ch4rryc0smos

[ch4rryc0smos]

WHERE NATURE UNMAKES THE BOUNDARY / THE PILLAR OF MYTH STILL STANDS / NEVER BELONGED TO MEN ! — SWAN UPON LEDA | HOZIER.

── . ❀ ❝ R O S E M A R Y S A F F R O N E A R L . ❞

☾ — ∞ | cancer | infj | goddess 🪶

appearance ; pale skin, mole under right corner of her bottom lip, freckles on her back, scars on her thighs and hands, forest / jade green eyes, 5'11 [180 cm], softer features and body, dimples when she smiles, very long & wavy ombre [brown-blonde] hair, a few metres long probably.

beliefs ; there's good in the world, and everyone is granted the privilege to it, until they revoke that right. kindness deserves more credit for being the reason the world has thrived so far.

⋆ ─ first loves fundamentally change the way someone perceives love, and sometimes; it's cruel. ⋆ ─ redeeming oneself isn't as hard as it seems, all you need is the mindset; it's a type of healing too, right?

personality ; empathetic, vigilant, attuned to surroundings, gentle, kind, selfless, observant, diligent, meticulous, collected, intuitive, charismatic, nurturing, caring.

positive traits ; compassionate, selfless, empathetic, kind, voice of reason, accountable, notices other's emotions & fluctuations in behaviour[s].

negative traits ; anxious, bottles up her emotions, skeptic [has trust issues], struggles with boundaries, overworks, cares too hard, doesn't share when she's struggling [doesn't want to burden], far too independent.

quirks ; fidgets when distracted | looks away when nervous and can't hold eye contact | bounces from heel to heel when waiting in queues | gets quieter when she's thinking too much | has an oral fixation | tilts her head when she's focusing | hums to herself when she thinks no one is listening.

likes ; nature, psychology, sociology, anthropology, freedom of expression, anarchy, deep conversations, late-night detours, coffee, biology, museums, gardens, lakes, deers, sculptures, art of living, elder faerie & mercurial knight.

dislikes ; arthropods, heights, loud noises, narrow-mindedness, extreme temperatures, snobby cookies, arrogance, dishonesty, being under pressure, confrontation, disorganised places, being treated like a slave, being belittled and invalidated, disrespect, conflicts.

deepest secrets ; always wanted to be more than just the embodiment of everything, because despite being everything, she always felt like nothing. at heart she wanted nothing more than to be uplifted rather than be walked all over.

⋆ ─ sometimes the weight of feeling everything all at once is more than she can bear and more than she can explain. ⋆ ─ there's days where she feels jealous of those that don't feel the way she does, don't think the way she does, and she wishes more than anything, that she was them.

── . ❀ ❝ B A C K S T O R Y . ❞

IF there was one thing that her many years on earthbread taught her, it's that kindness wouldn't have gotten her anywhere. rosemary saffron earl knew she should've been one of the best, if not the best of the creations. she knew she was created from the very base of creation, her ingredients were scavenged from the earth the witches tread on, she knew the soil like a fellow, and the leaves like their veins were her own. and yet, she'd been abandoned, considered lethal, powerful, but deemed useless.

she won't ever forget the day, the day she was thrown out, nearly crumbled, her frosting threatening to slip, her dough crumbling slightly as she dragged herself further down the paths she knew were stolen from to create her. maybe if she apologised for their wrongdoings, she'd be granted another chance at life by the gods who'd witnessed her exile.

and so, she prayed, she prayed as parts of her crumbled away that she'd be granted another chance at whatever life could offer a discarded cookie. for the longest time, she didn't know where she was, didn't know what crispia was, or where beast yeast could be, she didn't know a lot of things, but she did know how to take care. how to give herself to the world that the witches that created her took so much from. and the world took, oh the world took.

they took from her being, her soul, her wings, once being pearly white, glimmering golden as they flexed, now dusted with the softest graze of the soil that she trudged on. one another thing she learnt was that she really was different, that no, no one else felt everything, every sigh of the forest and the way roots of trees curled in on themselves when they heard their fellows lose their lives. no one was like her, no one was made from the soil they tarnished.

but she didn't mind, no, she learnt to love. she learned to accept what was made of her, and she learned to love other cookies for what she can't be, uplift them the way she won't ever get to be, and care for them in the ways they deserve. it's through her love that she found the travellers that offered to take her along to beast yeast, for the very first time. they warned her of the things that existed there, but she did not falter to that. she's seen worse, been through hell and back, and she can tolerate this too.

well, at least that's what she thought. but it didn't go exactly like that. when she finally reached beast yeast, she found it in shambles, to her, it was. she found new cookies, new creatures, but all of them were distressed, even the winged, the faeries, the cookies she'd heard and learnt so much about, they were hurt, they were fighting in a war. and that's when she promised to dedicate herself to protecting their cause, and them, by extension. that's the day she learnt more about the war that'd been tearing away at crispia, at those nights spent up consoling children while she hoped their parents would return safely. for so long, she didn't truly understand the brevity of it.

she didn't understand a lot, until she was asked to present herself to the king, the guardian of the silver tree. the tree she'd been diligently tending to, feeling the faint thrumming of souls within. she'd been asked to step up from the sidelines. that day, she realised that she wouldn't be admiring him or the king from afar. that's the first time she showed up to his castle, adorned in her intricately sewn dress, worked on by silverbell, looking at her feet as she counted every clink from the charms hanging off her antlers.

and then she heard his voice, a quiet clear of his throat, and she looked up. elder faerie looked even more majestic up close than she thought he did from a distance. and beside him stood his duty-bound second in command, mercurial knight. she doesn't think she'll ever forget the way her breath hitched that quiet night under the moon, the first moment of quiet after many weeks of war, of carnage, of fear, of knowing that a cookie she'd once met had turned into something much more vile, a creature too corrupted by the witches. but she couldn't think of that, not when elder faerie's voice gently asked her to sit down, to have a moment with him and mercurial.

she thinks that might've been the night her fate was sealed with them. it was every other night after that she spent with them. at the start it was strategy, her healing progress, the meticulous manner through which she'd been maintaning elder faerie's land, and then it got personal, then it was about her wings, the ones she barely used to fly, but mercurial said he liked.

their quiet nights of peace didn't last too long though, one of those quiet nights was what bled into a war-filled day, the day she got struck while protecting silverbell. it was that day she nearly lost her wings, the day she wouldn't ever feel them again, but he saved her. he found her when she couldn't feel her own dough, but had to tend to silverbell. that was also the last day he thought he'd see the faint glimmer of her otherworldly wings.

only a few hours later was when elder faerie found out about what happened on the battlefield. that was the start of the few months he'd spend awake with her, consoling her as she lost her voice most nights, tracing shapes on her back, patterns, asking her what she liked, shapes, colours.

what she didn't know was that he was planning much more than she'd expected. that even with the fear of the war taking away everything they loved, he wanted to give back to her what she'd offered to his world like it would've been nothing to her. that's when he made her wings, beautiful, translucent, colourful, like his. those were the nights he and mercurial told her about their fears of losing themselves in this war-torn earthbread.

it was also one of those days that they asked her for more than her devotion, asked her to seal her fate, and theirs in turn. in the quiet of the night elder faerie and mercurial knight to be theirs.

── . ❀ ❝ C U R R E N T . ❞

SHE doesn't remember a lot of things nowadays, but rosemary could never forget the day they got married. she would never forget the look of peace and contentment on his face despite the fear of something going wrong, she remembers the drag of her gown behind her, the way he looked at her like he might've devoured her on the spot. she doesn't think she'll ever forget.

not the (not so) quiet night that followed or the first month that felt like a fever dream. but she remembers the days even then that she spent, sitting the base of the silver tree, tracing her fingers over the ridges in the trunk, and trying to contain the beasts in this continent.

now she spends her days tending to her husbands, silverbell, the faerie kingdom, and letting the children braid garlands into her hair, whispering about her wings and how they wished they had wings like hers. or something like it. but through her husbands, she meets the ancients she thought were long gone, she meets the children that are leading themselves a path of great exertion, something that asks for too much, and gives not nearly enough in return; the path she'd been following for so long.

and she wants to stop them, but they don't want to be stopped. they want to make a change, make earthbread a better place, and so when they ask her to help them, assist them on their journey, who is she to not give herself to a world that won't give anything back?

her husbands weren't particularly happy, no, they won't ever be, when she'll put herself in danger just like that, like her life doesn't matter, but they also cannot, will not stop her. she's capable. she's the living embodiment of life.

and if there's anyone that can do something, they know it'll be her. they'll have her for the nights, sometimes during the day; but they'll let her make the change she wanted to, for so long. they won't stop her, not now, not ever.

their wife is capable, she is a goddess, she was crafted from the very soil which they walk on, and like it; she is strong, she is omnipresent everywhere. and she knows it too.

── . ❀ appears in francesca [wip].

★ ; my first crk self insert, i actually have three, so, make what you might of that :') i hope you like her, i'll work on the second after this, and honestly, not sure about the third, but maybe, hope you like her though ! <3

ch4rryc0smos © 2025

[ch4rryc0smos]

𝙍𝙀𝙏𝙄𝙍𝙀𝘿 𝙈𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏 ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

★ ─ this is a masterlist for my retired f/os! the ones on my f/o list that i have oc x canon for now. this has the same stuff as my other two masterlists; drabbles, oneshots, imagines, series', all the good stuff chat :)

★ ─ codes: ☆ -> angst | ✦ -> fluff | ✧ -> misc

★ ─ do not repost, alter, or steal my work please!

𝘿𝙀𝘼𝙍 𝙀𝙑𝘼𝙉 𝙃𝘼𝙉𝙎𝙀𝙉 .ᐟ

𝘌𝘝𝘈𝘕 𝘏𝘈𝘕𝘚𝘌𝘕 .𖥔 ݁ ˖

𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝗢𝗡𝗘𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝘊𝘖𝘕𝘕𝘖𝘙 𝘔𝘜𝘙𝘗𝘏𝘠 .𖥔 ݁ ˖

𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝗢𝗡𝗘𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ to be seen is to be loved [✦] a little closer [✦]

thank you for reading through this! i hope this helps with navigation <3

ch4rryc0smos © 2025

[ch4rryc0smos]

LEAVE EVERYTHING THAT IS WORTH A SINGLE CENT / AND TAKE ME INSTEAD / PRAYING TO WHATEVER IS IN HEAVEN ! — FEMALE ROBBERY | THE NEIGHBOURHOOD.

── . ✧ ❝ S O L E I L V I E L L A - E I R I A N . ❞

✸ — xlvii | cancer | infj | british-french ⏳

appearance ; [naturally ivory] olive-tanned skin, mole under right corner of her bottom lip, freckles on their back obscured by whip marks and scars, jade green eyes, 5'10 [178 cm], athletic but sleeper build, dimples when they smile, dimples on their back, long & wavy ombre [brown-blonde] hair.

beliefs ; if something is meant for someone, it will find them itself. do not let others deter you, they're not the ones that linger, ever. self sufficiency is one of the most, if not the most important virtue to survival, no matter what happens.

⋆ ─ the world is far from white and black, and sometimes the differences between greys is subtle. ⋆ ─ karma is real, you reap what you sow, so play it safe; or don't, but be ready for any consequences that might be thrown your way.

personality ; cerebral, vigilant, fast learner & notices changes very easily, gentle, a bit guarded off, selfless, observant, diligent, meticulous, collected, intuitive, charismatic, nurturing.

positive traits ; compassionate, selfless, empathetic, kind, voice of reason, accountable, notices other's emotions & fluctuations in behaviour[s], stealthy.

negative traits ; anxious, bottles up her emotions, skeptic [has trust issues], struggles with boundaries, overworks, cares too hard, doesn't share a lot, far too independent.

quirks ; fidgets when distracted | looks away when nervous | bounces from heel to heel when waiting in queues | gets quieter when she's thinking too much | has an oral fixation | tilts her head when she's focusing.

likes ; nature, psychology, sociology, anthropology, freedom of speech, anarchy, deep conversations, late-night car rides, coffee, biology [many branches of it], museums, gardens, aquariums, deers, whales, art of living, biochemical engineering, journalism, leon kennedy, carlos oliveira & luis serra.

dislikes ; arthropods, heights, loud noises, narrow-mindedness, extreme temperatures, snobby people, arrogance, dishonesty, being under pressure, confrontation, disorganised places, being treated like a slave, being belittled and invalidated, disrespect.

deepest secrets ; wants to be free again and see a world that isn't tainted by humanity's selfish greed to be on the top of everything. at heart, they want nothing more than to be free and to have saved those that she cared about.

⋆ ─ at some point in her life, all she wanted was to be a biochemical engineer and speak publicly about how the government fooled society. ⋆ ─ at some point, they just wanted a family and a husband, nothing more, just a simple life.

── . ✧ ❝ B A C K S T O R Y . ❞

NOTHING comes easy in life, and soleil viella-eirian learnt that the hard way. she doesn't exactly remember when she moved to racoon city, but she still thinks that was the end of the beginning; that's where her downfall began. and a part of it will always blame her father, and whatever affiliation he had with albert wesker.

growing up in the family they did, she always envisioned herself going into biochemical engineering, being a great scientist, chemist, whatever it was, and bringing some sort of change to this otherwise complacent and dormant world, like it's a virus, and she'd become the cure. but if she really thinks about it, it's no more than the blur it always has been.

before america, it was london, scotland, and france, and the minutes in between where she'd lay down on her bed and one day hope to do nothing more than actually settle down for once, a thought that seemed so distant, and still does some days. she grew up with the name of umbrella corporation at the tip of her tongue, always, a sacred liberty granted to her father, a privilege in the small city he'd come to reside in.

she reckons she doesn't have the right to complain, she grew up with good education, a roof over her head, and silence from their parents, nothing to disrupt the peaceful haven racoon city should've been became for them. they passed high school with valedictorian, if they remember correctly, and her friends were overjoyed for her, at least the ones that had the decency to act like they were happy for her, and didn't laugh about her cursing in french under her breath when she got mad.

throughout her childhood and university years, she spent time at campus, away from home, or whatever it became, and at the headquarters of umbrella corporation, her father trying to train her into becoming the perfect poster girl for them, and also their most valuable weapon. but she had other plans, she would go on to become the greatest biochemical engineer the world had seen, and the most known public activist america would see in the near future. the world was in shambles and she wanted to be the one to start a new era of change.

she thinks that's where they saw her as their perfect little weapon, something they could destroy, but something that could destroy too. she was the perfect prodigy, still shining in university as she planned to get her dual degrees; biochemical engineering, and communication. she got the first, even managed to finish her PhD in biochemical engineering, and was getting her second in communications. for once in her life, she thought she would do something, when she was away from home for more often, wasn't being asked to look at weird looking micro-organisms and overhearing jokes about how she'd be injected with them.

being at university was the breath of fresh air she desperately needed, until it wasn't. until every other day, someone disappeared, and more diseases spread, until there was an outbreak, and what to her, was an apocalypse. and suddenly her father wants her back, needs her to become the next scientist for the corporation, needs her to hide something from the government. and yet, her disdain for their government could never overpower their disdain for their father.

that's the week they became a rogue, previously with ties with the government because of their mother, and ties to the corporation because of their father, they became a rogue vigilante, an agent of sorts, trying to bring change, and capture proof, and evidence, and do all that they could with what they knew. with that half-written thesis that would probably never see the light of day.

quite often they'd find themselves pondering, wondering about if they could actually bring some change alone, if they could always stay a rogue and make their rogue status into something more.

it was one of those faithful days they infiltrated the umbrella corporation branch they knew by heart, treading through the ruined halls, broken down, gurgles surrounding their every movement. and she knows, soleil knows she won't ever forget the feeling of running out of ammo and realising she didn't bring enough extra. the feeling of scrambling through the building, feeling the pitifully slow, but terrifying footsteps of the infected getting closer with every breath, and having to resort to killing them.

she didn't think twenty would be anything like this, but here she was. it was that night, that she met him. she met a blond man, with exhaustion etched into his features, and too many hours of lost sleep and not nearly enough experience in the way he moved, but the softness of a human who actually cared in the way his hands cradled her face. and that one night, she let him.

or maybe a few nights. maybe to the point that she'd know his name was leon kennedy. and she misses the way his stupid giggles felt against her back when they'd be hiding away in the dark, and when his hands would feel when they held her tight against him as if he was scared to lose her. he was the first to make her feel wanted, and she never wanted to let it go.

soleil never wanted to let go of his insistent questions, and his begging; him asking her to join as an agent to the government, become an fbi agent, anything to keep him company because god knows how long it's been since he last had someone that wasn't a dead body on him. and who was she to deny him that.

who was she to deny him a pair of lips and stolen moments when they didn't matter.

── . ✧ ❝ C U R R E N T . ❞

MANY years it's been since then, since the night she met leon kennedy, but soleil had to give it to him, he sure had a mouth on him. and he convinced her. she's lost count of the days since she'd become one of the most, if not the most esteemed agent of the government, with that sweet mouth and those glinting eyes, perfect to convince the opposition, and coax them into spilling all of their details, her specialty.

and she knows leon loves her for it too. loves the mouth on her that only he knows like it's his salvation. and he loves everything about her. but no one outside of their small circle of friends knows it. even the government, especially the government, they're the last ones that should know the woman who retrieved the cure is the same one who made leon, one of their most renowned agents, almost lose his life for them. and yet, he'd do it again, for her, anything for her.

they're also growing older, not just soleil, but also him, and they're getting less naive, less reckless, but more restless. every mission leon goes on, they accompany him, because they ground him. he turns to look at them, and all at once; he stops overthinking when their eyes meet his.

and yet, when they run into ada, he embraces her the way he does them. no, they're not jealous, they've never been, but it's in this moment, early thirties, late twenties, hell, they don't remember their age anymore, but it's in that moment that they realise that if there's something going on between them and leon, she wants him to herself. and he realises the same night when she's not melting into him the way she had for the past few years. and when he realises, he knows he won't let that happen. his lips are persistent as they press into every bit of skin he knows and can feel in the dark.

when he next takes her along to rescue ashley, his voice is quiet as he reassures her of the things she won't ever say. he tells her, again and again, that if there's anyone he's choosing, it's her, only her. and she still thinks the words linger, even after nine years, even though he's thirty six, and he still wakes up every morning to her in his arms, she thinks about the words like they might've not been true.

but leon kennedy will not let that slide, and even at forty something, he makes her the centre of his world again, even when the world's going to shit, he's got her, and she's got him.

sometimes the world goes quiet when they look at each other, and they think it'll be okay, even if they've spent their whole life working on it.

maybe soleil is enough for leon, and there's nothing else they need, and maybe her quiet whispers in french are his undoing, and will always be.

── . ✧ appears in wires [wip], leaving tonight [wip]

★ ; i'm finally back, i missed being here, doing things. hopefully i'll be working on three other s/i intro posts sometime soon, if not that, at least some writing for leon and her. as for the age, i'm taking it as them still aging, not just what leon's age was in re6 !! that's why it's the way it is, she also uses she/they, hence the ping pong i was playing with pronouns <3

ch4rryc0smos © 2025

[ch4rryc0smos]

𝙋𝙇𝘼𝙏𝙊𝙉𝙄𝘾 / 𝙁𝘼𝙈𝙄𝙇𝙄𝘼𝙇 𝙈𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏 ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

★ ─ this is my platonic/familial f/os masterlist! yet again for organisation, and for the aforementioned in my f/o list! i'm sure you get the idea by now, just want it to be more accessible!

★ ─ codes: ☆ -> angst | ✦ -> fluff | ✧ -> misc

★ ─ do not repost, alter, or steal my work please!

𝙉𝙄𝙈𝙊𝙉𝘼 .ᐟ

𝘕𝘐𝘔𝘖𝘕𝘈 .𖥔 ݁ ˖

𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝗢𝗡𝗘𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝙎𝙃𝘼𝙏𝙏𝙀𝙍 𝙈𝙀 .ᐟ

𝘕𝘈𝘡𝘌𝘌𝘙𝘈 𝘐𝘉𝘙𝘈𝘏𝘐𝘔 .𖥔 ݁ ˖

𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝗢𝗡𝗘𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝘑𝘜𝘓𝘐𝘌𝘛𝘛𝘌 𝘍𝘌𝘙𝘙𝘈𝘙𝘚 .𖥔 ݁ ˖

𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝗢𝗡𝗘𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝘼𝙇𝙄𝙀𝙉 𝙎𝙏𝘼𝙂𝙀 .ᐟ

𝘔𝘐𝘡𝘐 .𖥔 ݁ ˖

𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝗢𝗡𝗘𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝘏𝘠𝘜𝘕𝘈 .𖥔 ݁ ˖

𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝗢𝗡𝗘𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝙀𝙋𝙄𝘾: 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙈𝙐𝙎𝙄𝘾𝘼𝙇 .ᐟ

𝘖𝘋𝘠𝘚𝘚𝘌𝘜𝘚 .𖥔 ݁ ˖

𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝗢𝗡𝗘𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝙃𝙊𝙉𝙆𝘼𝙄 𝙎𝙏𝘼𝙍 𝙍𝘼𝙄𝙇 .ᐟ

𝘒𝘈𝘍𝘒𝘈 .𖥔 ݁ ˖

𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝗢𝗡𝗘𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘿𝙍𝘼𝙂𝙊𝙉 𝙋𝙍𝙄𝙉𝘾𝙀 .ᐟ

𝘙𝘈𝘠𝘓𝘈 .𖥔 ݁ ˖

𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝗢𝗡𝗘𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

thank you for reading through this! i hope this helps with navigation <3

ch4rryc0smos © 2024

[ch4rryc0smos]

𝘾𝙍𝙐𝙎𝙃 𝙈𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏 ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

★ ─ this is my crushes masterlist! this is for the characters i've put under crushes on my f/o list! it's within the same format as the other two masterlists, just a means to better organise, honestly.

★ ─ codes: ☆ -> angst | ✦ -> fluff | ✧ -> misc

★ ─ do not repost, alter, or steal my work please!

𝙊𝘽𝙀𝙔 𝙈𝙀 .ᐟ

𝘚𝘐𝘔𝘌𝘖𝘕 .𖥔 ݁ ˖

𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝗢𝗡𝗘𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝙒𝙃𝙀𝙍𝙀'𝙎 𝙏𝙀𝙎𝙎 .ᐟ

𝘏𝘖𝘓𝘓𝘠 .𖥔 ݁ ˖

𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝗢𝗡𝗘𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘿𝙍𝘼𝙂𝙊𝙉 𝙋𝙍𝙄𝙉𝘾𝙀 .ᐟ

𝘈𝘈𝘙𝘈𝘝𝘖𝘚 .𖥔 ݁ ˖

𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

𝗢𝗡𝗘𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦 .☘︎ ݁˖ ★ ─ nothing at the moment!

thank you for reading through this! i hope this helps with navigation <3

ch4rryc0smos © 2024

[ch4rryc0smos]

⊹ a little closer — c. murphy.

synopsis — connor sings for blaire, and she sings with him, and they can't seem to keep their hands off of each other, not that either of them minds, really. it's nice, to be loved. to them, at least, it is.

genres — friends to lovers, friendly banter, mutual pining, requited yearning, admiring, best friends, domestic fluff, requited love, comfort, chaotic fluff.

pairing — connor murphy x friend!original character, connor murphy x childhood friend!original character, connor murphy x best friend!original character.

warnings — none, pure fluff here!!

word count — 1.3k.

author's note — i've got angst to write, but i wanted to finish this. if i start something new without finishing my previous thing, said previous thing NEVER gets written, so i had to, plus i wanted to anyway. i've had the idea in my head for a bit now.

masterlist.

Blaire is staring at Connor, his hands are working down his guitar, plastered with stickers she gifted him. She’s been in his room for the past few hours, and they’ve not left the comfort of it. It’s their own little world, peaceful. He’s strumming on his guitar, she’s sitting in front of him. At some point, she was sitting with her back against the foot of his bed, and he was sitting on his bed. But then the soft strumming of the guitar stopped and she looked up, and that’s what led to her being pulled onto the bed, sitting cross-legged in front of him as she smiles at his peaceful form, singing softly. 

He doesn’t even sound too nervous. Hell, he sounds beautiful.

“I’ve been drifting,” he sings, and Blaire is staring dumbfounded but smiling at her boyfriend. His voice is soft as he stares at her, maintaining eye contact. She feels a bit nervous but she can’t look away. She remembers the next lyrics, faintly. He’s mentioned this to her before, he has.

She clears her throat, suddenly much too nervous to continue staring at her boyfriend. “I’ve been dreaming,” she sings softly, her voice shaking a bit. Connor’s eyes widen softly, but it doesn’t deter him, he smiles bigger and continues for her.

In fact, Blaire can hear his tone get happier, even lighter, it’s like a lullaby in the middle of the day, a calming melody for her to lose herself in the rhythm of. She watches him with what he would describe as heart eyes, but she can’t help it. The guitar being strummed feels like home and what she’s never known, the stickers glisten under the sunlight that filters through his window, dancing on the floor and on a patch of his jeans. Her eyes are caught on it. 

“Well, today…” His voice gets just a bit quieter, like he’s expecting her to continue. She feels her face heat up, and looks down. Connor shuffles closer to her, bumping her knee with his. She looks up, smiling ever softly as she clears her throat. The corner of his lips turn up.

“Today,” she says the next word, trying to hold the tone that he used when he first sang it to her. She doesn’t think she’ll ever forget it. It still feels like a fever dream when she remembers it. Or even tries to. Just any other day that Connor weaves past his parents and tugs her along as she flashes Cynthia and Larry smiles. It still feels wrong referring to them as anything that isn’t Mr. and Mrs. Murphy. But Connor thinks otherwise.

She still remembers clearly the first time she mentioned it to him, he put away his guitar, crawled closer to her on the bed and pulled her into his chest. 

“You’re going to be my wife one day, so get used to it,” That day, he’d said it so casually, she was rendered speechless. Just how she feels now, sitting as she finishes, and he starts strumming a bit softer, as if he’s lost in her eyes too. But she’s not the one with those oceans that drown you in comfort. She’s a wild forest, but he says she’s the nature of the orchard. And her heart swells every time she has the pleasure of recounting those words. 

His strumming halts for just a moment, but neither of them utter a word as he lifts her hand to his lips, turning his face to the side just to press a tender kiss to the spot on her palm right next to her thumb.

“What felt so far away feels a little closer,” They both sing it at the same time. And Blaire thinks she might’ve started blushing but when their voices were in synchronisation. When the next instrumental rolls around, he laughs softly, and she leans forward, hesitating right when her lips are going to brush his. But he doesn’t. He kisses her. 

Her breath is stolen for the moment his lips are on hers, and when he pulls away, she’s fiddling with the hem of his sweater hanging around her shoulders. 

Connor clears his throat. “How long these…”  He trails off, but Blaire knows the exact next words, and she takes it up to continue. Her singing isn’t great, but she’ll sing for her Connor, she will. 

“Days of darkness at the bottom of a well,” She sings, hoping she doesn’t sound too bad. But Connor doesn’t show any signs of not liking it. So she sings the rest of the song for him, until just the last bit. They conclude the song together, and his hands go limp on the guitar. Blaire reaches for them instinctively, getting a feel for the callouses, anything new. Her boyfriend watches her with reverence as she gently brushes her hands up his arms. And then gently takes the guitar from him. 

He doesn’t even move, trusts her to take care of his guitar. How she knows to. When she’s finally placed the guitar on its stand, she turns around, but a warm breath fans across her face, and arms snake themselves around her waist. And she’s pulled into Connor, her chin resting against his shoulder. She turns her head to place a kiss on the side of his neck. 

“Don’t do that, Blaire,” he whispers, pressing his nose to her hair. “I don’t want to miss dinner one more time, Larry will be on my ass if I do.”

Blaire’s face heats up, and she shoves her face into Connor’s shoulder, blushing. Her hands clutch at his jacket, and then she looks up, hitting him lightly. He grins. “We won’t be missing anything.”

“So you’re saying—”

“CONNOR!” She turns around, but then the guitar’s right there so she can’t actually escape this predicament. She isn’t weak, but she just succumbs to it when Connor’s arms find her waist and she’s pulled to his side. 

He pulls her to the foot of the bed and makes her sit down. And then he sits down next to her, placing his hands on her lap. She glances at them, and then he taps her thigh. She intertwines their fingers and it’s like second nature when her fingertips are getting a feel of his knuckles for the umpteenth time. And he’s so used to it, he just smiles at her. 

“Thank you, for singing for me, Con’.” She rests her head on his shoulder, their thighs pressed into the other’s. He squeezes her hand. 

“Any day…” he whispers, “I didn’t expect you to remember those lyrics. They’re kinda dumb and all that, but—”

“No they aren’t.” She pulls away one hand just to place a finger against his lips, and he’s silenced. Just stops speaking mid sentence. Blaire laughs softly. He frowns. “Hey, I’m not laughing at you.”

“Oh, but you are,” he says, leaning into her fingertip, kissing it. Now she’s red again. 

She turns her face away but she knows well that he’s laughing. She huffs, but a smile graces her face anyway. She loves moments like these, wrapped up in Connor’s comfort, nothing fake, nothing hidden, just them. She feels closer to peace. Or whatever it might be, or mean. With him, or Evan, she thinks that’s peace. 

It has to be. She doesn’t know a feeling that’s anything like what they make her feel. But what they make her feel is everything beautiful and all the butterflies that are of positive nervousness, not fear. And she could feel it again and again if it means she gets to see them every day. 

Connor wraps his arm around her shoulder, and she relaxes in his grip. 

“You should sing more often.”

“Only for you or Evan.”

She smiles, but he doesn’t notice because her face is hidden in the crook of his neck. Maybe he feels it instead because he pulls her even closer, as close as possible. And she lets him.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[ch4rryc0smos]

⊹ fable — ivan.

synopsis — ember wishes they'd known who they were before anakt garden, because since then, it's been hellish, and only ivan knows when the thought torments them most.

genres — friends to lovers(?), tension, mutual pining(?), yearning(?), admiring, childhood friends, domestic fluff, requited love(?), fluff.

pairing — ivan x friend!self insert, ivan x childhood friend!self insert.

warnings — none, it's just kind of angsty.

word count — 1k.

author's note — this one was harder to write, the initial prompt wasn't much for me to go off of, but i did, and i managed to, now i have another idea, so let's go! have fun reading, chat :)

masterlist.

Ember watches as the stars twinkle. They look real. They look beautiful. Unlike them. Their hands fiddle with the grass tickling the back of their legs. Ivan occupies the empty space beside them, but he’s quiet. And the stars don’t speak either, they blink, they twinkle, glimmer, anything but speak.

“Do you think I actually have family out there, Ivan?” they ask, hope does not blossom in their heart this time though, as it hasn’t, for the many previous occasions. They’ve learnt to expect less from Anakt garden. It might look like it’s a haven of its own, but it’s far from it. It’s always been like that.

Perfect displays, perfect everything, and yet they feel like nothing will ever be fine in their lives. 

“You do,” Ivan whispers, his raven hair is covering his eyes, but Ember knows he’s looking at them. They sigh softly, balling their fists on their lap, the almost-silken white fabric of the uniform crumpling under their fingertips. 

The “moon” hangs itself in the sky, or whatever the sky is, and the stars twinkle, as if to mock them, that while they’re alone—Technically, not counting Ivan—Even something like the stars are together. They are a nameless painting, a destination-less traveller, and an aimless being, in the heavenly realms of this universe, they mean nothing.

And when Ivan looks at them, and then holds his hand out, a red flower sitting in his palm, they stare at him, puzzled. He nods, and they hold their hand out. He gently places the flower into their palm and closes their palm, balling it into a fist. 

“Ivan?” they whisper his name.

He hums in response.

Ember sighs, head hanging low. “I feel like a Jane… John doe.” They laugh sadly, “I don’t remember what exactly you call them, but I think you get the point, anyway.” 

Ivan nods, “I do.”

Ember’s eyes are weighing more by the second, but they will them open, stare at the seemingly endless blanket of navy that was their fake display of a sky, Ivan’s arm wraps around their shoulders and pulls their head to his instead. And as soon as their head has a stable place to rest on, they can barely fight the exhaustion they’ve been trying to fight back for the past hour, or few. It’s been their thing for the past few days, but now Ivan’s fingers are carefully carding through their hair and it falls over their shoulder. Their mind is too tired to care about how uncomfortable it feels.

But Ivan cares, he brushes his hands over their collarbones as he pushes the hair back, and the slight breeze hits them, comfortable, cold. The stars blink at them. 

They start again, “I hope that.” A smile spreads over their face and they hold their hand up, pointing at a random star somewhere. “If I have siblings out there, they’re the stars.”

Ivan chuckles softly. “Really?” His hand is gently running up and down their arm, and it feels nice. It feels like being loved, if they know what that is. Maybe they don’t? There was a time where they didn’t even know their first name, sometimes they still wonder if it’s Ember. “Ember?” he whispers their name. They crane their neck so they can meet his eyes. “I hope the stars are your family too.”

They smiled softly at him, “Thank you.”

“I hope they’re always watching over you.”

They gulp, trying to fight back the impending weight of all their repressed emotions. Nothing goes unnoticed by Ivan, he leans forward, cradling their face and pressing it into the comfort of his shoulder. Over the past few months, he’d caught up on the fact that they were uncomfortable crying in front of everyone. They were meant to be the star.

Perfect, like everyone that walked out of these damned gardens. And the aliens made sure to turn them into the porcelain doll they needed, and knew exactly how to torment Ember. And they knew that Ivan dreamt of freedom. Of a fate they’d given up on trying to reach. 

They weren’t foolish anymore. Even when they noticed Ivan longingly staring at the huge metallic door that they’d seen slide open once, and that was when they watched as some other human was forced into this hellhole. 

It was a pitiful day. 

Their body is pressed to Ivan’s side, and he holds them close, his hand halts where it meets theirs, and he taps their palm. They open their eyes, and he mouths some words to them, they smile softly, feeling the weight of his fingers between theirs as they intertwine. 

“Thanks,” they whisper, voice quiet, they think their voice is quiet, but any care has left them and they just want to rest now. They’re too scared to sleep, too scared to do anything, to move. And somehow Ivan finds them in the depths of the night, when they’re spiralling the worst. So they thank him. For dealing with me, for being here, for being my support in the emptiness of this… universe.

“What for?” he asks, relaxing his grip on their hand, but it’s like instinct when they tighten their grip instead, they don’t want him to let go. They need him to let them know that he won’t go. 

He doesn’t let go. As soon as his fingers tighten around their hand, he holds their hand close, presses his palm to the back of theirs. “Everything.”

“That’s too general, don’t you think?” Ivan leans down to get a good look at Ember’s face. They smile at him, he smiles back. 

“I want to thank you,” They start speaking again, “for many, many things.”

“You don’t have to,” he says, laughing. And he’s going to say something, but Ember holds up a finger to his lips. They’ve never done this, but his lips are soft. They don’t know softness outside of the arms that currently hold them together, and they can’t think of softness because the only type they know of is in their occasional dreams. In the dreams that they know will never be true.

“Oh.” They smile at him, pulling their hand away. “But I will.”

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[ch4rryc0smos]

⊹ warm — a. donaldson.

synopsis — their hearts know who they beat for, and they're done waiting. every moment they spent away from each other, they will make up for it, some way or another, yearning never truly dies out, does it?

genres — friends to lovers, tension, mutual pining, requited yearning, admiring, best friend's friend, domestic fluff, requited love, fluff.

pairing — art donaldson x friend!self insert, art donaldson x mutual friend!self insert.

warnings — none! all fluffy!

word count — 1.5k.

author's note — this took me a bit to write because i've been busy and so horribly tired, but i've got a new idea, and i have something planned, so bear with me, i hope you enjoy!

masterlist.

The warmth of Art’s hand is encapsulated in Marion’s as he holds her pressed close to his side. His arms are tense, Marion can tell. She always could. Even when he used to play tennis. Marion isn’t necessarily wearing anything light, so even with the breeze teasing her, she shouldn’t be too cold, but Art wants to take his chances anyway. Marion looks up at Art, he’s staring ahead, but smiling softly. She misses his fluffy hair, flowing with the wind. Of course it made sense to cut it short for him to play tennis, but she misses seeing it get in his face when they’d have walks in the morning breeze while it assaulted them. She doesn’t realise she’s been smiling at him until he turns to her, and he raises his eyebrows. She looks away.

“Nothing,” she whispers. He isn’t convinced, he brushes a stray strand of hair out of her face, and then he leans down, so now they’re eye-level. “Art!” 

He continues grinning. Even at thirty one, he’s still acting like he did at twenty. “What’s wrong?”

“Hm,” Marion hums, feigning confusion, and then she flicks his forehead. He gasps softly and she erupts into laughter. This feels a bit immature, but it feels nice, to have him back, to just be, with him, in his arms. He still hasn’t let go of her waist. He pouts softly and Marion’s knees are about to give out. “Nicely cropped hair? Not really like you, Donaldson.”

“Hey…” he whispers, nuzzling his nose into her shoulder. She chuckles, wrapping her arms around his back and holding him close. The night hides them away from any prying eyes and it’s like being eighteen and going out together for the first time all over again. Just this time, she’s not in his sweatshirt and a random pair of jeans she stole from Tashi. This time, she’s still in her work outfit, courtesy to Art arriving too early to pick her up. 

Just like the day they reconciled. 

Marion presses a kiss to the side of Art’s head, and he melts in her arms. “I love you,” she whispers into his neatly cut hair. “Miss your messy hair, though.”

Art turns his face in her direction and their noses brush. He grins, leaning in until his lips are lightly grazing hers. Marion feels like mush in his hands. One of his hands slides up her body, and then cups her face. His palm is a warm contrast to the wind that’s ebbing and flowing between their bodies, entangled in the middle of the footpath. 

“I love you more, Mari’.” He gently moves back, instead opting to snake his arms around her shoulders, still covered by his jacket. He himself is in a casual shirt, a bit formal, a bit unlike him, but Marion knows he’s just trying to impress her, as if there’s any reason for it. “Do you want me to grow my hair out?”

“Art,” she starts. “You don’t have to ask me what do with your own hair, if you want to grow it out, you can, if you don’t want to,” her voice has grown to a hushed whisper even in the emptiness of the streets they tread and her hand finds its way to his as she intertwines their fingers. “You don’t have to.”

Marion shouldn’t be surprised, but she can’t help but notice the way Art relaxes, he squeezes her hand and then raises it gently to his lips, pressing feather light kisses to her knuckles.

He meets her eyes, her heart flutters like she’s a teen still. “Do you want me to grow it out?”

“Art.” Marion shakes her head. 

“Mari’,” he whispers back. 

She huffs, looking away, but smiling nonetheless. 

“Yeah, I do.” She sighs. 

“Then, I’m growing it out,” says Art, tone definitive.

Marion just shakes her head and stares ahead, at the streets, the singular cars that pass by every few minutes. It’s getting closer and closer to midnight, but these two are seemingly in their own world. And Marion personally, wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Art—”

“Want to get ice—”

Both of them start speaking at the same time, Marion stops, but so does Art. She nods. Art’s face breaks into a grin and grips her hand tighter. And then suddenly, he’s picked up pace, and Marion laughs, all surprised, but she’s not opposed to the idea of running with her Art down a random pathway on a random Tuesday, when the clock’s close to spiking midnight. He’s got that athlete strength and she’s close to losing her breath already.

“I can’t breathe—” she begins, voice breaking from holding back her giggles, she’s clinging onto Art for dear life. She doesn’t get how this old man with a whole daughter has the ability to run like this. So much for being an athlete. And so much for her having played tennis at college.

Slowly, Art comes to a halt, and Marion almost tumbles into him, “didn’t you play tennis with Tashi during Stanford?”

“Yeah, but I’m not some pro like…” she has to stop to forcefully inhale more air. “Like you.”

“You flatter me,” Art says, wrapping the jacket around Marion’s shoulders again. He’s standing in front of Art, brushing his hands over her shoulders, up her neck. A shiver crawls up her spine when his warm hands find the plains of her face, and he holds her gently. Her eyes dare flutter close, but only momentarily, and then again, she’s looking at him, like he might have hung the stars for her, like he is the moon she adores. Her eyes drop to his lips, but they don’t linger long enough, she looks away, at the space separating them. 

“Look at me,” Art’s voice is soft as he whispers the words, his hands hold her firmly in place, and then he brushes thumb over her lower lip. Marion’s heart rate skyrockets the way it did the first time they looked at each other at anything, anything but friends. 

They were never just friends. Art, with his neatly cut hair, and slightly cherry-tinted face looks at Marion, eyes looking almost glazed over, and she’s staring, lips parted. Her heart is a cacophony in her chest and she’s scared he can hear it, and hates it. This feels reckless, like being in love but not knowing if your heart is ready to settle. If they will, too. But now, they do know.

They’ve spent what feels like a lifetime tip-toeing around the feeling of knowing they’re made for no one else, but now, after so many years, they’re finally giving in. Marion brings her hand to hold the nape of Art’s neck tenderly, using her other hand to brush his cheek softly before she leans in, pressing her lips to his. Right outside a door, leading into a parlour. 

Art breathes into her mouth, pulling her closer, for a moment. His lips are perfectly moulded to the like of hers, and he knows where her mouth ends and his begins but not where their breaths end because they’ve become one.

When they pull away, Art’s grinning, and Marion laughs softly. And her eyes flutter close for just a moment, but then she feels a gust of much colder wind brush against her legs. She looks at Art, and he’s holding a door open for her. She steps through, and his arm latches around her waist again, and he leads her into the parlour. 

It’s that one ice cream parlour.

They’d visit when they were younger. 

Was Luke still the owner? Was he alive?

He was, much to Marion’s relief. She jogged up to the counter, smiling at him.

“Marion! Look at how you’ve grown,” he begins speaking, rather tenderly, as he had then too. 

“It’s not been that long,” Marion says, smiling as she glances at Art, who greets Luke too. 

The corner of Luke’s eyes crinkle as Art’s eyes wander to the ice cream under them. “Still the same, after all these years too, hm?”

“Yeah,” Art’s voice is calm, it’s almost quiet. 

“Same?”

Art nods.

Marion watches the interaction, and something fills her heart. In the quiet of the night, she’s watching the lights of the ice cream parlour reflect off Art’s face, and Luke has more wrinkles, but he’s so enthusiastic. She can’t ignore the way he’s looking at the both of them and she’s so glad her and Art’s intertwined fingers are hidden behind the counter. And then a small cup of ice cream is being pushed to her.

Cookies & cream, how’d he know—

“You two are still the same, don’t change.”

By the time the ice cream is done, they’re staring out at the ocean. The moon glimmers above their head and the stars twinkle for them. Art is holding Marion’s hands in his laps, and she plays with his fingers. The wind hums in their ears, and there’s this warmth blossoming in her guts. 

“I missed you,” she whispers, head pressed to his neck, drinking in his cologne.

He laughs softly, and his body shakes slightly from the force of it. “I miss you.”

“I’m right here.” She presses a tender kiss to a vein on his neck. 

“Don’t go anywhere.”

“I won’t.”

He encircles his arms around her, his warm body pressed to hers, heartbeat steady under her arms. She missed him.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[ch4rryc0smos]

⊹ wake up — a. donaldson.

synopsis — art is marion's best friend, of course, but he's also the reason she believes in love, and he will be the reason she loses hope in it.

genres — friends to (not) lovers, tension, one sided-pining , unrequited yearning, admiring, best friend's (to-be) husband, domestic angst, unrequited love, hurt no comfort.

pairing — art donaldson x friend!self insert, art donaldson x mutual friend!self insert.

warnings — none, it's just angst, but nothing major, i think

word count — 2.3k.

author's note — i am finally back with something new, trust me, i've been doing things in the background, just, it's been pretty hard, not going to lie, otherwise, i've been on it. this was requested by a friend so, for you <3

masterlist.

The weight on Marion’s shoulders is heavy. It’s debilitating to her as she carries the mounds of flowers she picked out herself. And on any other day, this would mean something great. She’s never hated the texture of petals on her fingertips, until today. All it does now is settle a deep pit of sickness in her stomach, and she thinks she could be anywhere but where she is, right now.  She could be choosing the flowers for her own engagement party, but no, she’s choosing flowers for the party Art is throwing Tashi. 

Where he’ll propose.

With a beautiful emerald ring.

And he said it looks like her eyes! Marion’s eyes. How ironic because it’s not her finger it’ll be going on by the end of the night. The first message in the morning was one from Art, and the one she’ll end her night on will be one from him too. He’s just the perfect man like that, wanting to give the best. To his future wife. Who isn’t her. Won’t be her. 

She doesn’t want to be the girl that stays up to talk to a man that won’t ever be hers. She’d much rather be the girl that notices the notification pop up and makes a mental note to reply in the morning, unbothered. But of course, she’s the girl that has no dignity and stays up late into the night messaging him, wondering why he’s not asleep yet either. 

He tells her he doesn’t realise time is flying when he’s dreaming of all the things he can do, and that she makes him forget time is real. She didn’t need to know that, because she knows well that it’s a lie. A lie that she still basks in during the early hours of the morning. A delusion that she sinks deeper into as her covers hug her tighter than him. Well, no, his hugs are incomparable, but she needs to move on. She doesn’t even move from her bed, moving on is much further away. The sun peeps in from the cracks in her curtains, and she turns away from it. Ignores the flashing alert of nine AM staring through her forehead. Tashi’s bed is empty, has been, for hours. Marion remembers the exact minute she woke up, and the minute she left. The way Marion’s muscles gave up for a minute there, and she lay there motionless, watching her best friend scramble around with skill, and aim. 

As always.

Thankfully, the sun hadn’t made its cameo yet, then, but now it has. If she doesn’t wake up, she’ll call herself the laziest person from Stanford, and Art is probably counting on her. To perfect his engagement. To be there to cheer him on. He’s always been anxious, and that probably won’t ever change. And Marion knows it. She thinks that even in a few years time, he’ll still glance around when he doesn’t know what to do, and he’ll look for someone he knows. 

But she probably won’t be that someone. Even if he knows her. She’s scared that once he’s engaged, she’ll just be a photograph from the past, a footnote from a previous chapter, and a scribble written down urgently and paid no mind to. 

When her mind finally finds the energy to force herself to sit up, she stares at the bedsheets, white, crumpled. She pushes them off to fight her exhaustion back. She did sleep last night, why is she so tired? Was it because that was one of the first nights in a few weeks she didn’t spend half of her time messaging Art? He said he wanted to be prepared and not exhausted to propose. 

How adorable. Her stomach churns uncomfortably. She fights back pitiful laughter as her feet hit the cold floor. A shiver crawls up her spine. It means nothing when she is itching to throw herself back into the comfort of her sheets. But she doesn’t, because that’s dumb.

Because she’s going to be productive, she’s going to make this day memorable. And to do that, she can’t stay sulking on her bed, no matter how comfortable. No matter how badly she may want to. So, she does what any good person, or friend does and forces herself to get ready to face the day. She even prepares her own breakfast, but this time, like most other times, she cooks an extra portion, how she always does, for Art. 

She doesn’t even know if she’ll meet him where she always does. What if he’s not waiting outside the tennis court? What if he’s busy daydreaming and either she’ll be interrupting it or she’ll be left to be embarrassed? She can’t think about that right now. What she needs to do now is get a grip on herself and take her extra portion of sandwich and churros Art. 

She treads her way through the campus. She doesn’t like how natural it feels when her feet carry her to the court. When she hears the breathless grunts of force blending in with the morning hush, minus the breeze whispering in her ears. Her face lights up before she realises it. She can feel the smile tugging at her lips the moment her eyes land on the mop of blond hair. His blue eyes glisten when he turns towards her general direction. She almost stills the moment their eyes meet. Early morning ocean, waves drowning out the sand of the shore. She finds that if she’d previously been feeling any resentment, or any negative emotion, it’s gone, it’s dissolved into the pit of her stomach and she hopes it won’t resurface.

It can’t, not right now. Later that evening maybe, but right now, she truly doesn’t need to deal with that. She feels heat crawl up her face when she realises that she’s walking far too quickly, she’s bounding over even. Art breaks his routine, and he’s walking over to her with the same energy.

It does something to her heart, something that is wrong. 

“Art!” she speaks his name, her smile stretching far wider than it needs to. More than it needs to for some friend of hers. Just some friend. But he’s enthusiastic too. He drops his racket to the floor, she flinches at the side, but within the next moment, his arms are wrapped around her. He’s warm, even at this time, he’s all warm. He’s sweaty too.

Marion doesn’t move. 

“You’re up early, no?” he asks, grinning, also knowing well that she never sleeps in this late. And he still hasn’t let go either. There’s this jittery feeling to the way his arms trace shapes on the lower half of her back. 

“Shut up,” she whispers against his shoulder. She pulls aways slightly, bringing her hand with the paper bag forward. She holds it out to him. He glances down at it, and smiles. “Worried your engagement won’t go well, Artie?” 

She uses the nickname when she knows he’s nervous. It always calmed him down, for some reason. And it has the exact same effect this time too. He accepts the bag and looks in, his smile widening when he realises what the contents are. 

He pulls the churro out first. Instinctively, Marion reaches for his hand, shaking her head. “No, actual food first, Mr. ‘I’m an athlete!’.” She pushes the churro back in. Art pouts at her, but she’s long immune to it, or is she? 

She is, she’s convinced she is. 

Before she knows it, Art has the sandwich unwrapped and takes a bite. She sighs, taking a hold of his other hand, tugging him away from the court. She makes a mental note to get his equipment later, but right now, he needs to eat… and get a shower.

Definitely get a shower. Marion doesn’t judge, but she’s surprised by how quickly he finishes his sandwich. One second she’s checking her phone for any messages she might have ignored, the next he’s somehow reaching for a tissue and their hands brush because of course the tissue box is right next to her hand. She looks up. His eyes meet hers, and he smiles softly.

Her heart winces. 

“Lover boy needs to be ready for his proposal, no?” she says. 

He grins at her. “I am though.”

“Not like that, you aren’t.” She eyes him up and down, trying to give him a look of disgust but she really can’t manage it. 

Art scratches the back of his neck.

The next few hours are spent at his dorm room, thankfully vacated minus his and Marion’s presence. She waits on his bed as he showers, and when he’s done, she’s still wrapped up comfortably in his sheets. But then he steps out, with just a towel hanging around his lower half, and her face is suddenly warmer than the surface of the sun.

She forgets how to speak, and every word that she might’ve ever known dies out in her throat, right then and there. She clears her throat, and looks away.

“Are you okay?” Art asks, and somehow he’s already at the foot of the bed? He’s sitting on the edge of it, right next to her. She can feel the bed creaking and the mattress shifting as he weighs it down. And then the warmth of his fingertips meet her cheek. He gently turns her face towards him. He looks genuinely worried. The words that were previously assumed dead are suddenly fighting their way back up her throat. 

“Yeah, I–I’m good!” she says, a bit too quickly. She’s an idiot, but she also can’t keep her eyes off the way the sun is slipping in through the windows and how the rays are hitting his muscles just right, how he looks like he’s shining.

Oh what a lucky woman Tashi is.

The thought makes her stomach sink, but Marion brushes it off, away from the forefront of her mind with a laugh. When she laughs, it thankfully convinces Art too, that she is in fact sane, and okay.

Marion never considered herself a diva, or fashion expert, but she’s really proud of his outfit for the evening. She didn’t even feel the time passing as she helped him get ready. He told her that he needs her to be his personal assistant when he finally goes pro. Or he needs Marion to be there in his life forever.

It took a turn deeper than it needed. And that’s why she’s now silent as she waits patiently for Art to appear with Tashi at the location Marion had spent so long trying to fix up. The little beach that the two apparently had first had a conversation on. 

Well, it’s not apparently. Marion remembers it really well. Far too well. 

She can’t stop kicking the sand beneath her feet. Her thoughts are too loud, and her clothes feel uncomfortable. And they won’t feel comfortable, not any time soon, at least. They never do, until she has something, or even someone to distract herself with. But she knows well that all of this is just wishful thinking on her behalf. 

But she’d rather indulge in wishful thinking than accept that her hearing isn’t faulty and that she can hear laughter, Tashi’s laughter, echoing from a distance. Curse this place for not having enough walls to absorb all the sound. It makes her feel just a bit selfish. But she isn’t selfish, no, she isn’t. 

She stands further away, watches as Art and Tashi approach the location, the fairy lights sway softly with the breeze that greets Tashi like the morning sun greets the waking world. She’s glowing, even in the dimming sun as it sinks below the horizon in shame of her beauty. Or that’s what Marion thinks. 

Art is grinning at her, his eyes glued to the frame of Tashi’s face, and what is Marion doing? Hiding behind a tree to jump in if something goes wrong? Yeah, it’s fucking embarrassing. But Art said he wanted her there for emotional support. She doesn’t know why he needs that, he’s got enough game anyway. Her 

Her breath hitches in her throat as she watches Tashi and Art, moving in synchronisation when they seat themselves on the same rocks they did the first they’d met. Tashi is talking animatedly, but Art is fiddling with his pants pocket. Marion wants to facepalm herself.

She turns away, to watch the sunset, she already feels like a creep, and watching this doesn’t make it feel any better. She closes her eyes, lets the soft sound of laughter consume her mind, lets the breeze consolidate her aching heart. Just for the moment. Until it dulls out.

The laughter is gone, and silence engulfs her being. Then she’s compelled to open her eyes and of course they’re drawn back to the only other people here. And her heart sinks to her stomach when she processes what she’s seeing.

Art, on his knees. Holding up a ring.

Tashi isn’t moving an inch, she’s glancing around. 

Marion dips behind the tree, pressing her back to it and clutching onto her sweatshirt. One image keeps on replaying in her mind. The ring.

It shouldn’t mean anything, it could’ve been a mistake. But. It’s green.

It’s green in the way moss agate is. It’s green in the way the forest is.

It’s green in the way Art says Marion’s eyes are. 

And it feels like an arrow’s been thrusted into the threshold of her heart. 

Wake up, she wants to say, but this is all real, and it feels like a play, strung along by the mightiest of gods. All out to hurt her, to some capacity.

She wants to wake up from this nightmare.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[ch4rryc0smos]

─ edit .ᐟ

★ ; my friend @altangua has yet AGAIN blessed me with an edit. this one, was a surprise, and i'm still so intensely giddy over it. it also might have single-handedly made me want to write masterpiece again even though i have other things to write. it's just. SO good. like i could combust /pos.

── .✦ [eighteen]

ch4rryc0smos © 2024

[ch4rryc0smos]

DID YOU BURN DOWN THE HOUSE TO EXCUSE ALL THE PAIN YOU WENT THROUGH / AND IS IT BETTER NOW THAT YOU'RE GONE ? — FORGET ABOUT US | CLINTON KANE.

── . 𖤐 ❝ S A G E H E C T O R V A L E N C I A . ❞

⿻ — xxviii | cancer | infj | british-american(?) 🧶

appearance ; pale skin with summer freckles, mole under the right corner of her bottom lip, emerald green eyes with central heterochromia, 5'7 [170 cm], thin build with strong forearms and calves, scars over most of her body, most visible on arms and thighs, dimples on one side of her face, more visible than the other dimple. ombre [brown-blonde] hair, curtain bangs that have grown out a little and blonde part of her hair dyed blue. long, layered hair, now overgrown.

beliefs ; whatever life throws at you is just another trial, maybe from god, if there is one, maybe from mother nature, you don't know, probably never. humans are feeble beings, and like blackholes, can collapse from within; from the simplest misguidance.

⋆ ─ anything that is alive, or has once lived; has the ability to turn evil, if it so much as wills. ⋆ ─ the world never stops for you, and all you can do is move with it, unless you want to be left behind.

personality ; gentle, intuitive, vigilant, observant, meticulous, collected, diligent, careful, inquisitive, proactive.

positive traits ; compassionate, selfless, empathetic, kind, accountable, notices other's emotions & fluctuations in behaviour[s], fast learner, quick to cover up for others, quick-thinker.

negative traits ; anxious, bottles up their emotions, skeptic [has trust issues], struggles with boundaries, overworks, cares too hard, thinks she have to always be the one to rely on, can't accept her negative emotions, has unhealthy coping mechanisms, brutally honest sometimes, severe overthinker, finds it hard to let go.

quirks ; fidgets all the time | stutters when nervous | bounces from heel to heel when waiting in queues | gets louder and faster when talking about passions | has an oral fixation | tilts her head when they're focusing | taps her foot unconsciously when trying to focus. | tends to go statue still when honing in on senses | gets quieter when worried | tries to act boisterous and confident | bites lip when nervous.

likes ; nature, psychology, sociology, anthropology, freedom of speech, anarchy, deep conversations, late-nights spent with those they care for, real food, biology [many branches of it], history, gardens, aquariums, deers, red pandas, art of living, knowledge, economics, sal fisher.

dislikes ; arthropods, heights, loud noises, narrow-mindedness, extreme temperatures, snobby people, arrogance, dishonesty, being under pressure, confrontation, disorganised places, being treated like a slave, devourer's supporters, liars.

deepest secrets ; doesn't actually have a will to live and if she's used as a sacrifice, she'll accept her fate. she thinks that the only way she can be remembered is by servitude, so she finds no worth in her personality.

⋆ ─ thinks her personality amounts to nothing and until she does something for someone, they'll forget her. ⋆ ─ wishes she could've ended the devourer's and their plans, and works towards it, sometimes she still think her friends only like her out of pity.

── . 𖤐 ❝ B A C K S T O R Y . ❞

PERFECT little sage valencia is born to her mother, a blessing from the devil, for the devourers, their perfect little blessing, the only instance they'd ever use this term, otherwise it's unholy, but she'll be the only holy thing they'll ever embrace, and they'll do it with pride. because she'll be the reason they ascend, won't she?

she grows up hearing about the great things her father has done, and how she'll be the perfect successor, she doesn't even know what the word successor means until she suddenly has to leave behind her posh, but lonely life. she moves to the tiny town of nockfell, tightly-knit, nothing like what she's used to, but has to get used to.

the whispers follow her around, they won't stop. they don't. she doesn't know anyone, but they know her, and only a few years after moving in to this god-forsaken town, she meets a little boy by the name of travis phelps, explosive, not like an explosive, rather; like a nebula.

they grow close, he's scared, she doesn't know enough, perfect, because they bear the brunt of the devourer's expectations. sage thinks he'll be the successor because she finally knows what it means! but one faithful(less) meeting confirms that no, it's her. she's the forsaken one, the perfect guinea pig to be controlled by her fragile strings.

as the years pass, she's learnt to detach from it all, act like she isn't real. the only times she feels real is when she's leaning against the gravestones at the cemetery behind the church, and travis is fiddling with sandwiches or his sweaters, or the rare, cigarette. he doesn't smoke though, just stares at the weird thing between his fingers.

sage is far too bothered by the wars waging themselves in her mind for her to care. they talk, only occasionally, and they never mention it again, but they do it, again, and again. until fifteen. at fifteen, a new person, well, a few new people enter her life, or maybe they've been there for a while, but she's never experienced a connection as close as this.

along with ashley campbell, todd morrison, and larry johnson (all of whom she's always known through her detours to the addison apartments; her haven when hell is her home), she meets sal fisher. a boy that looks like he might be out of a dream, but has lived a nightmare. and something about the way she learns that he's intertwined in the devourer's dirty business makes him seem endearing to her.

and he is, he truly is. especially when she first talks to him, and it's like a spark is ignited. everything that happens after that, it's like they've been through it together. and to some extent, they have. once involved with the devourers, always involved with them.

to the point that she starts regretting him. he's always deserved better, and gods forbid she's the reason he loses his life. when she finds out the cruelty he's meant to be facing, she makes it her goal to save him.

she will.

── . 𖤐 ❝ C U R R E N T. ❞

IF only she'd done something. it felt like it'd been years since she last saw him, but it was just a few months ago that she was sitting with him in his room at his house. that they thought they could finally do something, be someone(s).

but they're nothing, and no one. he's been in that awful prison, for months. she can't believe it's only been a few months. she feels like she's been deprived of him for months. she misses him. nothing feels the same. she doesn't even want to commit to her cause as much as she used to.

all because he's gone. and every day, the doom, and the exhaustion catches up to her more. especially without, him.

sal fisher has been incriminated wrongfully, and it kills sage to even think about it. she feels pathetic, but she needs to do something, something more than writing letters she wishes she could give him because every day without him, with the fear of not knowing how he is, gets her even more antsy.

she's no longer the respected, looked upon successor of the devourers that she once might have been, she's just sage. a messed up woman, a teenager still fighting somewhere in there. and one of these days she'll be nothing more than a sacrifice. she's not devoted like travis is, she's not fighting back on the front lines, she slithers in the back, tries to find ways into the cracks threatening to break open.

she wants those dams to break. is this why she's been told she's like her father? because at heart, she's just violent. without him at least. when he's not there to ground her, when his warmth isn't there to consolidate, she spirals. she spirals downwards.

and to be fair, the world does too. in all the time sage and sal spend apart, the world gets ever gloomier. the plague spreads, it's everywhere, the darkness seeps through walls. is he okay? has it gotten to him?

all sage can do is hope, hope against all odds that she's strong enough to last until she has gotten rid of it. she doesn't care for what becomes of her then, only what remains of the world.

she works, tirelessly, searching, and doing all she can. for him.

will she ever succeed?

── . 𖤐 appears in blood sport [wip].

★ ; sally face how i missed you (can't work on my wip for it until december thanks to studies!!). i finally managed to introduce her, trust a work will be released from its cages soon enough. her and sal are pure tragedy, so have fun chat. <3

ch4rryc0smos © 2024

[ch4rryc0smos]

I GOTTA BE HONEST / I DON'T KNOW IF I COULD TAKE IT / EVERYBODY'S TALKING BUT WHAT'S ANYBODY SAYING ? — R.I.P 2 MY YOUTH | THE NEIGHBOURHOOD.

── . ⚝ ❝ E M B E R A S P E N S I N C L A I R . ❞

𝄞 — xxi | cancer | infj | british(?) oceanian(?) 🪩

appearance ; pale almost porcelain like skin, mole under the right corner of their bottom lip, emerald green eyes with hazel around the iris, 5'11 [180 cm], athletic [or sleeper] build with thinner legs and arms, barely noticeable scars over arms, thighs and back, scars over most of their body, dimples when they smile hard. dimples on their lower back when they stretche. ombre [brown-blonde] hair, jellyfish haircut that grows out quickly, purple/violet highlights for bangs and ends of their hair.

beliefs ; worth is never defined by anything but achievements, and sometimes personality. everything holds value in the universe, whether it's obvious or not. free will is for all. equality should exist in all facets of life.

⋆ ─ life is, absurd, but perhaps some things are hidden by the universe, and all has reason, even if not obvious. ⋆ ─ good and bad can be discernable, always has been, just some times, it's not as easy as it is others.

personality ; gentle, intuitive, vigilant, observant, meticulous, collected, diligent, careful, realist, ingenious.

positive traits ; compassionate, selfless, empathetic, kind, accountable, notices other's emotions & fluctuations in behaviour[s], fast learner.

negative traits ; anxious, bottles up their emotions, skeptic [has trust issues], struggles with boundaries, overworks, cares too hard, thinks they have to always be the one to rely on, can't accept their negative emotions, has unhealthy coping mechanisms, brutally honest sometimes.

quirks ; fidgets all the time | stutters when nervous | bounces from heel to heel when waiting in queues | gets louder and faster when talking about passions | has an oral fixation | tilts their head when they're focusing | taps their foot unconsciously when trying to focus. | tends to go statue still when honing in on senses | gets quieter when worried | tries to act boisterous and confident | bites lip when nervous.

likes ; nature, psychology, sociology, anthropology, freedom of speech, anarchy, deep conversations, late-nights spent with those they care for, real food, biology [many branches of it], history, gardens, aquariums, deers, red pandas, art of living, knowledge, economics, ivan.

dislikes ; arthropods, heights, loud noises, narrow-mindedness, extreme temperatures, snobby aliens or people, arrogance, dishonesty, being under pressure, confrontation, disorganised places, being treated like a slave.

deepest secrets ; wants to one day escape alien stage, wants to be more than just a pawn and slave, wants to be loved, wants to know about their past, wants to save the universe, somehow.

⋆ ─ they want to feel worthwhile, and want to not be perceived as useless in any regards. ⋆ ─ wants ivan and their friends to escape, and live their best lives, even if their life is risked in the process. they don't value it enough.

── . ⚝ ❝ B A C K S T O R Y . ❞

RISING star of anakt garden, ember sinclair is a timid child, they didn't even have a name when they first found themselves at the mellow anakt garden quarters, something he didn't know were quarters then. at their young age, they learnt to be perfect for the aliens, they didn't know anyone, anything even. they didn't even know if she had a name. they were too scared to talk to the other... humans? were they even human? was he human?

she spent most of their first few months with the caretaker aliens, and they thought they owed their body to them, including their voice. so they trained, all they did was train, trained their voice to be everything. to sound naturally like a man, or woman, or anything in between.

until the time they turned six, they did not know if they had a name, they just had a title, and a code name, but then they named themselves ember, they might not know how to talk to someone, but they know their last name and how to sing. and that's enough, because they've been told they'll wow the world. when they go on that stage.

when they have lunch, they watch the other humans, talking to each other, and one day, he notices a kid, a young boy, sitting alone, staring at another kid. they don't know what to think but she feels like he gets them. much to their luck, the next task they had to complete was a group thing, and it was... nice? was it? they make origami shapes! they decided to make a purple paper heart with their name on it for the kid they'd seen earlier.

when they went to hand it over to them, they learnt that his name was ivan. he was hesitant, but he accepted it. and then they notice the crumpled paper sitting on his table, they smile at him, ask him if he needs any help. he refuses, but they know better. they've seen the aliens, and the way they talk about humans, humans tend to be like that, they say.

so, ember makes it their goal to befriend him. which they do, succesfully. one good thing from being with the aliens! ivan's more reserved than they'd thought, but it's okay, he's their friend! he likes them, that's more than enough. they never found it easy to sleep, but back in the day, they'd spend it awake, overthinking.

now they have, ivan. timing is divine, he knows every time they get too antsy, and he knows exactly what to do, it's like he's what they've been missing for so long. it's like he's what's going to piece them back together. they find solace through their adolescence and teenage years in him, and they think he finds it in them too. he who devotes his time to them.

── . ⚝ ❝ C U R R E N T . ❞

STAR of the show, that's what they're called. ember has made their name in alien stage, and despite what the misinformed aliens might think, it's not the heavenly life they think it is. every day, they watch someone they cared for die. every day, murder happens in front of their eyes, and quite frankly; for nothing.

they don't fear for their life anymore, they don't know why they sing with vigour, is it because they don't want the years of practice to go to waste? or is it because of ivan?

they don't care to know. one day, they expect to be at the receiving end of a gunshot, they think that one day, if there is a god out there, they will meet... them? him? her? they hope for that, but they don't tell him. he wouldn't like it, would he?

every year since they started alien stage, they have won, but it never brought upon any satisfaction, only immense guilt, and the need to repay for their lesser sins (most of which were not their doing). it's always the maybes, the they shouldn't have sang with that much power, they shouldn't have wanted to live. the thoughts never end.

until one day, their friend hyuna, proposes an idea to them. one which they agreed to far too quickly. even though it risked their life. they agreed. and from that day onwards, they were called cipher. they became an inside spy for hyuna. who escaped.

and for once, ember felt useful. and when they'd told ivan, if they said he was worried, it would be an understatement. he was never the type to be livid, but that day, he was close to being so.

yet, he didn't stop them. did he perhaps want this too? perhaps he wanted to leave too. ember would never mind leaving with him, he never wanted to stay here anyway. so, one faithful night, after just another time they'd won alien stage, they sat with ivan.

they asked him, and lucky for them, he agreed. he told them he wanted them to live life to the fullest. that he was so sorry they had to deal with that. and then he broke the news to them, that next year, he would join alien stage too. he said join, but ember knew he was forced. there were never choices in a place like this.

ember made it their goal this time, to not befriend him, but save him. even if their life was risked in the process. they never valued it enough, anyway. but he said that if he left, he'd take them with him, he promised that.

but were promises ever kept at alien stage anyway? they supposed they'd have to find out. so, they kept on their cipher guise for hyuna while playing the perfect pawn for the aliens, and did they feel like their strings were about to snap.

any day they would go into overdrive, or their wooden joints would bear a crack and it would all come crashing down, they feared for the day, they truly did. how could they not?

especially with his life at stake, what could they do? what would they do? all they knew was that they would be the first person to fulfill their promise, to both ivan, and to hyuna. they would save whoever they could from this cruel fate, and they would bring forth his freedom. no matter the stakes.

for him, for themselves. they had to do it. and they would.

a promise was made, and it would be kept. it would be fulfilled. they hope that they are strong, that if there is a god out there, help would come their way, for these poor souls. they had a bit of hope left, even if it was dwindling more by the day. all the hacking, all the hopeful late night conversations.

they had to lead somewhere. they better.

── . ⚝ appears in sailor song [wip]

★ ; finally introducing my alien stage s/i. after watching round seven, or the final, or WHATEVER. i have the motivation. i am grieving. and if you're wondering what's with the gender, me too. me too, chat. i don't know what's going on either, take a guess. they probably spin a wheel and choose /j i hope you love them, anyway.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024

[ch4rryc0smos]

⊹ to be seen is to be loved — c. murphy.

synopsis — a tiring day for blaire, and connor murphy decides to try to make it better, which he succeeds at, really well. and he sees her, more than she realises he does. that much is established.

genres — friends to lovers, friendly banter, mutual pining, requited yearning, admiring, best friends, domestic fluff, requited love, comfort, chaotic fluff.

pairing — connor murphy x friend!original character, connor murphy x childhood friend!original character, connor murphy x best friend!original character.

warnings — implications of self h@rm, mentions of scars.

word count — 3.3k.

author's note — i know it's been a solid week or something since i've last posted, please bear with me, i barely have the time or motivation. after this, i intend to make an intro post for my alien stage s/i. yes, i've watched the final, i am, grieving.

masterlist.

Blaire is tapping her fingers on her thigh as she waits for Alana to return from her daily student council president duties, and what other nonsense she partakes in. It’s spring but the breeze is strong, Blaire is glad to have worn dress pants today, but her thin work-ish shirt just isn’t helping. It’s really thin. It looks nice, but the cold air is practically cocooning her and she has to breathe on her hands to feel like there’s still hope of her not freezing away. 

She watches the other students pass her by, some wave to her, some try to flirt, but she just smiles, tapping her foot on the pavement, wondering where Alana even is. Her eyes glaze over the passing figures, and she has to blink to not zone out. Until, her eyes land on the approaching figure of none other than Connor Murphy.

Local stoner, and weirdo, as known by the petty high schoolers, but also one of Blaire’s boyfriends, which still sounds weird to say, but she supposes she’ll have to learn to use it more often in real life. She doesn’t think she’s mentioned it more than like, once, to Alana. 

As he’s getting closer, a breeze slips between him and Blaire, she shivers in annoyance, pushing aside the feeling of the cold air tickling her collarbones. She grins at Connor. His black jacket is clinging onto him, and he holds his hand out, feigning a courtesy, to some extent. 

“Callahan, fancy seeing you out here,” he says, stepping closer.

Blaire smiles at him, shaking her head. “Didn’t think I’d run into you either.” She grimaces when the unrelenting wind refuses to not make a fool out of her. “I’m waiting for Alana,” she continues, as if she isn’t getting assaulted by the breeze.

“Why don’t you just ditch her?” Connor suggests.

Blaire raises an eyebrow at him, glancing at the building in front of them. “Uh—”

“Come on,” he says as he’s shrugging off his jacket. She tilts her head at him, confused, until he’s wrapping the black mass of fabric over her shoulders. He’s far too nonchalant about it. Any previous cold she might’ve been feeling has dissipated the moment his jacket touches her shoulders. It’s packed with the faint, or maybe not so faint scent of cigarettes, one that she’s sure will cling to her for at least a few days.

He’s a bit convincing, with that mischievous smile lingering on his lips and a hand asking for hers to complete his. She accepts it, does it seal her fate with him? Perhaps. She doesn’t seem to mind it, though. 

“She’ll look for me,” Blaire tries to reason, even though she doesn’t truly care, or is concerned by the idea of Alana looking for her. Beck is busy, the two just wanted to spend time together was all, but if Connor is here to take Blaire away, Alana wouldn’t mind. Not that Blaire thinks she would. 

Connor is grinning, he knows better than to believe Blaire’s bleak words. He tugs her forwards, and she stumbles along, following as he takes her past the watching crowds, they eye Connor with disgust, but Blaire is smiling up at him, a bit more grateful to have been whisked away from her school work predicament, and the home she’d have to return to eventually. Connor’s car is parked a bit further away from the school, scratches cover the length of the doors, and Blaire sighs, wondering how he’d gotten them since the last time they’d seen each other.

It’s been three days since their last car ride together. There is genuinely no way he should be able to damage the paint this badly.

“You know me,” he says, shrugging as he lets go of her hand, holding the door open for her right when Blaire’s already reaching for it. “Nuh-uh.” A declarative air surrounds the words. Blaire sighs, frowning softly. 

Accepting defeat, she slides into the passenger seat, rolling her sleeves up. Maroon scars scatter themselves over pale skin, marked with the occasional bruise, contrasting to the other two colours to form a canvas.

Of pain. 

One which Connor was well aware of. When he slides into the seat next to her, one glance at her, and he sighs softly, starting up the car. 

As soon as Blaire’s back hits the back of the seat, all the day’s exhaustion catches up to her. She closes her eyes, lets her head fall back against the headrest. Her hands start shaking, and she doesn’t know if it’s the day’s anxiety, or the way her body can’t even keep up with her anymore. Whatever it may be though, she doesn’t like it. 

On a normal day, she wouldn’t have forgotten her rings back at home (or whatever that is), she would be fidgeting with them, and no one would suspect anything, not the calculated measures to stop her hands from shaking as if she’s an old woman. But today, she doesn’t have anything she can use to hide the fact that she’s shaking, shaking. 

It doesn’t go unnoticed by Connor.

Even worse.

He doesn’t say anything, not for a while at least. Blaire knows that he’s noticed. His hands are still on the steering wheel until he reaches out with one. She stares at it, a bit dumbfounded.

“Think I didn’t notice you without your rings today?” he says. A smile is playing on his face. He places his hand on her lap. She tenses. “Relax. I should’ve stolen some of Zoe’s rings.”

Blaire is growing even more confused, “what for?” she asks.

“You like fidgeting with them—” he starts, “well, your ones.”

Obviously. She grins up at him, sliding her hand over his, intertwining their fingers. His hands are cold, as per the usual. But now she has something to tap and hold while he drives them off to somewhere. He could probably kidnap her and she’d be fine with it, especially with the way her consciousness has been slipping away, inch by inch, minute by minute. Connor squeezes her hand and suddenly she’s grounded, back to reality. 

“Con’...?” She mumbles his name, barely able to keep her eyes open, barely focusing on the street in front of her. It’s giving her an odd sense of deja vu, but she doesn’t care, or can’t, with the way she feels so exhausted. Connor is tapping his fingers gently against her knuckles, and she smiles, holding his hand in both of her palms, one hand’s fingers still intertwined with his. 

“Yeah, baby?” his voice is quiet as he whispers back, holding Blaire’s hand close to his. 

She smiles at the softness of his tone, how it’s almost comically quiet, like he’s trying to not disturb her as she treads on the edges of slumber. “Where ‘re we going?” she asks, not bothering to keep on looking out the window. Her head feels heavy from the exhaustion. 

Connor laughs softly, she knows that much, she can tell. It’s a gentle chuckle, much unlike his usual booming laughter that he graces her with in public. This one has always been reserved for her, and Evan. When it’s just the three of them. Or just them. “You’ll see.”

She pouts softly, getting a blurry look at him from the corner of her eye, even though she can barely keep her eyes open at all. She doesn’t question him though, instead opting to try to relax her body more, maybe sleep a bit. The car rumbles beneath her, the seat vibrating softly, probably because of the engine mounting Connor says he’ll get replaced someday, but the day never seems to come.

She’s losing the battle against sleep when the car comes to a halt, the comforting vibration of the seat stops and she’s almost inclined to sit up straight, but Connor’s hand is pressed against hers and is placed on her lap. She’s safe. He hasn’t moved an inch.

Until he has, and his hand slips out, slowly. Blaire’s eyes open, and she fumbles to sit up.

“Nothing is wrong, you’re safe, we’re safe,” he says. 

When she turns to him and her eyes focus on his face, he’s smiling softly. She glances around, the street is familiar. And then her eyes catch on the doors of a shop right outside her side of the car. A La mode greets her line of vision as a confused smile finds its way onto her lips. She tilts her head at Connor. He grins. 

“What are you up—” She can’t continue, Connor is unlocking his door and has one foot out the door. She probably knows exactly what he’s up to. She’ll get him back for it, soon. 

He turns back to her for a moment. “Just wait a minute,” he says and he steps out. Blaire watches him, and suddenly it’s much more prominent, the loss of his hand from hers. She suddenly wants it back, right this moment. She wants to hold the calloused fingers, and wants something to fidget with, whether it be his weirdly long fingers, or his fingertips roughened up by his guitar.

A few minutes, awfully quiet, punctured by her soft humming as she stares out the window, at A La mode, and when Connor’s silhouette appears at the door, she practically lights up, smiling at him as she rolls her window down. He’s holding two ice creams, one cookies & cream, and one chocolate.

He hands her the cookies & cream cone. She tentatively reaches out as he leans down, handing it to her through the car window. Their fingers brush and she laughs. A bigger smile breaks over his face. That’s when she notices his cone only has one scoop.

“What happened to yours?” she asks, frowning softly as he sits back down, next to her, in the driver’s seat. The car rumbles back to life beneath them. Connor just hums, and shrugs. “Come on, Murphy.”

“Hey,” he drags out the vowel, turning to look at her once before his eyes are back on the road. He’s never been the most bothered about road safety, why does it matter now? Probably because he doesn’t want to answer her question. But she keeps on pushing, won’t go down until he just spills. Well, he does spill. “They ran out, I got the last scoop.”

“Oh,” is all she can say. She glances at her scoops. She still hasn’t taken a single bite out of them. She smiles, holding it up to Connor’s lips, leaning a bit closer to him. He gives her a look from the corner of his eye and she just flashes him a shrug. He doesn’t even budge. She presses her cone closer. “Connor, it’s going to melt. Take. A. Bite.” 

She puts emphasis on the last three words. And still, he isn’t moving. So, she pulls back, dips down to get a taste of her ice cream since he’s denying himself the enjoyment, and that’s when he finally turns around, swiftly gets a bite. Gets a bit of the cream smudged over his nose, eliciting a laugh from his girlfriend. She leans forward, brushing her fingers over his nose, wiping it off. He turns a deep shade of scarlet, turning away. But he’s also not that bothered. 

Blaire grins, taking bites out of her ice cream absentmindedly as Connor does the same. He’s staring out at the road, and it’s lined with trees, fields are getting more abundant as they venture further to their destination. Which is at the moment, only known to Connor. 

Minutes pass in silence, the same ice cream eating cycle continues, and then Connor breaks it. “Hey, you should taste this,” he starts, holding his cone up for Blaire. She raises an eyebrow at him. 

“I’ve had A La mode’s chocolate ice cream quite a few times before, Con’,” she says, trying to push it back towards him. He insists. She sighs, complying. A hum of contentment leaves her when she gets a taste of the chocolate. She’s missed it. It’s been a while since she’d last been to A La mode at all. She only came here with Connor, or with Zoe. 

“Look up,” Connor whispers, snapping her out of her thoughts. 

Blaire looks up, their eyes meeting. His soft blue eyes, a bit like the oceans, when a storm brews overhead, but never quite reaches the tranquil waters below. The waves continue to splash over the other. What do her eyes look like to him? Forests? The depths of nature greeting him in the afternoon sun as it floods through the front window? He smiles, leaning closer. Blaire feels her heart stutter. One of his hands cups her face, and she’s a bit hyper aware of the fact that they’re on the road, her eyes stray to the steering wheel—Connor is holding her face firmly in place. He’s quick. His breath is a warm breeze passing over her face as he presses his lips to hers. 

She still sometimes can’t believe he’s meant to be the school freak. He makes her feel like she’s living some fever dream from the movies she used to watch as a kid. His lips are soft, a bit cold, and they taste like dark chocolate. And then he swipes his tongue over her lips, but he’s not asking her to let him past. It’s gentle, just there for a second, and then he’s pulled back. 

She’s stuck in place, face blooming into a warm shade of cherry, and she glances away, the cone of her ice cream is still loosely gripped in her hands. It’s about to tilt over. Connor’s fingers find their way around hers. The car’s not vibrating beneath them anymore. Blaire looks up, they’re sitting outside the gates to… an orchard. 

Connor holds up Blaire’s cone to her lips, or whatever remains of it. He watches as she takes the last few bites, and then using his thumb, he brushes off the crumbs, and smiles. Her heart is a mush of goo. She’s sure of it. There’s a cavity in her ribcage, and her heart has seeped through, it’s pooling her gut in the form of warmth. 

“I hate you,” she whispers, not truly meaning it. A smile blooms over her face as she looks away, out at the gates leading into the orchard. Connor’s fingers are still intertwined with hers. He lets go, only briefly. And before either of them process what their bodies are doing, they’ve stepped out of the threshold of the car and are standing next to each other. Connor’s jeep is staring back at him, with scratches, with chipped off paint, but his eyes are all for Blaire at the moment. He wraps his arms around her waist. 

“I don’t know why I’m here, but when I saw you earlier, I just…” he begins, trailing off soon after. Blaire waits patiently, her fingers intertwined with his as she feels his gently inquisitive taps while he waits for the right words to pop up into his mind. “Felt the need to bring you here.”

“We’ve been here before,” Blaire mentions.

Connor rolls his eyes at her. “Only when we were kids, dumbass.”

“Who’re you calling a dumbass, Murphy?” She tries to give him a stern one up, but he bursts into laughter. Which she isn’t immune to, sadly. She finds herself cracking, until she’s dissolved into laughter. Connor pulls her closer to his side, she grins, resting her head on his shoulder. “Since when did you go so tender?”

“Since I’ve had a pretty girlfriend and boyfriend,” he replies. Smooth. If only Evan was here to freak out too.

“What a flirt.”

He laughs. She rolls her eyes at him. She doesn’t know where he’s leading her, but she trusts him, so she lets her feet carry her towards whatever direction Connor’s heart desires. The grass beneath their feet is getting crunchier, scarcer as it spreads itself over the ground. They’re walking down a path that’s been walked many times before. And she can count the footsteps, some engraved into the dirt. Some people have left their marks here, for an eternity. And so have they.

Blaire smiles as her eyes glaze over the tiny footfalls forever engraved into the once murky ground that spreads itself unevenly beneath her and Connor. They were from the first time she ever visited the orchard. The Murphy’s managed to convince her parents to let her accompany them, per a little Connor’s wishes. 

She’s ever thankful for the day. Especially with her fingers intertwined with Connor’s, his arm wrapped around her frame as he leads her to the trunk of a tree. An old Apple tree that’s been here since the dawn of time (as long as Blaire’s seen it). 

Connor stops in front of it, turning to look at Blaire. She smiles at him, bright, even with all the exhaustion lining her under eyes. “Remember this tree?”

“Of course I do,” she says. She knows it from the first time Connor brought her here. This was their first date, together. Here. This was where he brought them when he first got his driving licence. This was where they’d escape to when they left his parents and ran for it. 

“I knew you had a connection to it.” Connor shrugs as he drops down to the ground in front of the tree. He presses his back into the trunk and smiles at Blaire, holding his hand out for her. She takes it, but he pulls her to the ground. Surprised laughter spills from her lips.

“You make it sound like a person,” she says, hitting him lightly on the chest.

“It’s always been one to you, hasn’t it?” he asks, voice suddenly a lot quieter, tone more solemn. She looks at him. Their eyes meet, he’s already looking. He’s giving her the most genuine look he has the entire week, and the wind is pushing his hair in front of his face, it must tickle. The thought makes a bigger grin break onto Blaire’s face. She hesitantly reaches out, gently brushing away his wild locks of hair. He leans closer to her hand, and soon enough, their knees are pressed together and they’re grinning at each other like idiots. She nods, finally answering his questions. 

“You’ve been tired this entire week, and don’t think I wouldn’t notice, I’ve been there before.” He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, albeit a bit sadly. “I wanted to make you feel better, it’s almost the weekend. My parents probably think I’m out smoking, but I thought I could…” he trails off, at a bit of a loss for words, but Blaire waits patiently. “Dedicate it to you, to, you know—Making you feel better.”

Her heart swells with happiness. She’s smiling ear to ear at him. “You’re an idiot, positive. Literally, the biggest idiot.” She leans closer, their noses brushing. “Ever.” She presses her lips to his, holding them together in a tender kiss, letting the warmth of his breath encapsulate her. 

“I hate you too, Callahan.” Connor pulls her closer. “You can rest now, we have like the whole day, anyway.”

“I know, Connor,” she sighs against his shoulder, “thanks, really. Thank you.”

“Don’t think I don’t see you, I may be high half of the time, but I’ll always be able to tell when you’re tired. When Evan’s anxiety is peaking, I can tell,” Connor mutters against the top of her head, his thumb is rubbing shapes into the flesh of her arms, and she’s relaxing into his grip.

Into the breeze that’s transitioned to warmth. The leaves rustled above them, and some lay scattered over their laps. While Blaire’s trying to fight the exhaustion weighing her eyelids down, she can still notice the way Connor’s hand messes with the leaves on his lap. She can hear him humming under his breath, some song he was trying to write for… her. She ignores all the warmth that pools at the tip of her ears and nose. 

“Thank you for seeing me,” she whispers before falling into comfortable silence.

“Anyday.” He smiles, but she doesn’t notice. “I can’t really help it, Blaire.”

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[ch4rryc0smos]

YOUR MOUTH IS VICIOUS AND YOU'RE PROUD OF THE SOUND YOU MAKE EVERY SECOND I'M AWAKE / EVERY SECOND I'M AROUND ! — NOW IT'S OVER | DOGPARK.

── . ✶ ❝ B L A I R E F L O R E N C E C A L L A H A N . ❞

☼ — xvii | cancer | infj | british-australian 🪐

appearance ; slightly tanned skin on exposed parts with freckles over shoulders and face, mole under the right corner of her bottom lip, forest green eyes, 5'10 [177 cm], athletic [or sleeper] build with thinner legs, barely noticeable scars over arms, thighs and back, scars over most of her body, dimples when she smiles hard. dimples on her lower back when she stretches. ombre [brown-blonde] hair, prefers her hair short [in a jellyfish cut], but isn't allowed.

beliefs ; materialistic wealth doesn't define anything but your worth in the eyes of capitalism. humans are made to express individuality, not succumb to capitalistic beliefs and submit to slave-like treatment.

⋆ ─ living isn't a linear experience, take it with grace, give it time, and maybe it'll learn to love you too. so, live. ⋆ ─ good and bad don't truly exist, the world is not black and white, it's grey, it's a canvas, and you're the artist.

personality ; gentle, intuitive, charismatic, vigilant, observant, meticulous, boisterous, collected, diligent, loving, realist, nurturing.

positive traits ; compassionate, selfless, empathetic, kind, accountable, notices other's emotions & fluctuations in behaviour[s].

negative traits ; anxious, bottles up her emotions, skeptic [has trust issues], struggles with boundaries, overworks, cares too hard, thinks she has to always be the one to rely on, can't accept her negative emotions, has unhealthy coping mechanisms.

quirks ; fidgets all the time | stutters when nervous | bounces from heel to heel when waiting in queues | gets louder and faster when talking about passions | has an oral fixation | tilts her head when she's focusing | taps her foot unconsciously when waiting for people.

likes ; nature, psychology, sociology, anthropology, freedom of speech, anarchy, deep conversations, late-night car rides, coffee, biology [many branches of it], museums, gardens, aquariums, deers, red pandas, art of living, knowledge, economics, connor murphy & evan hansen.

dislikes ; arthropods, heights, loud noises, narrow-mindedness, extreme temperatures, snobby people, arrogance, dishonesty, being under pressure, confrontation, disorganised places, normalising shitty behaviour and attributing it to mental illness.

deepest secrets ; wants to be seen for her true self, wishes her worth wasn't determined by productivity, wishes her parents would've seen her as more than a trophy daughter.

⋆ ─ she just wants actual connections, the one thing she somehow barely has. ⋆ ─ she doesn't want expectations to be placed on her, she doesn't want to be a prodigy, she wants peace, and calm, and people who actually care.

── . ✶ ❝ B A C K S T O R Y . ❞

ONE of australia's greatest kids, a prodigy made to wow the southern hemisphere, when blaire callahan moves to us, a whole world and hemisphere away, she doesn't know what to do, where to start. living in an esteemed society, high art culture surrounds her everywhere she goes. she's never truly known what friendship is because status is what determines who she is, what she is, even.

she hates how stuffy her life feels, how lonely she always feels, and how she lets her worth be decided on whether she performs well or not, what is this, a circus? she feels like the clown, that's for sure.

primary and middle school pass by as breezes, decent enough as long as she doesn't engage with anyone, ignores the one kid that goes to a nearby school and apparently threw a printer at his teacher in second grade. little blaire didn't know that mentioning that would just be the start of her meeting the murphy family.

one faithful day, she makes the mistake of mentioning this unknown kid to her ever nosy mother, and she somehow finds out it's connor murphy. some guy she'll have to meet now because his family is apparently rich! and oh, they're nice too, but it doesn't matter. and did she mention connor has a sister?

when she finally meets the family, the first time, it's awkward, zoe, connor's sister is a lively kid, she clings onto blaire the second they meet, and connor is, to say the least, out of it. he doesn't want to be there.

blaire resonates with it. and that's how they bond. the two run from the snobby dinner party, they sit outside, on the porch. they're awkward kids, don't speak, but they do know that they understand each other better than the adults ever could.

and that's how it started, few visits occasionally, until blaire moves to connor's school. it's the most public school-esque school she's ever done so much as seen. but connor is okay with it, well, as okay as he can be while hating it viscerally.

he gets bullied, blaire finds out. she hates it, she doesn't care who these people are, she doesn't like them. she spends a while defending connor, and then she meets evan. an anxious wreck, someone who doesn't want to be noticed, but of course she notices him.

so does connor, well, he notices before she does. but she's quick to follow. connor isn't big on befriending him, but she is. she wants him to feel seen, because she never has, not until him. she gives evan the best version of herself, and they form a friend group, a little trio, just them. and no one can hurt them, or can they?

── . ✶ ❝ C U R R E N T . ❞

LAST year of high school, on the path to be valedictorian, or whatever it is in american's high school, blaire callahan is looking to do what she was meant to do when she was younger, back at australia. she's friends with alana beck, a prodigy, but no one knows what these two go through. only connor and evan know blaire better than she seems to know herself.

but connor has been falling apart recently, and even if he acts "rad" and says it's just the usual, she knows. she always will, and evan does too. he's much more observant than he lets off. and blaire likes it. these two are scared for connor, they're worried, but blaire feels empathy. she's been here before, and it hurts.

it hurts bad to see him like this. it hurts so bad to see him like this, and have zoe be so angry. she's always been friends with zoe, and she doesn't like what connor has done to her, but now she's torn. and evan has to help her steer this ship away from this path, the one that'll lead them to their demise.

she's torn between two people, no, three, and three worlds that she'll have to navigate. and her parents too, and it's just so draining, so draining. she has to learn how to live, with herself, and with them, and with everything.

she hates high school, she says.

but she doesn't, she just hates how everyone she seems to care about is struggling, but she's ambitious, she will do anything to keep them afloat. and she will, no matter what, she doesn't care what happens to her, she's going to do it, for herself, for, connor, for evan.

she's been close with cynthia and heidi, connor and evan's mothers (respectively), but she doesn't know if she should tell them, maybe not yet, she thinks. the time will come.

and the universe will let her know, she believes in it. she believes in time, or does she? she hopes she does.

it doesn't matter though, she's going to figure out. this is blaire callahan the world is talking about. she's going to rock it.

── . ✶ appears in a little closer [complete], to be seen is to be loved [complete].

★ ; decided to make this post before actually putting the fic up (i haven't even finished the fic, i'm sick). i fell ill so i'm much slower, but it's okay, meet blaire everyone! one of the girls <3 i've got some works with her in it in the plans, so!

ch4rryc0smos © 2024

[ch4rryc0smos]

⊹ time & wounds left — a. donaldson.

synopsis — a dreadful day leads marion to a night at art's. with a doubt-filled mind, she finds her conscience speaking more than she is, but he is there to always remind her that she's more than what her cover page shows.

genres — friends to lovers, tension, mutual pining, requited yearning, admiring, best friend's friend, domestic angst & fluff, requited love, hurt/comfort.

pairing — art donaldson x friend!self insert, art donaldson x mutual friend!self insert.

warnings — mentions of doubt, and scars, fear of intimacy, if that counts?

word count — 1.2k.

author's note — i love writing but sometimes i'm just too drained, and it kills me, because i really don't want to be, but at least i finished this. :) happy reading!

masterlist.

Art is tracing mindless shapes on the dips of Marion’s skin, cold air brushing past his fingers, under the thin fabric of her sweatshirt, that isn’t truly hers. It’s his, but neither of them remember the last time they mentioned that. And now of all times, was more inappropriate than ever. Words didn’t escape Marion as she lay corpse-still in Art’s arms, letting the latter thumb her skin and provide her with a stabilising presence. He doesn’t talk. She’s been in his bed for the better half of the past three hours, and he hasn’t left her. 

He didn’t leave for a second. It’s like he knew from the second she walked in, hands shaking, and words not leaving her mouth that she just needed that stability, in some way, shape or form. She just needed to stay wrapped up in someone’s arms, not be asked for anything. And for some reason, Art can provide that perfectly. At first, he asked her if she’d like to be held.

She did, she really did. With his window thrown open, and her back facing the world, she’s more than content (Well, as much as she can be) to just bask in his warmth. The autumn air feels like nothing when compared to the way his arms flex as he shifts her gently so he can access more skin on her back, to rub away at the tenseness.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles against his chest, voice muffled. His fingers still, he squeezes her waist.

“Why, baby?” he whispers against the top of her head.

She sighs, hiding her face in the crook of his neck. “For being so…” she considers her words, letting silence dance in the emptiness in the air between them. Art doesn’t push, he waits patiently. “Pathetic.”

“You aren’t.” He’s quick to say it, as if he truly knows, as if he could form it into a concrete concept that will forever linger, even as time decays. Marion laughs softly, nose buried into the space between his shoulder and his neck, breathing a bit shallow. He starts rubbing circles on her back. “Never.”

“Even if they say it?” she asks. She feels childish, for confirming like that, but, she doesn’t know what else there is to do. She can feel the pressure as he presses his lips against the top of her head, nodding.

“Yes.”

They spend a few more minutes in pure silence. Marion is subconsciously shifting closer to Art. He knows, he notices, and he’s been carding his fingers through her hair, pressing gentle kisses to her forehead and the tips of her fingertips, and every inch of her face that she allows him to touch. The moon glows down on them, and Art is breathing softly. Marion doesn’t want this to end. It feels better than the way she’s been feeling all day, dreadful. He’s holding her like he doesn’t intend to let go, and she likes that more than she’s ready to admit.

“Art?” she breathes against his collarbone. Her hands find their way around his shoulders, and she’s pulling him closer. Even though they’re pressed right against each other. She leans her head upwards, just a bit, his curls start tickling her head. A laugh escapes. 

Art shifts, glancing down at her. Their eyes meet, for probably only the second time the entire night. “Yeah, love?” his voice is a breath, a whisper in the night breeze. It might’ve passed her if she wasn’t intently listening, eyes glued to the way his skin and his features are illuminated by the moon. The way his nose dips, and the shadow cast over part of his face. His hand is rising higher on her neck, she inhales sharply, but doesn’t pull back.

“You…” she starts, but her courage dims. Until he’s cupping her face so she can’t look away. He leans closer, his forehead pressed to hers. “You don’t mind, right?” Marion closes her eyes because she’s far too scared to actually look at his expression. She’s scared he’s disappointed. She doesn’t want him to be. 

“Hey,” he whispers, tracing her jaw with his thumb. “Open your eyes, please.”

Her eyes flutter open. Why does he sound like he’s begging? Why is he frowning, softly? Marion gulps. She doesn’t know what to say, or what to think, she thinks she’s just a bit scared of what he might say, just a bit. A bit—Not a lot.

“No, I don’t mind, not at all,” he says, pushing strands of hair out of her eyes. 

“Even when I can’t seem to… just relax?” She’s referring to every time his hands rose anything above her stomach when they’d just been cuddling. And the way she tensed. And when his apologises tumbled right after. She remembers holding his hands and pressing them to her face, and the way they fell to his shoulders.

“Mari’,” he begins. He pouts, pressing his lips to her forehead. “That doesn’t change anything.” 

But it should. It should. “Really?”

“Really.” He intertwines their fingers, squeezing her hand. “No matter what we do, or don’t, I don’t see you as any different.”

Marion sighs, shoving her face into his neck. Art mumbles sweet nothings into her ear. The moon shines down on them. One of Art’s hands is under her shirt, rubbing shapes into the skin of her back. A smile blooms on his face at the way gooseflesh erupts on her skin. 

“I love you,” the words slip out in the most casual of senses, but they don’t mean anything casual. Marion wraps her arms around his neck, whispering back her own confession. Something about how she barely stutters it out, about how her voice shakes. 

When Art pulls her up, she’s looking right at him. She notices that his face is blooming into a shade of scarlet, he’s smiling, softly. Her heart flutters, she reaches with one hand, and cups his face. He snakes his arm around her waist and pulls her flush against him again. 

He whispers the words again, like they might dissolve into nothingness if he doesn’t keep on repeating them like a prayer. Marion laughs softly, smiling at him, her head being the only part that isn’t pressed right against him. She brushes her nose against his, and his lips part. His breath is warm against her lips. She leans in, gulps.

He raises his head so their lips meet for the better half of two seconds, and then she turns her head away, blushing. Her face feels warm, really warm. She giggles, grinning.

His hand cups the back of her head, presses her forehead to his.

“Love you,” he whispers.

“I love you too, so much,” her voice comes out muffled, but he gets the point.

His chest rises and falls quickly as he laughs softly, relaxing completely against the crumpled sheets, covers thrown aside while his limbs are completely tangled with hers. He’d have it no other way.

Neither would she. His hands run over every dent in her skin, every rough patch, and every spot that is still weak from years and years of the hardening it underwent. He runs his fingers over every healing wound reverently, every second passing by slower than the last because this is a feeling neither of them want to forget. 

And they hope they won’t.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[ch4rryc0smos]

⊹ eighteen — a. donaldson.

synopsis — marion misses him dearly. how she always does, but she doesn't expect to see him, until he decides to reach out first, and who is she to deny? one thing lead to another, and eighteen is happening all over again, but this time, he promises to be hers.

genres — friends to strangers to lovers, tension, mutual pining, requited yearning, admiring, best friend's (ex-)husband, domestic angst & fluff, unrequited to requited love, hurt/comfort.

pairing — art donaldson x friend!self insert, art donaldson x mutual friend!self insert.

warnings — mentions of medication, and insomnia, that's about it.

word count — 2.7k.

author's note — hurt/comfort now. my friend wanted me to, plus i needed some happiness sprinkled in here, so i'm doing exactly that. i'm pretty stressed, so i reckon i need something nice, i hope everyone's well out there!

masterlist.

Nerves consume her body. Her movements are jittery, the pills making no difference. Her hand on the steering wheel is white-knuckled, shaky. Marion hasn’t bothered checking her phone today. She doesn’t want to. Even if there might be any messages from her manager, she’ll get to work in a few minutes. A few minutes of scolding won’t take her already non-existent morale down that much anyway. Music blares in her ears, the radio is off, but she has her headphones on. When she arrives, she’s quick to lock her car and start walking speedily towards her building. People brush her shoulders, she ignores some whistles. Are any of these people from her past? Are these any of the students she might’ve passed at her campus over a decade ago? It would’ve been wild if they were. 

But she doesn’t figure that out. She watches the glass doors leading into her workplace slide open, her reflection greeting her like a phantom, a rather unappealing one. She blinks the thought away, trudges forward. Some people chirp hellos at her, she smiles at them, holding her head low as she continues to her office. On the way, she runs into her manager.

He glances at her, and when she looks up at him, he stops mid-sentence. She doesn’t like that.

“Take care,” is all he says, and he suddenly leaves. Departs. Doesn’t even bother to look back. 

By the time Marion can find the energy to ask him to finish his actual point, he’s left and she’s reached the door into her office. So, she doesn’t bother. She walks in, closes the door behind her and sighs. Another gruelling day of losing her fight to the scoliosis she probably has now, and to capitalism. She already wants to slump her back against the wall, and stay there.

She doesn’t though, she finds her seat at her desk, starts going through her heaps of emails and paperwork. Nothing is there to disturb her for some reason, but she supposes it might be for the better. It seems to be, until she hears a ping. She turns towards her phone, expects a message from just about a few people, but none of them are who she thought they’d be.

She stops breathing when she reads the name, it’s not Tashi. Not any coworker who’s too scared to talk to her in person. It reads Art Donaldson. Well, not quite. She hasn’t changed the way his name appears on her phone since the time she’d first met him. It’s still Artie, with a smiley face next to it. Whatever eighteen year old Marion was going through, thirty one year old Marion still hasn’t moved on from. But that doesn’t matter, because she hasn’t messaged him since the time of Tashi’s injury. At the start, they’d just do whatever they had to in person, then it turned into Art dedicating most if not all of his time to Tashi, and then everything stopped.

The first few years, it hurt, it really did. He’d become such a staple in her life, so when she had to go through the turmoil of her twenties, and when she thought he’d be there but wasn’t, it truly did hurt. 

But just when she thinks she can finally do it, go through her dreadful life, he walks back in? He walks back in, and he just expects to be accepted? (He will be accepted, even if Marion says she can’t). Even if her mind tells her to not tap on the message, she does. She reads it over, thinks it might’ve been sent to the wrong person. Why would Art Donaldson send her a text going ‘hey, are you free tonight?’.

She stares at the words, they start turning into things they aren’t. She’s waiting for them to disappear, but they don’t. By now, she’s completely out of it, doesn’t care what influx of emails are left, her phone is the centre of attention. 

What should she do? What should she—What is she—Panicking isn’t going to change it. Her immediate instinct is to type a yes. It’s true, she’s pathetic, she’s always free after work. She doesn’t even bother going on Tinder, doesn’t bother trying to get someone. They deserve someone who actually wants to love them, but she’s stuck. A few minutes pass as she sits still as a statue. And then her hands shake as she types yes. She’s free. She asks why. She expects at least a few minutes of silence, thinks she can try to calm herself down in the few minutes it might take for a response to come in. But it takes just a few seconds, and something about it makes her feel a type of giddiness that she can only identify as what she felt back in college. 

‘just want to talk’ reads the message. And then a location pops up. 

Marion smiles.

She asks him when he’d like to meet up. She knows this most probably won’t go well. He could just be drunk—But no, he wouldn’t. He’s got training, surely. He’s got work. It’s literally just scraping the horizons of the afternoon. It doesn’t matter what he’s doing though, because he says seven in the evening. 

Marion agrees. It feels great. It does for the first few minutes. Because first, she’s somehow managed to have a conversation with the man that she’s loved for over a decade, and second, she’ll see him in person, for the first time in a while. Honestly, that one was on her, she’d avoid him like the plague, even though she could’ve seen him at least a few times a year. She just decided not to. For a while, it kept her peace intact, so she couldn’t complain, but at some point, the yearning did win over. It sure did. She’d then spend nights awake, thinking the weight of her sheets are him. 

Which was stupid.

It doesn’t matter, though. She’ll meet him in a few hours time. 

And she can tell him how much she’s missed him. Their friendship. Everything they could’ve been were. 

Her issue is that she doesn’t realise how fast the hours pass when she’s busy drowning in work. When she says it’ll be a few more reports, it can’t take that long, but it does. It takes her well over five hours. But by that point, she’s already meant to clock out. 

When she stands up, she’s sure she’s aged a few decades. She can’t care less though, she switches off her desktop and makes her way to the door. She cracks it open an inch, glancing out and glad to notice that no one is there to question her. She steps out. She can hear distant chatter, but it doesn’t seem to be approaching her. Her bag swinging at her side, she weaves her way through the winding building. 

Surprisingly, it’s rather devoid of life. Usually, it’s not this quiet when she’s clocking out. When she’s at the lobby, she meets at least five people, but there’s not one. That unnerves her. She can hear her own breathing and tries to brush it off as she finally steps out onto the pavement. 

Then her eyes catch on the black jeep in front of her. Waiting, on the pavement. It could be just any jeep, of course, but it isn’t. It has that one specific scratch that Art mentioned but couldn’t afford to get fixed. While she’s eyeing it and getting ambushed by a tide pool of memories, the window rolls down. Neat strawberry blond hair is peeking out. Her muscles tense under her shirt. It feels tight, it probably looks horribly wrinkled.

He smiles and her heart can’t help but skip a beat. He places his arm out, glances at both sides, and beckons her closer. Marion watches him silently as he unlocks his door and steps out. His smile widens. She doesn’t want to wait. She doesn’t wait. With a few quick steps, she’s only a foot away from him.

“Hey,” he starts.

He doesn’t get to say anything, she reaches a hand forward, out of instinct, to brush his shoulder. But then she stops herself. This isn’t college. This isn’t the night after the parties. She can’t do that. If he intended to say anything, he doesn’t. He stops, frowns softly. 

Shit, she hates that she wants to wipe it off his face. 

“Art,” she breathes his name. His eyes flicker up to meet hers and they stare there, for just a second before he’s scanning the entirety of her face, drinking in every detail. Like he might commit it to memory. As if he already hasn’t. His hand reaches for her. When their fingers touch, her hand almost jerks back, but she doesn’t let it. She lets his hesitance wash over, lets him intertwine their fingers, press his palm into hers.

It feels wrong, but so right. She knows he’s married, but this is what she’s wanted for way too long. He tugs her closer, almost has her stumble into his chest, into his warmth, but then he leads her to the passenger seat, opens the door for her. 

“My personal Uber?” She grins. Even if it’s been a few years, she’ll always take the chance to tease him, to joke. That is one thing that’ll always feel natural with him. He seems to melt into her words, he nods, smiling all lopsided, but still appearing as charming as ever.

“As always,” he says, holding the door open and waiting until she’s situated so he can close the door and find his place in the driver’s seat. When he sits down, and shifts the gear, Marion can’t help but stare at his hands, at the veins that seem to be ever more visible now. Her face grows warmer, and she looks away.

“Hey, don’t do that,” he whispers. He doesn’t have to be quiet, but of course he is. That does something to her. She can’t help but turn to look at him, he’s smiling softly, like she can fix all his issues. “I miss you,” he says.

Not I missed you. I miss you. He’s missing her, even though she’s right here. She wants to hold his face, but she doesn’t. 

“I miss you too, I missed you,” she replies. Her voice shakes. This reminds her awfully of when they were eighteen, and couldn’t see each other for a few days. She remembers the way they clung onto each other the next time they saw each other. Whispering ‘I missed you’ and refusing to let go. They rocked back and forth, paying no mind to the outside world. This feels oddly like that. 

But Marion doesn’t mind that, she likes the feeling of nostalgia that washes over her. 

“I know I’m a bit early for seven.” Art laughs, scratching the back of his neck as he’s driving through the city. “But I just couldn’t wait.”

Friends don’t say that kind of shit about each other. Marion blushes anyway.

“Of course not,” she says.

He pouts at her. “You aren’t excited to see me?” he asks.

She laughs, “of course I am, dumbass.”

His face breaks into a smile. Most of the ride is spent in silence. He hums under his breath and Marion stares out the window, drinking in the sights she just never had the time for, and didn’t want to see previously. At some point, Art’s hand finds its way onto her thigh. She feels the guilt immediately.

She lets a few minutes pass. “What about Tashi?” she asks then. Her voice is shaking far too much for her liking, but she can’t stop it. Art squeezes her thigh. He’d always do it when he knew she was nervous. How has he not forgotten?

“We’re…” he starts, stops to inhale, and looks down, they’re parked on some backroad. Marion looks at him, tilts her head to the side. He shakes his head, laughs sadly. “Getting a divorce.”

Marion gasps. “No…” she says, not able to believe it. 

“Yes,” Art affirms, turning to face her, his lips trembling.

Oh. Marion doesn’t care anymore, she reaches out, cups his face, and shifts so she’s closer to him. He melts into her hands. She rubs her thumbs over his cheeks. “I’m so sorry, I’m so… sorry,” she repeats the apologies. As if this was caused by her. 

“It’s okay. It wasn’t working out, anyway. She’s goal oriented and she’s here to do things, to achieve heights. I’m past my prime. I just want my family… and to retire.”

Marion smiles, even if her heart breaks a little.

“Oh, Art,” she says, presses her forehead onto his.

“Missed you so bad,” he whispers. Her heart skips a beat.

She nods. “I missed you too.”

“You know,” he starts… His hand finding the nape of her neck. Her eyes are caught on his. She stares into the endless pits of cerulean. Oceans that swirl wildly, that glisten under the warm glow of the sun. She nods, asking him to continue. “I miss eighteen. I miss us, what we were. Then.” He breathes, inhaling deeply. 

His warm breath brushes against her face. She feels the gooseflesh erupt all over her skin.

“We’re not that young anymore, Art,” she says. Both of them know this very well, but they don’t care. It’s like when he mentioned that he’s getting a divorce, whatever restraint either of them were holding fell apart. They look like they’re two seconds away from kissing each other, relearning each other’s taste after over a decade of nothing even close to touch. 

“I know, but I want us back.” His fingertips are warm, they weave their way into her hair, letting her horribly loose bun fall apart. He cards his fingers through, detangling every knot gently. Just how he used to, when they were eighteen.

It’s like they’re messy teens all over again, sitting in this very same jeep, giggling in the middle of the night after he almost dropped his ice cream all over him. Marion leans closer.

Art doesn’t move back. He smiles. His eyes drop to her lips. And she has to gulp to stop herself from inhaling sharply. His smile widens.

“God, I love you so much,” he whispers, grazing his lips over hers for a moment. He shifts in his seat, getting even closer. It’s a miracle they aren’t kissing already. But Marion doesn’t waste any more seconds. She’s so sick of all these years she spent away from him. 

She presses her lips onto his, the warmth making her feel all dizzy. His lips are soft, they’re warm, they kiss her just the same, just a bit more urgently now. “I love you, I love you too.”

“I…” he pulls away for a second, smiles at her while their foreheads are still pressed against each other. His hair, despite being short, is still tickling her forehead. She giggles softly. “I was such a fool for waiting, for not taking the chance at eighteen.” 

“You were.” Marion smiles. If she’d been feeling any bitter feelings, they’re pushed to the back of her mind. Right now, she just needs to bask in his warmth, in the fact that he wants her again. At how right this feels to her heart. She can think about anything else later.

“I promise I won’t do that, ever again,” he whispers against her lips, diving in for another kiss, another peck to the lips. “I’ll give you everything I could’ve at eighteen.”

“Will you?” she asks. She knows he can, and that he will, but she still asks. The fear that flickers in her eyes for just a split second makes him frown. He kisses her again, finding that it’s just as addicting as it used to be. 

“I promise. On everything.”

Marion smiles. “I better get what I’ve been waiting for the past thirteen years.”

“You will.” 

Art is holding her so tenderly, he’s holding her like he just wants to make up for everything. For not choosing her when he should’ve. He kisses her like he’s going to show her that he’s learnt. That he’s better. He kisses her like she’s the oxygen he’s been deprived of for so long. But, he kisses her just how he used to. He’s just her Art. 

He always will be. At eighteen, and at thirty one. That’s a fact that won’t change. He won’t let it. And Marion doesn’t want it to, either.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[ch4rryc0smos]

⊹ unloving you — a. donaldson.

synopsis — years, and years, and yet she's the one that hasn't moved on. after everything, she's the one stuck in time. and she can't bear to move on either.

genres — friends to strangers, tension, one sided-pining (is it really?), unrequited yearning, admiring, best friend's husband (huh?), domestic angst, unrequited love, hurt no comfort.

pairing — art donaldson x friend!self insert, art donaldson x mutual friend!self insert.

warnings — mentions of medication, and insomnia.

word count — 1.1k.

author's note — the tropes sound practically the same, but to be fair, they kind of are? so i couldn't change it, but yeah. i have something for hurt no comfort, i think. i have one more angst idea i have though.

masterlist.

Every night spent embracing him makes this so much worse. It’s a pity, almost funny how she’s the one that hasn’t moved on. It feels like yesterday when he called her, in the early hours of the morning, late hours of the night, it didn’t matter. His voice was shaking, and she didn’t even realise the fact that she’d been on her feet by the time he finished telling her about how he can’t sleep, can’t think. His words kept on ringing in her skull, but she was already walking out of her and Tashi’s shared dorm room, closing the door gently behind her as she picked up a sprint. The cold night breeze brushed against her face but her words came out louder as she spoke to Art while she followed the same path to his dorm that she always did. 

She couldn’t ever forget the worry, the way he kept on sniffling.

“Darling, I’m right there,” she kept on saying as she weaved her way through the night. She hated that the campus wasn’t lit up, is it still like that? Have they improved any time since then? 

Tears prick at her eyes as she recalls his next words. She knew the first time she heard them that she’d never forget. That if anything, they’d remain engraved in her mind, forever long. 

Art breathed shakily. Marion could hear a bed creaking as his breaths interrupted the silence. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he said. He didn’t know what the words did to her heart.

How they still stick with her all these years later. How she doesn’t know what to do about the nights she spends unable to sleep, rethinking every word she’d ever said to him, and how everything led to this pitiful state she finds herself in constantly. 

Marion still remembers the relief she’d felt when she finally reached his door, started knocking, trying to not be too loud. When he opened the door, and the moon hit his face just right, illuminating it beautifully, she almost stopped breathing. But his nose and eyes glistened red. She held her arms open, and he crumpled in them. His arms found their way around her waist, his breaths came out shallow. Marion’s hands worked their way under his shirt, it was clinging to his frame. She started tracing shapes onto his back, hoping it had the effect it did on her when he did it. 

She remembers the same night, when she was sitting with him. He finally calmed down. His hands were in her lap, and she was playing with his calloused fingers. His thigh is pressed against hers, and the moon shines down on them as they sit on some random bench. There’s only light from the moon that dances over their skin in the dark of the night.

“Do you think I’ll ever find love, Art?” she asks. She doesn’t know when the conversation shifted from trying to calm him down to questioning whether love was something that would ever be hers. It doesn’t, she finds out, but twenty year old Marion didn’t know that. Hope blossomed in her heart then. 

“You are love, Mari’,” Art whispers. 

Her heart gets stuck in her throat. She remembers it so well. She looked up to find him already looking at her. His eyes were bloodshot, but he was smiling, softly. At her. And that did something to her soul, something she knew would happen eventually, but didn’t think that eventually would be then.

She realised she was in love. With Art Donaldson. Her best friend, after Tashi. 

“Am I?” she asks, finding it hard to believe. She doesn’t know if she is love, but she knows she feels it. Because he’s what love looks like to her. Love looks like his face, his arms around her waist, his sweatshirt over her frame and his cologne clinging to her when he finally lets go after a hug. Love is him running up to her to hold her face and press a kiss to her forehead when he wins.

Love is everything these two have been, and it wasn’t obvious, until that moment.

But if it was that simple, why is she the one trying to learn how to unlove him? Why is she the one up at night and rewatching his matches and watching the way he waves at the crowds? Why is she noticing the way eyebags line his eyes, and why is she staring at her own best friend and wishing she was her? The whys never end, especially when she’s been up for hours, and she’s so frustrated. The medication is spilt over her bedsheets, but it doesn’t matter. 

She balls her fists in her sheets, she’s acting like she’s still a teen, unable to understand, but she knows much better. She’s thirty, she knows. She knows, or does she? She should. Love shouldn’t hurt this bad. 

She at least wishes he’d at least think of her. Even if a bit. 

All the nights spent entwined in his arms can’t be going to waste. He can’t possibly just forget them. Friends didn’t do any of that. And that was their problem. They never admitted that they were meant to be more than friends. If they had, maybe she wouldn’t be here. Maybe Tashi wouldn’t be his wife. 

Maybe she’d be Mrs. Donaldson. 

The thought is a dream she still has some days. 

When she’s feeling foolish. No matter how hard she tries, it’s like she doesn’t learn how to stop loving him. Loving him was like breathing air. It was natural. It was like laughing, like basking in the sun’s warmth and squeezing his hand when they’d sit in art history. 

She hasn’t held his hand in years, but she thinks his fingertips might still be calloused, if not even more. She misses laughing with him and staying with him as he trained. She misses his cologne. 

She misses loving him without regret. There’s so much she aches for, and yet knows will never be hers. Unloving him might be her undoing. He’s too well tangled in her soul, without him, what is she? She smiles when the voice in her head says nothing. 

It’s so pathetic. At thirty, she’s learning the basics of having a heart, having a conscience, one which fell too hard, too deep. A conscience that’s trying to crawl its way up, trying to fight waves of emotions. But her heart is much stronger than her mind. It hurts, and she knows it does. But she can’t change that. She doesn’t try hard enough.

She likes loving him. It feels right. It always did, no matter how messy it made her seem. It’s the most human instinct of hers, and she’s not willing to lose it—Even if she wants to stop, she can’t. She can’t. 

She can learn to unlove him another day. But now, she’ll spend just another day yearning for something that’s not hers.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.