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teukyo · 3 years

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One Warm Spring — Hamada Asahi

pairing: hamada asahi x reader (gender neutral)

genre: fluff, very cheesy lol

word count: 3.2k

a/n: this had no business being so long i apologize D: i tend to overwrite whoops.. oh this is also my first fic so i hope you enjoy ! i’m still a bit rusty lol

Spring; after long nights of endless slumber, the Sun creeps up to the earth, its rays planting warm yet gentle kisses. The orb’s cheeks fill up in heat, flowers of endearment blooming, butterflies catching in the atmosphere’s stomach.

The Earth smiling back, showing a bright welcoming smile, and with open arms, tells the sun “good morning”.

The quiet exchange of sweet nothings transferred to the buoyant citizens, as everyone would jump in joy about the newly welcomed season.

And during this time of the year, peoples hopes grew along with the blooming cherry blossoms until, they too, find a loved one

With late march rolling in, comes the blossoms fully bloomed, the arms in everyone’s hearts opening to everyone.

Yet, you often found it a mistake to open up your heart in a time full of tender love like now.

Empty confessions mimicked to be heartfelt at the spur of the moment, fleeing away just as quick as the cherry blossoms came and went. You just never understood it.

Snap!

“Y/N~~ the cherry blossoms are coming soon,” your friend, Jihoon sang into your ear, “And you’re out dozing off into dreamland, are you perhaps thinking about participating in the blossoming of love this year?”

You lightly shoved him away, giving him a glare. Jihoon was always jumping around during this time of the season because he never failed to have a crowd lining up to confess him; his ego flying as high as the newly born butterflies.

“Haha, very funny.” You deadpanned, leaving him behind to go to the cafeteria.

“Hey, you get the drinks and i’ll get the food!” Jihoon shouted, you simply responding with an ‘okay’ symbol with your hand.

Because this was a routine everyday, you had your exact footsteps to the vending machine engraved in your head.

‘11:43—by now everyone should have already gotten their drinks’

‘1, 2, 3, 4.. don’t trip over the crack.. 5, 6, 7—’ beep!

That beep.. wasn’t part of your procedure.

You looked up, your eyes landing on an unfamiliar figure in front of your destination.

Focusing your vision on him, he was made out to be a raven haired boy, his posture slightly hunched over focusing on the number combination assigned to each drink.

His dainty fingers lightly pressing the right combo, pressing each digit carefully like his joints were made of glass

Shoving the crumpled up $5 bill into the slot, his eyebrows furrowing when the machine rejected it

5-5-6-2— banana milk?

You hadn’t realized you’ve been staring at him the entire time until he started walking away, a banana milk in his hand, accidentally brushing past you.

“Ah, sorry” he simply muttered under his breath before continuing on his path. His voice, a deep contrast to the season; hearing his hushed voice chilling you like a midwinter night. His entire presence stood out, almost like a wilted flower amongst the blossoming ones. Yet here you are, warm as ever, feeling the sun pressing warm gentle kisses on the place his fingertips brushed yours.

—

“Y/N? banana milk? you seem to be switching it up today” Jihoon said when you set your drinks down on the table.

“Ah.. i just — maybe i needed a change for the season” you simply responded because, you too, didn’t know why you had a banana milk in front of you instead of your usual chocolate milk.

Throwing your half empty banana milk carton to the trash after lunch, you heard a voice peer behind you.

“Oh! you drink banana milk too! it’s my favorite!” a student you knew the name by Jaehyuk vocalized. You snuck a peek back at the banana milk slowly spilling out of the tiny straw, smiling back at Jaehyuk looking at you with hopeful eyes.

“Ah— this is actually my first time trying it! And it’s.. good!” you returned, attention on Jaehyuk until you see a much smaller figure peer behind him, a chocolate milk in hand.

“Of course it’s good! don’t buy too much of it though— don’t need it going out of stock on me! cmon Asahi”

Asahi. Asahi is his name.

You took one last quick glance at him, watching him throw the empty chocolate milk carton in the bin.

“Yeah.. The banana milk was too sweet for me anyway.”

—

Squatting down to touch the freshly grown flowers outside the school yard, you had recalled the times of your youth as a child running so eagerly to the same flowers in your hand right now.

Gazing at the pretty pink petals in awe as you wiping the morning dew slightly so it can slide off the petals, dripping to the ground.

Running back into your home, crying for a bandaid because you accidentally poked your hand with one of the thorns on accident.

Such simple yet vivid times you remember that made you cherish life a little more.

“Y/N? what are you doing here— our last class is gonna start soon” you heard your classmate Hyunsuk call. you spotting an ever so familiar figure behind him.

Small yet vivid moments.. how does this remind you of—

“Y/N what are you doing cmon!”

—

After school, you sneakily slid into the art classroom after realizing you left your phone in there. Checking the clock, you had 15 minutes before art club would commence, assuming you had 5 minutes to find your phone before members of the club would start arriving.

You observed the colorful classroom with the array of paintings laying on the drying rack, the paint brushes laying on the counter to dry, the sink covered in copious amounts of colors with its original silver color peeking through. The room gave off the feel of an elementary school art classroom. You guess the term “art is timeless” applies to the setting art is made in too.

“Ah there it is!” you whispered to yourself, snatching it off of the teacher’s desk. The sound of the door sliding open shocked you, ducking down under the table out of instinct.

‘Crap—how do i get out of here’ you thought before hearing a tiny tap on the desk.

And during this time of the year, peoples hopes grew along with the blooming cherry blossoms until, they too, find a loved one

“Uhm.. are you okay?” you looked up, seeing him.

With late march rolling in, comes the blossoms fully bloomed, the arms in everyone’s hearts opening to everyone.

“Oh sorry! I just- I forgot my phone during class so I just came in here to grab it..” you trailed off, quickly getting out of your ducked position and brushing the dust off of you.

You just never understood it.

“I should get going since art club is starting soon” you mustered. Before you could open the door you heard him speak.

“Are you looking to join the art club by any chance?” he said. You looked back at him, unable to scramble words together.

‘Just say yes, say yes, say yes, say yes say-‘

—

You handed out the application form to the leader of the art club, Yoshinori was it?

“Thank you thank you! You can join us for today to see the gist of what goes on” he said while giving you a smile that can easily flutter the hearts of others.

You looked at the room around you seeing Asahi and Jaehyuk, and a freshman that went by Haruto.

To be honest, why did you apply? Your experiences in art were little to none and your current piece you were working on in class was a “dog”— at least that’s what you called it.

“There should be one more person arriving and then we can start” Yoshinori said whilst you and him took a seat.

You stared at Asahi across from you who was absent mindedly looking down at the table, fiddling with his fingers.

‘Cute’ you thought before getting interrupted by the sound of the door opening.

“oh! Y/N what brings you here?” you looked behind you to see Jihoon at the entrance, giving Yoshinori a polite smile.

“I think i should be asking what are YOU doing here,” you retorted, knowing very well that both you and him had the same level of art skill, “and I just joined because i’ve been interested in art.”

“Sure—“ Jihoon scoffed, “Asahi told me about this today so i decided to join—“

‘Asahi. How does he know Jihoon?’

“And you’re not even listening to me!” he exclaimed, ruffling your hair roughly, you lightly punching him in the gut in return.

After the commotion died down, everyone went in session, drawing on a piece of paper whatever went into mind. It definitely meditated your mind but it wasn’t appealing— visually.

The room was filled with small chatter, Jihoon’s voice overbearing everyone else’s.

“Your doodles are very cute” you heard him softly speak. You looked up at his paper, your eyes widening at the sheer talent that bestowed upon your eyes.

“You’re a funny jokester” you simply replied, looking at your own paper with a tight lipped smile. You heard him stifle a laugh, warmth flooding throughout your veins.

“It’s amusing to look at— i like the dog” he said, pointing at one of the drawings.

“It’s supposed to be a zebra >:(“ you looked up at him, trying to contain his laughter before calming himself down and continuing to draw on his paper.

“Well it’s fine because art club isn’t necessarily based on skill. i mean, if we have Jaehyuk in here then that says something” he responded pointing at Jaehyuk’s paper. You couldn’t quite comprehend what he was drawing— a person playing baseball??

“It’s a frog by the way”

“HUH?!”

—

You hadn’t realized how late art club ended, but when you walked out of school, you saw the once blue sky turned into an orange hue indicating the late time.

“We hope to see you again Y/N” Yoshinori said. You nodded and hummed in response before taking your leave with Jihoon.

You took one last glimpse of Asahi, sticking out amongst the orange sky. The sun was setting yet— looking at him gave you the exact warmth you would feel on a midsummer day. You watched his mouth slowly bloom into a smile when made eye contact. You think in your mind that spring has never felt so warm.

—

You looked up at the trees in the process of blooming, white buds formulating on the branches.

“The trees are gonna be really pretty in about two weeks or so” you heard a voice from behind you. Him. You clenched the chocolate milk in your hand before turning towards him.

“Yeah— oh sorry i’m blocking the vending machine” you murmured, sliding away.

“Oh no no,, it’s fine,” he said before taking your spot and getting the same drink in your hand, “Are you by any chance— planning to confess to anybody?”

Oh, right. You looked up at the blossoming trees once again. The time of the season you once never understood. The time of the season you once could say you despised. Yet here you are, having the rush of spring flowing down your veins. Is this the adrenaline that everyone feels? The unknown feeling gave you goosebumps throughout your body as he asked you that question.

“I don’t quite know yet,” you simply responded, looking back at him taking the drink out of the machine, “What about you?”

A sheepish smile wiped on his face, his dimple showing ever so slightly. He shrugged before looking at you.

“Only my heart knows the answer to that question.”

—

Over the so little time you’ve known Asahi, you’ve picked up on his mannerisms and his actions.

For one, he was more on the reserved side, and even when he talked his voice would always be on the softer side. You unknowingly started to associate him with winter because he gave off the cold feeling of a winter night. It was also your favorite season.

Most people knew him because he was friends with Jaehyuk, one who was very popular amongst the school. You had heard a couple times in the hallway about how handsome Asahi was. The feeling you felt when hearing that was unknown to you.

He enjoyed drawing a lot; him and Yoshinori were the best out of the club (though you’d be a bit biased if asked whose art you liked more), and he was always focused on his work, always scrunching in a little corner tending to his painting. But yet he always complimented your drawings no matter how bad they were, never failing to give you a warm feeling right after.

You could say you had developed an endearment towards asahi.

You stepped out your home, looking at the once bare trees flutter into pink hues, you thought the cherry blossoms were beautiful.

Today you decided not to walk out with Jihoon because well— confession season is always different with that boy. You had no intentions to get caught up in his relations.

You took timid and slow steps towards school. Taking your time looking at the petals and happy groups walking and aweing at the blossoms. Your mind was also off somewhere— of course it was, it always was.

Arriving at school, you saw Jihoon getting flooded by countless individuals, a letter in most of their hands. You could say the same to Jaehyuk on the other side who was also getting bomboarded. You took your routined steps to your locker, opening it as per usual except— it wasn’t usual.

You watched the letter flutter out, swaying to the floor imitating a loose flower petal. Picking it up with a shaked up expression, you carefully opened it up.

You saw the scribbled up lines at the top of the letter, indicating that the said person was trying to make a poem.

‘ah— who am i kidding? i’m not one with words. i never was. yet here i am trying to pour my feelings out on this letter. but i cant seem to combine the right words to express it. maybe because my feelings could not be described in the first place. maybe my feelings are best not worded out on this crumpled up piece of notebook paper. because if i’m being honest— this is my 27th time writing this and yet i still cant get it down. just.. meet me at class 104B? 4:15 pm after school today? please? -♡

Your grip on the paper tightened, the heart fluttering confession bringing a small smile to your face. You looked back at your locker seeing chocolate milk in sitting atop. You grasped it in your hand, taking it out before closing the locker and heading to class, your hands gripping tightly onto the objects. Unknown to you a figure watching your every move with focused eyes.

As time went by in school awfully slowly, your mind went off to one person only. You had foolishly deluded yourself into thinking that the letter and milk was from him. well— he did see you buy chocolate milk that one time. And well,, the handwriting did have a print of him.

‘Enough thoughts. just wait until school ends and your mind can finally-‘ ring!

You looked up at the clock in shock, realizing that it was, in fact, 4:00pm.

You purposefully gathered up your belongings slowly, trying to pass as much time as possible. Putting your care into every single step taken, from the 1st floor to the second.

Taking a deep breath, you slid open the empty classroom door. It was very convenient that it was just across the art classroom as the club did have a meeting today.

You traveled across the room to look out the window, seeing someone announce their feelings to another under the cherry blossoms. Just last spring you would stick your tongue out in disgust yet here you are somewhat in the same position, your heart aching as each second ticks by.

You watched them hug each other, their feelings being reciprocated, a petal getting caught in ones hair. You looked at the trees and how it really set the mood, almost getting lost in the alluring sight until you heard someone clear their breath.

You turned around deliberately, looking down at your shoes before looking up.

Yet, you often found it as a mistake to open up your heart in a time full of tender love like now. well— maybe not.

It’s him. The person right in front of your eyes is him.

You felt like the sun had just rose, your heart beating out of your chest almost like it was about to burst and run away. You felt the butterflies prance around in your stomach, feeling like you could cough one up right now. Does he feel the same right now?

“Ah,,, hello” he mustered shyly. You clenched the letter in your hand.

“Did you perhaps—“ though it was quite obvious, the slight nod from him gave you your answer.

You observed him, his hair slightly covering his eyes. Lightly kicking at his feet, you had figured he couldn’t compromise the right words.

“I have something for you” he spoke out after what seemed like a few minutes. He reached his hand out, silently telling you to take the initiative to grab it. You placed your hand in his, feeling like your hand was molded perfectly just to cusp his. His grip so gentle you could barely feel him grasp your hand.

Leading you to the art classroom across, your eyes spotting on the covered canvas on an easel. Using his other hand, he took off the cloth, your eyes widening in awe.

Your mouth laid agape as you looked at the drawing of a portrait of you with cherry blossoms in the background. Your heart stammering in your chest.

“Is this what you’ve been working on the entire time in art club?” you asked, eyes still on the painting. He hummed and nodded his head.

“Do you like it? Or is it a bit too—“

“No no! I like it a lot— Actually I love it. I love it so much” you cut him off, looking at him with excitement evident in your eyes. Words couldn’t describe the feeling flowing through you. Is this real?

“Well, I like you a lot too. I was trying to find a way to tell you, so I used my strong suit which is art” he proceeded to tell you, taking your other hand in his. He smiled tenderly at you, his signature dimple showing once more.

“Asahi— I like you too” you beamed, staring straight into his eyes. His smile widened more, his teeth showing. You took this as the initiative to hug him, arms wrapping around his neck, his wrapping around your waist.

You felt the sun shine on you, the warmth of spring immersing through you, your heart feeling more than alive as ever. The cherry blossoms you once thought as a mistake becoming the blessing in disguise for you. You think in the time of the moment that Spring has never felt so warm for you.

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quazartranslates · 3 years

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Welcome to the Nightmare Game II - CH37

**This is an edited machine translation. For more information, please [click here]**

[<<< Previous Chapter | Table of Contents | Next Chapter >>>]

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Chapter 37: Star Death Reality Show (XX) {cw: gore}

With a loud noise, the ground shook violently. Lara, who was squatting outside waiting for news, fell in the snow and looked at the ground in horror.

What happened? Was it an earthquake? No, it wasn't. There was a big explosion underground!

Even if this degree of an explosion occurred outside, it would be enough to break through the armor of a tank. If it happened indoors... No one within a range of more than ten meters would survive under the power of the explosion!

Lara's heart sank. She couldn't listen to the warning from Qi Leren anymore. She got up and rushed toward the house!

A light like the dawn, quite different from that of the polar day, pierced the earth. It rose from the abyss like a slowly blooming flower, spreading out its silvery white light like layer after layer of a gauze curtain. This polar world of ice and snow seemed to have returned to its mother's warm and comfortable womb, eliminating any sense of harm.

Lara just stood there and didn't know what had happened. She seemed to have entered an incredible world. The blooming silver light was getting brighter and brighter, not only emitting from the ground, but also rising gradually. There was a reflection of Heaven in this light! It seemed like a rolled-up picture, unfolding slowly, revealing a piece of Eden at dusk in front of her eyes!

Lara’s mouth fell open as she witnessed this cognitive subversion with audiences hundreds of millions of light-years away.

Countless flowers fell from the sky, reflecting the beams of light rising slowly from the ground. This silvery world was expanding its boundaries, and there was no coldness as in the area that it touched. She was like a little girl who was hungry and cold, with tears in her eyes as she saw the phantasmic light of a match.

It turns out… It turns out that in this world, there really is a God.

There was a tremor below the ground again, and a hole suddenly appeared in the outer wall of the house. A shining white figure flew out from the inside, stretching its white wings behind it and lightly landing in front of Lara.

He was glowing, and the "angel" shrouded in silvery-white spots of light nodded at her, like a dream that was too unreal to be true.

"Qi... Qi Leren?" Lara hesitated before speaking his name aloud.

The angel smiled slightly: "It's me."

Lara could imagine how excited the audience on the other side of the cameras would be at this moment, because she was the same.

A miracle. They actually existed, and one had happened here!

　　&&&

A few seconds ago, Qi Leren, who was targeted by a rocket launder was in a desperate situation.

S/L? Ignoring that it was still in cooldown, even if it was used, in this confined space, the high temperature produced by the explosion could easily kill him instantly after the file loaded. Even if he had three chances, it was not enough! He couldn't be like a hero in a movie, hitting his opponent's wrist with one shot and stopping him from shooting this rocket launcher.

In this deadly one thousandth of a second, Qi Leren's naked eyes caught Mark's movements. He had already lifted the rocket launcher and was ready to fire...

He had only one choice, there were no other options.

Qi Leren tore out the gift given to him by the Prophet, and his strength was so great that he broke the thin chain. This winged piece of metal was instantly stimulated by his mind, and then the next second, the rocket launcher was aimed at him, and Qi Leren in the center of the explosion should have been blown to pieces...

But he saw a light, and the illusion of a huge angel came from the void, which lightly descended to him and brought him the power of the Prophet.

Qi Leren felt as if he had returned to the waters where the Prophet laid dormant. The gentle water wrapped around his body, making him feel comfortable and slowing his breathing. Some great power beyond everything he knew was in his blood, which made him reach out and block the rocket launcher approaching the speed of sound with the palm of an ordinary human, but at this moment he felt as if he was catching a floating balloon with his palm.

As if it were a collision between magic and science and technology, the rocket launcher exploded, but the explosion slowed down countless times in his eyes. The silver spots on his body easily blocked the terrible destructive power around him. Even if everything around him was shattered in the explosion, he could safely wait for it to end.

And at this moment, he felt inner peace, neither fear nor worry. It was like overlooking the human world as a god in the sky, who wouldn't panic because of the wind, rain, and thunder.

He also "saw" a huge clock behind him. The gears and rivets clearly visible on the dial made it give off the mechanical sensibilities of the industrial revolution. On the dial, a hand was walking fast.

Once, twice, and three times, the power he borrowed from the Prophet's item would be returned to its original owner.

[Prophet’s Heart: A god-level item handmade by the noble and great Prophet that can make you feel the pleasure of turning into a bird. Holders can summon an archangel to come and fight on their behalf for 3 minutes with a cooling time of 24 hours.]

Three minutes was enough to solve everything in this dark basement.

The parasitic octopus in Annie's body had been killed; even the stones on her body were blown to pieces. Most of the space in the basement had become a collapsed ruin. Qi Leren, who hovered in midair without touching the ground, waved his hand. Some kind of psychic force made him easily lift the heavy stones, and "drive" them aside like a sheepdog driving sheep, revealing a spacious passageway.

The tunnel leading to the institute had collapsed again, but this time, Qi Leren didn't have to work so hard to move the stones like Mark had. He just waved his hand, and these stones were swept aside, as if they were not much heavier than dust. Only the clacking sound told him that these stones were not without weight.

The stones were cleaned up, and Mark, who was also affected by the explosion, remained in human form.

Half of his face was smashed by the flying stones during the explosion, and a soft sticky tentacle was sticking through the bone out of his eye socket that had lost its eyeball. After discovering that there was no barrier between him and Qi Leren, the octopus let out a shrill scream, instantly bounced out of Mark's body, and fled into the tunnel of the Institute in a hurry—this was probably the last time it used the human brain to think out a countermeasure.

Because the next second, Qi Leren raised his arm.

With a distance of more than twenty metres, the power of his mind pressed the pause button on this crazy fleeing monster. It became motionless and collapsed to the ground. Time had cruelly bound it in a cage.

Qi Leren’s outstretched hand gently clenched.

Unable to move, the monster was pinched into a mass of bloody pieces of jelly, which scattered on the ground one by one.

In just a few seconds, it was all over.

The light surrounding his whole body was still bright. In this silver light, Qi Leren felt as if he could do anything.

Was this the power of field-level masters? Even if the item only borrowed a little strength from one, it had far exceeded Qi Leren’s imagination. Facing this absolute power that was beyond the limit of human beings, Qi Leren could hardly believe that the Prophet was still a human being.

Fields were much more profound and terrible than he had thought. Through the process of getting stronger and closer to the field level, it almost seemed like a person evolved to another higher species—such as a god.

He was afraid that the world of these field masters was quite different from that of ordinary people. Unfortunately, for now, he has no qualification to know.

The two amphioctopuses in the basement were dealt with, and Qi Leren was in a good mood. Although the wings behind them seemed like they would get in the way, they were not corporeal. The archangel possessing him did not have any material existence, as if it was just a courier who had brought him the Prophet’s power. He would wait three minutes for Qi Leren to sign for it and then leave calmly.

The mechanical clock in the void had already finished more than one rotation, and Qi Leren could not delay any longer. Although he intended to enter the underground research institute again to find traces of He Yi, as well as Dr. Lu and Du Yue who may have also gone in, he still had to say hello to Lara first.

Qi Leren waved his hand and tore a hole to create a passage above him. The wings behind him fluttered gently, making him rise. This novel experience impressed him deeply. It was good to be a bird man.

Flying out of the basement, at a glance, Qi Leren saw Lara in a trance.

She stared at Qi Leren in a distracted manner and shouted in a whispering voice: "Qi Leren?"

It seemed that this poor girl's atheistic views had been blown to pieces. The initiator should continue to maintain the inscrutable style of a painting, so as to avoid the audience at the other end of the distant camera attacking his identity crazily.

Hopefully his present magic act would fool the audience. Amitabha— Oh, no: God bless.

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Editor’s Note: Qi Leren using the Prophet’s Heart is the cover art for vol 1 of the physical edition! The full art without the cover text can be found on the artist’s Lofter [here]

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ddarker-dreams · 4 years

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In Passing. Yan Shigaraki x Reader [COMM]

“It sure is getting worse around here, huh?”

A dejected sigh leaves your lips as you glance down at your screen, news alert notifications weighing down your soul further. This area of Japan isn’t renowned for being a safe haven, yet it was never this bad. Seeing the area you’ve called home your entire life deteriorating is a frightening experience, making you wonder if it’d be easier to move.

Moving sounds nice in theory. When it comes to bringing your thoughts in fruition, too many outstanding obstacles stand in the way. Having to find a new job, a new place, your lease that stated you’d pay rent on this apartment for another six months, and having to move away from all your friends. These factors are what you remind yourself of when you entertain the thought of going elsewhere.

There are more news alerts, your phone vibrating in your pocket.

“League of Villains confirmed to be behind the latest attacks.”

“Heroes from all prefectures are being called in to deal with new threats.”

“Mayor to enact 8 PM curfew to mitigate casualties.”

The final flashing headline feels like the last nail in the coffin. There’s no denying the extremity of the situation in your prefecture, but isn’t this a little extreme? For such an intense measure, it’s being enforced on the same day as the announcement. You make a note to yourself to check in with your nearby friends to make sure they’ve made it home safely.

Life as you know it is changing, in a way you don’t appreciate.

This is headache inducing. The clock now is set an hour before curfew, leaving you with some options. While it might be wiser to stay at home, an inner craving for sweets is gnawing at you from within. Your everyday schedule has been hectic, leaving no room to breathe. It couldn’t hurt to treat yourself with some desserts, and the place you’re thinking of is less than ten minutes away.

Significant incidents thus far haven’t been within thirty minutes of you. You’ll be fast, it can’t hurt to try. Having sweets to hold you over a few days is a tempting concept that you give into with ease.

Heroes are being sent in from everywhere in Japan, it’s only a matter of time before the dust settles. According to news anchors, at least. You’ll choose to have faith in their words, and not worry more than necessary.

With a newfound pep in your step, you grab your bag and head towards the door. This is just the thing you need, a small pick me up. Maybe you can grab some extras for your coworkers, everyone has been on edge lately. Nothing a little chocolate can’t fix.

Still keeping an eye out for any suspicious behavior, you keep your guard up. Fewer people are on the streets, as to be expected. Some shops are even closing earlier in anticipation of the later curfew. The sight of this instills you with a new sense of vigor, picking up your pace in hopes of making it in time. If they close right when you get there, it’d be beyond disappointing.

The typical bustling sounds of life from Japan are dying down, saved for your own footsteps against the cement and passing cars. People are taking this more seriously than you envisioned, cooping up in their residence even an hour before they need to. Lack of fellow humans in your vicinity is an unnerving sensation, your muscles going taut. Shutters are being closed, doors locked, like the calm before the storm.

After a moment of thinking, you decide it might be best to head back. It’s better to be safe than sorry. Even if it means missing out on chocolate truffles. There are other ways you can treat yourself, your mind going to that. A movie night wouldn’t be a bad idea, maybe making some popcorn to accompany it. Making the best from a dire situation is what keeps you from falling apart at the seams.

The opportunity to turn on your heels is stolen from you.

A flying blur suddenly slams into the sidewalk in front of you, earning a horrified gasp from your person. Startled, you back up, lips quivering and head darting around frantically for more information. The sickening crunching sound reverberates within your head, bile rising to your throat.

The person in front of you is wearing a distinct hero uniform, tattered and caked in blood. Mind overflowing with desperate thoughts, you consider your options. From what you’re able to gather, he’s clearly physically hurt. Incapable of even lifting up his own weight without stumbling down again.

A local hero from the looks of it, his name escaping you. Doing a double take, there’s no danger that you can spot. Heart pounding rapidly within the confines of your chest, you make a hesitant approach, lending your hand in assistance.

“A-are you okay? Here, let me help you up,” you stutter out, uncertain of the best course of action. He coughs up blood, unlikely registering your existence next to him. “Oh, uh, okay, let me get help. I’ll call an ambulance--”

“Run.”

It’s a low gurgle, the scent of iron hanging in the air like a death sentence. You shiver, sensing the impending doom within his single utterance. From the depths of his being, a frenzied plea managed to leave his bruised mouth. It’s only now you see how mangled his body is, open wounds spilling pools of blood onto the ground.

He’s not going to make it at this rate. From what you’ve read in the past, and seeing the rapid blood less, it’s only a matter of time before he goes into shock. It’s a miracle that he’s even incapable of offering a single word to you, one that goes beyond your understanding. Surely there’s no one around, not that you can see. He must’ve been thrown from the thrall of battle, ending up here on the outskirts.

What takes priority is getting this dying young man help. Ignoring his warning, you get your phone, dialing the emergency number with shaky hands. Smoke begins to rise in the distance, sirens getting louder and causing your head to swirl. The line continues to ring, each second feeling like centuries apart.

It’s taking the operator forever to pick up, are they being overwhelmed with calls? Whatever is happening elsewhere must be a nightmare for you to not be able to reach any help.

The hero next to you crawls forward, body shaking violently and rapidly losing strength. He clutches your ankle, a shriek leaving your lips at the unexpected sensation.

Without wasting any time, he repeats his earlier warning, wheezing through labored breaths. “You… you need… to run.”

A hero’s job is to protect the public from harm. Even as he lays here, presumably moments away from the pearly gates, he insists on helping you. It didn’t get through to you before, your mind wrapped up in the moment and concern for helping him. As painful as it is to realize it, he’s not going to make it. Not at the rate he’s going, numerous wounds marring his body.

Tears stinging the corners of your eyes, you try calling for an ambulance again while walking away. He slumps down, believing that you’re finally heeding his warning to flee.

It all happens faster than you can register.

Hazy colors surround him from behind, a foreboding image. Stemming from the ground and swirling their way up, dark blacks and purples mix together to reveal a nightmare from the gates of hell. It takes form into a more human shape, eyes devoid of emotion and narrowing at the sight of you. Stepping out alongside him is a hunched over figure, detached hands covering his body.

Your blood runs cold. Lips part, not a sound leaving them as you intended. It’s impossible to scream, to run, to think. Adrenaline pumps throughout your blood vessels, fight or flight response activating. Too little too late, your vulnerable self surrounded by villains.

This is what he was warning you about. At the time you didn’t consider your well being to be in jeopardy, no threats nearby. Now, materializing in front of you, stands two overarching people capable of ending your life.

Or worse.

Your only saving grace is that their attention is set on the nearly lifeless hero in front of you. A pale hand reaches out towards his neck, skin making contact. In a way that shouldn’t be possible, his once ruddy skin crumbles away like sand onto the ground. The sight manages to shake you up enough to scream, backing up with shaky legs.

Alerting them to your presence serves to be your downfall, even if they would’ve noticed you eventually. The hand covered figure looks up at you, head tilting to the side. Through your paralyzed state, you pick up on more of his physical features. Tousled silver hair, hunched over posture, a black hoodie… it strikes a chord within your memory, a name leaving your lips before you can bite your tongue.

“Shigaraki, is that…?”

He flinches at your tentative tone. The fog hovering over your mind clears, giving you a moment of unwanted realization. Shigaraki is a distinct person within your mind, one that you never characterized as a villain, much less a killer. Finishing that young man’s life without hesitation, donning a fittingly morbid outfit.

Your initial interpretation was that Shigaraki isn’t a people’s person. By chance or fate, a few months prior, you had run into him at your job. He had trouble maintaining eye contact with you, voice guttural and uncertain. When you recommended a specialty drink to him, much to your surprise, he accepted it.

That was the insignificant start of your quaint friendship.

Despite first appearances, he was enjoyable to be around. You two ended up exchanging numbers after having more run-ins, discovering your shared interests. He preferred to listen to you speaking rather than leading conversations, still feeling comfortable enough to offer his input.

Not many people were like Shigaraki. He felt like a breath of fresh air, someone who didn’t mince his words. You recall the times he’d tell you how it is, never being one to blend in with the popular opinion. For that, you respected him. Even if you didn’t see eye to eye on everything, his passion and knowledge on subjects was inspiring.

You felt special, getting as close to him as you did. Many had tried and failed where you had succeeded. It didn’t make sense why he seemed partial to you, yet you never questioned him. A blooming bond formed, tended by your considerate hands.

Only one aspect struck you as odd. While indulging in your own personal life, Shigaraki vehemently refused to extend the same courtesy. Knowledge of his job or family was nonexistent. It isn’t easy for everyone to talk about -- you assumed at the time -- so you never pushed the sensitive subject.

Now that leads you to this position.

“W-what… this, no… this can’t be you! You just,” you gulp back a lump forming in your throat, the word not wanting to come out. “You just killed him! Why?”

He approaches you. Your prior words are met with a wave of regret, your tongue in usage before you could stifle it. For the lack of hesitation used in offering this hero, it’s natural to assume he’d have no trouble disposing of you too. There’s no way you’ll allow yourself to fall victim without putting up some form of a fight.

There’s subtle hesitation in his approach. Or are you imagining things…?

“No, this isn’t right!”

It’s Shigaraki’s voice, clear as day. His tone accentuates how troubled he is, his fingers scraping the sensitive flesh of his neck. You wince at the sight, streaks of blood coming into fruition from his distressed action. Now towering over you, a silent stand off begins. The tension in the air is palpable enough to cut through it with a knife. Looking down at what little remains of the hero, you feel a new sense of resolve. His final wish, his final plea, was for you to run. Selflessly, instead of thinking out for himself, he urged you to safety.

You won’t let his sacrifice be in vain. No matter what it takes, you’ll get out of this.

Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you take in the situation. Shigaraki is in a similar confused state as you, mumbling under his breath and planning what to do with you. The next few seconds will be critical, time a luxury you can’t afford to waste. With the influx of heroes coming into this area to fend off the attacks, there’s a chance one might be chasing him down now.

It’s not a reliable enough idea. Fighting against two isn’t plausible either, given the gap in your strength. The best option is to run when there’s an opening. You know this area fairly well, and flagging down a passerby for help could be the ticket out of this. Readying yourself to sprint at any second, you stare Shigaraki down.

“Shigaraki Tomura, what do you want to do with this person?” The foggy apparition from behind speaks up, earning both of yours attention. For a brief instance, Shigaraki turns his head around towards the source of the question. His uncertainty will be his downfall.

‘This is my chance!’

Conjuring every ounce of your strength into your legs, you run. Feet hitting the ground with swiftness, heart pounding violently. The world around you is a blur, primal emotions taking over to flee this deadly scenario. None of the potential consequences matter, having dipped too far to pull back. It doesn’t come as a surprise when you hear footsteps approaching you from behind, the threat serving to keep you on high alert.

Out of breath, you continue to look around for any potential help. No one is out on the streets at this time, so running is all that can be done. Your chest is heaving for air, legs burning and face flushed. Energy rapidly draining, your speed wavers. It won’t be much longer until whoever is chasing you -- be it that fog creature or Shigaraki -- is capable of killing you.

Right as you think this, you turn a sharp corner into an alleyway. It’s a familiar area, your only advantage. This area leads to the backyard of some houses, if you jump the fence you might be able to wave down help. Brimming with potent determination, you prepare to spring up and bounce over the wiry fence growing closer to you.

It’s claustrophobic in this area, brick walls and either side of you tight and restricting. Taking a deep breath to brace yourself, you jump up, hands clutching to the fence. Not bothering to spare a glance behind you at your pursuer, you utilize all your energy. Hoisting yourself over the top of the fence with shaky arms, you huff after accomplishing your goal. Dropping back down onto the ground on the other side.

Only to be met by the hazy figure, Shigaraki coming out with him.

You’re completely cornered. Looking side to side, no other people are in sight. The rush of adrenaline is diminishing at a frightening pace, droplets of sweat running down the sides of your face. Wiping your mouth with your hand, you glare up at the imposing duo.

“Stop running.” Shigaraki hisses at you from behind his mask, tone irate. All of your actions are under close scrutiny, the wrong move being a death sentence. He stalks closer to you, limiting any further chances at escape.

“Kurogiri. We’ll bring them back with us.”

You and the person whose name is presumably Kurogiri look at Shigaraki in shared confusion.

“Hurry up. I don’t have all day.”

Broken free from your stunned stupor, you protest. “Wait!”

Darkness wins over light, bewitching you in its macabre beauty. Your fingers, your arms, your legs, all of it is surrounded by shades of monochrome. Floating along into the unknown, sunlight is stolen. The walls are now made of concrete, bars on the windows. Wherever this is, it won’t be easy to escape. The crumbling environment brings with it a sense of dread.

Kurogiri’s quirk must allow the ability to transport, or something similar. It’s the only logical explanation.

Shigaraki doesn’t look back at your other guest again. “Leave us.”

The statement isn’t meant for you. Shigaraki takes a seat on the ground, giving an opportunity for you to gain your bearings. Panicking won’t help you, acting careful is in your best interest. Silence fills the air, eating away at you from within.

You take the opportunity to speak up, not sure if you want to know the answer to your question. “So, what’s going to happen to me?”

“I don’t know.”

That’s far from reassuring. Hostile intent isn’t anywhere to be found, so you continue to test the boundaries of your luck. Shigaraki isn’t in control of his feelings, it’s possible to capitalize off of that. If you say the wrong thing, it could also be your undoing. A double edged sword. Flurries of emotion swirl within you, ranging from despair to hope. It isn’t too late for you to get out of this.

Deescalating the tense atmosphere is the first step in your plan.

“For you to be doing this,” you purse your lip, successfully gaining Shigaraki’s attention. “There must be some… grander reason, right?”

‘Get him talking. Identify a weak spot and go from there.’

Your question has the opposite effect on him, Shigaraki growing visibly restless. Shuffling his weight around and considering the merit of your words. It’s good you’re incapable of seeing his face right now, the deranged expression a sign of his unhinged mood.

Shigaraki grimaces behind his mask, lips set in a snarl. “I hate heroes. You know that.”

He’s mentioned it in the past. The hatred he speaks of never bordered on murderous intent, a line that shouldn’t be crossed. Everyone has their reasons, it still doesn’t justify their actions. Admonishing him might be a risky move, so you think of a neutral approach.

“Shigaraki, I don’t think you’re a bad person.” you tell him, not certain if it’s a lie or not. Getting him to open up and lower his guard is the best action you can see for the time being. He hums lowly at your statement, not giving it too much thought. An uncomfortable silence settles in between the two of you.

Is he planning on holding you here as a hostage?

“Say something.” Shigaraki speaks up, shooting you a look. When you spent time with him before, it was filled with talking and laughter. Replicating that sense of normalcy now feels absurd, yet you give it your best shot.

Swallowing thickly, you hug your knees close to your chest. “I was thinking about texting you earlier.”

The chaos that surrounded your home had you disturbed. Shigaraki never struck you as the fighting type, shying away from human interaction outside of you. Even the suggestion to meet your other friends was immediately shot down without remorse. So to think he’s capable of murdering someone in cold blood… it causes you to shiver.

It’s impossible to ever really know someone.

“What for?” he inquires, interest piqued. Behind the mask, his voice is muffled. Facial reactions gave away insights of the soul, exposing a person at their most vulnerable. In this state, he must be too ashamed to show you his face. Or you could be imagining things, a plausible explanation given the extreme circumstances.

Honesty is the best policy when you’re in doubt. “To check in on you.”

“So you care, then?”

You open your mouth, only to close it once more. His posture is rigid, voice pointed. There isn’t a broad physical gap between you two, the same can’t be said for your emotional distance. Months spent weaseling into Shigaraki’s life crumble in between your fingertips, too fine to catch. He must feel this way too.

Indignation is sparked within you. “Care...? Of course I cared. You are -- no, were -- important to me. How do you expect me to feel now that I’ve seen you murder someone?”

As your sentence goes on, your voice grows in volume. Nostrils flaring and fingernails puncturing the skin of your hand, all caution is thrown to the wind. The audacity to question you like that, after all the effort you put into your relationship is offensive.

Shigaraki doesn’t take your piercing words laying down. “There’s no reason to care for trash like that.”

His version of the earlier events is a wickedly twisted one, remorse nonexistent. Being next to him is stifling, your brain shouting at you to get away. Antagonizing him further should be the last thing you do, yet you can’t control the sense of justice burning within. To have killed a hero who spent his final moments protecting you is the worst type of insult.

“Why you’re getting so worked up about it is beyond me. It’s pissing me off.”

Alarming you with his crazed voice, you shut your lips together. In the heat of the moment you lost yourself, unraveling the hard work from earlier. Now he’ll know that you’re lying if you backtrack. Had you been anyone else to Shigaraki, you’d be dead by now. Attachment for you, contorted as it may be, is what’s keeping you alive.

Challenging him will put you on thin ice. From his secrecy, you can gather he didn’t want you to know about this.

Shigaraki reaches up to the hand on his face, removing it. You glance over his familiar facial features, wan complexion and bags under his eyes prominent. Crimson eyes narrow at you, unrecognizable emotions dancing inside of them. He’s upset. At you finding out about him, about this world. How you look at him with disappointment, the weight that it places on his tortured soul.

He chews violently on his lower lip. “You hate me now.”

It’s not an empty assessment. The repugnance that rises like bile in your throat could be classified in that way, but you don’t confirm it. More than anything, you feel let down, like you’ve been misled. How many times has he lied to you? What did your time together mean to him? If it meant anything at all. Humiliated, you purse your mouth together.

“Don’t ignore me, [First].”

Staying silent no longer an option, you snarl. “I don’t get what you’re expecting me to say. You kill someone in front of me, kidnap me, and now expect me to act like it’s no big deal? Don’t make me laugh.”

No one else could get away with demeaning him like this. The part of you that cared withered away, bitterness taking root in its place. A criminal is sitting next to you, moping about your rejection. It makes for a pitiful scene, your current reality.

Shigaraki looks towards the ground, incapable of holding eye contact with you. “You’ll stay here until you understand.”

“Stay...? What do you mean by that. I won’t accept this, I won’t accept you. Not now, not ever.”

He doesn’t acknowledge your animosity, getting up from his spot on the ground to walk towards the wall. How he’s dictating you makes you see red, refusing to give up any ground. Preconceptions and expectations you never knew existed have been chained to you by Shigaraki, who seems content to let it stay that way.

“I don’t recommend trying to escape. More trash will die if you do.”

‘Is he threatening more heroes?!’

Shooting up from your position, you reach out to him, reasons unknown. Extending a hand to the person you once regarded highly, who spat on your feelings and triumphed a ghastly cause. There has to be more you can do, even though it won’t be much. You can’t let him trample over you like this.

“Kurogiri.”

At his quiet beckoning, Shigaraki is warped out of the drab room you’re occupying. You call out to him, raw emotion erupting without shame. When he disappears from your sight, a final comment is made. One that promises that this is the beginning of your nightmare, that all began due to your well intended kindness.

Shigaraki’s eyes are crazed, a sardonic grin stretching across his face.

“You’ll understand, I’ll make sure you understand...”

#Shigaraki #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura #tomura shigaraki #tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura imagine #yandere #yandere x reader #bnha #bnha imagine #bnha imagines #bnha x reader #yandere bnha #my stuff #commissions #my hero academia #yandere my hero academia #my hero academia imagine

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moondustaeil · 4 years

Text

anoetic ❧ kim doyoung

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ✧☾.·:·. anoetic

⠀ ⠀⠀ about

⋅ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ : breakup au ; exes to ... ; fluff , angst , suggestive

⋅ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ : soloist!Doyoung x reader , composer!Taeyong , soloist!Taeil

⋅ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ : 15k

⋅ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ : numbered parts are current events , unnumbered parts titled as “summer sun” are flashbacks , alcoholism , suggestive content , guilt-shaming , hidden but exposed relationship , idol-dating drama , arguments , jealousy , inappropriate language , ...

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀

⠀ ⠀⠀ synopsis

⋅ The record is new, the songs that play old and the message overdue. Kim Doyoung, once your summer sun, now an empty silhouette draped in noirceur in your apartment. You’re his remedy.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀

⠀ ⠀⠀ part of

⋅ the neo-summer collab, hosted by @neo-cult-ure . With a chosen summer-titled song we write a fic about a chosen member: my song is “Summer sun” by Hooverphonic.

❧ ᴏɴᴇ : "ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ, ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴀɴʏ ꜱᴘᴀᴄᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴇ." ☙

The clock-like ticking of the direction indicator resounds over the song that is playing on the car radio. It is one of the love songs that Doyoung tends to play. It’s not as lyrical as his own songs due to the repeated "baby, baby," in the intro, but he still enjoys listening to the hidden sentiment in the singer’s voice. He takes the turn rightwards and turns off his indicator as soon as the turn has been made. After doing so, he places both hands on the steering wheel as he drives into the street.

The new street welcomes him almost like he's never seen it before. The street is far from unfamiliar to his eyes though. Aside from the doubled amount of cars that drive on the other lane and the modernised apartments, things look exactly the same.

He cocks his head to the side to be able to have a broader view of things he shouldn't be looking at. Something that a lot of drivers habitually do. Just like those drivers, Doyoung sets his eyes on the different buildings and white clouds that slowly move in the same direction as the car.

Almost too distraught by the outside world, he forgets the purpose of driving in this street. Until. The apartment building where you live comes in his eye-sight, he doesn't even need to cock his head to the side to be able to see the window that belongs to your exact apartment.

Something that could resemble a smile starts to form on his lips but he parts his lips to not give in to the temptations of the shown emotion. As much as he wants to smile, there is no objective meaning to do so yet as happiness has not made its introduction in today's events.

The first available parking lot is taken up by his car, neatly parking between the white rectangular lines as he learned at his driving classes ages ago. He isn't someone who bought his licence in a pack of cereal, something that apparently happened a very long time ago, but that might only be something old people say to clarify how easy it used to be in the past. After checking each possible mirror, he turns off the motor of his vehicle.

His silver Porsche 911 Carrera S gladly forces itself to listen to the given instructions. The overly-expensive car provided Doyoung with comfort and support during the entire ride, but Doyoung is glad that soon he will be able to get out of the car and stretch his legs. Momentarily, he leans back against the leather seat to release the tensed feeling in his shoulderblades but soon realises it won't ease the nerves that he's feeling and does the opposite of sitting in a relaxed position. He hovers forward as one of his arms lays over the steering wheel. With the other, he fishes out a piece of jewellery from his pocket. On his left hand, he places a real silver ring on his pinky. A strange action compared to what most people would do in this situation.

Not until a couple of minutes after he gets out of the car, he finally collects the courage to walk up to the familiar apartment complex. But the moment he does, he can only stand in front of the common front door like someone is willing to open it before he rings the bell. To the right, his eyes endlessly read over the many names of those who have their homes in the complex. On purpose, he reads foreign names slower even though he can read them as well as he can read the ones written in Korean. He avoids the first syllable of your name: no matter if it says your name or not, for now, he opts to move on to the following names.

What now? His slow reading didn’t help him any further. In the end, he has no other option but to leave or search for your name between the many tags and ring the bell. Before he even starts with his mission, he sighs because he knows he doesn't need to search for your name on the white-coloured tags.

A lump of unstable breathing leaves his lips as he presses his index finger to the black buzzer. That action only happens after he makes sure to move further away from the camera and microphone. You probably wouldn’t open the door or even answer if you found out it was him. The buzzer starts chanting its ringtone, a sound that makes Doyoung’s heartbeat accelerate. It seems like he might have a heart attack the moment the buzzing is replaced by your voice.

With the multiple second-lasting buzzes, Doyoung freezes in his current spot. Not because he's cold without coat covering his shoulders but because many what if's start to form scenarios in his mind. What if you don't open the door because you don't live here anymore? What if you don't open the door because you are in bed with somebody new?

The first scenario can be nullified as your name still was on the little white tag, still typed in the same font as before which meant that nothing apparently changed. It gives him hope that the second scenario is as much made up out of fiction as the first one.

"Hello?" Your voice interrupts the scenarios completely, they disappear like they never were possibilities in the first place. "Who is it?" you ask again when you don't get a proper response. You don't hear a voice responding to you, neither do you see anyone, not one glimpse that reveals someone is waiting for you to open up the door.

The tone of your voice makes Doyoung cover his mouth with one of his hands: the words don't mean anything to him but hearing your voice after such a long time shoots a bullet of sentiment to his heart. It's not an effortless task for him to stay silent while you are speaking, because even when he covers his mouth with his hand, he's obligated to purse his lips invisibly.

Wordlessly, Doyoung narrates and tells himself to leave now that he still has the chance to do so. Despite knowing you're there at home, he guesses he won't be fulfilling his goal today. From his pursed lips pushes a sigh before he turns his body away from the door.

The handful of steps form a small staircase together. Doyoung easily skips them by taking one large step until he finds himself on the public walkway. Deep inside, he wants to run towards the car, but his feet don't allow him to go faster than an average walking pace.

"Doyoung!"

Before prohibiting the action to himself, his body turns towards the apartment building. Firstly, his eyes meet the common front door of the complex but his eyes are quick to notice the light movements. He sees them from the corner of his eye and immediately looks up towards the source. Your bedroom window is opened, with you standing in the opening, chanting his name to catch his attention.

His vocal cords are taken away by speechlessness. His right hand is quick to solve the problem by allowing his index finger to point towards his silver-coloured vehicle. The hand that was in his pocket is used to unlock the doors. Momentarily, he disappears on the passenger's side of the car.

The empty-handed arrival is reversed when he appears in front of the camera. In his hand is a collection of bundled wildflowers, which he tightly grips between his clenched fist. The grip never loosens, not even when he needs to hold the railing in order to safely get up the stairs.

Each step he takes seems to resemble a memory of the times he had walked these steps. The revisited memories don't tire him out despite the long time he stands still for them. Step one reminds him of the first time that he came here on his own because you granted him a key. The step in the middle that separates one floor from the other reminds him of the tiring sighs that left his lips after long workdays. The last step reminds him of the last time he walked down from them after the breakup. One by one, heavy steps and the ones he was taking now didn't vary much in weight.

Two steps. One step.

As soon as he wants to step on the unchanging floor, he almost stumbles over his clumsy feet when the door of your apartment opens. There is still a chain that separates the door from completely opening but after re-opening your door, he can fully see you in front of him.

Almost ceremonially, he holds out the flowers towards you. You're too far away to grasp the little bouquet of nature between your fingers and even after five more tiny steps, when he's right in front of you, your fingers still don't reach out for them.

"Come in," you tell Doyoung without greeting him first, your door opening as wide as it can to let in the person that you used to unofficially share this place with. Your body doesn't completely turn as you keep on checking whether Doyoung actually follows you inside, instead of trying to flee like he did when he was outside. This time Doyoung's feet allow him to follow you inside the apartment, the only time his feet halt is when he takes off his shoes in the hallway and neatly places them on the provided rack.

Your feet stop in the living room as you expect to sit there together with him rather than an inconvenient spot such as your bedroom the kitchen, not that they were untried places, but the progressive situation caused them to become inconvenient over time.

"I brought these," Doyoung says but not until after he once again holds out the little bouquet of flowers towards you, he almost didn't say anything but noticed how you didn't seem to get the hint of having to take the flowers from his hand. You look down at his hands to see what he is holding before you focus on his face again, trying to decipher the unreadable expression.

Without sharing a response, you take the bouquet from his hand and hold them between your lightly-clenched fist instead. "Thank you," you say with a small nod out of discomfort and awkwardness even though you're grateful for the little bouquet. Whether he came empty-handed or not wouldn't have mattered to you at all, perhaps him not coming at all wouldn't have mattered either. "I will put these in a vase and get you a drink. What would you like to drink?" you ask.

"Just some water," you hear Doyoung say right before you can disappear into your kitchen. Thinking you knew what he wanted to drink, you already took the steps towards the other room. Water was his standard drink: not too cold so that it wouldn't damage his vocal cords and not too warm so that he wouldn't feel nauseous. Although you expected him to say water, another drink momentarily seemed an option but you'd rather not think about that too much.

Silence fills the apartment as each of you are in a different room right now: you're in the kitchen looking for a vase and pouring Doyoung his drink while Doyoung is in the living room and can only silently look at everything. Time seems to go by slowly but you blame it on yourself for stretching some time as you are too busy mouthing possible conversation-starters to yourself. After all, appearing stupidly inarticulate in front of your ex-lover wasn't something you want to take place.

In two turns you take the objects towards the common room: first the vase with wildflowers that are placed in the middle of the table, setting you and Doyoung apart with the decoration, after that you place two glasses of water on each side of the table.

"Thanks," Doyoung says once the glass of water is placed in front of him. His hand wraps around the glass, shoving it slightly towards the end of the table. As much as he wants to gulp it down so that he doesn't need to speak for a few seconds, his fingertips can only trace over the thin ribbles of the glass without lifting it to his lips to drink.

Over the bouquet of flowers, he can see you sitting on the other side of the table but lowers his eyes to the flowers instead of continuing to look at you. He fails to notice how you look at him for a short amount of time: starting at his hair before your eyes undergo the transition from his face towards his upper body. He still looks the same as he does in the pictures that you've kept and the memories in your heart.

Doyoung looks away from the flowers, perhaps due to the visual attention even though he doesn't realise that you were looking. Firstly, he looks towards the white walls that seem the same as they were long ago even though some patches are discoloured from the sunlight that shines in on a summer day. Next, his eyes follow the individual pieces of furniture that fill the room, one by one even though some of them form a set together. Almost like a matching lingerie set, but less sexy and more personality-revealing, but why did he even make that comparison?

"You look good."

Faster than ever before, Doyoung's head turns towards you. His eyes shifting to you after you say the words and he silently hopes you were still eyeing him, but unfortunately, your head is hung low and your eyes turned away from him. Your gaze fixated on the half-empty or half-full glass of water in front of you.

Doyoung loves the remedy of sound and the remedy of silence. Truly, it doesn't cure what is going on but it's like a placebo that gives him the feeling that things are brightening up. Perhaps rather than a remedy, he still feels stunned by the words you said and he takes them a little bit too much to heart. Hopefulness fills his heart, unneeded.

"But the hair is still stupid," you seriously add. There is no need for you to look at his hair once more before stating the comment, you can clearly recall the many colours of Kim Doyoung. From his pulchritude regular hair colour at the beginning of your relationship to the strawberry pink shade, or from the soft purple locks to an intense blue shade, and up until now where his hair was regularly black. Still, you conclude you don't like the look of his hair and if you can't blame it on the colour, you blame it on the forehead-covering bangs.

The remedy of silence seems Doyoung's accustomed placebo today. He stares at you as you let the continuation of words flow from your lips, and even when you fall silent, he opts to take a second placebo. As he looks at you, the side effects seem to kick in: memories of you and him, a new record filled with old songs.

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴇʀ ꜱᴜɴ : "ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ"

"Last year it was a great honour to receive the new artist of the year award. This year, it is another great honour to be here as representer of the same award."

Your pupils are trembling as your anxious eyes are staring at the fully-brightened laptop intensely. Your eyelids urge to cover your irises due to the blinding blue backdrop. Yet, every few seconds, you widely open your eyes because you don’t want to miss Doyoung’s live speech from the award show.

Through the screen, you fail to notice little details about him: either because they are morphed away by full-coverage makeup or because your eyes have no intention to work properly at this hour of the night. Yet, you can imagine those details without having to see them on his face: out of the many people he sees in a day, only you have disclosure of the miniature beauty details.

The microphone is held towards his lips by the host of the show. His own hands are too occupied, holding the award between them to present them to the audience and the camera. He expects you to be watching from home. And he's right when he knows that you stay up until midnight and even past that. You wouldn't miss seeing his performance of his new solo on stage, and surely not the glorious moment where he receives the award.

"This year brought so many powerful new artists, I was on the edge of my seat the whole time," his speech continues with the fake set of words. He looks awfully serious while saying them. A fake smile would have given away how he beforehand knew that he was the one to receive the award. How else would his name be engraved in the little statue-like award already? His fans don't think that far ahead but no one truly does, which is the reason why grand award shows sneak off with so many viewers.

It's something you wouldn't have known either if it wasn't for Doyoung telling you how award shows truly worked. Just like how he told you about idols being each other's friends, but sometimes also being the complete opposite. Whether or not they were actual friends, it didn't change the fact they weren't allowed to talk because their agencies don't agree with such things. For example, Moon Taeil, who like Doyoung is also a great vocalist, but their interactions stay behind the scenes and unposted about. Ignoring one another on stage but behind the scenes, they plan stereotypical artist hangouts in a rented restaurant.

"Doyoung, would you like to thank someone special? Who helped you to achieve this award for the second year in a row?" The host asks Doyoung who momentarily fell quiet after his imitated surprise. Doyoung can only hum as he looks around the stage before his eyes go to the right camera again, something he studied as well so that his eyes don't meet camera number three when he is supposed to look at camera two. "I would like to thank my company for allowing me to bring out the music that I want to show to my fans, with that I also want to thank my fans who hugely supported me not only now but every single day and every step down this path."

You don't feel addressed by his words unlike his many fans do, simply because even if you love his music and voice, you don't classify yourself as a fan. Admitting to being a fan of your boyfriend would be embarrassing and almost would make you sound like one of those fans that possesses of his personal belongings and phone number after sneaking into his hotel room. But you don't possess of those things because you're a "사생팬" or a "sasaeng fan" but because you are his lover, the person that he comes home to almost every night.

"And there is one more person that I want to thank," Doyoung picks up where he left off once again. The words unnecessarily make your heart beat faster out of panic: even if you trust him, there are always chances that things slip out or that he impulsively decides to share details about his personal life. Every fan of him might possibly remember the night he did a live in his bedroom with a packet of condoms on his bedside table and you hidden away in a different room. The start of a set of rumours to which he just admitted that he was someone with sexual needs but that he was being safe, so didn't need any extra criticism from media or fans. "I would like to thank Lee Taeyong, who helped to compose and produce this track!"

A belated sigh escapes from your pursed lips as your head is thrown back towards the white ceiling. Your eyes are closing but unlike before, it's not due to the bright light but in utter relief. Your palpitating heart slowly begins to replace the rapid pulsations by a regular heartbeat, the lack of stable beats causing your heart to skip a few before things become normal again.

Your pursed lips loosen until they begin to part slowly, allowing a soft laugh of disbelief to leave your lips. "Fuck," you mutter with a deep breath that holds back all of the stress that you bottled up in a matter of seconds. As you tilt your head again towards the laptop screen, your eyes automatically open to see the bright colours surrounding your lover. Doyoung bows shortly to the host before he does the same to the people in the crowd, receiving a standing ovation and an endless tune of unmatched claps.

Even you from home, can't help but slowly start clapping both of your hands together. An inaudible applause of pride because even if you knew he would win for over a week, it doesn't stop you from boasting his self-confidence even when he doesn't see it. "Fuck you, Kim Doyoung," you scold silently as you now feel your calm heartbeat again, the shock from earlier escaping through the gaps of the closed windows to flow along with the nightly breeze.

The shining star of the evening disappears from the stage, the previously bright background suddenly wasn't as bright anymore. Artists that follow after Doyoung don't follow your recognition. You're biased by no other than your lover and everyone else seems non-existent in your world. Without an interest in the others, you close your laptop and push it further away from you.

Only your summer sun, Kim Doyoung.

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

A black tailored jacket is dropped onto the single leather coated armchair that's specifically standing in the living room for lonely evening reads. The piece of furniture is unseated in so it might as well get accompanied by the expensive piece of clothing that hung over Doyoung's upper body earlier that night.

The blackened screen of the large television reflects Doyoung's full body like a mirror. The reflection reveals his tired silhouette with the help of the only source of light, the table lamp somewhere in the corner. He looks at his own reflection: seeing the white cuffed dress-shirt that stands out rather than the rest of the black-coloured outfit. He turns away from his tired appearance and lunches his body over the low coffee table. The tired expression is replaced by a small smile when his eyes immediately meet the little object he was looking for, his ring. The piece of jewellery is laying on top of some magazines that he starred in or covered on, but only the silver band catches his attention.

Between his thumb and index finger, he holds the ring with a light grip. The glacial material rests between his fingers effortlessly and he can't help but observe its little details. The medium band that is just the right in-between of thick and thin, the black engraved decorations that add meaning to the ring. He tightens the grip on the ring as he slides it around his pinky. Right where it belongs. Habitually, he takes it off before he leaves the apartment for a public appearance. Ceremonially, he puts it on the second he returns home so that he can make his appearance as human and lover. As soon as the ring is found around his finger, he spreads out his fingers. On the side of his hand is a little cut due to a fan that wanted a bit too much attention, but only the ring receives his full attention.

His back straightens painfully but doesn't prevent his shoulders from slumping forward in tiredness. It's a long-term consequence from the many hours he spends away from his comfortable home. Hotel beds aren't quite as comfortable, studio chairs are as stiff as high-school desks, the backseat of the car can be compared to the armchair in the living room. Nothing compares to the remedy of home where he can spend endless hours with you, in comfort.

"You're not coming to bed tonight?"

Despite being able to see your reflection through the black tv-screen, Doyoung turns his body towards the sound of your voice. He can't stop himself from smiling even before he sees you. When you finally come in his eyesight, that smile widens even more. Unconsciously, he adjusts the ring on his pinky with his thumb before dropping his hand next to his body.

"I am," he responds shortly. His sock-clad feet slowly step towards you, creating soundless suspense due to the darkness of the room around the two of you. "I was just taking my ring, you know I don't like not wearing it," he hums out in a softer voice as he gets closer to you.

You take the last step towards him and smile when you see that he has a wide but relieved smile on his lips. "I know, I was just waiting for you to come to bed," you say in a soft voice as you wrap your arms around his body to properly welcome him back home. The embrace starts off light but soon Doyoung tightly wraps you with a layer of thick love his arms tightly holding you in place so that he can decide when there's been given enough love.

"Let me tuck you in then," Doyoung playfully comments to your words but he appreciates that you waited for hours even if you might have drifted off a few times. You laugh silently at the words, slapping your hand over his shirt-covered shoulder before resting your head on the body part. "How many times did you fall asleep during my speech?"

The second laugh you let out is louder than before, mostly because of how well he knows you: after all, no one else would be able to tell you accomplished the unsaid goal of falling asleep during his speeches a few times, and no one would even know you watched award shows. It was obvious that no one would be able to tell, simply because only a handful of people knew about your existence in Doyoung's life. And less than a handful of people knew about Doyoung's existence in your standard life. Just the way it was supposed to be. It's better if you lay low.

"None," you say as you press a few tired kisses to the side of his neck, thanking him for the service as he starts carrying you towards your shared bedroom. From afar it could look like a gesture of love but at this hour, neither of you were in need for intimacy to level up. "I nearly had a heart attack when you started to thank 'someone special'" you quote.

This time it's Doyoung's laugh that vocalises through the apartment hallway, fading out as the two of you get to the living room and separate the two locations by closing the door. "Seems like I can make your heartbeat fast even after such a long time," he proudly states. You are put down on your side of the bed for Doyoung to rid himself of the uncomfortable suit. The formal outfit gets replaced by nothing but his comfortable sweatpants and an oversized black t-shirt.

"Yeah, you're a little shit, that's all I have to say," you declare. While he's changing, you lay your head on the pillow and watch each detailed movement he makes until the moment his body is laid to rest next to yours. "I thought I was your lover!" he protests against your words, trying his best to make it sound like he's not as tired as he truly feels. You know better than that and see through the playful facade, facing your tired boyfriend. "You're my summer sun."

The words are left responseless but they cause a white-coloured cloud of love to dwindle down upon your exhausted bodies. Doyoung presses a delicate kiss to your cheek to wish you a goodnight sleep before his arms once more find themselves around your body.

A symbolic lullaby later, the remedy of the dark takes over. Two exhausted bodies laying in each other's embrace until the late morning calls out for attention.

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴇʀ ꜱᴜɴ : "ᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴀʀᴠᴇʟʟᴏᴜꜱ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴇꜱ, ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴀᴋᴇɴ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴍᴇ"

"Something effable," Doyoung requests. While his fingers are placed on the tile-resembling keyboard keys, your fingers are circled around the poetry book. Today's reading recommendation is no other than Rupi Kaur's "the sun and her flowers." You hum as your damp fingertips caress over the poem on page two hundred sixteen.

The family-related poem wouldn't be seen as effable to your boyfriend, thus your eyes travel to page two hundred seventeen: first over the fine-line illustration of a unibrow before the ode catches your attention. You place the three fingers that separate your thumb from your pinky at the gutter of the book and hold it slightly higher for Doyoung to see. "Effable enough?" You question.

"I will know if you read it to me," Doyoung responds, one hand making its escape from the white keys without leaving his fingerprint. Instead, his fingers meet with the virgin-white fibreglass. Due to the warmth of the water that fills it, the material doesn't seem as cold as it usually does, but it might just be your presence that warms up his body until his fingertips. His fingers halt as he smiles, letting time stop because the sound of your wonderful laugh fills the bathroom.

"Why would I read it to you, you didn't want to join me in the bath so I don't want to read it to you either," you teasingly protest. The book sinking more towards the surface but there's enough distance for the bottom edge to stay unembellished from water. This time it is Doyoung who fills the bathroom with his vocal sounds, just like his songs, his laugh was like a melody even if it made him sputter like an old water faucet. "I had a shower this morning and I promised to send lyrics to Taeil, Jaehyun and Haechan tonight," Doyoung sighs. After coming home, he regrets still having leftover work on his plate.

Due to the self-set deadline of the lyrics, Doyoung is sat on the floor in the bathroom whilst you take a bath. Though for once, work doesn't seem as demanding and he has hope that the lyrics will be a product of the current circumstances. Almost like a scene in a French film, the scenery is aesthetically pleasing: burning candles on the edge of the tub, dimmed lights to set a romantic mood, a book in your hands, and your beauty. Not just beauty as he would call you beautiful: the beauty in your smile, the beauty that rests in your fingertips, the beauty that coats your pure heart. Ensorcell, to enchant or fascinate someone. And yes, your beauty fascinates Kim Doyoung.

"What do I get in return if I read it to you?" You challenge. Everything in life is a give and take, but that doesn't mean you want the unreachable in return for reading a finger-countable-lined piece of poetry. "Some old-story lyrics about you, the cliché kind," Doyoung presents to you as he motions to his right hand that's still placed upon the keyboard. In consideration, you let out a hum "seems like a gift I have received a few times already, don't you have anything better to offer me?"

Unsatisfied by the unsealed deal, Doyoung puts up his thinking face. His facial expression depicted with his eyes that look upwards and his upper teeth that lightly scrape over his lower lip. "What if you just don't write lyrics today? If we go to bed early, you can finish them tomorrow morning," you suggest. It's a tempting offer that Doyoung badly wants to take, he shifts his eyes to you as though his final answer will be written over your cheeks. "That's not fair: your poem is less than half a page long and I have to stop working all night just to listen to it?"

"I stay up all night to listen to your speeches too," you playfully backlash against the words he says. You can't deny that watching him work makes you feel either way proud but also desolated on some moments.

"It's just one evening, summer sun," is all you need to say before Doyoung gives in and gives up his work for tonight. "Only if you'll let me play what I have so far as well," the deal continues before you can seal it with a kiss. Once more: life is a give and take. In agreement, you nod your head.

"Now read me the poem, dearest," before the deal is sealed, Doyoung urges you to read the poem that you've kept hidden under your water-stained hand. You doubt if the page will ever desiccate without the appearance of vein-like crumples. "Here goes something effable."

"Even if they've been separated, they'll end up together. You can't keep lovers apart, no matter how much I pluck and pull them. My eyebrows always find their way back to each other." You read out almost ceremonially even if it gets hard not to burst out laughing at the unexpected twist of the poetry. After reading the short lines, you close the book and toss it towards the floor. "That was your effable poem."

Among the numerous variations in Doyoung's laugh, there is a serious style issue in the "haha," that sarcastically leaves his lips. Yet, after the sarcastic and almost spoken laugh, a roar of laughter escapes his mouth.

You turn your body sideways slightly to look at your summer sun, unable to stop the upturn of the corners of your mouth when you see him laugh. The way he uses not only his mouth but also his cheeks and eyes to laugh makes it only more genuine and dazzling. Your hand reaches for his that is still rested on the edge of the tub, intertwining your fingers during the moment of exuberance.

The laughter slowly fades out after floating like a cloud in the sky, tranquillity slowly dawning over the room like morning dew on roses. Doyoung's gentle fingerpads stroke over the back of your hand lightly, ignoring the hindering from his dry skin that tries to smooth your wet one. "Do you want me to listen to your song now?" you ask Doyoung, leaning down to press an emotive kiss to his hand.

"I thought you wanted an evening without work-related things?" Doyoung questions as he looks towards you, his free hand moving to remove the keyboard from his lifted knees. A quick reflex of your hand causes it to land on the keyboard to hold it into place "No, I would like to hear what you wrote so far, if not, just play me the tune."

"My beloved, y/n. I'm not going to play it yet, you were right and I want to spend an evening alone with you, without my music."

As much as it pretty much breaks the deal you never managed to seal with a kiss, you nod your head in consensus. One out of three hundred sixty-five nights in a year isn't a lot, especially not when it is about Doyoung not working on his musical career. That one night of not working won't make his agency withhold a day's worth of money.

"Hm, I like the sound of that," you admit to him. Your hand finds his again in a gentle embrace, once more intertwining your fingertips for everlasting contact. "As do I," he responds with a soft smile, lightly tugging at your wrist to draw you closer to him. Halfway the small margin your lips meet for a kiss.

His lips felt soft against your mouth, the numbing feeling only making the sincerely intimate kiss more addictive. A war of tugging is created when your hand tugs at his to slender the distance between the two of you, causing his yet dry hand to sink into the warm water together with yours. As the kiss continues, your fingertips explore one another in the pool of wetness: whilst your thumb and index finger find the silver band around his pinky, his thumb and index finger messily measure your ring finger.

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

The white fluffed bedding resembles what you imagine that it would look like in heaven: an unexisting property with nothing but softness and white-coloured ornaments scattered around messily. Yet, there is something that distinguishes heaven from your bedroom: in heaven, you hope to lie on a mellow white-cloud instead of the wooden floor of your shared bedroom.

If you were to associate white with some self-chosen words or feelings, you'd associate it with: peace, cleansing, calm, protection, peace, and of course purity. And if you were to associate your summer sun with a colour: it would be lilac. Doyoung endlessly reminds you of strongly-scented lavender against white bricks, the colour of an aesthetically pleasing sky, a brown-paper wrapped bouquet of lilac and white coloured wildflowers. You don't bother finding out which colour you are, for Doyoung, you'd be any hue from the Pantone colour book.

The pad of your index finger strokes over Doyoung's spine, caressing the heated skin delicately. The idiomatic expression "sending shivers down someone's spine," would be of excellent use in this situation as Doyoung's back arches momentarily at your small gesture.

Doyoung turns his head towards you, a soft smile displaying on his lips as he sees you in nothing but purity. Even though his lips are slightly parted from one another, no words fall from them like a waterfall. You prop up your body on your left elbow, allowing another body part of yours to go numb just as every part of the left half of your body. The numb tingles equal painlessness even though your bones only age by laying on the hard wooden floor.

"Do you think we will be like the unibrow from the poem?" Doyoung asks you, grasping your hand that was on his back before you manage to lay it to rest at your side. He intertwines your fingers for what seems like the first time, even though the time your fingers have been separated from one another is shorter than the time they've been symbolically glued together. "What do you mean?" you ask.

Your thumb endlessly rotates over the knuckle of his index finger, applying the slightest bit of pressure which barely makes it feel like the touch of a feather, so light. But the circular movent pauses when you hear the question. Which unibrow?

"The poem from the book you were reading earlier," Doyoung says in a softer tone, adoring the way you look confused even though you had been the one reading the poetry to him, so you better than anyone, should know what had been fonted down on the page. "Even if they've been separated, they'll end up together," Doyoung quotes faultlessly.

"Ah." You calmly breathe out as the memories come to your visual memory: not only the illustration underneath the poem but also the expression on Doyoung's face as you read the second half of the poem. Due to his quotation and the return of the memories, you forget the initial question he asked.

He leans closer to you as he sees the reflection of himself disappearing into your eyes, the universe forgotten by the termination of time. You find yourself in the midsts of the spinning earth but barely realise you stand still in the centre.

"Did you hear my question?" the warm breath dampens your face before you progress the words. His face is close enough to yours to make use of his five senses: your natural scent, the minuscule facial details, the almost peachy-soft skin of your cheeks, your calmed breathing pattern. "Hm?" you hum out silently.

"Do you think we will be like the unibrow of the poetry book?" Doyoung is obligated to question once more since you had been too lost in your lover's memory lane to hear it. This time you almost snort at the words, but it sounds more like an inward laugh. Unibrow still is an unusual word, especially knowing Doyoung is referring to the first two lines where lovers are the subject of affection rather than the hairs that grow above your eyes.

"Do you mean that we will always end up together despite being separated?" You ask in return although you're sure that's exactly what he means. Your already confirmed question just gets extra validation when Doyoung nods his head "that you can keep lovers apart," he finishes the next line of the poem with different wordings but effortlessly puts the same meaning into them.

Unibrow.

"I think no matter how much people pluck, it won't stop us from blooming towards one another," you state in a soft voice. Your finger motions seem to resemble a pair of scissors, cutting off the blooming flowers which you'd like to name Doyoung and y/n. Cutting the flowers with the unmechanical pair of scissors is something you don't plan on doing, thinking about it already makes some petals wither.

Though as you imagined earlier, Doyoung is like lilac lavender, which doesn't let its petals wither, unlike the flower that you are. Seemingly an omen but you don't let the ode write its lyrical ending for your relationship yet.

"Will I still be your summer sun in Winter?" the endless questionnaire of Doyoung drags on longer than needed. Presumably, because Doyoung wants to hear your exclamation of love and affection but the effect is reversed. The questions only effectuate insecurity and mayhaps sadness. In response, you simply hum to brush off the subject.

You love Kim Dongyoung. Your one and only summer sun: distanced by the high sky but close enough to shine his rays down upon your existence. No matter where you go in life: the sun will be there, even if each night it would die for the moon, it was out of love. Whether you walked between the bright-coloured scenery in the park or sat in your leather reading-armchair with the curtains closed. The sun was always present.

A cloud. You sigh. Symbolical to the wind that allows the cloud to float in front of the sun. You are a cloud.

The made comparisons are endless. Panic rises from the pit in your stomach, all the way towards your awaiting heart. Heartsickness goes along the agony of mind, and you can't help but isolate the thoughts from your summer sun. Your face glows as you smile affectionately at Doyoung and your fingertips go along the circle of life again by stroking over the back of his hand.

"You'll be my summer sun, for an eviternity,"

❧ ᴛᴡᴏ : "ɪ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ᴀ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ" ☙

A new record filled with old songs.

The record malfunctions. Merely halfway through one of Doyoung's favourite love stories, it starts to falter. The remaining memory-filled lyrics don't sound the same. The distortion makes it sound unpleasant.

The last audible lyric replays itself until the message is overdue: "you'll be my summer sun, for an eviternity."

The timeless music and unforgettable lyrics get replaced by memories that grow vague over time. One of the reasons why Doyoung prefers to recall memories like they are love songs: he can buy new records endlessly, no matter how old the songs are. Lyrics stay the same, memories change.

If memories were comparable, he'd compare them to the cover art of a record. The lyrics and music are the most essential but cover art can't be ignored. On good days, he can adjust the brightness. On bad days, he completely drags down the saturation until there's nothing but a monochrome illustration left.

On the cover art are never-changing elements: a shining sun, grey-ish clouds, a white wall, lilac-coloured lavender. They all play the starring role, no matter the filter that coats them. Those four reoccurring elements remind him of you, and the relationship.

The music is discontinued when he hears a voice interrupting another replay of the lyric. Even if the music is gone, he doesn't hear what the voice is trying to say. It's only one word, brought to his ears in a worried tone.

On the other side of the table, you are the person that calls out his name endlessly. Almost a handful of times that you tried to reach him in the past minutes, and even though he's opposite of you, he seems far away. Far from reality and in his own universe.

You can see it in the unfocused eyes. The brown irises seem to be staring at you without actually seeing you. It's one of the few signals that he is only present in his own world: a world that you don't see, but surely are a part of even though you aren't aware of it. Seeing him like that worries you, you can't even wonder about the images that layer in front of his sight.

"Doyoung," you call out his name once more. You have no other option but to chant his name until he returns back to the real world. It's not the first time to see Doyoung like this, something that you could label as unfortunately or fortunately. Which of the two options it is and which memories are connected to it, are things that you hold yourself back from. You would rather not let those things haunt your mind.

The effect of your chant is that lifeless human Doyoung finally makes the slightest movement. His head stiffly tilts to the side, the movement of his neck seems unnatural and painful. Yet, he doesn't show any signs of discomfort: his lips are pursed into a tight line, and his unfocused eyes are still aimed at you.

You sigh deeply at the barely visible change. "Doyoung!" You chant louder. You bet it's loud enough for the apartment next to yours to complain by banging on the walls, but luckily the hardworking couple from next door isn't home to show their protests.

Your loud exclamation seems to put a halt on Doyoung's reverie. It's not noticeable until his eyes seem to drift away from their aiming point for the first time in minutes. The imprecise staring transitions to exploring eyes before he targets them on you. He hums, which is barely audible as the haze had its effect on his vocal cords. The remains still glue onto him.

"You were daydreaming," you mention without him questioning about it. You took the hum as a sign that he was slowly getting ready to speak, and you're too uncomfortable to let the silence last much longer. "Oh," he shortly responds to your words. Though it doesn't make him realise why you called out his name, or whether it was actually you. He feels betrayed by himself and it seems like no one is willing to tell him the truth.

With a grunt out of discomfort, he moves his hand away from the glass of water. His fingertips are painfully sore from the endless twitching between the ribbles of the glass. His hand moves to his face, rubbing the haze from his facial features. Yet, the haze is like a layer of primer that seeps into his pores. Whether or not it's noticeable, it's still present, hidden behind a new layer.

Doyoung's word of realisation causes silence to fill the room once more. It's not a word that you have a response to, and you don't want to ask your ex-lover about the contents of his daydream. But you can't turn the daydream into an excuse for not saying anything, still, it's what you opt to do.

Your eyes leave the visage of the black silhouette on the other side of the table. You cast them towards the wildflowers that you've been gifted by the person behind the silhouette. When you don't look at him, he looks at you. Doyoung maintains the one-sided eye contact with you. His eyes observing you in silence, trying to find melancholy in your body language.

Melancholy. The defined emotion that he looks for in your body language surprises him, but his expressionless face won't show the self-surprise. Millions of questions could tell him the answer to how you feel, but he doesn't ask any of them. He simply longs to see melancholy and spoken words won't satisfy the lust.

The way you avoid eye-contact could be a first signal of melancholy. Your silence could be the second. The monochrome but mollitious furniture could be third on the list of signals. Whether or not they are actually symptoms, Doyoung makes himself believe that they are. Just like he makes himself believe that you want him back.

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

"How have you been?"

Doyoung's question is like an excerpt from a slow-burn book that you will never read. Like the cliché line from a romantic film where the characters end their relationship halfway through but still end up together before the closing credits. But this isn't a slow-burn book or a cliché film. If anything: the closing credits of your relationship have been shown, the last page has been turned and the screen has gone black.

"How have I been?" You question as you look up from your own glass of water, but you still cast your eyes far away from Doyoung's so that you don't have to look into them. Doyoung's eyes tears from your face the moment your head moves, whether you plan to look at him or not. When he looks at you, you don't look at him. When you look at him, he doesn't look at you. Now that is a cliché, seen in films where people are forbidden to love one another. Perhaps you've both forbidden yourselves even though you try to look for love in the other's visage.

Doyoung hums lowly at your question "how you've been," he repeats his words. You wish your question would have given you some time, but the few extra seconds don't automatically form an answer. You should have been prepared for a question like that, but Doyoung coming over unannounced left you unprepared for everything. Even for a simple question like that, ex-lovers needed preparation. If there was an ex-lover who didn't need time for that question, it was because they were genuinely happy or able to brag. It's the type of question you answer with an untrue story and a fake smile. But how can you tell a story so untrue without a fakely realistic plot?

"I could tell how I've been first, if you want me to," Doyoung desperately suggests. You wish he would tell you that you didn't need to answer his question if you didn't want to. But instead, Doyoung who seems desperate to speak decided to take over from you before you made a blunder.

You simply nod. Despite realising that you don't want to lie, you allow Doyoung to go first. The sudden realisation of not wanting to lie is built up out of the reality that you should be scolding him for showing up unannounced, so he probably had more to tell you than you had to tell him. And the desperation in his voice almost indicated that he had an entire storybook ready to read. But nothing was less true than that.

"I've been good," are the only words that leave his lips. Not even sixty seconds later, you conclude that it's the only thing he has to say. The waterfall of words you expected, doesn't flow out. His lips are pursed into a stiff line to hold himself from saying anything more.

You want to scoff at his short sentence, one that isn't even long enough to start a chapter with. Yet, you keep your manners and just nod as a sign you accept the words. "You've been good?" You ask him for a continuation without using those defined words, but Doyoung avoids the hint and just nods his head.

Doyoung lowers his eyes towards his lap. Under the small table and on his lap, his two hands come together. His fingertips nervously fumble with one of his treasured objects, his ring. The silver band that belonged on his pinky, moves from finger to finger until it's between his thumb and index finger. Brown eyes follow the movements of the ring and the remains of the coldness as it moves to another finger.

"Have you sold out your voice?"

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴇʀ ꜱᴜɴ : "ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜɪᴄᴋ ᴡᴀʟʟ ɴᴀᴍᴇᴅ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜᴇꜱ ᴍᴇ ᴅᴏᴡɴ"

Sextilis.

The original name of the last summer month. A name given by the Roman calendars before the months January and February originated. Later Sextilis was renamed Augustus to honour the first emperor of Rome, Caesar Augustus.

What August weather typically looks like is hard to define. But at a glance, it's noticeable that hurricane activity increases, average temperatures turn cooler, and the length of daylight decreases. On rare occasions, early-August snow makes its appearance, and that fact can ring a bell to the childhood film: Nanny McPhee.

00 : 34 : 50 there'll be snow in August before that one's there when you need her

It doesn't snow. But it's August. And the timestamp of the film implies what time it was when Doyoung made his appearance in your shared apartment last night. Now, a little over eleven hours later, Doyoung is found on his soft blanket. His exhausted body wrapped in the white sheets like it's a layer of snow that covers the ground.

Whilst Doyoung finds himself asleep in a bed of snow-coloured sheets and pillows, you find yourself walking through the increased hurricane-like emotions. Your facial expression is as dark as the skies before a hurricane, yet, it's the calm before the storm.

You are still kind enough to prepare breakfast for your summer sun. On the tray you prepared is the one thing he needs the most, and the things he will dismiss. Toast neatly placed on a white plate, a Dafalgan that is effervescing in a half-empty glass of water, the silver band that connects him to you. The filled tray is what you hold in your hands when you go to the bedroom, stopping you from starting a rant the moment you walk in.

At first glance, your eyes see Doyoung peacefully asleep between empty bed-space, right in the middle like he's taking the throne. He looks like a God. Turn it around and you have Dog, which is exactly what his late-night disappearances imply. What he does at night is unknown to you. And when you reek the swallowed liquor on his tastebuds, you don't even want to know.

"Doyoung, it's past eleven." You announce. Your voice is soft, quiet before the volume increases with each time that you need to repeat the words. You don't know why you don't immediately start shouting out his name. You can almost compare it to a teacher who willingly explains the same chemical formula over and over again. Until the chemical substances provoke a chemical reaction.

Doyoung can only hum tiredly in response. He's lost in the tunnel of sleep and your voice is a little bit too far away. He's not even prepared to see the daylight, even though he knows he has to. "What time is it?" he asks.

"Past eleven. Almost noon," you address. It takes a glance at the alarm clock for you to see what time it exactly is, but Doyoung is too tired to hear the one-minute intervals. So you shorten your words enough for him to understand.

Your footsteps exceed the line that separates the bedroom from the hallway. The wooden floor is incognito from the many expensive pieces of clothes that are scattered along. It looks messy and yet the clothes are patterned towards the bed. You take the same route as the clothes lead you in, stepping over them as there is barely room for your feet to stand on the wood.

After stepping on at least two different clothing items, you reach Doyoung's side of the bed. "I brought you breakfast," you comment. Your hand pulls from the tray, trying to shove some meaningless items from the bedside table so that you can place the tray on it. That way, an empty wine bottle and some notebooks fall to the floor and the tray takes their place.

"Didn't you say it's almost noon?" Doyoung mumbles. He turns his worn-off body on his side to face the bedside table or you, but his eyes are still tightly pressed shut. At least his brain seems to connect the dots between you bringing breakfast but telling him it's almost noon.

You hum. "It is. Only nine minutes before it's noon," you say. Part of you feels happy that Doyoung is capable of using his brain, but the other half just wishes that this situation wouldn't exist. It's far from uncommon, a little too common, something that happens too often. Even though you don't know if the unknown events are similar to the others, the morning after is a replay of an old song.

"Then why are you bringing me breakfast?" Finally, his words start making sense, but you hoped for words that made you feel like you received a bouquet of flowers. Some gratefulness for nearly serving Doyoung would be appreciated, even if it only was a mumbled: "thank you,". It could be effortlessly said compared to something that sounded like what you did wasn't enough. "Because it's not noon yet."

"Bullshit," Doyoung objects to your previous words. At least he knows it's bullshit but on the other hand, he would be fuming if the actual reason slips past your lips. "You can eat toast as lunch too, you don't need to eat beef daily, Dongyoung," you say in a gentle tone. Still, the way his real name is mentioned, makes it sound more strict and serious.

"Why? Why are you feeding me lies?"

Doyoung's bare body feels hot against the snow-coloured sheets, his blood boiling out of anger or because of the liquor remains in his blood. His brown eyes are opened and intensely staring into yours. He demands an answer. An honest answer that can make his blood boil even more. It almost appears like he is purposely trying to make you say hurtful words. If he gets hurt by them, he has the chance to take off his stress on you by anger. Or so, it seems.

"You got drunk. If you eat lunch now, you'll throw up and I will be the one to clean it all up!" You say, your voice increasing as you speak. Yet, you still sound relatively calm. Like earlier: you're like the substances that eventually provoke a chemical reaction. The toxic level of concern is greater than a small number and lower than a high number. Yet to increase.

"That's not what I'm asking," Doyoung states. He sits up on the bed, grasping every piece of clothing that has been thrown close to his side of the bed last night. Unfortunately for him, his socks are the last piece of clothing he took off. His dress-shirt is near the door, where he had almost torn it off. "I'm asking you why you're lying to me."

Out of annoyance, you press your fist down upon your thumb until you hear the sound. A sound that is heard when people crack their hands before a fight. A physical fight that you're not going to have. But it has the same effect on you. Even if you want to slap him across the face, you don't. Your fights are fought with harsh words, threats to break promises and eventual silence.

"I lied about the breakfast because I didn't want to fight. I don't like fighting with you but you apparently do! All you do is nitpick, closely observe everything so that you can point out my mistakes and then use them against me."

Ah, those words. The rant that had been stuck in your throat for days. The rant you hadn't coughed up because you weren't sure if medicine could cure the cold that followed. The consequences were unpredictable, just as unpredictable as to when the symptoms would finally turn into the sickness. Today, you coughed it up.

"I go out so much so that I don't have to be around you so much."

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

"Is that truly what you think of me?" You question Doyoung. The room is empty but you still dedicate the words to your summer sun. He made his appearance without showing his silhouette. Exposure by the folded tray that rests against the kitchen tiles and the tableware laid to wash in the sink.

Unlike the high notes that he sings, his footsteps had been so low and almost inaudible. It leaves you in the dark as you don't know how long it's been since he dropped his breakfast utilities in the kitchen. Perhaps it's your fault for not hearing him. Out of anger, you refused to acknowledge his presence and focused on 'me-time'.

Stood against the kitchen counter, you realise he's been there when you failed to notice. The mess he leaves is something that typifies the Doyoung you recently got to know. You try not to think of the evolution, because it could have been you who changed. You try to ignore your initial basic-need for water and opt to clean up the mess. It's not something you do out of love, but you still do it.

"What?" Doyoung's confused voice chimes in. His low-sounding footsteps make an appearance, starting at the bedroom door but they move towards the kitchen. The footsteps halt at the doorframe, where he stands at a safe distance. Ready to either converse or flee when the argument ignites. "You mean what I said earlier?"

"That you go out so much so that you don't have to come home to me," you paraphrase the words. It nearly feels like you are saying the words to Doyoung rather than quoting what he said to you earlier. After saying the words, you swallow the bitter feeling down with saliva.

"Oh, that," is the first response you receive back. Because you're so busy to get the symbolical bitter feeling off of the tip of your tongue, you don't hear the dry words that leave his lips. "I had a tough day and took it out on you, I'm sorry," he excuses himself. Doyoung is a storyteller, but you willingly take the words. Perhaps this is the one matter you do out of love.

You nod. You have no affair with tough days but fall for the temptation of an apology. "Sorry for saying those things," Doyoung apologises again before you have the chance to ask more questions. Not that you have many, just one: 'why?'

"Just know that I didn't mean anything I said, you have to trust me there," he adds. The more words he adds to the explanation, the fewer questions that remain for you to ask. Though it's known that liars generously overshare details, but you're not focussed on the convoluted sentence structure within the shared details.

Your head lightly moves up and down in a nodding motion, responding to his words. Even though a lie usually is told one-way, Doyoung still feels the need to hear a clear response from your mouth. "y/n, answer me. Do you trust me?"

There is a one-second gap between Doyoung's question and your answer. Something that could be seen as hesitation, but you hope Doyoung doesn't dig that far into details. "I trust you," you answer his demand after the slow-passing second.

Speedingly slow, Doyoung's footsteps approach you. Time doesn't consist out of seconds, it seems like footsteps replace the ticking instead. The preventive safe di

So fast, yet, so slow. Doyoung's footsteps approach you. Time no longer consist out of ticking seconds, replaced by the sound of Doyoung's footsteps. The preventive safe distance decreases with each step he takes towards you, each hesitating yet straightforward step. You swallow thickly as you anticipate his arrival. One step. Two steps. Three steps. Four steps.

Unexpectedly, a pair of hands brush over your shoulders. Even if you anticipated the arrival of Doyoung, the sudden touch makes you raise your shoulders quickly. "It's just me," Doyoung states. His fingertips slowly start kneading your tense shoulders until your shoulders give in. With your shoulders hunched forward, you also let your head hang momentarily. The weight of the fight is lifted off of your shoulders, but not after a numbing fall.

August snow. Right now, it's rain, it seems.

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴇʀ ꜱᴜɴ : "ɪ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴅᴜᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʜɪɢʜ ᴡᴀʟʟ ɴᴀᴍᴇᴅ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ"

Doyoung draws your attention to him with his eyes. Your own eyes ignore the reflection of the room in his eyes so that you can focus on what he's trying to tell you. You are able to decode the wordless message and translate the eye-contact into words: he wants you to follow him. As a response, you nod your head, not breaking the eye-contact.

As Doyoung walks past the circle of people and up the first few steps of the staircase, you do too in relay. You follow approximately four steps after him: enough for people to not suspect a thing, enough for you to continuously see his moving silhouette. Because you don't lose sight of him, it's easy to follow without having to check different possible directions.

In Doyoung's shadow, you shine. Taeyong's eyes fall on your distanced silhouette momentarily, not breaking the one-sided eye contact until you're out of sight. His eyes lower again and his body turns to his friend and fellow musician, Moon Taeil. "Do you know where y/n went?" He inquires. Taeil, who had been following almost every movement out of boredom, shakes his head. "Perhaps the bathroom, I thought she said something along the lines of that."

The subject "Doyoung," is one Taeyong doesn't ask questions about. First of all, because he hadn't seen Doyoung leaving the party behind. Second, because he wasn't suspicious or curious about his friend's whereabouts.

Stuffed far away in a corner, a place where Taeyong's eyes don't reach, are you and Doyoung. Doyoung arrives first and is casually leaning against the wall until your four-steps gap has been closed. Hearing your light footsteps, Doyoung silently counts the seconds until you come in his sight. His mouth not opening until all steps have been taken.

"Why did I have to come here?" You ask. Your voice is loud and clear, despite the music that almost interrupts you with each word that leaves your lips. A party is not a good place for a talk, but you're as far away from the music as you can, just as far as you are from humanity. Though, your summer sun is also human. "Is something wrong?"

Doyoung shakes his head. He responds to the latter question first, simply because he knows that you get nervous if you wouldn't get an answer to the question. "Don't worry, nothing is wrong," he says in a calming tone, but adjusts his volume halfway through the sentence. His calming voice isn't audible over the music.

"Then why are we here?"

Your curiosity provokes Doyoung to let out a small chuckle. You see the chuckle falling from his lips by the way his lip corners are tugged upwards and the change in his eyes. Though the sound itself is inaudible even if you can imagine what it would sound like. "I just wanted you to come here for a bit," he explains loudly over the sound of the music. "I haven't even been able to lay eyes on you for the past hours, let alone hold your hand."

You smile. Despite the voice not sounding so gentle, you know he means it. It's all due to the music that the words and the hue of them don't match as they should. "You want some alone-time?" You question. Doyoung greedily nods in response to your words, not wasting his vocal cords to just say one simple word.

Before your response is chanted, his arms are found around your engulfed body. One of his hands is resting on your lower back, as is the other until it removes from the mirrored spot towards your waist. Doyoung turns his head back, checking whether someone had found the unlead way to the hidden corner where you were. "Just for a few minutes," he tells you seriously after he turns his head to face you again.

Wordlessly, like before, you use your eyes to answer his question. You're aware that you shouldn't be here. The ring isn't on Doyoung's pinky, almost meaning that you're not his lover until the silver band is found around his finger again. Even though you're not his girlfriend now, you still comply with his words. The hidden thrill.

It's like an aphrodisiac, mixed with Pandora's box effect. For the first, and perhaps last time that evening, his lips contact yours. Sensually-coloured fireworks explode in the form of music, numbing all of your senses but the tingles in the pit of your stomach and the softness of his lips against yours.

The soft kiss is soon changed as Doyoung deepens the kiss. It doesn't take long for you to get used to the fiery aggressiveness of his kisses, after all, you enjoy the reasoning behind those kinds of kisses. His fingertips tighten around your flesh, grabbing your clothed waist until the localised skin discolours lightly due to the applied pressure.

"I don't think we should risk this, Dongyoung," you mumble against his parted lips. Your lips almost melt against his again, the inviting warmth making you shape your lips the same way he does. The mumbles disappear between the unheated gaps of air.

The sensuality boils in the pit of your stomach, rising up to your heart as Doyoung's tongue traces over your lips. Mapping every inch of your lips by tracing along the shape slowly, savouring the taste of liquor combined with the taste of you. Strategic touches went from your clothed waist to your bare waist, his fingertips slipping under the shirt to lightly caress over the skin. "Why?" He asks. As his words echo over the music, his five fingertips now grip onto your bare skin. "Tell me why and I'll stop."

Air leaves your lips as they part a bit more, unshaped for any prepared word or sentence. The shape changes as you try to configure the words that should be used in response. "Because," you start slowly, breathing deeply after the word leaves your lips. Seconds after the first word, the others follow. "I don't want to get caught and get us into trouble."

The words put a halt on the aphrodisiac that had been building up at a rapid pace. Your request can only make Doyoung comply, realising that without either of you knowing, someone could have seen the momentum of love. One last time, Doyoung's lips play with yours in a gentle kiss, a wordless goodbye for the upcoming hours of separation.

"We should continue this later," Doyoung says as he pulls away. His eyes reveal the hunger he feels in the depths of his body, drowning in lust for pleasure and you. When you hum in agreement, his eyes only intensify according to the peaked feelings in his body.

You reach for his hand, gently holding it in yours. The pads of your fingertip circle around each finger until you reach his pinky. Your fingertips don't spiral over the smallest finger, instead, they trace over the spot that would usually carry the silver band. Perhaps you're not his lover tonight, but, …

"Sounds like you should take me to your place, summer sun."

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

Doyoung pushes his glass upon the sink, pushing away the skin products that take their limited space there. He barely hears the can with shaving dream falling to the tiled floor, so he surely doesn't hear the plastic pump bottle of handsoap dropping to the floor.

The liquor is like a whirlpool in the glass. It almost spills past the edges but luckily the sea of alcohol slowly calms down after being let go of. Doyoung stares at the amber-coloured liquid, his eyes following the whirlpool until it completely stills within the glass. When it finally stills, his eyes tear away from it.

"Shower," he tells himself quietly. It's more like a self-reminder than a command. Even though the hot water is running, he fails to notice the starting smog in the room, thus forgets that the shower water is already running. His tired limbs start taking off remains of clothing but only one item is removed from his body: his underwear.

When his brain wraps itself around the thought of his underwear, he is capable of thinking back about last night. Simply because his underwear was the last remaining piece of clothing on his skin before a drunken night of pleasure with you. He briefly recalls the flavour of liquor on your lips, even though he was the one to spread that flavour. The feeling of your soft-skinned body against his, even though he treated it far from soft.

As water flows, so do his thoughts. His thoughts are like an uncontrolled stream of water, whilst the shower-head can easily control the flow. It's an endless stream: as shower water continues running, so do his thoughts. The shower is forgotten as he listens to his thoughts and memories, trying to relive them in the order that they happened. Did he see Taeyong flirting with you after he sensually kissed you? Did he kiss you sensually after Taeyong flirted with you?

The relived memories of Teayong bring fog to his mind, clouding all other memories. Out of nowhere, he starts comparing himself to his friend: is Taeyong as wealthy as he is? Does Taeyong have as many songs under his belt as he has? Can Taeyong please someone as he does? Is Teayong as beautiful as he is?

In particular, the last question seems to haunt his mind. It's something he can easily observe by comparing Taeyong's godly-given looks to his own. Just like the artwork "김서림" or "Fogged Mirror" by Uesong Lee, his own mirror above the sink is heavily fogged.

Cloudy. That's what the mirror looks like, and the one word that could describe what the weather was like up in his brain. Memories that he could recall seconds ago are replaced by grey clouds that only provoke him to compare himself to one of his friends.

He tilts his head upwards confidently, the way of being disappearing as fast as it came. His reflection is clouded with fog, almost like the summer sun that gets covered by a thick layer of clouds. Faintly, he can make out the colour of his hair and skin, but not more than those blurry visuals.

With his flat hand, he wipes over the mirror to see a distorted version of himself. The lack of usual scraping sound is what takes his attention, keeping his hand pressed on the reflective glass. He wipes once more, only hearing the almost-squeaking sound rather than the scraping.

His eyes meet the circumjacent parts around his hand. Many scratches left behind on the glass and his hand that seems to smooth over the scratches rather than adding more. His ring. The culprit. His finger is not dressed-up by the silver band, neither is the mirror tortured with a new scratch. Why wasn't it around his finger? After twelve hours of being home with you, the connecting ring still wasn't around his pinky.

"Doyoung, are you almost done?!"

Your voice hides panic but it doesn't stop you from sounding frantic even from the other side of the door. The look on your face is almost predictable, but still at a level that's never seen before. The electronic device is tightly engulfed in your hands, squeezing so hard that your warmth radiates to the device.

"I'm almost done, why?" His voice sounds just as frantic as yours does. His fogged mind now filled with panic after the imagination of you seeing the ring somewhere laying around. If you found out he slept with you without wearing his ring or even spent almost twenty-four hours without ring, you would be mad. Would you?

Both of you swallow thickly at the same time, something inaudible to the person on the other side of the door. "Just come out, Doyoung!" You say louder, angrier. As a response, Doyoung tries his best to clean up the bathroom as fast as he can. The untaken shower is still warm when the water gets turned off, the fallen bottles are brought back to their original spots. And the glass of alcohol is back in Doyoung's left hand.

Out of the hamper, are taken some old clothes that should have gotten washed rather than worn again. But the clothes still find their way around Doyoung's skin, covering up his bare body with his own scent. On the clothes, he can smell alcohol, sweat, his cologne: dirty but nothing unusual. It's the scent of him.

Once dressed and provided with the glass of alcohol, he opens the bathroom door. When you're not standing in front of the door as he expected, his footsteps hunt through the apartment in search for you.

The living room is the place where he looks for you first, and the place where his hunt stops. After eyeing you, his gaze drifts to the ring that is on the coffee table, neatly laying where it usually waits for Doyoung's arrival. Unlike other days, the piece of jewellery looks lonely.

"What's wrong?" Doyoung inquires. Your tense figure provokes him to do the same. His shoulders straight and his finger fumbling with one another, unknowingly he imitates the signs of stress you show.

"You would know if you checked your phone," you announce. Your own phone is tightly clutched between your fingertips and if you unlock it, you'd be faced with the consequences of stupidity. "I will look for my phone," Doyoung offers as his eyes wildly dart around. His phone isn't on the coffee table like his ring is, neither is it laying on the dinner table.

"Just leave it, I'll read it to you instead!" You huff. Are you angry? Or displeased? The many underlying hues in your voice makes Doyoung wonder what emotion it specifically is, and what he should do to result in the concept of positive emotion.

"Soloist Kim Doyoung admits to dating after a surfaced picture of the couple kissing and leaving a party together."

The headliner that is worded in many different ways on even more different gossip pages. More articles are written about the discovery than over the fact that idols should be allowed to date and find happiness with whoever they fancy. Twelve hours later than the occurrences of the kiss and the pictured flee, you went from unknown to identified.

You don't need to read any of the articles to understand what they consist of, the title says it all. Neither do you need to see the reactions of others, you already know the results. People will invade your privacy, see you less as a person and more as Doyoung's shadow, spread hate-filled words about you wherever they go.

"And, what do you think of that, hm?" You loudly question your lover. Doyoung is awfully quiet, even more, quiet than he is in his sleep, but that doesn't mean he's as peaceful as he is during his resting time. The little signs that he imitated before are now individual signs of stress: plucking his nails and then rubbing his fingertips together to soothe the pain. "What do you think of that? Is that why you badly wanted some 'alone-time' with me!?"

Last night's numbing music now remind you of camera flashes, it's a sound that endlessly repeats in your mind. It starts with one camera flash but suddenly your ears are overwhelmed with the imaginary sound of cameras flashing around you.

You're pulled away from your thoughts when you hear a loud slam. When your eyes find focus, you see Doyoung's fist against the wall, painfully crumbling down the wall after the harsh contact between the materials and his bone-filled body. "Shit!" He loudly curses.

"One reason which is love, that made me promise to keep us together. But as I grow taller, I crush down due to the high wall named 'reality'"

❧ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ : "ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟᴇʀ ꜱᴏ ɪ ɢᴏᴛ ꜱᴄᴀʀᴇᴅ" ☙

"Have you sold out your voice?"

Doyoung's eyes tear away from the silver band that he's toying with between his fingers. First, his eyes meet the wildflowers before he looks at your sitting figure on the other side of the table. Out of shock, his fingertips momentarily halt their actions, as well as the ring, ends up being held between his thumb and index finger.

Memories invade the other thoughts once more: memories of breaking points in your relationship. Multiple factors caused the breaking point to approach sooner than expected. His addiction to alcoholic beverages, the hidden and yet exposed relationship, jealousy, the lack of time. Were those valid reasons to end the love song early? Maybe not, but it still happened.

It still happened. His vision starts to portray the day the love song ended tragically, he can already hear the passage that is usually called the intro. It opens the movement or a separate piece, preceding the theme or lyrics. The intro abruptly stops when a different sound is heard.

The sound of something dropping onto the wooden floor stops the ticking of the clock against the wall. Time seems to stand still and yet the object hits the floor before the fragment is paused. Doyoung's fingertips don't intervene: the silver band falls from his fingertips and onto the floor.

If only that sound had been included in the conclusion of the song, it would have completed the song structure perfectly. A tragic downfall before all ended, the music fading out sadly once the ring had been fallen. Though the song has been written, and this only belongs to a badly-written sequel.

Doyoung's eyes are quick to follow the untrammelled movements of the ring, eyeing the trail it could take before it barrels past his eyesight. He bends over his body slightly, reaching a little further so that his fingertips reach the floor. The ring comes to a halt, throwing itself down after one more ceremonial twirl. To pick it up, he allows his thumb to assist his index finger, holding it between his digits before he brings it up.

Your eyes intensely stare at the silver band between his fingertips, your eyes feasting on trying to recognise the familiar object. After scrutinising the object from a distance, realisation hits you like a brick. The ring. The ring that was an unspoken promise of your relationship, the almost cursed object was in your apartment, held by your faded summer sun.

Doyoung notices how your investigating gaze changes to an expression of shock. His eyes never leave yours, they stay focused on you, even when he straightens his body again and straightly sits on his chair. The moment, he's properly seated again, your body indicates that you want to get up.

Despite your body preparing itself to stand up, you stay seated. "Why are you here?" You question him. The shocked expression on your face transitions into something much darker. It's not anger, neither is it confusion. Your expression displays disapprobation, disapprobation towards his presence.

It's not you who stands up from the chair as your body tells you to do, it's Doyoung who takes initiative and straightens his posture after standing up. He doesn't respond to your question with words, but seeing the silver band that suddenly is around his pinky, the answer to the question is almost screamed out.

Just a few mere seconds after Doyoung gets up from his chair, he's already standing on the other side of the table. The side where your tensed body is seated on a chair, the side that he was able to see when he stared ahead of him, the side that allowed you to look at him. He takes in your appearance briefly: your tensed shoulders that you keep raised by your arms that lean upon the table, your gaze that is fixated to the current empty chair on the other side of the table.

To receive your attention, Doyoung wraps his hand around your upper arm, tugging at it lightly so that you would shift your gaze and body towards him. Though, your body is tense, barely moving despite his light tugs.

The second tug on your arm causes you to finally interact, stopping the ignorance because you want answers. You shift your attention to him by pulling your arm out of his grip as you stand up from the chair. You turn your body to face his and look at him with the same dark expression. "Why?! Why are you here?!"

You wait for an answer. Not longer than a few seconds before you run out of patience. It's not the first time your question is left unanswered, and for once, you're not willing to take silence as an answer. If he's here to apologise, then you want to hear it from his lips. If he's here to talk, you want to hear it coming from his mouth. If he's here because he 'accidentally' passed by, you want to hear the words coming from his vocal cords.

Your question only leaves Doyoung to look down, his lips sealed like there's a secret on the tip of his tongue. All of the questions you ever asked him are left unanswered, and this one might finish that list. Even if you say you're not willing to receive silence, you let it happen. "Leave, if you have nothing to say," you mumble before pushing your body past his. Your feet are lost within the own space of your apartment: are you heading to the door? Fleeing towards your bedroom? You don't even know.

Doyoung's feet follow your hesitating footsteps. Slowly and almost inaudible as you're standing still, so there's no need to rush. He halts his own feet a step behind the line where yours are perfectly aligned. Without being granted permission, his hands are placed on your shoulders before lowering towards your waist. Engulfing you in his arms.

The embrace lasts no longer than two seconds. Your body turns towards his again, breaking the physical contact. You want to step away from him again, flee towards a location that you have yet to figure out. You almost do, but Doyoung is fast to hold you back from doing so.

His flat hands place against both your cheeks, his fingers slowly curving in the form that your face is shaped in. Sometimes his thumb twitches, which is seen as a gentle caress over your facial structure. "Look at me, my beloved," he whispers, his lips barely moving but they're parted as a signal he just spoke.

And you do.

Tear-filled eyes stare into his. You look past the reflection of yourself, staring into the black-coloured pupils of Doyoung's eyes. Compared to your rheumy-looking eyes, his eyes are filled with much more sentiment. The wet layer on his eyes makes them shine, shine like the summer sun. Summer sun, a name you would affectionately call Kim Dongyoung.

Doyoung rests his forehead against the side of your face delicately. "I'm sorry," is all that leaves his lips the moment he feels your skin against his. As much as he wants the moment to last, his feelings start to run ahead of his actions.

A first kiss is placed on your cheek, but it doesn't stop there. It rarely does. His lips are quick to return homewards to yours. It's a gentle brush that indicates what both of you have been missing out on.

With your lips connected, a kiss is indicated. It doesn't start with a gentle peck, the kiss is deepened before it properly started. Doyoung's hands are lightly wrapped around your throat and jaw whilst your hands steadily grip onto his shirt.

With each short breath in between the kisses, they evolve towards something much more emotionally charged. Many feelings pour from mouth to mouth: lust, sadness, anger, desire. Love bubbles in the pit of your stomach but you can't taste its flavour upon Doyoung's lips.

"Summer sun," you mumble against his lips before you can stop yourself. The affectionate nickname making Doyoung's fingertips tighten around your throat, tugging a strand of hair along in the process. The feeling stimulates a quiet moan to slip from your opened lips.

Doyoung's tongue grazes between your upper and lower lip slowly, begging for permission to be a part of you. Your parted lips grant him wordless access to which he wastes no time to explore your mouth.

The amorous kiss allows you to feel the warmth behind Doyoung's parted lips, just as he feels the inviting warmth behind your lips. His tongue finds yours in an overlapping moment: what used to be a battle is now two puzzle pieces being perfectly aligned. As his tongue curves, yours does too around his. The heat becoming the glue that keeps the two of you together until each unidentified spot has been explored.

One hand moves away from your throat, trailing upwards to the back of your head. You're effortlessly pulled closer against Doyoung's body, causing his lips to press harder against yours during the kiss. You're left breathless, but Doyoung uses his last breath to give you a belated answer.

"I'm here because I want you back. You're my remedy."

224 notes · View notes

nitewrighter · 3 years

Note

Omg I loved the ASOIAF Gency post you wrote recently! Can you write more?

God this has been languishing in my drafts since... September?? Jesus...

Anyway, a continuation of these ficlets!: 1, 2, 3

-----

“I mislike this,” said Orisa as Efi carried her helmet over to her, “I am your sworn shield, I will not have my oaths or her family’s... undermined like this!”

“And I’m quite capable of traveling on my own!” said Angela but both Efi and Orisa gave her skeptical looks and her lips thinned and she glanced off. No woman in her right mind would travel the Stormlands alone, but then again, no woman in her right mind would flee her betrothal with the intent of lying her way into the Citadel at Oldtown, either.

“This isn’t just about her, Orisa,” said Efi, “I want to go to Oldtown when I’m old enough, too. And I don’t want to be married off, either.”

“Your dowry could be in the form of books?” Orisa said a little helplessly, “Perhaps even Valyrian manuscripts!”

Efi gave her a half-lidded look with one corner of her mouth tugged up.

“...the marriage is the problem,” said Orisa, glancing off.

“The marriage is the problem,” said Mercy in agreement.

“It would only be to get her to the Citadel!” Efi insisted, “Then you could come right back to Aurochs-ford!”

“Taking the marriage out of the equation might force the Storm lords to re-evaluate their little feud as well,” said Mercy, “Disrupt things enough so they cool their heads. Maybe buy enough time for the Iron Throne to step in.”

“See?” said Efi, “You could be saving the Storm Lands in the long run! This definitely falls under ‘Sworn Shield’ duties.” Efi gave a glance to Angela, “If we can give her a chance...then maybe when I’m old enough...”

“You can forge your own Maester’s chain?” said Orisa with a tilt of her head.

“Not a full chain,” said Efi, “…Gold, iron, and black iron links for sure, though...” she said, trailing off thoughtfully.

“I only need the one,” said Angela, “Silver.... though... lead might be useful as well...”

“If you’re still at the Citadel when I get there, we’ll get a Valyrian steel link together!” said Efi, her hands balling into fists with excitement.

Angela chuckled a little, “I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves.”

“Indeed. Neither of you are at Oldtown yet,” said Orisa, flatly. She looked back at Efi, “I will see her safely to Oldtown at your request, my lady,” she said with a bow of her head.

Efi touched a small hand to the side of Orisa’s face, her brown eyes bright.

“And then I am coming right back to Aurochs-Ford,” said Orisa, furrowing her brow.

Efi giggled and brought her skinny arms about Orisa’s neck. Orisa pulled herself up to her full height to embrace her, bringing Efi up off the floor.

Right back to Aurochs-Ford.

Orisa’s eyes opened in a gray morning light and she quickly sat up in bed and gauged her surroundings. She was in a bare, wooden room, the foliage of a tree outside suggesting she was on the second floor of a building. Her own well-rested state quickly set her on high alert. She sat up in bed--Bed--right, they were in an inn. The mattress was stuffed with hay but it was still the finest sleeping conditions Orisa had since leaving Aurochs-Ford. She wondered if Lady Efi was doing all right. Probably still puzzling over those dusty old books of Valyrian alchemy and inventions, maybe even bogarting the castle blacksmith to forge her another obscure and specific little gear for her devices.

Orisa flinched in bed to see the door opening, her hand quickly going for the sword hanging on her bedpost, only to see Mercy in the doorframe, the very image of a pleasant septa with a tray of honeyed oatcakes, boiled eggs, and mugs of weak ale and goat’s milk.

“I overslept?” Orisa said looking out the window.

“No, I just woke up early to check on our lordling,” said Mercy, setting the tray on a table. She smiled a little. “He’s still alive---in remarkably better shape than last night, as well.” The relief in her voice gave Orisa pause.

“Do you still wish to go through with this?” said Orisa.

“What, I could bring books as a dowry?” said Mercy with a huff as she flaked shell off of her egg with her thumb, “I’m sure they’ll be perfectly wonderful reading when Lord Akande puts our houses to the torch.”

“You seemed to get on well with him,” said Orisa, frankly looking for any excuse to end this folly of a quest and get back to her young charge.

“Even if I did tell him--what would happen then? ‘Oh, by the way my lord, I’ve been lying to your face for the past three days because I’ve been desperately fleeing our marriage!’ That’s a wonderful start to things!” She huffed, “No,” she said, taking a bite out of her egg, “I said I would go to Oldtown, and I’m going to Oldtown, but if you wish to go back--”

“No one in their right mind would travel these lands alone,” said Orisa, flatly.

Mercy gave her a steady look, her mouth slightly tight at the corners in a not-quite smile. They were both highborn, but Orisa’s family had let her pursue knighthood while Mercy had seen more instruction in courtesy, embroidery, and the arts expected of ladyhood. There was admiration in Mercy’s eyes, maybe even a little envy. An idealist who longed to be practical, she gave off the air of someone who never quite fit the role set for her, and she had Orisa’s sympathy for that. Believing in the ideals of knighthood, that was a solid thing to believe in--but it definitely got more complicated being a woman.

“...I’m going to Oldtown because I--I don’t want to be a burden,” said Mercy, taking a bite out of her egg, “But I feel like a burden on you.”

Orisa glanced down, “I am doing this for Lady Efi,” she said, snapping an oatcake in half, “I want to believe in the world she believes in... but she is young and idealistic, and I know, being older, you have a greater understanding of just how much stands in your way.” She took a bite of her oatcake and chewed.

“I won’t let her down,” Mercy said, her eyes fierce, gulping down her own mug of goat’s milk.

“Intention and execution can be two very different things,” said Orisa.

“...well,” said Mercy, standing up, “We’ll set deeds to words, then. We’ll get out before our lordling wakes up. You finish breakfast and get your armor on, and I’ll saddle Dynast.” Her hands balled into fists with determination. “I’m already packed.”

Orisa gave a short huff through her nostrils. “That may be your most practical suggestion since this whole quest started.”

Mercy beamed before slipping out the door.

Mercy grabbed her satchel from her room and made her way to the stair leading down to the inn’s ground floor, humming. She froze at the sight of a dark haired figure on the stairs, his hand braced against the wall and his body tensed. Unthinkingly, her foot made contact with the first step and it creaked beneath her weight, and the figure on the stairs flinched at the sound and looked sharply over his shoulder at her.

Genji. He was awake. How was he awake already?! There was still a weary shine to his eyes, he still wasn’t back to full strength from his injuries, but there was an alertness in his stance that filled her with dread.

“My--?” she nearly started saying, ‘My Lord?’ but he put a finger to his lips and she quieted herself as she craned her neck to try and see what he was seeing.

“I’m only asking if you saw someone bearing a standard with two dragons on it,” A woman dressed in black and white with white hair--Lysene, perhaps--was addressing the innkeeper. Behind her were three men, of equal height, too lean to be highborn, the lower halves of their faces obscured by yellow cloth. Mercy would have tried to identify the sigils on their tunics but her own fear at being seen forced her to draw back behind Genji.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss who’s currently staying here,” said the innkeep.

There was the hard metallic ting of a dagger piercing wood and a long period of silence.

“...as innkeep it is my duty to assure my patrons safety so long as they are under my roof,” said the innkeeper, “You want to wait for them on the road, you can wait for them on the road. But there’ll be no bloodshed here.”

“A woman of business,” said the Lysene woman. There was the clink of coins in a sack hitting the wood next, and both Mercy and Genji tensed.

“...They’ve paid, too. And my service they’ll have,” said the innkeeper.

There was the sound of steel being drawn and Mercy’s breath caught in her throat.

“...leave her,” said the Lysene woman, “We’ll get what we need, with or without her.”

Silently, a bead of sweat quivering down his temple, Genji slowly backed up the stairs. Mercy tried to follow suit as silently as she could, but then one stair creaked loudly beneath her foot and the Lysene woman’s head swiveled sharply to the stairs.

“Go—Go!” Genji hissed under his breath as they both rushed back up the stairs.

“Septa—?” Orisa was stepping out of her room, holding her sword in its scabbard, not yet belted to her hip, when alarm filled her face at the sight of Genji next to Mercy. “You’re—?” Orisa started but then cut herself off as the Lysene woman and her three compatriots rushed up behind them. Orisa read the situation in an instant and sidestepped in front of them.

“Find another exit,” said Orisa.

“What other exit?!” blurted out Mercy, but Genji hurried down the hall to an unglazed, shuttered window and threw it open, “Genji—I mean—My lord!” Mercy’s head jerked back to Orisa at the clash of steel on steel behind her. There were a few panicked seconds where Mercy was transfixed, watching as Orisa blocked the short sword of the Lysene woman before clocking one of the cloth-faced sellswords behind her with her buckler-bearing arm, dazing him before a hard kick in the stomach sent him tumbling backward and she once again clashed blades with the Lysene.

“Septa!” Genji’s voice sounded behind her. He had one leg out of the open shutters of the window, one arm braced on the frame, the other out toward her. She hiked up her skirts and rushed after him, hearing Orisa’s sword sing and gauntleted fists make contact with grunting flesh.

“It’s one knight!” The Lysene woman was barking behind them, “You fools can’t take out one knight?!” before there was another loud clang of steel.

Mercy felt Genji grab her forearm and she stumbled out the window after him onto wooden shingles that creaked with rot. Genji was already nervously sidestepping across the short row of shingles that formed an awning around the ground floor of the inn’s exterior, before Mercy saw he was moving towards the stables.

“We can’t just leave her!” said Mercy.

“She’s in full plate armor, she has a better chance if we get the horses and she’s not worried about us being in the crossfire,” said Genji, still edging forward.

“It’s four on one!” said Mercy, one hand against the side of the inn and the other bunching her skirts up for easier movements as she sidestepped after him. There was a sudden clatter behind her and her head swung around to see one of the brigands tumble out of another shuttered window, and roll backwards off the awning before landing with a grunt in the mud below.

“...three on one,” said Mercy, blinking incredulously.

“The skill of the Warrior and the strength of the Smith,” Genji said, impressed, “I guess the Seven really are with you two!”

“Genji, the stables!” Mercy said furiously, still sidestepping forward.

Genji gave her an odd look.

“My lord, the stables,” huffed Mercy, another prickle of stress burning on the back of her neck, wondering if her panic in the situation had given her away in other ways.

“...you can call me Genji,” he said, still sidestepping forward, “I rather like the way you say it, Septa.”

“That is not appropriate,” Mercy said, glancing down and blushing furiously.

“Well you’ve already seen me naked, I’d say we’re well past--” He reached the edge of the awning closest to the stables and sucked in a breath, “Oh this isn’t going to be pleasant.”

Mercy closed the distance behind him. “Do you need--?”

“You can barely move in those sept skirts as is--I’ve got this,” said Genji, dropping to a squat and positioning himself with his back to the edge, He braced his hands on the shingles and then pushed his legs out over the edge, grunting in pain as he dropped to a hanging position before grunting in pain again as he dropped to the ground, the length of his own body significantly reducing his fall. “Ah---” his hand went to his side as his feet hit the ground, but he shook his head, “Okay, your turn.”

“Right--okay--” Mercy started haltingly as she reached the edge and turned around but then she heard another groan and craned her neck over to look at the sound’s source. The sellsword Orisa had knocked out of the window was stumbling to his feet, muddy, shaking his head out of a daze, and he saw Genji. He drew a short dirk from his side and broke off in a stumbling run toward genji. Genji followed her line of sight but his injury slowed his reaction. Mercy wasn’t fully sure what compelled her to suddenly leap off the corner of the awning, but there was a half-beat where she felt the cold morning air rushing up her skirts and her arms flailing with nothing to grab before she dropped like a stone... right onto the sellsword with a grunt and a splatter of mud, her elbow slamming his face into the muck. She rolled off him and stumbled to her feet, panting. Genji looked from the unconscious sellsword in the mud, up to her.

“...don’t know which of the seven to thank for that,” he said, his eyes wide.

“Come on!” said Mercy seizing his arm and rushing to the stables.

“Ow--injured--ow!” said Genji as the muddy Septa pulled him into a run.

-----

The Lysene woman fought with both a short sword and a dirk, and her attacks were relentless. But her remaining fellow sellswords seemed to be more of a liability than a threat if they didn’t have the element of surprise. Orisa’s biggest disadvantage was the narrowness of the hallway they were in... if she could just find a way to get her opponents down stairs to the Inn’s dining area, maybe she could more properly maneuver... or maybe that would give them more space to flank her. Orisa had at least successfully backed them up to the point in the hallway so they couldn’t access another window to go after Genji and Mercy, but her brow furrowed as the Lysene woman and her two remaining compatriots kept their blades pointed at her.

“You were sent by Lord Akande, I take it?” said Orisa.

“I’m afraid the answer to that’s going to cost you,” said the Lysene woman.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” said Orisa.

“The Shimada lordling slipped from our grasp before... but we had expected him to die, I suppose we underestimated his house’s banner lords...” said the woman.

“I am under no banner but the Seven’s,” said Orisa, and she felt a surprising strength in what had previously been merely a cover story. To have a sword sworn to the Seven, to defend this grievously injured Lordling purely because he was attacked out of treachery rather than on the field of battle, it was thrilling, it was knightly.

The woman gave a derisive snort. “So I can’t expect you to counter Lord Akande’s offer with one of your own. No amount of piety will make a hedge knight anything more than a hedge knight.”

“...and I can’t expect you to hold to any word,” said Orisa, her eyes narrowing.

The woman grinned wolfishly before lunging forward, Orisa stood her ground, meeting the woman’s long blade with her own before glancing off the woman’s dirk with her buckler. Orisa’s shield and helmet were still back in her room, so she could count on the Lysene to go for the face. The woman kept up her assault and Orisa gave a bit of ground. Her attacks were aggressive, clearly she was trying to use the advantage of lighter armor lending greater stamina to keep up a relentless barrage of attacks, but Orisa remained calm. This was waves breaking on stone. One of her compatriots flanked Orisa only to get a hard buckler to the face, Orisa using the movement to pivot and yield space to back into her room where her helmet and broadshield were. The Lysene woman lunged forward with her short sword and Orisa tilted her torso in its movement to grab her shield. Orisa knew she wasn’t a small target, but the right movements could send virtually any blade scratching uselessly across the plate of her armor--and just in time, too. In seizing her shield, she yanked it up, her arm only looped in one strap, and used the weight of it to slam it hard into the shoulder and side of the Lysene woman sending her staggering to the side trying to regain her footing. Orisa kicked the other closest sellsword in the stomach, knocking him onto his back, only to see the third man in the doorway, pointing a crossbow at her. Orisa froze.

But then, there was a shattering sound and the crossbow-bearing sellsword’s eyes rolled back in his head, goat’s milk dripping down his piecemeal armor and he swayed and collapsed onto the floor. Mercy was standing behind him, the lower half of her skirts caked in mud, the broken top half of the jug from their breakfast in her hands. Orisa blinked in surprise, and even Mercy seemed a bit stunned at the collapsed sellsword drenched in goat’s milk at her feet before she seemed to snap out of it and shake her head.

“You--!” the Lysene woman scrambled to attack Orisa from the side, her attack panicked and messy, only to get cuffed hard in the face by Orisa’s buckler and get splayed out on the floor. The other sellsword, seeing the only two backing him up now unconscious, scrambled to the side of the Lysene woman, shaking her shoulder. “Lady Ashe?! Lady Ashe, get up!” but Orisa was already rushing to the door, properly strapping up her shield and grabbing her helmet as she and Mercy hurried down the hall and down the inn stairs.

“Genji’s gotten the horses,” said Mercy, as they darted across the tavern floor, tables groaning against the wood as Orisa’s armored frame shoved them aside, “Come on!”

They rushed out into bright, damp morning air to see Genji astride Dynast, holding the reins of a large honey-colored mare.

“You made it!” said Genji, as Mercy scrambled up onto the saddle behind him and Orisa swept up onto the mare and they all took off into gallops down the road from the inn.

“Who’s horse is this?” said Orisa.

“Didn’t have time to ask! I imagine it’s one of the sellswords’!” said Genji, they were all half-yelling over the thundering hooves.

“We’re stealing a horse?!” Orisa blurted out.

"Borrowing!” said Genji.

“IT IS NOT KNIGHTLY TO STEAL A HORSE!” said Orisa, her pauldroned shoulders bunching up.

“They attacked me,” said Genji, “Hardly good folk. You, on the other hand, have valiantly defended a grievously wounded storm lord and commandeered a mighty steed.”

Orisa blinked a few times. ‘Oh...I... I suppose I did.”

“It was like something out of a song!” said Mercy, her eyes bright.

“A song...?” Orisa started hesitantly. She tucked a stray braid of hair back, “...I suppose it will be a good story to tell Lady Efi when I return.”

“...Lady Efi?” said Genji, “I thought you said you were sworn to the Sev--”

“To Oldtown!” said Mercy, spurring their horse forward.

“To Oldtown!--Ow--ow..” Genji had punched a fist into the air with excitement, quite forgetting he was still injured. The dew seemed to make everything sparkle. Orisa wasn’t sure if it was the rush of adrenaline confusing the senses, making the light seem brighter, the sky bluer, the air cleaner, or perhaps it was the days of rain before. Orisa rolled the grip of her gauntlets on the reins of her own mare, a bright flare of thrill thumping with her heart in her chest. She looked over at Mercy, her arms gingerly wrapped around Genji’s waist, avoiding his injury as they rode, then Orisa scoffed a little, her own expression partially hidden by her own horned helmet, and her sound silenced by the thunder of galloping hooves, feeling the Inn shrink into the distance behind them. This was a terribly foolish thing they were doing, but at the same time, would anything but something terribly foolish give her the excitement she was feeling now? Were valor and stupidity two sides of the same coin? Perhaps theirs was a tale like Florian the Fool.

Like a song, indeed, Orisa thought with some amusement.

#Gency #asoiaf au

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talesofealdancynedom · 3 years

Photo

Edmond Monabellan, in fairy robes. For that moment you want to research a character, for proper representation, but the information isn’t there because white washing of history!

Tale 19: Meriam Craweleoth: Mage Queen of The Grand West (chapter 4.2 - Time Stands Still: Edmond 4/10) part 4. Stories of Old

Maps

violence, murder, war

On the first day of Autumn, Meriam gave her kingdom a princess: Odette Craweleoth. In four week’s time, an army of Anglia needed to march north to aid Isfisceard, against Mage Prince Edmond of The Far North. Meriam knew he would win if she was not them. She had given her word on behalf of Anglia, in promise of peace with the two north kingdoms, to deal with the prince personally; as a stronger magic user. Meriam was being pulled into war. Furthermore, to arrive on time, the Anglian cavalry, and Meriam, would need to leave promptly. But she was still in recovery with her brand-new daughter, and was far to weak to use magic or ride long-distance and into war. Each week that passed, she made the army wait, in hopes she would recover just enough to join them. She wanted to hate Odette for holding her back, but couldn’t, because after almost a month of constant contact, Meriam had become attached to her only child. She was scared what would happen to her baby if she left for even a day. It was Meriam’s nightmare; ill from child bearing, homebound because of child she didn’t want, had the lives of hundreds of men in her hands, and being forced to use magic in battle. Meriam lay next to her husband, feeding her daughter, and humming her nephew to sleep, thinking; there had to be something she could do that would result in everyone, includer herself, winning.

Time is not to fooled with, but in Ealden Cynedom, it has a way of healing from tampering. As if everything is meant to be, and destiny is unchangeable. Meriam didn’t like using her powers to affect the minds and experiences of time on people, but she needed time. Unlike common folk, Meriam could afford to wait till the last possible minute. If she needed time, she could always make more, by stopping, reversing, or forwarding the clock. With little but a small hourglass, in a marble upon a chain, she was able to move the world around her, backwards. Two weeks after the battle she was supposed to attend, of which was likely won by Prince Edmond at the cost of many lives, Meriam made the world reverse to one week before the battle. She reversed the event she had failed to attend, resurrecting all who had fallen, and erasing the memory of it ever taking place. It is one thing to use time on a person, a group, or a city; but Meriam was too great a mage to think so small. The whole world was within her control with enough concentration. Still weak, but able enough to use magic to compensate, she marched with the royal guard, who was unaware the Grand West was three weeks in the future compared to other lands. May her fairy robes protect her, for Meriam intended to come home and hold her daughter and husband again. She had a promise to keep, and intended only to return after Edmond Monabellan groveled for an alliance at her feet.

At dawn, Feon woke like any other day. She put on the water to make the porridge, and her family ate breakfast while making their plans for the day. Feon was going to comb the town for daughters of the sea, her husband was going to get wood and sharpen their knives. Their daughters were doing laundry, and Lyra was sent to gather herbs and berries in the glens outside the village. By mid mourning, everyone was off to their tasks. while Feon kissed her husband at the door, the town guard came, and ripped her from his arms. Feon was dragged through the town, as she began to hear panicked yelling and horns. She struggled to get free. The men overpowered her, and dragged her to the edge of the short stone wall of the village. The lord was there, organizing soldiers into formation, and Feon’s captors pulled her head back by her hair, and yelled at her to sing. They pulled at her while the screams started, and a rally speech was given. And all Feon could think about, was where is Lyra? Feon looked around frantically as she was being yelled at to sing a protection enchantment over the town; but that would require feeling love and desire to protect, and Feon only felt fear. Then, lit arrows came, and landed in the nearby the roofs, causing a fire. There was more screaming and panic as the villagers attempted to put out the fire. The two men continued to pull Feon’s hair, and yell for her magical aid in battle. They needed to hold on until Anglia came. Then Feon looked across the field and hills. The world went silent, as directly across the field, her eyes met the yellow eyes of a black haired rough young man, in violet and gold wolf armored robes. He rode a bear, and was exuding a glow like a black hole. She could feel her heart pound against her chest, as a second wave of arrows fell, and the battalion charged to meet their enemy. The promised army of Anglia failed to arrive in time. Feon could not afford to wait for her son Lyra to return; So, she began to sing.

Not a moment earlier, in a tent in the Algonquian camp, Edmond sat with his sister, Luthid. His painted hide tent, was lavished in furs, silver and fine fabrics. His general, who was promised lordship if he conquered the Northlands of Celticia, reminded Edmond of his uncles wishes. Algonquia did not want to kill the people of the Northlands, they just wanted access to its mild weather and greenery. The King of Algonquia did not wish to send his nephew to the imperialistic frontier; It was Edmond’s choice, as a paladin, to help his families kingdom. Even his own men feared him, after he cleared battle after battle to reach the island of Isfisceard. But after using magic for murder, and missing his home, and fearing for his sister, Edmond began to doubt his mission. The radiant green bogs, glens, hills, and song of the sea, were beautiful enough to make him cry; As he murdered its innocent people for someone else. He loved fey, and learned to use weapons as a boy groomed as an heir. The only male heir left. If his sister Luthid died as well, Algonquia would be kingless. And there would be no way for Edmond to give power to the people if the Far North was in untrustworthy hands. He wanted to go home. He wished he had suggested diplomacy sooner. But the soldiers of Algonquia crossed an entire nation, and tasted its blood and riches along the way. Edmond was too far to go back.

Edmond ordered his general out of his tent, and asked for his sister. The general denied his request; Luthid agreed to summon fey for battle in the camp, and was in a small tent preparing. The amount of magic required to control fey, needs a mage to have magic move through them constantly, destroying their bodies. If the battle went on too long, and Edmond did not aid her in controlling their collection of wolf fey, she may die. Edmond felt terror, but did not show it. He went upon the back of his familiar, and lead the lines forward in the crisp ocean air of morning, according to battle plans. They were silent as cats, and swift as foxes.

Edmond was to slowly advance with his foot soldiers, after the arrows of stone and fire had been shot. The yells, and miscellaneous weapons of Celtician men no longer scared them. They had tasted too much victory. After the arrows, behind Edmond, would be the wolf children controlled by Luthid in the camp. Including three Aliki wolf princes they had captured. The carnivoran fey and skilled warriors, tore threw the small army of Isfisceard; and Edmond was untouched as he drew a sword of darkness, while seated high upon his powerful mount. His fairy robes made him impenetrable. And then he heard the sweet song of a woman, and a veil of gold move over the burning town; his eyes met Feon’s, as she cried in fear, attempting to put a charm on the village. It reminded him of how he wanted to cry. For his brethren, for his actions, for his sister, and from the immense pain he felt as a black arrow pierced his familiar from the sky. He became disoriented and no longer absorbing sound for his spells; for a moment, he was weak. Just as quickly as sound had resumed, it dissipated. The battle field began to slow to a stillness, and the sound of hooves approached from the south.

Meriam swooped down upon Nihten, landing in front of Edmond who was gasping his chest on his knees. She looked like Raven, clad in black raven kingdom robes, and black makeup against her pale colours. She was unflinching, like a disappointed mother that saw through their child’s lies. She lifted a silver sword, the gift from Helrem that could cut anything, and pointed the blade at his neck.

“You bitch!” Edomnd yelled, lashing forward with his sword. His intent was to knock away Meriam’s blade. But Meriam held firm; and Edmond’s shadow sword met her own sword, it was cut in half. As time resumed, and her men swept the battle field, They started devastating his troops with their horses. Edmond was shocked, and then Meriam kneed him in the face.

“You disgust me. Those wolf children, and their princes, would have trusted you once. And you make them taste the foul blood of men. You are no mage.” Meriam scolded. Nihten began to peck and pull at his cape, as Meriam tore off his tunic and gloves. Without his robes he could be killed easily. Then he noticed the fey flee form the field, and the two dead Aliki wolves, and their third brother gagging on the blood in his mouth. The fey were free, thus Luthid, his sister, was dead. Edmond dropped his head. He would not come home, and he did not want too. The yelling, and clashing began to sting like his aching heart. The year of sieges resurfacing in his mind. Meriam held her blade high to kill him, and then noticed he was crying.

“Let me at least see my sister, even if she is dead, one last time.” He cried. Then Edmond lifted his head, and yelled for his troops to retreat. Meriam lowered her sword. “I don’t want death anymore. I want my palace bed, and to drink with my uncle, and see my sister wed. I want to howl charms of good dreams into the night, and be the last king Algonquia will ever need. I will leave this land and yours alone. I do not want it anymore. These warm green fjords, come at far to high a cost.” He cried. Meriam lowered her sword. That was exactly what she wanted to hear, and it made her sad. Meriam grabbed Edmond’s collar, and dragged him to his camp. All the soldiers parting ways she walked. As if her presence demanded the men of all three armies to show respect. She gave off an aura of darkness and regality. Meriam walked through the Algonquia camp, and turned their tents to water with only a whisper; and delivered the incapacitated prince to his dead sister’s side. Then she left the way she came, moving calmly across the battle field, and through the burning village. She walked through their house fires, saving their children, and alchemized water to put out the flames. Meriam seemed so steady, its scared people that they could not read her reaction to the battle. Neither joy nor woe. Inside, she was too sad to feel.

On the beach, that was now silent and raging, Meriam found Feon crying and dishevelled upon the pale quartz stone. Feon then ran to the Lighthouse, and up the cliffs. Meriam walked slowly after her. Her stern demeanor softening to one of sorrow, as she followed her friend up the stairs to the peak of the sea wall. Feon wailed into the stormy void, and Meriam walked up, and held her.

“My children and husband died putting out the fire. And Lyra never came back from the woods by the battle field. Down there, by the rocks, an evacuation ship has fallen to a kraken, who was summoned by their song. She must have really liked it. Then the stirring waves approach, and I believe Lyra has been claimed by the sea. Why am I alive Merry? Out of everyone, why me? Why not my children?”

“You protected your village from further danger. That is why you are alive like many of them. I must admit I am so sorry; I wish I could have come sooner. But you did not tell me how long it would take for me to gather strength for this mission, after bearing a child. I also didn’t expect I would love her so much.” Meriam whispered. “I understand, why you do not want to leave them behind. I can’t imagine your loss, Feon.”

“I am happy your family is safe. I am happy the Far North retreats and bargains for forgiveness and friendship. I am happy-” Feon sniffed.

“Do not lie. Even if this battle is over, you have lost so much this day. You may cry, I will be here next to you.” Meriam sniffed. “I will cry with you.”

After a few days of restoring the village and resting, Meriam and her men prepared to leave. The people of Isfisceard and Celticia thanked them, for not only winning a battle, but ending a war. They were willing to leave the past behind them, for the chance at another dawn. Before Her troops left, Meriam walked to the beach. There was white fog that did not block the sun, upon the pristine beach. Laughter of selkies collecting shells echoed across the empty sand. Feon stood by her rock, looking into the perfectly flat sea.

“I came to say good bye; but now I am disturbed by the silence of the sea.” Meriam said.

“Oh, goodbye my friend.” Feon said starring into the fog. “Well wishes to your family; I trust helping with the village’s babes means your daughter won’t starve when you return. Though I know a woman of your noble standing shouldn’t need to worry about such thing. Sorry; I just miss my own babies so much. You know, you were right; I think I want to stop journaling magic texts, and instead write poetry for charms.” Feon said. She was still gazing into the horizonless distance.

“No worries. But, why do you observe nothing so closely?”

“This morning I saw a man on the beach; wearing white and gold fish robes, and with ginger hair twisted into strands that are tied in an elaborate knot. And I hear the fey of the sea thank their Queen father for a song of calmness and mist. I am happy; Lyra will live on, safely around magic.” Feon smiled.

NEXT--->

<---PREVIOUS

#art #tales of ealdan cynedom #story 19 #short stories #fantasy #feon #lyra #meriam #nihten #luthid #edmond #eatheltwein #odette #eobreth

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dragonrajafanfiction · 4 years

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Dragon Dancer Chapter 12: Catch - 22

Minutes after fleeing the opera house in the middle of a Chicago winter in nothing but my tutu, my extremities grew painfully numb. I had no money for a cab or bus fare and begging would be a bad idea for a lone young girl.

The dragon, my father, said if I just closed my eyes and thought of a place, I could go there. Getting back to my family's house or to Cassell was an impossible distance. Even if I could find my way there, who knew what could happen if I accidentally ran into myself from the past.

Previous Chapter

Go Back to the Beginning

There was a broken latch on the basement window in the laundry room. If I could get there, I could get in my house. I closed my eyes and focused my mind, imagining the alleyway next to my house. The image took shape, as clear as if my eyes were open. I took a step forward, reaching out with one hand. Immediately, the world went silent and dark, colder than the winter night air. When I opened my eyes again, I was in the alleyway. My ears filled with the sounds of the street.

I had moved miles in a single step. I was exactly where I wanted to be. My father was true to his word.

I knelt down and checked the latch on the basement window. It was still broken.

It was dark in there, but Ielia emerged from the dragon’s scale, her luminous form lit the way for me as I squeezed inside, stood precariously on the wobbly washing machine and then jumped off to the floor. There were no voices, no footsteps above me. Everyone had gone to the opera house to watch me dance. I climbed the creaky wooden stairs and into the kitchen.

When I switched the light on to the old kitchen I saw its curling vinyl, chipped countertops and dated finish. I took a deep breath against my wave of emotions and memories, deliberately passing the refrigerator with its gallery of children’s drawings and photos without looking at it. The night before this I didn’t eat Mom’s cooking. I looked up into the sky and wished to be anywhere but the frigid seat of Robbie’s car.

I hated how much I had wanted to leave here, how I couldn’t wait to pack. How I watched all their promotional videos and read up on Cassell College and grew more excited by the promise of posh surroundings and decadent amenities. I wiped my eyes, my quiet whimpering audible over the rattling of a rickety furnace. “I’m an idiot.”

Now all I wanted was this simple life, surrounded by love and family.

I entered my room and turned on the light. What supplies could I take with me?

There were a lot of clothes that I didn’t wear any more that were boxed up as hand me downs for future kids. I opened the closet and carefully opened the boxes. I hurried through the clothes, picking out three days worth, closed them back up, replacing the tape. I found an old wrinkled pinked vinyl backpack to haul my things in. I changed out of my tutu. “I have two of these now…” I said to myself, staring at it. I would get rid of this one in the garbage outside.

Next, I would need some money to get around and maybe find a place to stay.

I raced to Mom and Robbie’s room. I felt a bit bad about doing this, but I also knew that more money was coming after I left for Cassell and we would have plenty. Lifting the mattress, I undid the button on a small seam in the mattress and reached inside feeling for the cash kept there. I decided on only taking a few hundred dollars. Hopefully, if everything worked in my favor, that would be all I needed.

Back to the kitchen I went, stuffing a half dozen granola bars in my jacket.

I tried to imagine going back to Cassell now, explaining to Anjou everything that happened. Would they even let someone with as insane a story as mine through the front gate? They didn’t know me yet. It would be a week before they picked me up in a limo. I chewed on one of the granola bars, reluctant to go back into the cold if I didn’t have to. I glanced at the clock.

I could comfortably have maybe fifteen minutes left.

I wasn’t sure how much I could affect my past life events, having apparently gone back in time. People already saw two of me onstage. Anjou would probably know what that meant, more than anyone else. Besides the dragon scale necklace, that may have been what prompted him to approach me in the first place.

No wonder my dance teacher freaked out. Maybe she thought I had pulled some sort of prank.

I typed in the URL for Cassell College and clicked on Contact Us. There was a 250 character limit. My hands hovered over the keyboard. My mind went over what I knew was going to happen.

Isaac… if I never met him. Would he survive? Could I somehow prevent his death from happening? Prevent all those other people from dying? Maybe if they hadn’t seen me kill him they would have never sent me to Japan. They may have even sent me home.

Urgent: I was recruited by you but my talent is unstable. Two days after my recruitment, a student named Isaac will take me to a place to see my abilities. But he doesn't survive. When we come back from it, he turns into a servitor and I kill him. Th-

Out of characters.

My stomach twists. What if it's not enough? What if he got this message and it was not enough.

“I have to do something different. If Anjou sees this, sends Nono and Caesar and that still fails...” I looked at my ethereal twin. She was pointing to the clock with growing urgency. “Is there nothing I can do?”

She looked at me with an exaggerated helpless shrug. I was out of time. I decided to take a shot in the dark without fearing the consequences. I hit send.

“Okay… Now plan B.”

Next was the website for Comemnus Corp. I clicked the contact us page and started to try to explain that Isaac was going to die at Cassell. As I typed, it dawned on me that this might sound like a threat. I remembered his bodyguards that followed him everywhere. Did he come with bodyguards because of my message?

“I could be setting up all of this.” I deleted the message. If Isaac had to die, the least I could do was keep his bodyguards from being there. I retyped it, saying that Isaac would die, adding that Isaac should not come with the bodyguards because they would die too.

Even if it didn’t work, I tried. I warned them.

“What else?” I rested my chin in my hands.

It occured to me that if Isaac didn’t die and I was not sent out to look for a cure, maybe Caesar, Lu and Johann would fail their mission. Maybe Japan would be overrun by monsters. Maybe they would die in the cave because he would send someone else and things would go wrong. Maybe he would send Nono instead of me. Maybe Nono would die.

If the past could be changed, there was no guarantee that I would change things for the better. I sat staring at the clock, remembering Anjou’s kind eyes and words about courage and hope. I still had some time. I was tired, but I knew that once I walked out of this place I wouldn’t be able to come back.

I took my last few minutes, gazing at photos of us all together, my foster family. “I’m sorry everyone. I was happy here. I know you always told me to dream big.” I stared at myself as a little toddler, still smiling, still in her leotard. My voice with emotion. “Maybe not this big.”

That little girl in the photo had one living relative: an enormous glittering beast with the power to erase people from existing at will. He was watching me now. I didn’t have any real feelings for my birth family. The people in this photo were my family. I didn’t want anything to happen to them. One wrong move and everyone I loved could be gone in an instant.

My computer sang out a notification from my inbox. The message title was simple.

“Stop Immediately. Stay where you are.”

It was from EVA at Cassell. But I couldn’t stay where I was. The sound of car tires screeching to a halt next to the building spooked me. I deleted the email, grabbed my backpack, and made my way to the basement as doors shut and footsteps and voices were heard outside.

As I climbed out of the window, strong gloved hands reached out and grabbed me by both of my arms, yanking me out the rest of the way. A bag was forced over my head, my pack was yanked from my hand and I was half dragged and half carried down the alley.. “Help!” I cried as someone picked me up and shoved me into a car.

Something cold and hard is pressed against my temple, forcing me into silence. The car peeled away.

“We’ve got the target. Returning to HQ.”

I sat shaking, my breath moving the fabric of the bag in and out. The gun stayed pressed to my head the whole ride. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on a vision to get me out of here, but the car careened around corners and I was without a seatbelt...

The car slammed on the brakes, the door opened and I was hauled out, hitting my ankle against the curb, crying out at the pain shooting up my leg. I was dragged from the cold outside to the warmer inside where I was put into a chair, the bag removed from my head. A heavy metal door screeched, closing with a deafening slam. It was dark other than the light from a flashlight shined in my face.

A man and a woman stood in front of me, prim and proper in suits, a table between them that held small silver utensils I assumed to be torture devices. My two kidnappers were at my side. We were in some sort of garage or warehouse, a dimly lit space with metal walls.

“You’re going to tell us everything we ask you to.” The one speaking is a burly man with a pale, clean shaven head. He fixed his steely eyes onto mine and I nodded in deference.

“I know…” I said. “You’re from Comemnus Corp… right? It’s okay. I’m just trying to warn you.”

“You sent us a rather curious message. Who’s after the heir?” He asked.

“No one’s after him. He dies because… he loses control of his powers. He turns into a Servitor. I know because...” I took a breath because I knew how insane this would sound. “I know because I’m from the future.” I flinched, expecting a negative reaction.

There was a moment of silence while they took in my words. “Is she out of her mind?” asked the kidnapper to my left.

The woman, in light blue pantsuit and heavy eyeliner rubbed her chin. “Here we have a…” Her eyes looked me up and down. “Poor Chicago kid that we were instructed on an urgent high priority basis to kidnap and interrogate. A kid that knows about Isaac and his entry into Cassell and claims he will die within days along with his escort. This is already strange.”

She brought up the message I had sent to the company on her own phone. “In a few days time, Isaac will die after becoming a servitor. Try to keep him home. Don’t send bodyguards with them. They will die too.” She looked at me. “Strange for the bodyguards to die. Who kills them?”.

I tried to answer carefully. “Isaac becomes a servitor.” Who knew what would happen now that I’d fiddled with the events in the timeline. Maybe Isaac still dies but I wouldn’t be the one to kill him.

“Why?” Her eyes narrowed.

“Because…” I hesitated to answer, my mouth drying up, my voice squeaking. “I…”

“You have one chance to answer this honestly, my dear. My dinner is getting cold.” She picked up one of the silver instruments, it looked like a pen with two hooked prongs at one end. She turned the end until it lit green and let out a high pitched whine.

“Okay. The truth is, I’m going to meet him there. At the party for new students. He comes on to me pretty hard so I leave. The next day he takes me to some secret place to train.”

Her eyes snapped to mine and widened. “Stop talking.” She turned to my kidnappers. “Stand outside the door. The rest of this interrogation is classified.”

The kidnappers' footsteps receded. A door shut.

“He takes you to a secret place.” She repeated, once the others were gone.

I nodded. “Yes. He … teleports me there, through some sort of magical gate.”

She looked at me a little longer before leaning over to the bald man and whispering in his ear. He nodded, then marched to a far corner of the warehouse and reached into his pocket for his phone. The woman continued to stare at me, arms crossed, glaring. I looked between the man and her.

“And what happens? After you go through the gate?” She asked me.

“He … gives me this black stuff to drink.” I said.

Her narrow-eyed expression deepened.

The man returned. “The boss wants to talk to her herself.”

She strode up to me and bent over until her face so close I could feel her breath. Her black eyes flashed to yellow. “Speaking Spirit - Chains.”

Instantly, I was unable to move or speak, paralyzed. The image of those eyes transfixed me and they were all I could see. I could feel myself being picked up from the chair and carried away, while I gasped in a panic.

The world spun and went dark and silent. The next thing I knew, I was lying on my back. Time must have passed but, how much time, I didn’t know. I could hear more voices.

A man said, “Studying this genome will take months. Maybe even years. We can’t keep her sedated that long. The fact that Weizhen has kept her down with a B ranked talent…? She deserves a raise.”

A woman’s voice, “What do you suggest?”

“We only need the genome for study. With a few stem cells, we can have an endless supply of samples…”

She interrupted him. “...samples. Really?”

I tried to open my eyes but they remained firmly shut. My fingers stayed relaxed on the bed.

“You had something else in mind?” said the man. “Mind you, Cassell is likely looking for her even as we speak. Keeping her here is risky.”

The woman replied. “We don’t deal in relics. It doesn’t matter how beautiful her genome is if she can’t produce viable offspring.”

He responded. “My goal as a geneticist is quite different. Someone with her level of dragonblood purity doesn’t just come along. We’ve stumbled upon a treasure and an opportunity that will not come again. A substandard sperm donor would be a complete waste of time! It would only corrupt the results of our research. Her genetic purity exceeds even that of the much lauded Johann Chu! Where are we going to find someone else like that? If offspring is what you’re after we could try cloning first. If we find a suitable donor, we can try breeding.”

I tried to move my head, but I was held fast. I cried out for help in my mind.

“What about Herzog?” She asked.

“That fanatic? You’re welcome to ask, but last we were in contact with him, he was creating monsters.”

“He has no connection to Cassell...”

Someone else spoke, a woman close to me, just behind my head. “The girl is struggling!” She gasped.

“Quick, give her another dose of ketamine!”

My body grew hot, my eyes twitched. I gasped. When I raised my hand someone pinned me down. “Hurry!”

My eyes flew open. The bright lights of the room made me squint. I could see people, but I couldn’t focus.

“You’ve done well, Weizhen, but now, we’re going to have to find other means to restrain her. Take the samples now. This may be our last opportunity.”

Next Chapter

#Dragon Raja #Fanfiction #Writing #Anjou #Johann Chu #caesar gattuso #nono

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pessimisticlatte · 4 years

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Glass Roses ~ Chapter 20

Adrienette ~ Marichat ~ Ladynoir ~ DJWifi ~ Lukagami ~ Chlobrina

We’re getting close to the end here, guys!! I’m actually so excited to end this to finish cause I’ve had a million and one MLB fic ideas bouncing around my head for weeks and I literally cannot wait to get started on my favourite one of them!

Anyway, enjoy this chapter! Fanart of Mari in her dress to follow cause I felt like drawing her! Fanart of Ladybug’s dress to come at some point because I’m inspired to draw her dress now too!

Fiddling anxiously with his cufflinks, Adrien’s fingers itched to reach for one of the wine flutes being toted around the room on black trays by plainly dressed waiters and waitresses. People had started filing in ages ago and the stream had remained steady for about an hour now, people coming to the door to have their name announced like a damn debutante ball before they descended the stairs into the white marble room and swept over to Adrien to give him their congratulations on reaching adulthood. Though the ballroom was ridiculously large, he felt so small and so trapped, a clock ticking away in the back of his head for how long he would last before the busyness of this room overwhelmed him and sent him fleeing to the garden for some peace and quiet. Nino had disappeared not too long ago, likely to meet Alya so they could be announced together but something told him that the aspiring DJ was probably crying in some empty corridor somewhere from how slow and boring the music playing was and, frankly, Adrien felt that the string quartet wasn’t exactly his speed at the moment either.

Sweeping his eyes across the room as he shook yet another hand, Adrien searched for the bright red hat of his best friend (Nino had outright refused to take the hat off, even when Gabriel had requested that he did, saying that anyone who tried to remove his hat would not be found the next morning) or the two-toned hair of Kagami’s musician beau with no avail. The smile on his lips was fake but he was so glad that none of the people who he’d greeted so far had known him well enough to see that and he internally begged for someone, anyone, to come and save him from this hell of his father’s making.

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” The herald or whatever the guy was called that was standing atop the stairs calling out guest’s names held the card with Marinette’s name on it out in front of him with a confused look as he announced her, Adrien’s eyes immediately snapping to the dark haired young woman standing at the top of the stairs. His jaw dropped so low he swore that he heard the silver threaded marble beneath his feet crack slightly from the impact. He couldn’t think of the words to describe how she looked as she took a tentative step forward and began descending the stairs. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders with a small section of it tied into a small ponytail that melted into the inkyness swishing below, her fringe was fluffier and two small strands of hair framed the sides of her face as she awkwardly chewed a plum painted lip. The train of her dress spread out behind her and cascaded down the stairs in a waterfall of the deepest purple he’d ever seen; the sleeves were long and ended right at her wrists with the top of the dress sitting low across her shoulders so as to expose them and her collarbone tastefully; a sash was tied around her waist and, though Adrien could not see it, sat in a neat bow against her lower back. She wore no necklace, her loose hair ornamentation enough for her slender, slowly reddening neck and shoulders.

Finally reaching the bottom of the stairs, at the same time, Adrien and Marinette smiled at each other as he held his hand out for her to take so he could lead her further into the ballroom. There were whispers around them as Adrien tucked Mari’s hand into the crook of his elbow and wove through the room toward the long catering tables set up toward the back. Eyes followed the couple as they moved past, Marinette holding herself with a grace that made Adrien’s heart race. Let them stare, he thought, let them stare and see that I’m here with the most beautiful person in this entire place. Coming to a stop at the back of the room, Mari looked up at her boyfriend shyly.

“I asked him not to announce me as your girlfriend, I didn’t want to embarrass you,” Playing with a silky strand of hair that had slid over her shoulder, Marinette spoke in a low voice.

“You could never embarrass me, Mari,” Brushing his hand against her waist, Adrien released Mari’s hand and decided to rest his hand on her hip, pulling her into his side. “And I think they’re pretty much aware that we’re together anyway.”

The two began to sway slightly to the soft, classical music coming from the string quartet in the corner across the room from them.

“A-adrien,” Mari began speaking, feeling her words get caught in her throat as he moved slightly to look at her, worried.

“Are you alright?”

“Y-yeah, I-i’m okay,”

“You’re not, Mari, I know that look. What’s wrong?” Rubbing his thumb gently against her waist, Adrien tried to press her without being too harsh.

“I...I don’t know if I can do it,”

“Do what?”

“Take the miraculous away from your father,”

“Why?”

“Because…,” Tears sprang to Marinette’s eyes as she bowed her head, ashamed. “Because I know that taking the miraculous away from him means him going away...him going to jail...and I don’t want to deny you the father you deserve.”

“Oh Mari. You’re too sweet for your own good,”

“I know,”

“If he was going to be the father I deserved then he would’ve tried ages ago, which he hasn’t. He’s constantly put himself first and this,” Adrien waved his hand to encompass the whole room and all those within. “Just shows that he never took the time to actually get to know me. God, if it weren’t for Nathalie, he’d probably have forgotten how old I was. Gabriel Agreste isn’t going to be the father I deserve and I know that because the father I deserve gave me you.”

~~~~~~~~~

At exactly nine pm, Alya slipped into the hedged garden just beyond the ballroom and transformed into Rena Rouge, albeit a more formal version of what she normally wore but still distinctive as herself, as she waited for Marinette and Adrien’s signal to conjure Ladybug and Chat Noir’s arrival. The couple had just left the dancefloor and made their way to a table covered in canapes, standing side by side as they discussed something just below the reach of Alya’s fox enhanced hearing, crouching behind the hedge with the glass Adrien and Marinette stood behind in view, Alya watched as Mari turned slightly and swept the long sheet of inky hair hanging around her shoulder blades over her left shoulder. To ensure that the signal was more than just Mari fiddling with her hair like she usually did when it was out, the group had agreed to get Adrien to act as a secondary signaller; his instructions being to somehow snag his cufflinks on Mari’s small ponytail and pull it out so Mari would have to leave the ballroom to fix it, giving Alya the perfect chance to bring in the illusory Ladybug and Chat Noir before Marinette returned so she and Adrien could follow Gabriel’s retreat.

Catching Mari’s hair on his cufflink as planned, Adrien’s eyes met Alya’s briefly as Marinette’s hair came fully loose and she released a yelp of real, sincere pain at the tug. Watching Mari leave for the bathroom, Adrien following after her before slowing down and standing beside Nino, who was talking animatedly with Luka as Kagami nursed a flute of champagne, listening intently to the conversation before Juleka came out of nowhere and grabbed her brother’s arm, dragging him to the dance floor to waltz with her. The team hadn’t exactly factored in their non-superhero friends when they’d made the plan earlier that day and, as Alya raised her flute to her lips and wove her illusion, she hoped against hope that their friends, no matter how dearly she loved them, didn’t fuck this up.

~~~~~~~

Pacing back and forth, Nathalie was wringing her hands again. The skin on her hands was beginning to crack from how much she’d been wringing her hands in the past few days, she’d taken to wearing gloves when they’d arrived at Alsace, trying to hide the extent of her worry from Adrien. Dressed in a floor length cocktail dress of deep crimson, a gauzy cape hanging off her shoulders and falling to the floor behind her dress in a cascading waterfall of shimmering fabric, Nathalie played with the silken fingertips of her gloves as she looked out over the ballroom crowded with people. She could easily pick out Adrien’s golden head in the midst of all the people, his blue and black haired friend being dragged away by a girl with vibrant purple hair as the boy in the red hat, Nino she tried to recall his name as, laughed and laughed and laughed. Moving to the railing and placing her hands against it, trying not to squeeze the shining marble in a display of her anxiety, Nathalie’s eyes scanned across the room for Marinette, confused as to why she wasn’t at Adrien’s side.

There was a sudden clamouring and rise in volume from the floor below, heads turning to face the staircase as the crowd thickened into a tsunami of people moving slowly. Leaning over the railing slightly, Nathalie saw a dark haired girl in a gown of cold, bright red with black polka dots and a wide skirt standing beside the herald. Ladybug looked stunning, despite her face still being covered in a mask (though this one covered more of her face than the one she usually wore). The bodice was heart-shaped, showing off Ladybug’s clavicle slightly with long, black gloves reaching up to her surprisingly defined biceps and no sleeves, the waistline was tapered slightly in a V before the skirt sat out wide from her hips. A tulle overskirt designed to look like ladybug wings floated over the larger skirt on a phantom wind, that had Nathalie wide eyed and itching to take notes on every aspect of the dress so that she could study it and recreate it for herself.

“Ladybug, Superhero of Paris,” The herald’s voice rang across the room as every single voice dropped, Nathalie’s heart dropping too and cracking into the floor beneath her feet like a stone. No, no, no, no, she’d tried to tell them not to come. This was what Gabriel wanted. Why would they give him what he wanted? And why would they do it on Adrien’s birthday of all days? They knew that today was for him and they’d still come, intent on destroying Hawkmoth and Adrien Agreste with him. A young man with a head of golden hair dressed in a pristine black suit with a black button up beneath it and a golden bow tie appeared behind Ladybug and placed a hand on her lower back, leaning into the herald who announced him a moment later. “Chat Noir, the Superpowered Pun Master of Paris and King of Kitty Cats.”

Nathalie face palmed. Of course Chat Noir would make a spectacle of himself, asking to be announced in such a way. The two superheroes descended the stairs, Ladybug’s hand tucked into the crook of Chat Noir’s elbow as she looked around the ballroom serenely. Eyes snapping to the back of the room, Nathalie caught sight of Gabriel just in time for him to slip into a servant’s corridor and out of sight, her breath caught in her throat painfully. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

A/N; not an awfully long chapter, this one, cause chapter 21 is gonna be a monster of a chapter and I really didn’t want to make this one massive.

~~~~~~~TAGLINE~~~~~

@lady-charinette @maniic-pixie-dream-girl @aussie-lesbian @hnbutt @camelliaflwr @mochegato @a-star-with-a-human-name @beauty-and-her-books @imgaydontshoot @severalverysmallmangoesinabasket @katieykat513 @nifflerstorm @itwasmydog

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imaginaryelle · 5 years

Text

Diffindo

Notes: Inspired by this post by @no-gorms. I couldn’t resist. Part of my Leviosa-verse. Possibly a bit angstier than anyone was expecting. Many thanks to @laireshi for cheerleading and beta work!

This can also be read on AO3.

‘Come seek us where our voices sound, We cannot sing above the ground, And while you’re searching, ponder this: We’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss, An hour long you’ll have to look, And to recover what we took, But past an hour – the prospect’s black Too late, it’s gone, it won’t come back.’

Two spells: A bubble head charm, and a timer. Then Steve strips down to stockings, vest and breeches and takes a running dive into the ink-dark water, not even bothering to check what the other Champions are doing. Timing isn’t a bonus this round, it’s a limit, hard as death, and he’s not wasting a second.

Two minutes, and he spots lights in the depths. Six minutes, and he gets lost in a forest of seaweed he’s never noticed from the surface, too-large leaves blocking his view and dragging blanket-heavy at his limbs. It takes him nearly another ten minutes to untangle floating tendrils and find the lights again, diving ever deeper, until his muscles burn and tremble and the darkness closes all around, only those winking pinprick stars to guide him.

The water gets colder, cold enough to numb his hands and shock air from his lungs, but it can’t nearly compare to the ripple that crashes through him when he’s confronted by Tony Stark, sleep-limp and chained to a carved stone chair at the bottom of the lake, next to two strangers Steve vaguely recognizes from meals and passing in the halls.

He doesn’t have time to think about it. The timer spell ticks on like a pocket watch held against his ear, crisp and relentless. Thirty five minutes left. Batroc is pulling his classmate from the third chair and slinging spellwork at the merfolk closing around him even as Steve reaches Stark’s prison, and de Fontaine comes into view between one minute and the next.

The chains are thick, iron-heavy things, and he runs through three unlocking spells in quick succession before clawed hands grab at him and he’s faced with a ring of sharp-toothed merfolk with pointy tridents.

Stupefy, it turns out, doesn’t work nearly as well underwater as it does moving through air, but his shield spell is still reliable and Aqua Eructo, while not ideal, is still effective in pushing pointy things away from his general vicinity. Sectis works on the chains, though he has to make several cuts to get them all off. Thirty minutes left. Twenty-five. He risks a glance over at de Fontaine as he drags Stark upright and she grins at him before disappearing with an inrush of water. Apparition. He really should have tried to make it to the July test session over summer holiday.

Dragging Stark, soaking wet and—not dead weight, not that, but he’s limp, and heavy and still unconscious so—so anyway it’s not easy, trying to swim through mud-murk and clinging plants and get to the lake shore before his charms wear off or his time runs out while also pulling another person. Steve’s incredibly, ridiculously grateful that they’d learned some basic rescue techniques in Defense last year because he’s pretty certain that Stark is making this as difficult as possible, even in magically spelled sleep. The sticking charm keeps wearing off and needing to be renewed, and Stark’s ridiculous pendant keeps digging between Steve’s shoulders, and his hair is long enough to float free of its tie and into Steve’s eyes, and his green-and-silver robes keep fluttering around and threatening to catch on things. Steve keeps promising himself that if they actually do snag one more time he will hex them, or transfigure them, or possibly just vanish them, though maybe not that because he has absolutely no intention of showing up with a naked Tony Stark in his arms in front of not just his own classmates and teachers, but the better part of his wizarding peers from three different countries, and the Tournament’s assigned Aurors, and probably at least a few heads of the premier wizarding families in the world.

Not to mention that Stark would probably turn him into a fish and throw him to the Giant Squid on the spot.

A shadow moves through the ink-dark gloom, and Steve renews his shield and tries to swim faster. He thinks about spells for weightlessness, thinks about mobilicorpus and ascendio, and speed spells and enervate, because Stark would know how to make this easier. Stark would give him a how are you missing this Rogers, look and pull off something brilliant and make it look easy but here Steve is, worrying about how being underwater changes things, worrying about spell disruption and that if he tries to use more magic Stark will wake up and immediately drown. Something touches his ankle and he kicks out, kicks harder, and then his feet are sinking in the mud of the lakebed and his head and shoulders break out of the water.

He’s the last to the shore, but there’s still two minutes on the official clock. He’s completed the task, they’re a full challenge in, and no one’s died yet. Admittedly, Batroc seems to have a headwound, de Fontaine is cradling what might be a broken arm and Steve’s pretty sure his shoulder is bleeding, but still. No deaths. And the crowd is roaring approval, flashing Gryffindor gold and red.

Stark wakes before Steve can set him down and flails like a landed fish against his back until the sticking charm releases and he slips.

“What—” he falls back with a jolt that makes even Steve wince and looks down at his damp-dragging sleeves, and then up at Steve again. “Rogers, are you—why do you look like you got attacked by a harpy in the quidditch locker room and why, in Merlin’s name, is everything wet. I thought we had a truce here.”

“I, um. Saved you. From the bottom of the lake.” It’s becoming pretty obvious that Stark had no idea he was going to be Triwizard Task-bait. Steve’s not even sure he’s noticed the crowds, busy as he is patting down his sleeves, and his boots, and his belt with ever-increasing concern.

“Are you alright?” Steve asks, and then Stark is scrambling to his feet and rushing him.

“What did you do with my wand,” he hisses in Steve’s face. He has a handful of Steve’s shirt twisted in his fist, and Steve feels something drop dread-cold through his middle.

“I don’t have it,” he says. “I swear, I never saw it, I don’t—” He looks out at the lake, at the placid ripple of the water over the well-deep shine of the sky. It can’t still be out there. Can it? He wouldn’t have missed that, couldn’t have he would never—

He hadn’t been looking.

Stark looks ready to murder him, and Steve doesn’t doubt he could, wand or no wand. He wonders, the thought fleeing across his mind like a startled deer, whether a Champion has ever been killed by a fellow classmate during a task before.

“Accio Stark’s wand,” he says, twisting his wrist just so. The spell takes, but the wand doesn’t come from the lake. Instead, it sails toward them from the left, castle-side, where the Headmaster is making his way across the grass.

Stark snatches it out of the air and dries them both off with a smooth, complicated motion Steve can’t help but envy. He staring at the Headmaster, now, and the judges, all fury apparently diverted.

“Bottom of the lake, you said?”

“There were chains, and merfolk,” Steve confirms. “Sorry,” he adds. “I didn’t know—”

“I know you didn’t,” Stark snaps. He’s tying back his hair, his social mask sliding click-slick into place. “The whole point is that the Champions don’t know.” He tears his eyes away from the Headmaster. “Stop standing there and put some clothes on, will you? You’re embarrassing the entire school.”

Steve is fairly certain no one cares whether he’s wearing his robes or not just now, but Stark is already striding angrily away so he retrieves his outer layers anyway. Announcements boom out, updating the scores: he’s in the middle, trailing de Fontaine by five points and leading Batroc by two. A penalty: Batroc’s rescuee was injured. And then Steve gets waylaid by one of the nurses, and then by Batroc offering congratulations, and then by two of the senior Aurors, who are at least still encouraging about his prospects if he applies for apprenticeship in the spring (if he lives, of course. Some days he wishes he’d never put his name in the Goblet, but apprenticeships cost, and where was he supposed to get the money? Him, muggle-born Steve Rogers of the Colonies with just a few sickles to his name. Odd jobs in Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley would never be enough).

By the time the crowd thins and he can take a breath and look around again, Stark is long gone. Which is just as well, really; Steve can’t remember what he’d wanted to say, and he needs to wash up and change clothes. He still has a Charms essay to finish before tomorrow.

“Shame the Tasks don’t get you off this stuff,” Dugan says, later, when they and a handful of other seventh years are bent over books in the library.

“Shame they don’t let us all off,” grumbles Pinkerton. “Everyone’s at the Task, anyway, it’s not as if any of us have more time than he does. And speaking of.” He points his quill at Steve. “What was all that about, with Stark?”

“All what?” Steve asks. He turns back a few pages to double-check his notes.

“You know. Why him. Someone tied up at the bottom of a lake and they pick Stark for you. What was it, a test of compassion for dreaded rivals?”

Steve sighs. “For the last time, we’re not rivals.” There wasn’t a good word for it, even in his head. Too fiery for friends, but burning too much the same for enemies.

“You used to be.”

“He used to steal my notes and prank me, that doesn’t make us rivals.”

“Point still stands,” Dugan insists, setting aside his book entirely now. Eager. “Why him? Why not one of us? Not that I want to be chained up at the bottom of the lake mind, but—”

“I don’t know, alright?” Steve crumples his parchment and stands; stamps his temper down to smoldering coals again. “I’m going back to the common room” He stacks his books. “I’ll see you later.”

“Right,” Dugan says, subdued, and that’s that.

Except: Steve doesn’t go back to the Gryffindor common room. Instead, he paces in front of a plaster-plain stretch of wall until a door appears, welcome as an open hand, and he disappears behind it.

Hours later, when his essay is done, when he’s caught up on his Potions readings and practiced the new Defense spells, and resignedly resorted to staring out the window at the rainy moors like some hopeless idiot in a chivalric romance, Stark flops down on the couch behind him.

“You missed dinner,” he says, slightly muffled. From the wavy reflection in the glass Steve thinks he’s got his arm over his face.

“Did you bring me anything?”

“What am I, a servant?” Stark gripes, but when Steve turns there’s a little knotted-kerchief bundle on his desk, wrapped up in Stark’s distinctive spellwork. A full plate, still hot, with a perfectly chilled cup of cider in the middle.

“Thanks.” Steve doesn’t have to look to know Stark is waving away the gratitude. Don’t mention it. Ever.

Truce means that they talk, even when they’re not on holiday with just the two of them in the whole of Hogwarts and maybe a handful of younger Colony kids who can’t go home, if they have homes to go to at all. It doesn’t mean they’re friends.

At least, it doesn’t mean they’re friends, outside this room. And sometimes not inside it either, the number of shouting matches they end up in. But it’s … something.

There’s even a piece of baklava on the plate, which Steve is pretty sure means he’s been absolved of any wrongdoing in the lake incident. It’s usually him bringing Stark food, but when the pattern shifts he can generally gauge the mood by food choices. Stark is not as subtle as he thinks he is, and baklava is blatant bribery. He wants something.

“They got the names from the Goblet of Fire,” he says as Steve settles in to bread and cheese and roasted pheasant. “Said there was no reason to protest, since I put my name in it in the first place. Not that any of the listed warnings mentioned additional risks for the non-chosen.”

Steve chews in silence. He’s had some time to think things over, now, and Stark’s question is obvious, the same as Dugan’s, but Steve’ not sure he wants to answer it.

Stark is staring at him. Steve takes another bite. Stark rolls his eyes.

“Don’t play dull, Rogers.”

“Oh, does everything you say require a response now?” Deflect. Defend. Curl around the answer. “I thought you were doing that thing where you think out loud and hate being interrupted.”

He gets a scowl for that, but no verbal protest. Stark’s certainly grouched about such interruptions before.

“Tell me,” he says instead.

“Tell you what?”

He sits upright and levels a look that Steve thinks is supposed to be stern or intimidating, but barely looks better on Stark’s face now than it did when he first started trying it out three years ago. It probably needs a certain kind of facial hair to pull off, and Stark hasn’t figured out the right shape yet. Or maybe it just needs a different face. Broader of jaw and heavier of brow, like both their fathers.

“Tell me why, in Salazar’s name, I was the person who got spelled and imprisoned at the bottom of the lake for you to rescue.”

“I don’t think it’s important,” Steve tries. The cider prickles on his tongue, washing the truth to the back of his throat, swallowing it down.

“It was important enough to nearly get me killed,” Stark points out. He draws sparks between his fingers, a map of thoughts in light—Steve is the gold, Stark is the silver, and a twist of white fire between them.

“I mean it’s not important for the future,” Steve amends. “I don’t think it’s the sort of thing to happen twice.”

“And what gives you that certainty, oh mighty Champion?” Stark drawls. Stars twinkle under his hands, bright as justice. Steve shrugs and stares at his plate and keeps eating. After a moment Stark dispels the illusion and rises in a huff to pace in front of the window.

Steve watches him walk, watches the hungry reach of his steps, and eats until the baklava’s sitting sticky and golden and alone.

“It was in the riddle,” he admits, tracing lines of honey with his spoon. “It said, we’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss.”

He’s braced for some kind of incredulous blow-up. Or a brush-off. Come off it, Rogers, or, you always have had terrible aim, or something else deflecting, because Stark learned that before he ever came to Hogwarts, before they ever met on that long journey over the Atlantic, before they were sorted and Slytherin House turned Tony into Stark—ever the mask and walls, the world held at bay. He’s not ready for Stark to sag where he stands, like the string holding him steady’s been cut, or to hear him mutter, “I hate divination.”

(It’s not true, not really. In third year Stark had loved divination. The idea of it, anyway. It had just become rather immediately, terribly obvious that he’d never be able to get any of the spells to work.)

Something in Steve’s core freezes, static and cold. Yes, alright, the idea that he’d sorely miss Stark wasn’t one he’d wanted to look at. But it’d been obvious, in retrospect, hadn’t it? Even if they didn’t much like each other most of the time, at least Stark was a constant. And with their seventh year humming along and the prospect of apprenticeships looming at the end of it, it had been pretty obvious things would change. And it wasn’t as if the judges could steal the whole of Hogwarts, or anything, so it made sense that—that things would be changing and that would be strange and—it wasn’t supposed to mean anything else.

(It was, most definitely, not supposed to mean that anyone else had noticed him staring at Stark’s hair, or at his hands, or his lips, here in this study room that was theirs and no one else’s. It wasn’t supposed to mean that someone had been fishing through memories of summer laughter, or stolen Christmas cocoa, or dreams of—it wasn’t supposed to mean anything like that.)

“What—what are you talking about?”

Stark sighs. He looks down at his hands and fiddles with something there. A ring, Steve realizes, on his right hand. He’s never seen it before. It wasn’t on Stark’s hand this morning, during the Task.

“I’m taking my NEWTs early,” he says in a rush. Steve must look as confused as he feels, because Stark continues, unprompted. “I’ve been writing my cousins. The Carbonells. They’ve got a partnership with the big Italian spellmakers in Florence.” His gaze skitters over Steve’s face, never quite meeting his eyes. He looks away. “The apprenticeship starts in January.”

Steve’s losing track of his senses. The world is too loud, too bright; he feels like his whole self is being uprooted and whipped about in a white roar of too much, too fast.

“Your apprenticeship,” he says, hardly able to hear himself. “You accepted.”

“I got the confirmation this afternoon.”

Steve sets his plate aside and leans over his knees, balancing his head on his fists.

“You’re leaving. In January.”

“December,” Stark corrects. “I have to go to London first. For the NEWTs.”

Steve looks up at him and laughs, disbelieving. “That’s hardly a month away. You think you’ll pass them?”

“Of course. After the work we did this summer? You could be applying to the Auror program right now, if the Goblet had chosen someone else.”

It hits like a hex, right in his gut. His stomach curdles. Stark isn’t going to be around for the next Task. Steve won’t see him in the crowd, or ask for his help with preparing, or anything, because Stark’s going to be in Italy, getting on with his life.

The mask slips. For a moment, it’s just Tony standing there in front of him.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean—you’re right, about the money and the publicity. It’ll be good for you. Like a preview for the Auror trials. And you’ll win.” He smiles, a small twist of his mouth. “You always win.”

Not this time, Steve just manages not to say. “Will you be here for Christmas?” he asks. It’s a ball year, and worse as a Champion he’ll have to dance, so of course it won’t be the same as the years between but it would still be—but Tony’s shaking his head.

“Sorry,” he repeats.

For a wild, incoherent moment, Steve thinks about kissing him. About standing up and dragging Tony close, touching his hair and actually finding out if it’s as soft as it looks. He’d hold his hand and ask him to stay, or to come back. Back for the ball, to dance with Steve, and for one more Christmas. For the second Task, and the third, to kiss him good luck, and to celebrate with butterbeer and firewhiskey and the groundskeeper’s hard cider, and maybe then Steve would feel like he could put words to whatever in him fixes on Tony so much, swinging toward him like a compass; fluttering like a sparrow when he laughs; drawing an orbit around him even when anger burns in his throat.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” he asks, trying to hold onto this moment even if he has to do it with his teeth. “You must’ve been working on this for months.”

“I honestly didn’t think it would work out,” Tony’s mouth twists again, self-deprecating. “And then you were busy with the Tournament, and … ”

“And?” Steve prompts, searching his face.

“And I didn’t think you’d care.” Tony makes a sharp gesture with his hands. “Is that what you want to hear? I didn’t think it would matter.”

“Of course it matters—”

“Of course!” Tony’s voice rises. “Of course it matters, it’s so obvious it matters that even an enchanted drinking vessel knows, the merpeople know, how did that happen, Steve?”

“It’s not some big secret that we’ve known each other for ages—”

“Knowing is not the same as will sorely miss, I’m not planning on giving most of our class another thought—”

“No one knows how the Goblet works, and anyway why wouldn’t I miss you?”

The words ring in his ears (through the whole room, delivered at a shout). “Are you saying you won’t miss me?” he asks, quieter.

Tony is pacing again, long angry strides with whip-tight turns. He doesn’t answer.

“Tony.”

“What?” His robes flare like a cobra’s hood. Ready to strike. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to stay.” He can’t take it back. It’s out there now, in the gaping hollow space between his mouth and Tony’s ears. Please, stay, please, you can be my lodestar and I’ll be your anchor and we’ll ride these waves forever, like always.

“For what purpose? What difference can six months make?” Tony shakes his head. “It’d only delay the inevitable. And I won’t get another chance like this.”

Steve doesn’t have an answer. Just a feeling, churning in his chest, a chorus of not yet, not yet, and he’s not even sure why. Logically, Tony is right. It’s a good opportunity. He should take it.

He hadn’t told Tony he’d put his name in the Goblet. They’re not friends. Even if he’d wanted to be. Even if he’d maybe wanted—it doesn’t matter. They can’t stay at Hogwarts forever, and the future isn’t some far-off possibility anymore, it’s here and real and heavy on his shoulders, thick as fog in his lungs and crackling like ice around his ankles, and Tony is right. They’ve had six years. Almost seven. Six months can hardly matter. (It matters, it does, it could—but the words catch in his mouth and stutter behind his teeth, too soft, too sudden, too late.)

(He doesn’t want to say goodbye.)

#stevetony #stony #hogwarts au #marvel 616 #superhusbands #alex writes #leviosa-verse

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codynaomiswireart · 5 years

Text

“I Can Bring You Back”

Rapunzel once again falls into a trance induced by the moon incantation...and it's up to Varian to bring her back out of it.

A quick ficlet inspired by the events of "Rapunzel and the Great Tree" (SPOILER ALERT FOR THAT EPISODE!) and a piece of TTS/RTA fan art by @qu-r.

Link to fan art reference - https://qu-r.tumblr.com/post/183044858770/p1-rocks-stand-and-endure-let-your-sorrow-free

Also, moon!Varian AU, because I can't get enough of it. ^^

“Wither and decay,

End this destiny,

Break these earthly chains,

And set the spirit free…”

Varian furrowed his brow as he saw her standing there.

Rapunzel stood with a slight, sleepy stoop to her shoulders, and her eyes were empty and black as translucent tears streamed down from them uncontrollably. Rapunzel’s hair flowed around her like dark, inky tentacles, and they seemed to be searching for any source of life that they might drain, though their search was by no means in haste. Death felt no need to rush apparently. It could slink about, taking its time. Time didn’t seem to matter much to it. Just so long as it kept moving. Kept spreading.

Varian felt himself shudder as the cold darkness spread into the ground beneath his feet, and it took all of his resolve to not flee in terror. He heard the sprinting footsteps of everyone else retreat in the other direction behind him, and he heard the sound of Cassandra’s metallic footfalls falter and stop when she realized they’d left him behind.

And Varian wasn’t moving.

“VARIAN!” Cassandra screamed at him. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING YOU IDIOT!? GET OUT OF THERE!”

But Varian only responded with a quick glance at her over his shoulder, noting the look of panic in her eyes as they met his. And then, he began to walk forward…towards Rapunzel.

“Wither and decay…”

“NO VARIAN!” Cassandra and Eugene yelled at him, and the others all made distressed gasps of their own as Varian continued to move into the soul-sucking darkness. Cass and Eugene didn’t know what Varian was thinking (Had he gone mad!? Did he have a death wish!? Would he try to hurt Rapunzel a second time!?), and the two of them would’ve gone rushing in to try to grab him and drag him back beyond the range of Rapunzel’s powers, but their attempt was in vain. Almost immediately, the two of them stumbled and fell as they made their way passed the outer line of the dark radius, and they felt the life begin to drain out of them.

“End this destiny…”

Hearing their cries of distress behind him, Varian paused just long enough to see Lance and Hookfoot manage to drag the two of them back beyond the dark circle of decaying plant matter, and as Varian breathed a sigh of relief at their safety (for the moment), he continued on in his stride, with his coat beginning to billow around him slightly as the thick locks of Rapunzel’s hair brushed against him like curious animals sniffing about for prey.

“Break these earthly chains…”

Varian tried hard to concentrate as he could feel his steps slowing as he drew nearer. He may have had protection from death for the moment (at least, so he’d been told), but he knew it wouldn’t last long. Varian could hear more gasps from his comrades behind him as his hair began to glow a similar dull blue to that which flowed along the strands of Rapunzel’s own, with the most prominent blue streak in his hair growing the brightest the most quickly. A moment later, his whole head was crowned in a silvery white, and his eyes went bright and blank as Rapunzel’s hair curled loosely around his form, searching for any chink in the equal-and-opposite magic protecting him. He drew nearer still.

“And set the spirit free…”

At last, Varian came to stop right in front of Rapunzel, and while she appeared to be looking right at him – her pitch black eyes meeting his pale white ones – it also seemed like she didn’t actually see him. She only continued to stand there, with her arms hanging loosely at her sides, and the tears still streaming down her face unheeded.

“Wither and decay,

End this destiny,

Break these earthly chains,

And set the spirit free…”

Again Rapunzel repeated that verse, though now instead of singing it in melancholy melody, she was now just chanting it over and over and over again.

She couldn’t stop.

“Wither and decay,

End this destiny,

Break these earthly chains,

And set the spirit free…”

“Wither and de- Ah!”

Rapunzel started back as she felt Varian’s touch on her left hand. Varian couldn’t help but let out a breath of relief as his gloved right hand remained in tact upon clasping hers gently. While he did feel a chill go into his palm and fingers – like his hand had been plunged into a bucket of ice water – it did not burn, wither or spasm. Rapunzel blinked down at him, though her eyelids fluttered over what were still the deep, dark voids that were lost and confused.

“…V-Varian!?” Rapunzel cried in a frightened tone as reality suddenly began to crash in on her. Varian swallowed hard.

“H-hello Rapunzel,” Varian nearly whispered as he pushed passed the hoarseness in his throat. “Don’t worry, it’s going to be all-”

“Wither and decay…”

Now it was Varian who started back a little (though still keeping a hold of Rapunzel’s hand), as Rapunzel began to enter back into the monotonous trace of the moon incantation.

“End this destiny…”

“No no Rapunzel!” Varian tried again, though with more desperation in his voice now as he grabbed her by the shoulders. “Rapunzel, it’s ok. You just need to-”

“Break these earthly chains,

And set the spirit free…”

Varian now felt the first pin-pricks of burning in his fingers as Rapunzel continued to chant, and Varian tried again to bring her back to her senses with a few shakes of her shoulders and crying out to her, but this only seemed to maker her chant louder in response.

“Wither and decay!

End this destiny…!”

Varian felt his posture begin to slump as weakness began to close in on him. He needed to act now! But what could he do!? Nothing seemed to be getting through to her, and Varian probably had only a minute or two at the most before he would lose consciousness, and then worse.

“What should I do!?” he asked himself, trying to ignore the persistent curling and caressing of Rapunzel’s hair about him – as if beckoning him into eternal sleep – as his mind raced to think of what he could possibly do to calm Rapunzel down.

Then, he got an idea.

“It might be a bit weird,” he thought to himself, “but under the circumstances, I don’t really care.”

Trying to be as gentle and non-threatening as he could, Varian set his hands on Rapunzel’s shoulders, and slowly guided her down into a sitting position, where he too sat down in front of her on his knees.

“Don’t worry Rapunzel,” Varian said calmly underneath her continued chanting. “It’s ok. You can stop now. It’s all right. I’m here. I can help you. You just have to trust me.”

“Wither and decay!

End this destiny…!”

“Rapunzel,” Varian tried a bit louder. “Listen to me. I know you’re scared. You feel alone, cold, and in a dark place, but you’re not alone. I’m here. I can bring you back.”

“Break these earthly chains,

And set…s-set the spirit free…”

Varian felt his consciousness waver, but Rapunzel’s stammer in her speech and a quick blinking of her eyes was all of the encouragement he needed. He was getting through! But it wasn’t quite enough.

Again, trying to be as gentle as he could, Varian moved to draw Rapunzel’s face towards his own, and shut his eyes as he felt her forehead make contact with his. As their foreheads met, Rapunzel’s words suddenly died in her throat, through the tears continued to flow from her eyes, and her hair still billowed about them like a dark, streaming cloud.

With that, Varian took a deep breath, and now he was the one who began to sing.

“Flower gleam and glow,

Let your power shine,

Make the clock reverse,

Bring back what once was mine…”

If Varian had his eyes open to see it, he would’ve seen the gradual receding of the darkness along Rapunzel’s locks, with their usual gold coming back from the ends and making its way swiftly towards her scalp as his singing rang in the air around them.

“Heal what has been hurt,

Change the fate’s design,

Save what has been lost,

Bring back what once was mine…”

Everyone else stood and stared with their mouths wide open as the darkness retreated from before them at Varian’s song, and Rapunzel’s eyes returned to their usual vibrant green just as the last notes ceased to vibrate in Varian’s throat.

“What once was mine…”

Pulling back and opening his own eyes, Varian was able to give Rapunzel one weak, reassuring smile, before the silver glow from above him dimmed back to a deep ebony. Then, everything else went black around him as well as he felt himself beginning to fall, and he just managed to feel Rapunzel’s arms catch him and her voice call his name before exhaustion engulfed him in its embrace.

#tts #rta #tangled the series #rapunzel's tangled adventure #tts spoilers #rta spoilers #fan fiction #ficlet #varian #rapunzel #princess rapunzel #rapunzel and the great tree #moon!varian

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saintorr · 4 years

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The Most Beautiful Parts

by St.Orr c. 2017

The most beautiful parts of myself glow when I have compassion for myself, for my pain, my joy and solitude; for the craters, bags and wrinkles that attach themselves to my face and body as I age. Along with these come the tears, smiles and feelings (stuffed and unstuffed) that constitute this lovely, divinely starborn (and sometimes stillborn) psycho-bionic being and oh so grounded human entity called myself. There are broken dreams and anger, the shadows of dark and the shadows of gold; both the ashes and the infinite parts of the pieces of the puzzle that make up the me, a man who thought he was a little girl, who then accepted the man he grew into, wrapped in all of the scars of that cocoon woven into a fleece of many colors, of many shadows, and seasons that make up a life.

I can see the grace and beauty of those larger than life stars as they sit at their tables at the great awards shows, the Golden Globes, the Oscars, etc. I sit at home and watch and wonder at their flow, their luminosity, their electric energy broadcast through all the wireless waves and satellites and piped into my monitor; I feed on them, consume them and think to myself because I can see their beauty, their grace, that I have it too! Because I can feel them glistening with unimaginable gentleness, grace, beauty and power, then I too must have those things in me. Or maybe some essence? Well, doesn’t every human being?

When these luminous ones come together to make their art, they overshadow all the neurotic news of bombastic tyrants and terrorist statistics; they shine through the fear, bloodletting, violence and hatred of the current world, circa winter, 2017. But they shine their fake smiles on all the dreamers and poets who still scrawl, write, and scrounge through the bottom layers of silt seeking a chance at the glamour and the gold of this crap game called show business where beauty is elevated to an art form that can inspire and lift. Their beauty too can be a trap—for it is the A-list, in-crowd that the agents and managers feed on and fight over, the stars we worship and adore. For, let's face no one wants or cares to hear about the losers whose dreaming destroyed them.

The only famous person I ever massaged was Clive Davis. Other writers have warned me never NEVER to use real names when I record my memoirs but here I go. My purpose is not to gossip or slander but simple illustrate how the high roads and pinnacles of great success can sometimes meet the everyday world of the common man and produce a strange concoction all its own. I was called to Davis’ black marble penthouse tower on Park Avenue late one Sunday evening. He was an elderly man, he owned his own massage table and after a very anti-climactic session he paid me partially in nickels and dimes. While I stood there, in his kitchen, receiving the coins in open palms, his sick, dying Cocker Spaniel had the audacity to throw-up on my shoe. I don’t think there were any pennies. Clive inspired me to write a song called “Park Avenue” which I later produced, recorded and played for him when he called me for a second massage. He didn’t seem impressed when he heard it. “Meh, it's not a killer” he said, shrugging his shoulders and curling his lips. So much for inspiration.

There was one client who actually did pay me partially in pennies; a forgettable outcall in the West Village truly more deserving of the demeaning label of trick than that of massage client. Besides the backbreaking massage, this arrogant, cold-blooded white snake of a humanoid also demanded that I piss on him in his bathtub. I still recall the hideous, garish Kelly green and shiny silver wallpaper of that awful bathroom; and the urge to throw the carefully counted pennies that he doled out right back in his face as he paid me off, both of us standing by the door. God I so wish I had flung those pennies right back into his satiated, smirking face. This was after I rubbed him and worked him up to a sensual release as the bedside photo of his lover standing on some pristine Hamptons beach replete with foaming waves and pant legs rolled up in the sand looked on, a boyish smile sweetly singing into the camera.

The little boy in me has followed the man to the places where touch replaced sanity as the ultimate actor's “Survival Job” and the worship of the ecstasy of the orgasm was all, was enough, was better, truer and more real than any other form of working in the mundane “real world” could ever be.

Now, I am emerging from that cocoon. Emerging from all my years that are spread out like a long, murky dark night of the soul. Older, wiser, a bit slower and a bit less generous with my body and hands to the hungry, horny minions of men; for what choice does one have when the downtime waves come lasting for a week, two weeks, or two months? In years past, when I was younger, the downtime could be measured in hours or days, there was always an endless supply of male (and sometimes female) clients in and out and up and down the one flight of stairs leading to my one-bedroom East Village flat. Then I recall all the hours spent in spas, the Plaza, the Waldorf, the crème de la crème of the best hotels and spas in the city; those passive aggressive, peach and crème-colored torture chambers with their silken linen smells and serenely smiling blond aestheticians working the front desk, making bookings, taking payments, listening to the complaints of the rich and not-so-famous. How many times was I initiated into the true meaning of the embalmed slave-state of the so-called service industry mentality? The place where New age serenity smiles are glued in place like impenetrable plastic masks. Oh the ache of the pressure of hands on bodies, hour after hour, giving until there’s nothing left to give; to have to smile, to have to fight attitudinal managers over incorrect paychecks, explain yourself like a criminal when some cunt complains about something you did or didn’t do (“too much peppermint oil on my thigh, it started to burn!” "So sorry to rock your bliss lady, but the cap was loose and came off in my hand!” or “During the massage, his fingers felt much too close to my inner thigh;" or "he stole my Rolex watch”). Oh what joy to be jumping like a trained circus dog when the cruel but handsome, Latin bisexual manager snapped his fingers “Room 4-Go!” at the West Village “Nickel-Spa for men.” That was the summer of the blackout I remember. There, in a tiny massage room, in the dark, a client lay prone, waiting. And there, light from outside glowed through a slit in the door like some view into a World War II NAZI gas chamber that "Hector” would peep through to check up on you, his eyes searching and accusing, making sure you weren’t doing anything naughty! In the darkened room while you massaged, sometimes you fantasized about lunch, the end of the shift, fantasizing the clock speeding up so the hour would go faster. Also, sometimes there were mysterious energy shifts and exchanges. You would begin the massage with a sore wrist, back or an upset stomach and simply through the mindful meditation of touching--of giving--your malady would disappear. Miraculous. After many a massage too, the clients would reappear looking pleasantly-sleepy, refreshed and years younger. Healing hands are so underrated. There is a lovely Zen quality to simply touching and being paid for it. It’s a pure physical, intimate work on a much higher level than office 9-5 drudgery. I’m grateful too for all the joys the sexual release work have given me through the years. Talk about “sweet labors of love.” So it almost appears strange that after all this physicality and all this time I wonder why is it that now, when I find myself servicing a client’s sexual needs that an intense nausea rises in my gut and I’m forced to fight the almost overwhelming urge to vomit? Interesting that after what?--some thirty years of doing massage (I started in 1990) that this very ethereal thing called self-integrity that I thought I’d lost or abandoned years ago, (my lost soul perhaps?) has come back to own me with a vengeance. Or maybe I’m owning it, my dear, sweet self-soul, after all these years. Thank you, God. I guess there’s a point where every man grows into his skin and outgrows his tired, cock-heavy adolescence. It’s as if my gut is telling me “You HATE this.” But I ignore the feelings and my urge to puke when repulsion grips me. I know the hour will soon be done and this strange “stimulation/torture/meditation” meshing and merging of energies, fluids and fantasies called M4Mmassage will help me pay yet another month of my over-priced New York rent. In my new vision of this my “third ace,” I see myself fleeing this inflated, over-hyped, hollow, over-populated and all-too-neurotic place called New York City. Please God, soon, I pray, just the vista of the ocean and a small garden and I’ll be fine. Oh, and no more massages please, unless he’s my lover and not a client.

#fabulousfaggotry saintorr stevenorrwriter stevenorr nycmasseur

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the-blind-assassin-12 · 5 years

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Oblivion

Part Eight: Come On And Disappear

A/N: it’s the last night you’ll ever spend with Logan in the park, and time to put Juliet’s plan into action. Only one more part to go!!

Warnings: language, teeny bit of zest implied, drug use/overdose, suicide/ death, mentions of sexual and physical abuse

Word Count: 4,013

There was a low, dull hum in Logan’s ears as he stumbled out of the car, and it drowned out the sound of his shiny shoes hitting the pavement. He didn’t know how he had gotten there, couldn’t remember the drive or how he even knew where to go. Did she call me? Did I black out? He felt his bones vibrating, fought hard to keep his vision clear enough to see where he was going, blinking his wide eyes. He tore the front door open and raced inside, screaming your name, begging you to tell him where you were. Music was playing softly from a room somewhere on the second floor, an ethereal, haunting song with harps and piano that was at once soothing and sinister. Panicking at your lack of response, Logan took the steps two at a time, legs burning with how hard he was pushing them. Please, please be… please let me have made it in time… His shuddering breaths were making him dizzy, like his brain was being tossed inside his skull. Mouth drier than the desert sand on a scorching afternoon, throat thick and hands rattling, he gripped the door jam as he felt his life force leave his heart. He fell to your side, purely on instinct and adrenaline, but he knew. The blood and the blade and the bottle. Your skin and your eyes and the tears that were still wet on your cheeks. You were gone, he knew, even as he knelt beside you, repeating your name over and over and over, like a prayer to a god he didn't believe in; even as he scooped you into his arms, blood soaking into his shirt and onto his hands and arms and chest and face; even as he sobbed and told you he loved you, kissing the tears from your cheeks one last time, Logan knew that you were gone. He felt his soul shatter, splintering into shards as he cried for you, calling your name, knowing that you’d never respond.

. . . . . . . .

“Logan! Logan?!” Your voice cracked with concern as you gripped his shoulders. You’d been sleeping peacefully- the weight of his hand on your back, the cadence of his occasional snores, the sounds of the night outside the small sanctuary, and the warmth that only Logan could provide- but you jolted awake when you heard his sleepy mumbles become more and more agitated. You rolled over in the dark and saw his face, eyes screwed tightly shut, your name on his tongue, tone laced with absolute terror and agony. “Logan, come on, open your eyes, it’s okay.” You took his face in your hands, his skin burning beneath your touch, and gently kissed the bridge of his nose and the corner of his eye. “Logan, hey, hey,” your worry faded as his eyes finally fluttered open finding yours. His forehead wrinkled and his mouth fell open, gulping the air greedily as he looked you over- like he was trying to convince himself that you were solid and not a figment of his dreams. “Hey,” you kissed his cheek, relief flooding your heart. “It’s okay, come here, its okay.” You wrapped him up and he responded by laying his head on your chest and winding his arms around your waist, squeezing you so tightly you thought he might crush you.

You held him like that, not saying anything at all, brushing your fingers through his long hair while his breathing evened back out. Eventually you felt his lips on your collarbone, his nose pressed into the crook of your neck. You knew he’d been having a nightmare, but you didn’t know what about. He relaxed against you, releasing some of the tension in his body, loosening his grip on you just enough so that you could shift to a seated position, leaning against the wall behind you. He followed your movement, not ready for you to let him go just yet. He kissed your clavicle again and you felt a dampness on your skin that told you he was crying. Oh, Logan. You wanted to take whatever it was, whatever pain his sleeping mind had put him through, and absorb it so he wouldn’t have to feel it, so he wouldn’t have to feel afraid. You kept combing through his hair until you felt him take a deep breath and knew he was about to speak.

“I was too late…” his voice was rough, scratchy, like his vocal chords had been rubbed with coarse sandpaper. You felt his fingers curl against your side, knuckles drifting up and down your ribs. “I found you, but…” he exhaled shakily. “You were already...there was so much blood...your eyes were…” he choked and you felt ice spread through your chest. It was you. His nightmare was about you and he didn’t need to get into the details for you to know what had happened. “Your eyes were open but you weren’t...you weren’t there.”

“It was just a dream,” you softened your voice as much as you could, resting your cheek against the top of his head. “I’m okay, I’m right here with you. I’m here, Logan.”

“It was so real, though...so…” you felt him tense up again and you tried again to soak up his pain like a sponge.

“It’s not going to happen. I promise you. It’s never going to happen, okay?.” You swallowed a thick lump in your throat as you kissed his temple. “Logan?” He didn’t answer you. For a few seconds all you heard were crickets playing their strings and the far off cry of a mournful owl. You pulled back and looked down at him. “Logan, please look at me…” It took another few seconds, but he finally picked his head up and obliged, looking at you through the hair that had fallen in his face. You swept it aside and gave him what you hoped was a warm, sweet smile. It was hard, when he was looking at you like that, with all the fear he’d ever felt swimming in those midnight eyes, the moonlight silver on his skin, but you focused on what you wanted to say to him, and that made the smile easier. “You weren’t too late, Logan. You saved my life. I was...I was disappearing...slipping, but... I’m here...I’m right here in this room because of you. Because you found me, and you weren’t too late.” It was true. He’d found you in the graveyard, he’d brought you back from the brink of existence, he’d given you a dream to hope for, he’d opened your eyes and shown you that it wasn’t all lost, and he needed to know that. You needed him to know that.

Your words seemed to have started sinking in. He kissed the hollow of your throat so delicately that even the scratchy hair of his beard felt like down feathers. Sitting up fully, he locked his eyes on yours and reached for both of your hands. You gave them over to him without hesitation, your small palms vanishing in his. He spoke your name deliberately, the wavering gone from his voice.“I have to tell you something,” his tone was serious, but not heavy, eyes bright even in the darkness. You nodded, heart jumping as his eyes flicked from yours to your lips and back up again. “I know we’re so close to this being over…”

“Tomorrow, a few hours,” you sighed and he squeezed your hands, the ghost of a smile lifting one of his cheeks.

“But I don’t want to wait until tomorrow.” He shook his head slowly, keeping his eyes on yours. “Just in case…” he cursed under his breath and closed his eyes.

Suddenly you knew what had prompted his nightmare, and it made perfect sense, which cut right through you; Just in case...he’s terrified. We’re so close… he’s scared we’ve made it this far just to have it fall through… You twisted one hand free of his grip and brought it to his face. Fingertips skating over his eyebrows, you leaned in and brushed your lips to his, breathing his name as you broke the kiss. “It’s okay. It’s going to work. You have to believe that.” You let your palm curve around his jaw, thumb resting just below his ear.

. . . . . .

Logan had been drowning in his tendency to expect failure. This is too easy. This… it’s too right… something’s going to fuck this up… I’m going to fuck this up somehow… thoughts like those rattled around like tumbleweeds as he fell asleep. His hand was on your back, anchoring him to the most important thing in his world, but his mind, the muscle memory of his brain, told him that it would all come crashing down. Somehow. We’ll get caught. Erik will break her. I’ll relapse and overdose. Somehow I’m going to lose…or I’m going to lose her… The closer the clock counted down to putting the plan into action, the louder the rush of blood in his ears. Right now, even as you soothed him after the horrific visions that his mind conjured out of fear and habit, even with your hand on his face and the trace of your lips still tingling on his own, the sound was deafening, roaring. But he listened to your words, to what you were saying, and he chose to believe. He chose to believe that what he knew in his heart was the truth, chose to believe that now was the only time. He swallowed, hard. In the dream he’d just had, when he’d told your lifeless form that he loved you, that had been the first time he’d uttered those words. No matter what happened tomorrow or the day after or in two years, he wouldn’t be too late for this.

He opened his eyes and turned quickly to kiss your palm. “I love you.” He said it like he’d been saying it for years. He said it like it was the most natural thing in the universe, like breathing, an involuntary operation. “I love you, and I needed you to know that.” He shook his head. “Not just in case of anything...just... “

“I love you, Logan.” You cut him off with a whispered admission of your own, and he felt that rush in his ears dissipate and recede like angry waters fleeing back to sea after a storm. She...she said it too...she feels it too. His jaw dropped open beneath your hand but he closed it with a little snap, felt your fingers brush against his earlobe and his face split into an absurd grin, a surprised, excited little laugh fell from his lips. His eyes swam and he didn’t even try to stop a few tears from forming in the corners. “I love you.” You continued, as his heart continued to grow warm, hearing the phrase that no one had ever said to him from the only person he ever wanted to. “Every part of you. All of it.” You took your hand from his face and pressed it to his chest, over the beating muscle that kept him going despite how much abuse he’d heaped on it over the years. Your palm against his bare chest felt like magic, like you were re-writing the rhythm of his life with your touch. In a way, you were. “Everything, Logan. No matter what happened before, no matter what happens tomorrow. I love you, and I’ll always fight for you.”

He needed you in his arms. He needed you as close as possible. He needed your body to mesh with his, for the two of you to become so entwined that he disappeared into you and you into him. He kissed you as a star shot through the endless sky outside the window, his heart making a wish, his lips sealing a promise, his hands finding every plane and curve of your body. Your sweet gasps in his ear sounded like springtime. The shapes your lips made as he touched you, the way your back arched off the blankets, how your eyes fell closed and then how you pried them back open, not wanting to tear them from his… how you pressed closer, urging him deeper, the way that you wanted him and only him...you were quilted with red and purple bruises, but all he saw was your perfection...the way you filled that void in his chest, the seamless fit of your presence in his life, the way your love had woken him from a lifelong coma of doubt… He loved you. It was the only thing in the world that Logan Delos was completely sure of, the only thing that mattered. His nightmares felt as far away as the reality that you both were running from as you melted together like hot candle wax, dripping kisses on shoulder blades and forearms and throats.

Like earlier, you fell against his broad chest and he dropped his lips to your forehead, but unlike before, the word love lingered in the air between you, lingered in every kiss and each touch. This is how it always will be… no going back… I love her. He let himself imagine waking up with you on a weekend morning, spending it in bed, reaffirming that love. He let himself wonder how it would feel to see you come through the front door after a long day, your hair askew and your brow furrowed, and how he’d take you in his arms and make you forget whatever had put those furrows there. He conjured up images of you laughing on the beach, and him smiling beside you as waves licked at your toes. He saw snowflakes in your eyelashes, saw grass stains on your jeans after tackling you to the ground pinning you down to kiss your neck. I love her...everything about her...I want this, I want her, forever...and no one is going to take her from me.

He thought about everything he knew about you; everything you’ve shared and all the things he could tell just from feeling, from seeing. Your darkness, your light, your secrets and your fears. Your past, your family...your mother, driven half mad by your father’s coldness, sent off to a foreign country so Alan could save face and play the martyr who missed his troubled wife dearly and hoped she was receiving the treatments and help that she desperately needed. In reality, Logan knew that he was just afraid that she’d tell the truth about her husband- about the dirty deals he’d built his company on, about the despicable, morally ambiguous things he chose to invest in, so shipping her away under the guise of it being for her mental health and wellbeing was the most convenient thing he could think of, the most convenient way to keep his marriage- and the fortune he’d inherited as your mother’s husband- intact. Logan knew that Erik had threatened you with the same fate, knew that the groundwork for a convincing story of mental health issues had already been laid, knew that if the plan failed, that that is exactly what Erik planned to do- send you away so you couldn’t embarrass him by getting caught with Logan. But it wouldn’t come to that. The plan would work, he was sure of it now. There’d be no reason for you and Logan to be caught- this was your last trip to the park together. When you left, you wouldn’t be back, and he couldn’t wait to never set foot on this dusty ground again.

You’d fallen back to sleep, breaths coming through your nose to tickle his skin. He thought about everything that he was leaving behind, the past he was abandoning in order to build the future that he wanted, that he needed. He’d never have to see that disappointed look on his father’s creased face again, would never have to suffer the heavy words “failure” “junkie” or “deadbeat” in Jim’s thick accent, would never have to be compared to William, the man James wanted for a son, the man he was pushing Juliet off on. He’d never get to run the company that he helped his father build- despite Jim’s insistence that Logan had been a pestilence on the Delos name- but he realized, after meeting you, that he didn’t even want it anymore. He didn’t want his name associated with the direction that the company and the technology was taking, didn’t want to be roped in with men like your father and Erik and the countless other soulless money men behind the scenes. He looked down at you, sleeping in his arms, and realized that you were the only thing he wanted to attach himself to. You were more than enough, he’d trade everything he’d ever been given, everything he’d ever earned or lost or sold or bought to keep you in his arms forever, keep you safe and happy and here.

As the sun rose higher and the birdsongs changed from nightingales to sparrows, he felt his excited heart pick up its pace. Almost time, almost time, almost time, it said with every beat. He wanted to let you keep sleeping, you looked so peaceful, so beautiful. He took one last mental snapshot, one more image to file away along with the color of your lips and what they felt like beneath his thumb, the contours of your back in that black gown you wore to the gala, the way his hand felt wrapped around your braid that first night you were together. He sighed, thinking about how no matter how many images he filed away, they’d never hold a flame to holding you against his chest. He raked your hair away from your face and whispered your name, smiling as your eyes blinked open. Every morning… today and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow...every morning I get to see these eyes… “Good morning, my love...you ready for this?”

. . . . . . . .

Waking up in Logan’s arms with the word love unlocked between you had felt different than the other times you’d woken up together. You felt unrestrained for the first time in your life. You felt free to hope, free to feel, free to want. And what you wanted, more than anything, was for the plan to work and for you and Logan to finally be free. You woke up radiating excitement, bursting with light and happiness. And then he’d said those words… “Good morning, my love…” and you knew, with more conviction than you’d ever felt before, that you wanted to hear those words from this man every morning as for long as you lived.

“Ready, my love,” you’d answered, and there’d never been a truer statement uttered in the history of humanity. You kissed him deeply, the last kiss you’d share surrounded by falsehoods and artificial reality. You couldn’t wait to kiss him on the other side of all of this.

He’d told you that Juliet had assured him that you would know where to go and when, assured him that if you stayed put in the chapel, the plan would fall into place. The two of you unwound yourselves from around one another and got dressed. You felt Logan’s eyes on you as you bent down to pull your pants up, as your hair fell in a sheet over your shoulder, and you felt warmth spread to every cell in your body as you realized that this would become normal. Every day you’d get to feel his dark eyes on you, you’d get to feel his breath on your skin as one of you woke before the other, you’d get to feel this overwhelming happiness and courage and stability just because you knew that he was there. He’s all I want, just this...just us.

When he’d finished watching you dress, a drunken smile on his sober face, you waited, just like Juliet had instructed, until a knock came on the wooden door. A brief moment of anxiety ripped through your mind. This is it...it’s now or never...freedom or a trap… But Logan’s hand came around yours, squeezing tightly, and he lifted it to his lips. “I’ve got you, it’s okay, we’re okay...I won’t let anything happen to you. You trust me?”

Without needing to think you answered. “I trust you, Logan. I trust you…”

“Let’s get out of here, then.” He winked and smiled and it banished any nerves that the knock had induced. He walked to the door with you at his heels, hand still wrapped firmly around yours. You held your breath as he opened the door, revealing a Host you’d never seen- a Native man, body painted in flaky white clay paint, black and red symbols on his face and chest. His long raven hair was braided and adorned with feathers, a knife hung from his waist and he had a crude looking bow with a quiver of arrows slung across his back. You knew he was meant to be intimidating- that in some narrative, his role was to play the demonic tribal warrior that was intended to strike the appropriate amount of terror into the hearts of willing Guests. But his features were calm as he stood on the doorstep, and as he spoke you knew you were right not to be afraid.

“Our revels now are ended.” He nodded once, and turned, indicating that the two of you should follow him. You felt your heart race. That quote...Juliet used a code...this is it, we just follow him and…

“Let’s get off this fucking island.” Logan whispered, kissing the spot behind your ear. He tugged on your hand, and the two of you followed your guide away from the chapel, leaving footprints in the sand that would soon be forgotten, soon traversed over by warriors and bandits and sheriffs and tourists.

Less than an hour after you left the chapel, another knock came on the door, and Angela stood waiting to restrain you. But you were already gone. She was too late.

. . . . . . . .

Two years after your last trip to Westworld you sat in front of a screen, trembling as you read the words that scrolled across. You knew the news was coming, knew what day it would come and what it would say. But reading the words- “found unresponsive”, “heroin overdose”, “youth cut short”- and applying them to Logan felt like a dagger through your chest, felt like a vacuum sucking the air from your chest and stilling the beat of your heart. It felt like ending. You knew it was coming but knowing and seeing were two different things. Processing information and emotion were vastly different. To think of Logan, succumbing to the darkness that he carried, that he fought for so long, that you always tried to help him fight...to think of that was too much. You tore your eyes from the screen and left the room.

Tears stung at your eyes, blinding you as you sought him out in the next room. He lifted his gaze and immediately knew what was wrong, knew that you’d seen the news, and he understood; he’d felt the same mixture of pain and numbness when the story had run about you just a week before; had been destroyed by the thought that in another timeline, another universe, it could have been real, he could have lost you... Wordlessly, he opened his arms for you, and you fit yourself against his chest, face tucked into the soft fabric of his tee-shirt, palm coming up to cover his heart, needing to feel its steady beat. “Shh,” he kissed your eyes as your tears spilled out. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s not real, it’s just for show...I’m right here… I’m right here with you.”

He’d been right there with you for two years, and after two years, the plan was finally complete. You were finally free to disappear into Oblivion.

. . . . . . . . .

@something-tofightfor @my-little-dumpster-fire @suchatinyinfinity @lexxierave @ymariejp @obscurilicious @belladonnarey @ms-delos

#oblivion #logan delos #logan delos x reader #logan delos x you #logan westworld

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