I am the woman of my own dreams. I require no validation. My wish is my command. My life is my own, I build it. My voice is my own, I let it be heard. I am relentless in my dedication to trusting myself. I am insatiable in my thirst for the extraordinary, and I do not settle for the mediocre.
I went on pinterest looking for a new header and i saw this cute one. I wanted to give the creator of the edit some credit because most of the time the images I find on pinterest does not have the original owner so I am glad to have found the original owner. Their pinterest is //@yoonfltrs// and they have a lot of cute headers and other things they created on their page.
Shout out to all the fanfic writers who intentionally write for POC. As a black girl it’s only been within the last year or so I’ve felt included, as a reader, on this app and other fanfic apps. Love y’all for what you do and your dedication to the craft.
it matters because it’s hard for black readers to find oneshots that include them. x reader oneshots aren’t inclusive if you mention the reader has “long blonde hair” or the readers face turned “beet red” or when the reader has “blue eyes”. so when i type my oneshots, putting x black reader matters to me because i’m typing oneshots for black readers who are probably searching for things they can read and relate to. if you simply do not like it, just scroll and ignore. your negativity isn’t needed, this is a safe space for black kpop fans and it’ll be great if you left.
WARNINGS/CONTENT : Fantasy au, multiple pov (yeonjun+reader), profanity (mild cursing), yearning, mutual pining (?), any more warnings and the storyline will be spoiled; it'll unravel as you go along. ♡
A/N : First time writing for TXT, so I guess this is my debut into moablr. Happy late Valentine's, lovelies. ♡
Just why are you the manifestation of temptation? Why does he desire you so? When he's never had you before…
Or has he?
Plush.
That's the only way you can describe this. This sensation.
Euphoria.
That's the only word for you to chronicle this. This feeling.
Elation of the unadulterated kind.
Ecstasy of the bonafide variety.
It's a feeling of fullness, of satisfaction, of gratification.
And all of that accomplished, merely by his presence. You can feel it. The heavy exhale of breathe right at the shell of your ear, the slow drag of his fingers along your curves, explorative, accustomed. Like he's done it a million times prior, like he's never done it before. Unlearning. Mastering.
"Play with me, sugar." A sultry whisper, a request, a promise.
It sends a tingle down your spine, back arching, body aching for more. Yet you force your eyes open, trying to make sense of anything that's not him. Given your state, it's not so easy a task.
Yet as your vision clears, you make out a black and amber sweater, the zipper down as far as it'll go, a plane of smooth skin on display. Looking over his shoulder, all you see is a whirlpool of colours. All kinds, vibrant persimmons, holographic blues, iridescent lilac, swirling and blending, converging together somewhere behind him.
It's hypnotic, looking at the whirlwind of hues, but even moreso, his voice.
"You're addictive." Silky smooth, dripping honey.
You zoom in your eyes on him, trying to recognize his features, his eyes, anything really, to know who he is. But all you see is blur, a pixelated mosaic at best.
You can make out everything in perfect clarity, everything except his face. The expanse of pigmented background, the countless variegated butterflies flying about.
Your eyes land on a magenta one, and it flies its way to come rest right on the convex bulge of his clavicle. But just as it makes contact with his creamy skin, it promptly disintegrates, disappearing with a puff, dusting his collars with even more sparkles.
You don't know where it comes from, this urge to lean forward and lick the glitter studs off his skin, but you make good on that impulse nonetheless, slowly dragging your tongue over his collar bone, savouring the taste of him.
He hums out in satisfaction, slender fingers tangling in your hair, not trying to move you around, just holding, feeling.
"Just like that."
You moan against his skin, trying to make out what he tastes like. You've had it before, this flavour of lust. Your tastebuds tell you as much. But you can't remember where.
Where have you tasted this before?
What is this taste, this flavour?
You move to his other beauty bone, and just as you know you're close to finding out what it is, you're shaken awake by a cool tinge on your neck.
Your eyes slowly fan open, and it takes a moment for you to blink through the tears staining your cheeks.
When had you started crying?
What the hell was that dream?
More importantly, where the fuck are you?
Suddenly wide awake, you snap your head around, looking at your surroundings. Grass and greenery abound, you're positively lost.
You remember being on the cruise a while back, but the vast stretch of water in front of you certainly doesn't look like the lido deck you were soaking in mere moments ago.
Were you thrown off the ship or something? As crazy as it sounds, that's the only possible explanation you can think of. But one body scan later, you conclude that couldn't have been the case. You see no surface injury, no indication of anything painful going down. You try standing up, expecting to at least wince a little after having been laying down on the sand in an uncomfortable position.
But nothing. Nothing at all.
One more full body scan and you find traces of dried up blood on your calves, still no sign of any wound.
Is this someone else's blood? But there's no living thing in sight for as far as you can see.
All you see is the vast ocean and the sand, extending as far as your line of sight goes, a row of bushes separating this piece of land from what lies beyond.
There's something eerily nostalgic about this place. It's evident in the way you know the trees are mulberry even before you catch the sweet waft of the ripe berries in the air that breezes past you, in the way you're sure the chameleon resting on the rock near the water will change colour once you touch it.
Intuition has always proven to be on your side, yet for the first time, you find reason to doubt it. So you take the few steps towards the reptile, extending your palm slowly so as to not scare it away. It hops on to your awaiting hand all too eagerly, much to your pleasant surprise. And true to form, the simplest of touches turns the dusky beige of its scaled skin to a wine shade of purple in a matter of seconds.
Your intuition was right.
But you feel no better, feel no sense of security at having confirmed the reliability of your sixth sense. Quite on the contrary, it's unsettling.
You know this place, have been here sometime ago, that's for sure, but have no recollection of it. Indeed, the sea is something you avoid being in the vicinity of at all costs, the water never failing to instil a sense of dread deep within you. It had taken a lot of cajoling- and bribery- on Taylor's part to even get you on the cruise, under the disguise of emotional blackmail.
"It's my Bachelorette."
"Can't you do this much for me?"
"You know it's been my dream since Love Island."
"Just don't go out on the deck and you won't even know you're on water, it'll be like living in a resort."
Endless arguments made, it was only a matter of time before you caved, the joyous squeal she let out more than worth the trouble you knew you would face when the time finally came to climb aboard. A small price to pay for her happiness, you thought back then. If only you knew how it would come back to bite you in the ass.
After pondering over it for a long while, you decide to see it for yourself, just what is it past the shrubs, what is this magnetic pull you're being dealt with.
Curiosity killed the cat, sure, but standing here, near the water in the mid winter freeze isn't doing you any favours, either.
So you move, seeking the gravity of the tug you're experiencing, like the sailor edges nearer to a siren, even with the smell of his demise prominent from kilometres away.
Only, it's not so much a demise that you're smelling. It's something entirely different.
That's the only way he can describe this. This taste.
Arousing.
That's the only word for him to chronicle this. This sensation.
Titillating in every sense of the word.
Galvanising in a way he hasn't known before.
It's a sense of security, of safety, of reprieve.
And all of that accomplished, by your mere existence. He can feel your legs trapping his waist, body pressed against his. You slowly drag the zip on his sweater down, eyes fixated on every tract of skin you uncover.
"Come a little closer." Your voice is sweet, much like everything else about you.
His body moves before his mind does, coming impossibly close, the water sloshing about around the two of you.
"Let me help you now." Anaesthetic, that's what your voice is to him.
"Mm?"
You huff out a laugh, clearly knowing the effect you have on him, the power you hold.
Even if you didn't know, he'd never fail to let you know of it himself. How you have him wrapped around your finger, all yours to have.
He doesn't know why he feels the way he does. For all he knows, is that you're a haze. It's not that you're not real, far from it. He can feel your presence in every single one of his neurons, your touch setting his skin on fire, your breath claiming the attention of every one of his muscles.
But even so, he can't see your face, no matter how he squints, wills his head to stop spinning with want.
Your laugh is what breaks him from his reverie, and he gives up trying to figure out just who you are. For now.
"You just made me feel good, didn't you? My turn now."
As if on cue, his taste buds pulsate and almost suddenly, his mouth is filled with a sweetness he tasted moments prior. A sweetness he's never had before, but simultaneously experienced all the time.
He swirls his tongue around, trying to make sense of this absurd taste.
What is it?
Seemingly having noticed what he's upto, you break out into yet another laugh,
"It's okay, darling. You'll get more of me."
His face blooms red, shyness washing over him at having been caught tasting the remnants of you in his mouth. He lets out a squeak, burying his face in the crook of your neck, arms tightening around you.
You chuckle, "Now now," lacing your fingers with his and giving a squeeze. Your way of letting him know it's okay, that he doesn't need to hide, doesn't have reason to fret. He's safe with you. Secure. Free to be vulnerable, to let his boundaries down.
How he knows all of that from a simple squeeze of his hand, he doesn't know. The same way he doesn't know who you are, and why he trusts you with his life.
All he knows is that he does.
And that he doesn't question it. Not when it feels so right.
A sharp pang of gut wrenching pain that he knows all too well is what jolts him awake, stirs him from yet another one of his dreams. Of visions of a being so beautiful, he's never known the likes of. Of a flavour so sweet, he'd die- time and again- for a taste.
He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to calm down the thumping of his heart, the one he can hear all the way up to his ears.
That's when he feels the streams marked on his cheeks, down all the way to his neck.
This is a first.
He's dreamt of her before. He's tasted her in his dreams before.
But never has he cried like this. Never has his heart ached this much.
He swears he was able to taste it this time. This time, he promised himself that he'll remember it. But just like all the other times, it fizzled from his palate the moment he woke up.
It's frustrating, to say the least. He feels denied, deprived of what he deserves.
Soobin won't shut up about craving his lemon sherbet all day. Taehyun won't stop raving about how it's the best sorbet he's ever had the pleasure of tasting.
Beomgyu, Huening; they've all had their share of flavour a billion times over by now.
So why? Why is it that he's the only one that's left behind?
Why is it only him that doesn't know what his person tastes like?
"Good things take time." Is what Mrs. Yeon says. What she's been saying for years now.
But what does she know? Sure, she might be the community elder, the one to have the most wisdom when it comes to anything of the matter. But she's not the one yearning for someone who never comes, wishing upon every fallen star for someone who never shows up, aching for a taste that's not found in anything he tries.
And God, has he tried. The flavour lingers for a little while every time he wakes up, before it disappears from his memory. He's tried committing it to memory, finding it in anything and everything.
Perennials. Botanicals. Herbs. Drugs.
Grapevine is the only thing that comes the closest, but that's honestly downplaying it. It's near insulting to call her taste similar to a mere grapevine but it's a beginning, he supposes.
He almost fell face first into a chronic one-way paralysis trying to make up a concoction by infusing fernflowers with grapevine in an attempt to replicate her flavour.
He's been banned from the Aesculapian Estate ever since, barred from anything relating even remotely to phytomedicine.
But really, is he one to be blamed? He's desperate, rightfully so. Needy in a way he's never been.
Natives call him crazy, fixated, but at the end of the day, they aren't the ones wanting something they can't have. Wanting something they deserve, something their mothers' bedtime stories promised they'd have, something the community elders never failed to mention they would be rewarded with when the time comes.
It's unfair.
It's been years since he came of age. Years since he's been denied his mate. Years and years since he's been seeing everyone around him being paired up and skipping along merrily.
So, why him?
As he lies there, nestled among the outstretched net of tangled roots emerging from the trunk of the Bristlecone Pine tree, he feels it.
Again.
Reluctantly, he gets up and runs to the nearby pond. Aligning himself into the familiar position, hunched over, hands on the edge, he waits for what's to come.
It's violent this time around, the way his stomach squeezes, body convulsing, the breath being knocked out from his lungs.
Retching hasn't ever been something he objectively likes to partake in, but this is excruciating. As painful as it is everytime, it's never this bad. It feels like liquifying all the soft organs he has, coming out in the form of the pink, shining sludge he's seen one too many times before.
After what feels like forever, and for all he knows might as well have been, it stops, the temporary reprieve much welcome. And temporary it is, he knows it to be.
It's what, the sixth time today?
Two is the average, maybe three if the universe is feeling particularly cruel that day, but this is out of the ordinary, even for the level of brutality he's subject to on the daily.
Returning to the previous position against the trunk, he finds a semblance of normality, chest heaving a little slowly, head pounding a little less loudly.
For a reason unknown, the proximity of the evergreens has always had a calming effect on him, being the closest thing to a natural sedative.
He slumps back into the position he was in initially, the drag of bark against his back a welcome comfort, puts an arm over his closed eyes, attempting to even out his breathing.
He's not sure how much more of this he can take.
The further you go, the stronger the pull gets.
It's starting to get dark now and the range of bushes you crossed hours ago is nowhere in sight, lost somewhere in the late evening fog that's beginning to coat the air surrounding you, lacing it with a heaviness, making it a little difficult to breath.
Yet you move in a daze, empowered by this urge, that there's something, someone you're seeking.
You don't know what, or who, just that it's here, somewhere.
A faint whistling catches your attention, coming from somewhere towards the east. Its a sonic you've heard before, a note all too acquainted. It's calming and unnerving at the same time, and you're not particularly fond of the way it fails even your second sight, for you, once again, are doubtful of what is it exactly that's transpiring, every second you venture further into these forsaken woods setting off new alarms within you.
So, much like what you've been doing until now, you follow the unsaid attraction and move towards the sound.
You spot a curtain of string leaves hanging down between two thick tree trunks, violet beams of light peeking through them. Fireflies are buzzing and glowing all around them, seemingly attracted to the luminescence, the night properly pitch dark by now.
You trudge forward, reaching for the leaf garland and drawing it aside and a gasp leaves your lips.
The view you witness is something that puts any fantasy you could ever have to shame.
It's violet all over, everywhere you look. Violet leaves, indigo trunks, prop roots hanging off branches, touching the ground covered with equally purple sand. Thick roots emerge from the tree bases, entwining and curling together, forming a spiderweb on the forest floor. Some leaves shed from their petioles, swirling in the air, filling it with a flowery aroma, twirling and landing on the river. The water has a translucent lavender tinge to it too, moving in small eddies, echoing a gentle hum in the quiet of the night.
That's when you spot it, spot them, someone in the water, submerged save for the head that peakes out. Only the back of the long locks of hair is visible to you, but something within you tightens, and in the same daze, you approach the silhouette without thinking twice about it.
As he hears the sound of the slowly approaching footsteps, he sighs audibly, closing his eyes, getting ready for the blow to land. This is the time of the night when Boemgyu loves to come to him with his stories. Stories of how there's nothing better he's tasted, how much he wishes Yeonjun could have it too.
He knows he comes from a good place, he really does. But listening to him for hours on end, about something that he can't understand, is painful to put it mildly.
But it's through these conversations that he lives vicariously, the closest he gets to knowing what it would be like to finally get to have his mate, the one made just for him, and for whom he was made. It'd all sounded like a fluke the first he heard of it, like the stuff from fairytales; had he not witnessed it firsthand, seen with his very own eyes, he'd still refuse to believe it. He'd been better off not knowing, in all honesty. Sometimes peace of mind comes from being none the wiser, and if this is not the best instance he could apply that faith to, he doesn't know what is.
But the younger native he considers his brother doesn't let him forget it, makes it a point to remind him everyday without fail.
So really, it's a vicious requisite. A masochistic desire.
It hurts him to hear, but is the only salvage he gets to have for now. For however long into the future, until he's shown some mercy.
Even so, as the sound of the footsteps grows, the familiar nausea returns, the bile gurgling up his throat for the seventh time this day, rendering hours of water therapy useless.
He's suddenly on edge.
"Leave me alone, Gyu. I don't want to hear it."
Might be harsh, but he doesn't have it in him to be tactical with his words right now. With how things have been today, he's long given up on being pleasant. That can always wait for another day.
The stomps stop, but don't retreat.
"Leave." He sighs.
Boemgyu knows when not to push him, he knows when to press and when to leave, so the lingering doesn't make any sense. The sheer frustration in his tone would have been reason enough for him to realise that leaving him to his devices was for the best, the best for both of them, and for the tranquillity that envelopes the night. For Yeonjun when mad, is a sight vexatious. He isn't proud of it, but anger control has never been his forte, and considering all the times his anger issues have done him and his community good, he doesn't plan on fixing that aspect of him anytime soon. Sure, it might make him an unpleasant person for many, but it's his shield when needed, his unforgiving armour when other senses fail to be of moment. Beomgyu knows of this, so the stalling about is so unlike him.
Annoyed, he emerges out of the water, whipping around,
"Didn't you hea-"
And promptly stops dead in his tracks.
Gorgeous.
That's the first word that comes to mind.
He's gorgeous.
As you stand there, staring at what you would imagine an angel to look like, your heart thuds the fastest it ever has. A tinge runs down your spine, a feeling akin to a sugar rush coursing through your veins.
Standing in the water, invisible from the waist down, he's the most ethereal being you've ever laid eyes upon.
His jade black hair is wet, crimped and sticking to his forehead, some stray strands getting in his eyes, heavy water drops cascading down his sharp cheekbones, even sharper jawline. So soft, so silken looking.
It's weird how you know the way they would tickle against your inner thighs.
His heart-shaped lips, full and pouty, shining, dripping water. So wet, so inviting.
It's funny how you know what the plump texture would feel against your own.
His flexed biceps, lean and long, skin a fair butter tone. So smooth, so unmarked.
It's uncanny how you know what they would feel like underneath your fingertips.
You've been there, with him. He's been here, with you. Yet it feels as though it were a time no longer valid, or perhaps a time that never was.
He's beauty personified, and you are unwilling to tear your haze away for even a second. He seems to be of a similar mind, for he's been standing there, completely still and gawking up at you, unblinking. His irises restless in their orbits, the way they run in small circles within his pupils is testimony enough to the miles a minute nature of his racing mind.
Then suddenly he frowns, turning about completely, and begins making his way through the splashes, walking towards the shore. And as the water level goes down inch by slow inch, revealing more of his torso, you're a goner.
Body slim yet toned, lean muscles accentuating his morphology at just the right places, his beauty encompasses even itself as he reveals more of himself from under the water. He wears nothing but a thin vest, a poor excuse for clothing, shrinked even more due to being wet, sticking to his sides, honey skin out for you to marvel at. Well technically, not for you to marvel at, but you're going to indulge all the same. He's completely out now, swinging long limbs over the edge of the shore, bending a little, a silver spiked garland necklace clinking and bouncing against his chest. And oh, that chest. Broad and smooth, a far cry from being muscular, but still well defined, clean cuts marking and outlining his pectorals, buds mercifully hidden under the sides of the vest.
The glint from the overshadowing moon catches on the sparkles adorning his body, making him twinkle against the dusk. The gleam only brightens as he comes closer, with you now realising that they embellish his neck too.
Would they come off if you licked them?
Shaking your head, you force your thoughts to come to a halt, their intrusive nature a surprise to your dazed state.
He's a stranger, and by the looks of it, not a normal one. Normal humans don't shine, don't have sparkled necks. No matter how much you feel like you know him, in the grand scheme of things, you don't.
He's standing before you now, soaked cloth clinging to his laterals, figure on display.
One look into his deep chestnut eyes, and the sugar-like rush is back again, albeit stronger this time around.
It's familiar, the way you want to drown in those pools of honey, the way you know the pattern of the golden flecks scattered in his orbs. The kind of knowingness that comes only from years of studying, admiring, loving.
It's well acquainted, the way his plush lips part, the silky tone of his voice,
"Sugar?"
The words are as hesitant as they are shocking, even to himself. It's evident from the way his forehead creases, pouty lips taking on a downward tilt. He's just as baffled as you are, if not more.
"Is that your name? Sugar?"
You meekly shake your head no, even though every impulse is forcing you to agree.
"Oh."
"But it feels like it."
"Oh."
It's deja vu. A familiarity. A recollection.
You know that's not your name. But what you also know is that it belongs to you, the feeling of connection near immediate within your being.
How else would you describe the way your body reacts? The way your ears perk up at the mention, your tongue ready to hum out an affirmative.
It's not your name. But it's meant to be yours.
There's a moment where you both just stare into the other's eyes, standing still, the fireflies flying about, enlightening his face at different angles, casting shadows in different gradients.
But all too soon is the haze broken, and he's averting his eyes, looking at everything but you.
You fight the urge to take his face in your palms and force it back towards you.
He's a stranger, you remind yourself, ignoring every instinct saying otherwise.
A clearing of throat is followed by a quiet question, "What are you doing here?"
"Uh, I don't- know."
That sounds sketchy, you're aware of it yourself, but you genuinely don't know. And for some reason, you can't lie to him, don't wish to.
He doesn't seem fazed, just hums. If you were of a more sane mind, you'd find it odd how that was the first question he wanted the answer to, skipping the essential who are you and how did you get here. No, the wording he used, what are you doing here, as if already aware that your arrival was by your own will and knowledge, something that was expected to happen. If so, he couldn't be more wrong.
You know it's not your place to ask questions, to demand any explanation, but the way your heart is brimming with emotion, this feeling that you know him, you can't help yourself,
"What are you?"
His head snaps to face you, those chestnut eyes boring into you with intensity. Not the good kind. He's tense all of a sudden, almost defensive.
"Something you're not." He snaps.
You're thrown off by the bite, but despite yourself, whisper,
"I beg to differ."
The frown deepens, his gaze near burning.
He arches a perfect brow in question and scoffs, "I'd be careful on the bluntness, little one. You're in my territory, with no knowledge of who I am, or what was it that you said? 'What' I am."
He's trying to intimidate you, back you up in a corner, to seem domineering, but you know him to be none of these things. Despite his razor sharp features and tough exterior, his warm eyes give him away. He can play pretend all he wants, but you can feel the gentleness rolling off of him, and perhaps it's on a spiritual level that you feel it, because there's no other way you would have known that he, in effect, poses no harm, however much may he play the part.
"Wouldn't be so sure of that."
Now he just seems amused, the earlier irritation sublimed. His eyebrows rise again in silent expectation, prompting an answer.
"I think- I think I kno-"
You cut yourself off before the thought is said out loud. You're not sure of his reaction, of what to expect, when in total honesty, your own response to the thought said out loud isn't predictable.
"I think I've seen you somewhere." You settle.
The playful expression drops, eyes almost whimsical for but a moment, before his face takes on the neutral stance you'd found him in.
It's baffling, how quickly he changes expressions, his features almost trained to follow suit. Yet you know of this habit of his to be borne out of the need to protect, to self preserve. You wonder what had to have happened for him to adopt an outlook such as this. If you didn't know any better, you'd simply label him a lunatic with no emotional control, but you do know better- the reason for which still unbeknownst to you- and all it does is make you want to shield him from all that is vile, the sudden urge to protect this Adonis of a man running rampant.
He inhales a deep breath, and you assume it's to possibly calm himself- God knows you need to. Rolling his shoulders until his joints pop, he shoves his hands into his cargo pockets, sighs,
"How can you get back hom-," A pause, "get back where you came from?"
Not entirely sure about the reason for the need he felt to correct himself, you once again let your subconscious do the talking,
"No idea. Guess I'm staying."
Leaving a dumbfounded stranger behind, you've no clue where you get the courage to stroll right past him and towards the lake, comfortably seating on the edge, your legs crossed underneath thighs. You cast a glance over your shoulder and sure enough, the bewildered expression is still very much present, maybe even augmented now.
"You gonna keep standing there?"
He blinks, a gesture oddly endearing on his stone cold shell, titling his head to the side, confusion clear as day.
In the short while you've spent with him today, you've already decoded half of his workings apparently, for he says nothing, quietly making his way over, settling down next to you, as far away as the narrow bank allows. This is the way to tame him, you've concluded. Be unsure and he'll take it upon himself to act condescending, be assertive and he'll act not too different to a puppy, following along as instructed. It all feels too natural, taking the lead with him, not being fooled by his sham.
"So," You begin, partly to break the silence that's uncharacteristically taken over him, but more so because it's been bugging you more than you ever could explain, "who's sugar?"
He cuts his eyes in your direction, the heat back in those orbs, and you've got a snide remark ready at the tip of your tongue, having already predicted a reaction such as this- really, he's too easy to read.
Or maybe you've been reading this genre of his longer than you believe, and this is the past experience coming back in waves.
Or, you're simply reading too much into it.
Nevertheless, just as predicted, he snarls,
"No one."
And just as quickly turns away, bringing knees up to his chest, tucking his chin over them.
He looks not unlike a hurt soul masking under the veil of an arrogant persona, and no matter the displeasure he expresses, you can't find it in yourself to find reason to believe the front he puts up, the urge to 'take care' the only inclination overpowering you.
The dismissal too abrupt to have been a result of a thought-over notion, you don't believe it. Not for a second.
But you suppose you'll let it go this time, if only in favour of your own inner turmoil.
Maybe he's feeling what you're feeling too.
The desire to let your guard down, to let this complete stranger in, said desire engaging in a constant contest against preservation instincts.
"Who are you, then?"
It's delibrate, the reframing to your question, and if the laxing of his face is any indication, he registers it too, appreciates it.
"Yeonjun." He breathes, still not looking at you.
You echo your name too, mulling over whether to extend a polite 'nice to meet you' or something of the sorts, but deciding against it, realising it might come off absurd, what with the nature of your conversations uptill now.
The head he had nestled on his knees snuggles further down, and it's either your ears playing tricks on you or you actually do hear a whimper.
"Hey, you okay?" A tentative arm hovers over his shoulder, and you wonder if he'd really mind the comfort you so badly want to offer. If the roles were reversed, you know you wouldn't.
"Fine." He rasps, voice hoarse, his guttural confirmation more alarming than reassuring.
"But you don-"
You don't get to finish the sentiment, as he's suddenly standing to his feet, making a run for the small pond sitting right by the lake. And what you witness is more than enough to have your blood running cold. It's something all too personal, the way he coughs up a saje coloured semiliquid, the way you can see the energy being drained from his person as he spasms violently.
Without second guessing this time around, you run to the pond yourself, crouch down just behind him, run a soothing hand across the expanse of his back. The halting of his shivering is almost immediate, and it only serves to spur your movements as you begin shallowly massaging the muscles.
He slouches back, covers a hand over his mouth, grumbles,
"Changed fucking colours. Cute."
And yet again, you know what he means.
"Used to be pink, huh?"
This seems to have grabbed his attention, as he slowly turns to look at you. You find it perplexing too, how he could have been going through what you have for longer than you can remember, the retching a part of your daily routine by now. There's something bigger at play here, something tying you and this stranger together, something beyond your simple hunch of familiarity.
And this time when you are met with his big, glassy eyes, you find something you didn't before, something you haven't in years.
Ardour. Sorrow. Oddly together.
Not only is the strange mix of emotions familiar, it's familiar in his hue of chestnut, his champagne orbs, the amalgamation untypically unique.
You've seen this look in these eyes. Irrespective of how miscostructive it sounds, you know you have. You'd swear your life on it.
He seems to have been struck with something similar, for the newfound warmth in his eyes- something you mentally blamed him for hiding- is basically overflowing, his guard visibly dropping.
His lips part, release nothing more than a gasp, waver, then seal back. He's hesitant, not wanting to say it out loud, but you hear it all the same. Hear the unsaid endearment, understand the implicit elucidation to his apprehension.
"Can you say it again?" Your voice is a whisper, afraid to shatter this stolen moment of intimacy.
"Say what again?"
"Say my name again?"
He breathes out your name, eyes averting, a blush adorning the apples of his cheeks.
"No. My name."
He's confused for all of a second before realisation dawns on him, cheekbones burning a deeper shade of crimson.
"You mean-?"
"Just say it."
"But- but you said it wasn't your name."
A sigh of exasperation and eye-squeeze of annoyance is all the incentive he needs it seems, for he's fulfilling your wish all too soon.
"Sugar."
And all too soon is your heart thumping in your ears, the same rush coursing through your veins.
Why your body chooses to react this way is beyond you, but it's intense enough to have a deeper connotation than a response to a mere nickname. It means something more.
You know it does.
Have known all this while.
He turns to look at you, and from this up close, the sparkles catching the moonlight once again, he shines brighter than any star, any constellation, any galaxy.
He's your star. Your constellation. Your galaxy.
Your own escape, your angel.
Wait.
Your eyes trail back to the curve of his shoulders, searching for something you know is missing.
He follows your line of sight. There's a split second where you see the panic in his eyes, which disappears when he looks over his shoulders. If he thinks he's safe, he couldn't be more wrong.
"Show me."
It's not a question. Not a demand either, just a soft request, one he can easily decline, but made with enough conviction that tells him there's no way he's getting out of this one with a lie.
So he just looks at you, eyes drooped in acceptance, a sombre expression on his face,
"How?"
You know what he means, but you don't have an answer for him.
"How do you know?" He reiterates.
"I just do."
"Who are you, really?"
You smile at that, for you know the frustration he feels. You feel it too.
The knowledge that you know him, but don't.
The understanding that you know he has wings, but not sure how.
The awareness that you want him, but have no right to.
"Show me, please?" You disregard his question entirely, and he knows as well as you that it's a pointless one anyway.
So he gingerly stands up, backing away from you a little. You thought you were prepared; you overestimated yourself.
A fluttering sound echoes through the silent forest, and amidst the dead of the night, you experience a sight all too enchanting.
The same whirlwind of colours, of shades blending together, the same kind you witnessed in your dreamland not too long ago, is presented before you. Manifesting in the most beautiful pair of wings. The Blue Morpho doesn't hold a candle in the face of such gorgeousness.
Your dream hadn't been a fluke, you saw him in it. You saw his wings, felt his lips.
Once again, your eyes glaze over, heart splitting in two at the view. He's standing there, with tears of his own and you know why.
As if in a trance, you get up and run off towards him, stopping only when you're inches away, panting, out of breathe. And not out of the exhaustion at having made the spree, really there wasn't more than a few metres between you and him. But the emotion has engulfed you, your breath practically belonging to him in this moment, entering your lungs upon his command and his command only.
Your eyes trace his wings, from the arch at the top to the downward droop at the bottom, eventually trailing to his face, and ultimately to his lips. Those full lips.
You step closer still, hands cautiously reaching for his shoulders, going on your tiptoes to whisper against his plump lips,
"I'm sorry, but I really have to do this."
Strong arms wrapping around your waist is all the consent you need and in the next moment you are lunging for him, taking his lips in an all consuming kiss, even after trying your best to hold back, if only to not freak him out. It's no use now, so you let go, let your body react the way it does, let your subconsciousness take the lead.
His mouth is indeed as addicting as you imagined it to be, knew it to be. Your hands make their way up his shoulders to his nape, where you brush his hair and true to form, they're just as soft as you imagined, as you knew.
He lets out a groan in your mouth, tilting his head more, deepening the kiss. He's licking into your mouth at this point, tongue swirling around, sucking the essence right out of you, drinking it in earnest. It's not a kiss, it's so much more than that. It feels like he's ravishing you, tasting you.
A sudden tickling in your back makes you shudder, a feeling akin to having an ice cube slide down your bare skin. Goosebumps break all over you, and the familiar fluttering sound permeates the air around you two.
You pull back to gasp, shaking your shoulder blades. His wings are still there, the same they had been before, so what in the world was that sound?
You look up at Yeonjun to find him not looking at you, his gaze fixated on something behind your shoulder. You turn your head back yourself, only to be met with a carbon copy of those angelic wings somehow attached to your back.
"Wha- How.. What is happening?"
Contrary to your panicked tone, he's calm, almost delighted. That claim is proven right when he suddenly breakes out into a wistful smile, the tears making their way down his waterline.
"I knew it." He ducks his head, resting it on your chest, hands refusing to let go of your sides.
"Yeonjun, what is going on? I'm getting scared now."
His head snaps up at that, hands finding your cheeks, cupping and cradling your face with gentle care.
"Don't be scared, sugar. You're here now. With me. You're finally here." He chokes out the last words, clearly overwhelmed.
You frown, but don't question him, deciding to be patient.
His thumbs brush against your skin, caressing back and forth,
"Don't you remember me?" He gently whispers.
There it is again, the same question, the same vague feeling. You known him but you'd don't.
"It's okay," He somehow senses what you're experiencing it seems, as he doesn't push it further, "it's okay. Let me help you remember, yeah?"
And with that he's closing the distance between your bodies again, lips moulding against yours, whisking you away in a trance like state once again.
This is it.
This is the taste he's been dying for, time and time again. And to think he already had it before, once upon a time.
It's not a sudden downpour of memories that rains down to him, but a slow sprinkle, a calm drizzling, the kind that comes before a thunder storm.
And then it's a torrent, a gush of water, drenching him whole, making him lose his footing. It makes him dizzy but he'll have it any fucking day if it means he gets to taste you again.
He remembers you, remembers the time when you belonged to him, and he you. The times you spent together, near this very spring, tasting each other for hours on end. The times that he has now come to know of as the most peaceful and fulfilled. He felt content, whole.
Before you were snatched away from him, a you-shaped gaping hole left in his heart. Every single one of the memories you made together wiped, yet the hole never closed, never healed.
He always felt something in his life was missing, a last puzzle piece to complete him, a last drop to fill his glass.
And now, with your wings outsretched behind you, the same ones as his, he has found that piece of puzzle, that drop of nectar.
You taste just as he imagined. Like grapevines with an undertone of fernflowers.
A grapevine left untouched for so long, harbouring yeast on the surface. All he has to do is crush his lips against yours, and the grapes burst open, outer skin tearing, juices squirting out, fermenting with the yeast to form the richest wine to ever grace his palate.
The fernflowers that bloom for a period too short, for him only, his very own summer solstice, being fertile just for him.**
He remembers. And you're here with him. At last.
The only thing that's left, is for you to recall as well. It's going to be no difficult fate.
As he reconnects your lips again, pulling you impossibly closer by your middle, his wings wrap around your bodies, and just like every other time in the past, yours do too. With both your appendages curling over and forming a cocoon around your forms, he feels the security all over again, the one he wanted to revel in forever.
Too bad no one told him forever doesn't last as long as one thinks, but now that he finally has you again, he doesn't plan on letting go anytime soon, if ever.
When he breaks the kiss, your own tears have made their way past your jaw, wet eyes twinkling, reflecting the moon in them. For him, they are the moon themselves.
He softly thumbs them away, smiling through his own tears,
"Welcome back, sugar."
You give him a wistful smile, his own sorrow reflecting on your features. An underlying hope buried somewhere deep within the pain.
"Missed you." You mumble, scrunching your nose in a sniffle. It's something you always did back then, and everytime it made him wonder how it was possible for someone to be so cute, so precious.
Winding his arms around your shoulders, he steps forward, slotting himself against you, his face in your neck.
"I missed you more. I fucking missed you so much."
Hot wet trails run down your neck and you lovingly ruffle his hair, remembering how it always soothed his anxiety.
He stays like that a while, hiccuping and reiterating his saudade for you. After his breath evens out, and tears dry up, he pulls back, looking deep in your eyes.
"You know me, right?"
You huff a little, endeared by his need for confirmation.
"I do. I do know you, darling."
Darling.
That's what you always called him. That's what he's been unknowingly wanting to hear all these years. That's what makes him feel complete again.
"Can I kiss you?" The question is frantic, his excitement leaking through the words.
You don't give him an answer, opting to push at his chest and jump up slightly, wrapping your legs around his lean waist. It's the same, the way you fit over him, legs slipping into the curve of his waist. He knows he'll fit into you in other ways, too.
He can't wait to complete you, to be your last piece of the puzzle.
You lean into him again, sliding your lips with his, the soft sounds of moisture all he hears. As if on autopilot, his legs move of their own accord, side stepping all the hurdles, all while kissing you with his eyes closed, with a practised ease. And when your back hits the same Bristlecone Pine tree trunk he spent all day slumped against, he remembers why this routine feels rehearsed. Because to put it simply, it is. It's something he's done countless times before, carrying the familiar weight of you to this very spot.
Once there, he presses his body into you, his want eminent in the way it digs you in the thigh, his hands kneading the flesh. He feels himself getting lost in the pleasure, a throaty groan escaping him,
"Give me more."
Part 1 | Part 2
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[The follow-up smut drabble will be posted soon. Send an ask if you wish to be tagged when it drops.♡]
**The fern flower is a magic flower in Baltic, Estonian and Slavic mythology. According to the myth, this flower blooms for a very short time on the eve of the summer solstice, and represents fertility. This theme will be explored more in part two to this piece.
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This post is for anyone who needs protection. As you cut chords, it can be worrisome and create anxiety. You are protected, cared for, and loved by the universe. No one can cause you harm going forward, and your ancestors or guides will take care of them.
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