is one of the many downsides of living on land—having to deal with mother nature’s anger.

but for the most part, the male wasn’t deterred—lulled, almost, by the chaos laid out before him; waves crashing against rocks, the pungent scent of a discarded home is stronger than ever, sehun knows that the ocean calls to him—teasing, taunting, beckoning his return—she’s merciless, after all, she’ll have him close to swallow him whole. 

hasn’t it always been that way with the sea?

he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been tempted. but sehun was no fool (or rather, simply a creature kept at bay by his own fears), he knew well enough what returning meant—the possibilities behind it, the creatures that lie await in her beguiling waves—why would he ever give up being a king on land to go back to living like that in the sea?

no, he supposes has no intentions of ever returning to the sea after settling into a life on land—years, he’s been here, making a life for himself; years he’s not ever willing to give up—he belongs here, he’d tell himself, if only for the fact that he had nowhere else to go.

yet fate has other plans—of course, sehun doesn’t know this yet, doesn’t know anything about what awaits when he stepped out of the house earlier; when he steps now, down empty streets and through a raging storm (perhaps the only calm man in a city with a rapidly rising water level). no, he doesn’t know a thing till he rounds a corner, till something softer (much smaller) bumps into his chest with a considerable amount of strength. 

and yet it isn’t the faint wave of pain that seizes his attention, nor the feminine surprised cry of his “assaulter”, rather it is the overwhelming scent of sweetness piercing through sea salt that has his chest stirring, base of his spine quivering, an animalistic growl rooted at the back of his throat that sehun forcibly swallows, hand reaching out to steady the smaller figure before she topples over.

he’s avoiding her.

the notion itself shouldn’t bother her as much as it does, yet soojung finds herself plagued by an irritable sort going about her day with the knowledge that every creak in the floorboards is oh sehun turning away at the sight of her back and every unanswered knock to the door of his room is him ignoring her attempts to reach out. 

what an asinine sort of imbecile.

had she not been the reason for his injury, soojung doubted she would even care as much (though her heart beats a different tale, twists at the idea of being ignored by that stupid fucking speedster and clenches in the dark of night when the thought returns to her). fucking sehun. fuck sehun. 

it’s with that, along with time and a stubborn, unflinching spine, that her attention deviates from the injured boy to something else entirely. distraction she willingly walks into, open arms, fingers pressed into her hips, bruising the skin there, on her neck, on her collarbones, and all whenever the traitorous organ in her chest cavity dares to even beat over a man adamant on being a child.

but things never truly goes her way, never really goes the way she wants it to—because if it did, she’d never see oh sehun again, never even think about the speedster for a second longer. and yet the flyrokinetic finds herself at the wrong place, wrong time when she rounds the corner—to come face to face with the very person she hadn’t want to see, toppling over and hitting the ground with a none too forgiving sound.

good. her mind thinks—a direct contrast to the way her heart twists disgustingly with concern—lips twisted into a frown as she stills in place, caught between the temptation of leaving and the guilt of deserting him in a situation she put him in in the first place. don’t forget, you’re the one that broke his leg.

slow, though not at all lax, soojung makes her way over to the struggling male, biting her tongue once she stands before him and considers the options of how to go about this; it was best not to say anything "offensive”, maybe. 

“you’re in the way.” she starts, lips pressed into a taut line even as she regards him, fingers curling inward absently. “not dead, are you?” 

winter. there’s something to say about the season, about the bone-chill and fresh snow that brings out the loneliness in most, urges them to reach out and attach themselves to the nearest eager bodies. winter, the loneliest season, the season that churns out the most cookie cutter couples hungry for skin and affection.

lonely winter, of course, was not the reason behind the pandemonium that has all of hogwarts taken by surprise. was not the reason for lingering touches and contagious smiles. was not (definitely, definitely not) the reason for sugar sweet she tastes, heart pounding in the presence of soft touches and nervous smiles.

it wasn’t. because she knew long before winter that she liked charlie kang.

( oh, her mother would laugh if she knew the circles her daughter danced about — esme rhee, imbecile en mal d'amour, laughable. )

but nevertheless, the season has her aching for more, yearning for more time ( and this the downfall of young lovers, riding the high of un amour débutant — esme simply does not wish to part ). so she seizes the chance to propose the trip, knowing her parents would be preoccupied, christmas break in the rhee villa along the french rivera. him and her. alone.

( didn’t it seem all too apparent as to what was going to happen? )

by the time she’s arrived to the empty villa by floo, her spirits were higher than ever, quick to step out of the fireplace to face it instead, awaiting the arrival of one ( esme’s imagined it’s his default by now ) flustered hufflepuff.

sure enough, in a flurry of brilliant green flames, came her boyfriend shortly after.

“you made it,” esme starts, lips curved coy with a hint of teeth, voice taking up a teasing lilt. “i honestly thought you were going to end up somewhere weird.” like if he had said manor instead and ended up face to face confrontation with her father. 

“stop staring and get out of there already, charlie.” the gryffindor sighs, stepping forward to slide her fingers around the taller boy’s wrist and tug, eyes flicking over his face when he finally budges, apples of her cheeks rising in a manner pleased. 

“there’s no one here but you, me, and some house elves.” her fingers slide downward, lacing with his absently while her eyes travel, drinking in the familiar sight of her childhood vacation villa. “but this is it, this is us for the next few days.” bright eyes turn to him, excitement barely contained in the way her grin flitters across her face, playful. 

“eric, no!”

now, if you had asked our dear princess a week ago what she’d picture her life to be like—leading up to her impending coronation—any answer she could have come up with wouldn’t have been this.

nothing she could have possibly thought up would have held a candle to what had happened in a span of a week—the bright-eyed boy washed up ashore, mouthful of seawater and wonder yet not a single syllable seems to be able to slip past, was like a remnant of a better time (when the king and queen’s warmth still drapes over her thin shoulders like armory against the cruelty of the world) and she still had everything she wanted and more (in the form of a boy bare, boy handsome, conversing from the bewitching waves of the sea).

and yet, they’re here, and yet, ariel’s decidedly clung to the only semblance of control in her life, pinned herself against the mute boy eric and declared him one of her own for keeping.

something not even the court—in their attempts to fashion a queen out of a princess too wild—can take from her.

but back to reality, back to bright-eyed eric and his eager mouth, clumsy fingers and clueless demeanor. 

back to her fingers encircling his, pulling them away from the bowl. “a fork, we’ve been through this, you’re supposed to use a fork, eric.” ariel chides gently, gaze flickering from his eyes to the pads of his fingers, pinker than usual and warm to the touch (she’d ghost her own over them carefully, watching for any significant reaction). “does it hurt?” her words convey her concern, downturned lips parted slightly to blow gently on pulsating flesh while her thumb flicks over his palm absently in a manner she hopes to be comforting enough.

after a week spent together, ariel figures she’s got a good enough read on how eric felt about certain things—and she wouldn’t dare dub her wonder boy idiotic, simply forgetful in his excitement.

“is it better?” the princess quips, eyes meeting his once more. the two sits lone in the dining room, yet ariel feels heat garner in her chest anyhow—as if she’s been surrounded by packs of servants, as if it’s been difficult to breathe—unable to draw her eyes away from his, as if compelled for a flicker of a moment (skip of a beat).

REPUBLIC CITY. to think that the youngest princess of the northern tribe would ever make her way here when only the thought of it itself was a pipe dream throughout sickly years of youth. and yet here she stands, shining eyes and breathlessly enamored by the city’s vastness. 

( in people, in culture, in freedom. )

the program itself was a blessing in disguise. though her father had displayed displeasure in the attendance of his younger children, there was nothing he could do to stop them ( her ), nothing that wouldn’t paint a bad image on the tribe anyway—as if worsening tensions between the two water tribes wasn’t bad enough already; politically, he could not afford having the other nations up in arms about the northern tribe as well.

that being said, his lecture prior to leaving the northern tribe lingers in her thoughts, though asha knows fully well it isn’t a speech intended for her ( she has long taken herself out of the race for the crown ) it was still something to take heed of. 

getting on her sister’s bad side was almost as bad as her father’s.

but as it was, the four hours she’s spent in republic city thus far was moderately tame. in that she had ditched her luggage ( her security detail ) within the first hour and ran headfirst fearless into the bustling streets of the city. 

and it was hot, asha realizes a few moments too late upon stepping out of the air conditioned lobby of the hotel, instant regret sinking in as the water tribe’s thick winter clothing weighs on her like a polar bear dog. it didn’t take long for her to disrobe the parka, tying it tight around her hips and her hair up into a high ponytail before she continued on with the mindless explorative path she impulsively thrusted herself upon. 

it’ll be fun, she had thought. it still is.

even if she didn’t know where she was going.

yet as luck would have it, guidance is offered to her in strong arms and a broad chest, in which—asha is running headfirst ( not as much fearless as she is blind ) crashing into it, flush with shock as her frame rams into a larger build, arms moving on instinct to wrap around the torso to steady herself as a small yelp slips past.

AMONG LIFETIMES SPENT across centuries, this is perhaps the most comfortable persephone has lived in a long while. modern day seoul, though paling in comparison to the vast greenery and fertility of sicily, is opulent in what it has to offer—or rather, what the family she bore into had to offer. love, lavishness, persephone matured under the soft, warmth of her mother and her friends, under the korean name written across her birth certificate — she blossoms like such, a carefree youth, unknowing of her true identity, nor of years of history and love etched across her ribs.

she grew up normal, unperturbed by it all, demeter certainly counts her blessings that she doesn’t. but persephone doesn’t tell her of the days spent during winter, the gaps of time where ache settles into her bones and the ghost of another’s lips lingers on her skin.

she dares not tell of the years of teen, spent sympathizing with the god written into textbooks, of his solitude, of the world’s prejudice against the king of the dead—the “monster” they claim him to be.

no, there was no need for her mother to know it — or anything at all.

above all, mother did not need to know the yearning that becomes clearer by the day—burning hot by the time she ripens into womanhood.

the floral scent that she gives off, the petals of flora that unfurl to greet her fingertips, the divinity that kisses her crown. yes, it isn’t hard to figure out the who’s and what’s by then—who she was, in fact, was just that; persephone, daughter of demeter, goddess of spring, a queen missing her king. 

but to her credit, persephone remains stagnant in her position, stubborn in keeping the life she’s spent the last two decades or so into building and just enough of a filial daughter to keep her mother’s hopes up that she would stay—demeter’s wishes stray nevermore from keeping her to her lonesome—so she stays, attends college and finds an occupation out of tending to flowers and trees in the botanical garden of seoul.

it wasn’t as if there was a rush—though her heart longs to be reunited with her love—persephone stands sure that her king, her hades, would find her.

hasn’t he always?

and as the days pass, as summer gives way to autumn, as mother’s calls persists on the daily for reassurance and she combats the heaviness in her bones, the unease settling in her chest, the yearning she can’t seem to shake—persephone finds herself returning to a flower bed secluded in the corners of the garden, fingers fond in gentle touch over its wilting petals; roses, crocuses, violets and small blue forget me nots. 

admittedly, not even she can prolong their beauty with the oncoming cold, yet the goddess is fond of tending to them anyhow, finding the scents of roses and crocuses reminiscent of their first moment spent together. 

and here, dainty knees pressing into soft dirt, she is careful in her care to plucking the surrounding weeds, stopping only at heavy footsteps that announced the presence of another, beckoning soft brown orbs to lift to meet the stranger’s.

and here’s where her heart tightens.

“o-oh, hello.” it slips out with startling ease despite the slightest bit breathless as she moves to stand, gloved fingers shifting to dust off her knees while her head dips, eyes shying away from the male’s gaze, unable to explain the sudden warmth that seizes her cheeks, the way her heart pounds and head swirls, intoxicated by his presence, fingers twitching to touch move.

oh sehun is nothing short of amazing. immaturity that is impossible to pinpoint and predict to the point of annoyance — aggravation that teeters further away from the point of endearing the more he acts up. sure, he’s handsome, features molded after aphrodite’s first love, young exhilarating youth that stole the heart of the goddess of love. 

if he had known to keep his mouth shut, soojung is almost certain he could be some sort of god instead of the school’s goddamn perverted idiot.

either way, jung soojung had no interest in an empty shell.

not that oh sehun is deterred. not that the gods are deterred. 

unholy as it was, it was him that she’s paired with to “train”, leaving the flyrokinetic dissatisfied as she stands in the center of the empty gymnasium, waiting for oh sehun to pull together a modicum of focus to actually get started.

“cmon, can you just focus for onc--” she stops, feeling a “breeze” lift her shirt to reveal nothing as her lips tug downward, irritation climbing with the cooling sensation that takes over as jung soojung disappears from sight--surrounding herself instead with a veiled forcefield that he’s bound to run into.