like a wolf howling

This boy is so distracted by love that instead of typing up his trial report he types this:

- The first couple lines of the Korean National Anthem

- “Whennnnn are we gonna be doneeeee”

- “Are you thirsty…? Should we go and buy drinks?” (he’s so nervous that he has to type out what he wants to say first oh my goodness)

w.i.t.c.h.: instagram aesthetics

character aesthetics: irma lair (w.i.t.c.h.)

Afterwards, when the flames finally subside, they leave. There’s nothing left in this town for either of them. So they take each other’s hands and they go - somewhere far away, quiet, safe and unknown.

She cuts her hair short, into a modern bob. She wears T-shirts, jeans, and cardigans - never a dress, especially summer ones.

Back then, she didn’t have the time or tools for a haircut, and they always gave her dresses or skirts to wear. Loose, feminine clothes in purposely light colours. 

She hates being called beautiful, having lived the past three years of others emphasising and focusing on it. She hates any sort of attention drawn to her looks or body.

Instead he calls her strong, a survivor. She tells him he’s kind and a good person.

Neither of them sleep well at night, always wary of a possible attack when they do so. There was always noises in the dark, the rustling of cloth and distant chatter; harsh yellow hallway light peeking in through the crack beneath the door, creaking footsteps of sentries walking back and forth outside it - prison guards or apostles.

Their bed is pushed flush against the wall, with a wooden bat on the other side leaning against the cupboard. Even though he used to sleep with his back against the wall, now he sleeps on the outside, protecting her from the world. She finds it most comforting when she cushions her head against his chest, falling asleep to the sound of his heart beneath her ear, arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

She always hugs him like this, as if trying to sink into his arms and fuse into his very being. As if she’s afraid he’s going to leave or be taken away from her. He always touches her gently, soothingly, careful not to startle her.

Sometimes she can’t bear being touched at all, wrapping her arms around and withdrawing into herself. Her memories and nightmares crawl with the sensation, and she has to work through it. He leaves her quietly to it, standing by and staring out of the window.

Neither of them are used to being touched by others any more, except in violence. He’s the affectionate kind, giving small spontaneous kisses to her cheeks, forehead or hands - reminiscent of how he used to with his grandmother. He deliberately audibly scuffs his steps around her, especially when behind her, following it with the deep reassuring murmurs of his voice. She learns to get used to his presence and touch, memorizing the size and callouses of his hands, comforted by the warm weight of his arms and distinct smell of his skin. She kisses him sweetly, holding his face in her hands (her small measure of self control), while he holds her gently by the waist.

She especially cannot bear being touched anywhere on her legs, particularly on the thighs.

It takes a while for them to sleep together. At first they only kiss and hug. Things above the waist, with the light on and her eyes open, as if to make sure she knows exactly who the other person is.

Then one day, very early in the morning, she wakes up: surrounded by warmth and scent, his familar smell sunken into the sheets and the tshirt she wears to sleep, his arms wrapped loosely about her. And through their thin, partially open curtains, sunlight shines down upon them, highlighting his head on the pillow, the open expression of his sleeping face. She sinks down next to him and he wakes to her kissing him, cupping his face. He smiles, sleepy sweet, and she slides her arms around his neck, pressing closer to him.

They usually only do it in the morning. Nighttime is often full of nightmares, though they get their breaks. They always have the light on.

Often, when she wakes from her nightmares, shaking and crying, the only thing he can do is hold her and reassure her, “You’re safe here, you’re free now.”

They both like to sit outside, on the grassy ground beyond their front porch. Often, she’s still amazed that she can do such a thing, to leave the house and go outside whenever she pleases, to just sit outside the whole day if she wants to. She can feel the rocks and grass beneath her, digging into her skin and staining her clothes; can smell the fresh air, and feel the wind through her hair. And right by her side is always him, his steady presence grounding her. 

A sort of mix of ideal/ending/scenario/ficlet thing.

ahaha i love how young do does that to eun sang