#China Pine

[petitworld]

Jiuzhaigou Scenic Area, China

[fuckyeahchinesefashion]

pine needle tea by 青衣卿相

[vintagehomecollection]

House Beautiful Weekend Homes, 1990

[thingsdavidlikes]

Piney mountains by AnSeGl Photography

[therukurals]

This week, a hot new bombshell enters the villa.

[ID: 4 gifs from Chinese drama, Love Like the Galaxy. Gif 1: Lou Yao is holding Shaoshang’s face in his hands. They both smile. Gif 2:  Ling Buyi looks annoyed. Gif 3: Yuan Shan looking annoyed. Gif 4: Huangfu Yi looks from Buyi to Yuan Shan contemplative with  math equations flying around him.  /END ID]

[toryorlando11]

Toryorlando91:

Longhouse Among The Pines designed by WuYang Architecture - Anhui, 2016

[xtruss]

This Carving from Dinosaur Bone, priced at almost $50,000, was part of a recent seizure of thousands of pounds of fossils that had been illegally excavated from Federal and State Lands in Utah. Photograph By Bureau of Land Management

U.S. Charges Poaching Ring Allegedly Involved in Massive Utah Dinosaur Bone Heist

After Being Excavated and Fashioned into Dinosaur Dig Kits, Carved Figurines, Jewelry, and More for Sale, "Tens of Thousands of Pounds of Dinosaur Bones have Lost Virtually all Scientific Value.”

— By Dina Fine Maron | October 19, 2023

Federal prosecutors today announced charges against four people allegedly involved in a massive dinosaur bone smuggling scheme. Thousands of pounds of dinosaurs and other fossils were secretly excavated from government lands in Utah, according to court documents. Some were sold at gem shows, and others were shipped to China after being mislabeled as construction materials or gems. The poaching and subterfuge, court documents allege, lasted at least from March 2018 to earlier this year.

“By removing and processing these dinosaur bones to make consumer products for profit, tens of thousands of pounds of dinosaur bones have lost virtually all scientific value, leaving future generations unable to experience the science and wonder of these bones,” United States Attorney Trina Higgins said in a press statement.

"It’s certainly a significant volume of dinosaur bones," says David Evans, a paleontologist at the Royal Ontario Museum who’s not involved in the case. He adds that it’s unusual for so much material to be removed from government lands, and that many people likely aren’t aware of the scale of the black market on U.S. dinosaur specimens.

Officials tested more than 1,000 dinosaur bones seized from the residence of Vint and Donna Wade in Utah to determine if they were illegally dug up from Federal Lands. Photograph By Bureau of Land Management

Some of the dinosaur bones were fashioned into commercial products, including dinosaur dig kits, carved figurines, knives, jewelry, and polished bowling ball-like spheres, according to court documents.

Federal agents seized one shipment of dinosaur bones bound for China in December 2022 in Long Beach, California. The 17,000 pounds of fossil material had been mislabeled as industrial stone.

Dinosaur bones shipped to China were allegedly mislabeled as industrial stone or other substances. Photograph By Bureau of Land Management

The items were also sometimes polished and fashioned into dinosaur bone jewelry. Photograph By Bureau of Land Management

Before now, one of the biggest known dinosaur fossil busts occurred in 2006, when 8,000 pounds of fossils—including thousands of dinosaur eggs, petrified pine cones, and prehistoric crabs—were seized by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents at a gem and mineral show in Tucson, Arizona. Those items had been illegally taken from Argentina.

In Utah, dinosaur bones found on private lands may be legally excavated and sold, but it is a crime to dig up and sell fossils discovered on federal or state lands. Charges against the four Utah defendants, who are scheduled to have their initial court appearance later today in Salt Lake City, include conspiracy against the U.S., false labeling, theft of U.S. property, money laundering, and attempted smuggling of goods, among others.

A Dino 🦕 Trafficking Scheme

Beneath Utah’s surface, there’s a rich cache of dinosaur fossils, revealing details about prehistoric animals such as carnivorous allosauruses and spine-backed stegosauruses. Almost three-quarters of the state consists of public lands managed by federal or state agencies, and recent fossil finds there include a huge collection of Utahraptors and an entirely new species, a big-nosed distant relative of Triceratops.

Court documents describing the years-long Utah poaching operation allege that Vint and Donna Wade purchased illegally obtained bones and other fossils to sell at U.S. gem and mineral shows and also to ship to China, and that Jordan Willing and his father Steve Willing trafficked dinosaur bones to China using their company JMW Sales. The documents also allege that two unnamed and unindicted coconspirators illegally excavated fossils from federal lands and sold them off to the Wades.

In total, the Wades sold over $1 million in paleontological material to the Willings, according to the court documents, which were filed in the U.S. District Court in the District of Utah.

The fossil heist also led to $3 million in damages, the federal government claims, including large restoration and repair expenses and the costs of losses to science.

During the years of the alleged smuggling activity, the fossil shipments did sometimes run into problems. One shipment of dinosaur bones that was sent from Scottsdale, Arizona, to China in March 2019 was falsely labeled as items including jasper and wood, but the cargo was ultimately held up in China “due to high radiation levels,” court documents state. The fossilized materials had apparently picked up natural radioactive material over time. (Investigators can sometimes discover the origin of fossils based on radioactive signatures in the specimens that provide clues about where they were buried.)

A scientist tests a dinosaur bone for radiation to help determine its origin. Over time, fossils may pick up naturally occurring radiation from their environment which can help investigators determine where they'd been buried. Photograph By Bureau of Land Management

Each radiation-tested bone was labeled with a unique identifier, and a circle was added to mark where it had been sampled. This fossil had been priced at $4,500. Photograph By Bureau of Land Management

Paleontologists typically remove dinosaur bones using a methodological process designed to limit damage and preserve evidence found in the fossils and their surroundings—information about when dinosaurs lived, what species they were, and sometimes even how they behaved.

Amateur diggers hunting for recognizable body parts to sell, however, generally do not take such care. Federal prosecutors claim that the loss to science from this poaching ring is largely incalculable.

[forgetaboutregrets]

My winter garden (December 14)

[falseandrealultravival]

Today's Haiku with Picture 160

rain at night

jewels on branches

pine tree

夜来雨

枝に宝石

松の木か

Pine is an evergreen tree, so it is cherished in Japan and China as it means "to never change your mind."

(2022.10.10)

[grumfield]

One of my roommates is from China and neither of us speaks the other’s language but lately when she’s in a chatty mood she comes into our kitchen and shows me these douyin Matt Damon x Ben Affleck RPF videos and puts her theories about how Ben has been pining for Matt into google translate for me to read. fujoing out transcends language barriers

[sheltiechicago]

Shuisi Tower, China

This is a wooden building of the Shui ethnic group that can be seen in Yingshan Town of Dushan County. The 24-story, 99-meter-high traditional Shui-style wooden building is constructed from fir and pine wood without a single nail.

yiran_ding

[vintagehomecollection]

10 points to the person who can name the long silver piece on the bottom shelf.

House Beautiful Weekend Homes, 1990

[muirneach]

its so embarrassing i cant stop listening to jackson c frank i think i got like 200 listens in the past 2 weeks alone

[captainpissofff]

An old man sits on a stone bench among grotesque trees, rocks and mountains. Hands on his knees, he is looking afar, absorbed in thinking.

A young boy stands by his side with a walking stick in hand.

A pine tree stretches out of a summit while another hangs on a cliff, symbolizing longevity. The painting, Pines of Longevity, looks effortless but is by no means easily done.

The large axe-cut texture strokes are typical of Ma Yuan.

#ClosetoSong Photograph © Liaoning Museum

[kneelingshadowsalome]

I Never Missed You 1/3 (Bodyguard!Ghost x F!Reader)

Word count: 3.5 k

Tags/warnings: 18+ only. Romance, eventual smut, fluff, light angst, banter, pining, flirting, minor injuries, major character death, HFN ending. Lady/Knight dynamic. Unequal pairing trope. Bodyguard AU. Reader is a rich bitch (how else could she afford a PPO?)

Summary: 1/3 You hire a bodyguard to protect you and hunt down the one who's been sent to take your life. This man was your lawyer's first recommendation, and you never even looked through his file because you had better things to do. But it soon turns out that this man – this Simon Riley – is very talented... Talented in driving you crazy.

A/N: A three part fic based on this request. The first chapter features banter and pining. If you're here for smut, stay tuned. There is an entire chapter of it coming right up.

Your lawyer says it would be a good idea. He even dares to look at you from under his brow like you're a child who doesn't know what's good for her.

And you don't.

Because that's exactly how you feel like: a grown woman who's stunted to a kid, now being supervised by adults. 

The bodyguard they assigned you - the one you accepted because he was your lawyer's first choice - is exactly the broad, brooding type you have always imagined bodyguards to be like.

But he's not wearing sunglasses, and he's not wearing a suit. He says the point of a bodyguard is that they don't look like a bodyguard. 

The first thing you actually pay attention to is the milky-white eyelashes. Only days after you hear that this man rarely shows his face. You were given a file on him, but you never peeked inside it because you were pissed that such drastic measures had to be taken in the first place. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Now you pry it from the pile of papers you buried it into, open it, and the first - and only - photo you see is a perfect portrayal of what Death looks like. 

He's the Reaper himself when adorned with that human skull. Keen but emotionless eyes stare from the pits of the sockets to somewhere in the distance, but that look is a stare into the past. The photo raises thousands of questions, and not only the need to know why this man prefers to wear human bones when he's shooting people.

Because apparently, that’s what he used to do before he became a bodyguard. He's buff, that you already know. But in that picture, he looks even more packed, with what you suppose is a bullet vest beneath that blouse. He’s holding an ugly-looking gun – not a pistol, but a rifle of some sort. The gear on him no doubt weighs something close to 60 pounds. His sleeves are rolled up and expose the crisscross veins on his forearms along with war-ugly, crude tattoos, and you swallow. 

Were you really looking at a picture of a barbaric soldier like it was some peculiar soft porn now?

You flip the file closed and toss it on the table, rather disgusted with yourself.

The next time you see him, you look into those brown eyes a moment longer. That stoic stare is the only thing you recognize as that of the man in the picture. That, along with his size, although photos really can't convey how this brooding grunt makes you feel: small and insignificant. Nor do they illustrate how the man looks like he’s the most graceful bull in a china shop when moving inside your house.

You suppose he grew up poor, the way he looks at your furniture, your half-a-mile bookshelf, and the latest art piece you got last month in your living room. He's judging you. 

You're posh. And clueless. And a child.

And this brute lives with you, for now. He's placed downstairs until the target is neutralized. And he's not just a bodyguard: he's hunting the hunter while you're the bait.

It should give you a thrill; your friend giggles when you two gossip about him over a lunch while he's standing only a few feet away. But this situation does not give you a thrill. It just makes you pissed.

And it's not just the situation, it's this... Simon Riley who makes you pissed.

Couldn't they teach manners, some conversation skills at the bodyguard school or wherever the hell this pale, emotionless Hulk came from?

You recheck his file and snoop some more details about his past. He didn't go to bodyguard school (of course he didn't); he used to work for some PMC. The brute's a cold-blooded, cold-hearted mercenary. To put it more eloquently, he's an elite soldier of some tactical unit. But all of that is classified, as is almost every other detail about him. The only thing you are left with is that he's British through and through, but you can already tell that by his accent - the thick Mancunian that makes your stomach and heart flip.

It's gruff – of course it's gruff – and sometimes chafes your ears like they were being grated with the softest grater. You find yourself thinking about him while you're in the shower, when your fingers start to drift and wander.

And for the love of god, you are not thinking about that accent and those eyes while you're masturbating. You're not going to mourn the fact that he never rolls his sleeves when he's with you. When he's at work.

"I saw your file," you start to chitchat over breakfast one day.

"I reckon."

He won't even touch the coffee you poured him but proceeds to drink almost all the tea. The delicate china looks miniature in his hands as he pours the Earl Grey into his cup. The cups are dainty, too – this savage would prefer a large, black mug, perhaps, from which to gulp his tea.

"So. What made you become a soldier?"

"Joined the SAS when I was 17."

And another thing he won't do is look at you when you speak. No manners at all in this man, only rough, sharp edges. He sits as far from you as he can, at the other end of the table, as if you were in a meeting. Or a war council.

"That's not what I asked."

"I know."

You roll your eyes. Conversation skills, god. Just give this man at least some charm…

"I'm going to do some shopping," you declare. "You can stay here."

Finally, he raises his stare. It's full of tired distaste.

"Nah. That's not how this works."

You rise from the table, gracefully and with a neutral face, indicating that you are an adult and won't be needing a babysitter at a store.

"Lady." 

The command is dark and stops you before you have taken one step from the table. It's a slur, almost.

He rises from the table too, and you almost feel sorry, noticing he hasn't yet finished his toast.

"You hired me. And I'm gonna do my job."

He looks big and broad, like a beautiful storm, with that piercing stare and the most alluring lashes you have ever seen on a man. Your voice turns into a meek, pitched attempt to reason with a giant.

"...I'm just going shopping."

His head tilts with a mock: you're only a child in his eyes. 

"Then let's go shopping."

…......…......

Sitting next to this giant in a taxi must be a hilarious-looking scene. A charming, vibrant lady and a sullen, intimidating Theseus – what a pair.

You've also never been this close to him. The man always sits with a wide spread. One heavy thigh almost touches your knees, which you have turned towards him for some unfathomable reason. You were taught to sit with knees closely set together, and that’s what you’re trying to do now: make yourself as small and feminine as possible. It only accentuates this man's size compared to yours. There's a pile of shopping bags between you two, and your gaze is directed outside the window, but you can feel his presence like there's a thrumming monolith beside you.

And he's always dressed in black. You kind of enjoyed how you two looked at the store: you in your heels and a pearl white suit, he in black, tactical ripstop and boots. You wouldn't define the man well-dressed… but he is sharply dressed in his own field, that's for sure. Even a commoner like you could see that.

He had complained about your clothes. White draws too much attention and makes for a bigger target. You had brushed him off with a scoff. You’re not going to change the way you dress because of this.

"You're from Manchester, right?"

You're only trying to make the journey home more enjoyable, but feel like you're snooping again, this time from the man himself. The less you know about Simon Riley, the more you want to learn who he is. It is only natural to get a little curious when his file barely had two paragraphs and a photo. You suppose even that single picture was taken and given forward with reluctance. 

And the only thing you learn is that small talk is a completely foreign concept to this man.

"You're quite the Sherlock," he mutters with that fat accent that gave him away the minute you two shook hands. You Sherlock about some more, look at the left hand that rests on his thigh.

There's no ring. Not even a tan line. He must be lonely: no relationship could stand working hours like these.

"Do you still live there?"

"...No."

"Do you miss the place?"

"No."

The short answers are guttural and spoken from the back of his throat. You don't know if he's doing it on purpose, or if this Simon is like this with everyone. He's not annoyed, though, not the way you're beginning to be.

"Aren't you a chatty one…" you mumble while watching cloudy London pass by. You figured he might hear it, and perhaps that was your purpose, even if your voice was barely a whisper.

"I'm not here to talk. Ma'am."

…......…......

You are told to stay away from the windows. The dinner table is moved so no one can aim at your head through a glass. And even then, most curtains must be closed at all times. 

He goes through doors first, and advises against going out at all. You get a list of things you should take into consideration if you do go out.

And you’re not going to give in to fear.

You simply take different routes to your friends and family, have lunches at different restaurants than usual. He says you should get an armored car, but you don’t have a license. Of course your brooding bodyguard could drive, but what will you do with some armored tank after you're finally through this thing?

What's far more interesting is that it turns out this Simon Riley is a smoker.

Disgusting, you think at first, then think about him all sweaty and grimy after some gunfight, reaching for a cig, curling those thick fingers around a pure-white coffin nail. No, wait – he had gloves in that picture; he wouldn't bother to take them off before he smoked, he would just lean on his gun and on some crumbling wall and sigh from the joy of being alive, of being bloodied and dirty and victorious before taking a long drag from his cigarette.

Ugh.

Reluctantly you agree that perhaps there is an odd charm to this man after all. Either that, or then you are in need of some serious therapy.

Breakfasts are torturingly quiet with Simon, and you can hear the slow roll of eyes every time you make plans to go to a party or an art gallery.

Once, a zipper gets stuck and you have to ask him for help. It’s mortifying, and he doesn’t say a word, only mocks you with his eyes as you turn around for him to place a warm hand on your hip and another on your back to pull up the zipper you had fought to reach and drag up by yourself for at least 10 minutes.

A week passes, and he’s buried in work, not only because he’s guarding your body 24/7, but because he’s trying to locate the hitman. The fact that Simon Riley is technically speaking a hitman too - to think that you have hired a killer - is something you don’t have the mental strength to delve into right now.

"Found the one who's hunting you."

Another file is dropped before you at the end of the week. The man marches into your office like there's no door there at all. Doesn't even bother to knock. 

This isn't what you meant when you politely told him to make himself home…

You roll the glass of water on your temple and sigh. The file reveals another photo, this time of a man who looks like an executioner.

"Goes by the name König," he says and clasps his hands over his crotch while taking a wide stance in front of your desk. "Austrian war criminal. Skilled with knives… Likes to torture people first."

Nice. More brutes.

"Why are you telling me this?" 

You're tired, there's a headache approaching, and you really don't care to go over some details about a professional lunatic killer right now. But Simon Riley - codenamed Ghost, you’ve lately learned - looks down at you like a storm cloud over a carefree meadow.

"Because you clearly don't understand the danger you're in." 

He adds "Ma'am" as a footnote. Purposely forgotten...

And you wish he would forget that silly, overly courteous term.

"Well–" you sigh your frustration in the air between you two, then realize that perhaps you're being treated like a child because you behave like one. "What are you going to do about this man...?"

"Gonna kill him," he simply shrugs, the eternal, distant look in those eyes gaining a smug tone to them. 

He enjoys this. Enjoys killing, but what's even worse, enjoys seeing how his ruthlessness makes you shift uncomfortably in your chair. Or perhaps he just likes shocking you with that file with an image of a lyncher in it. You know perfectly well that you're in trouble and under threat. That's what you've tried to forget, but no one lets you forget.

Simon takes a deep breath before placing his humble petition before you.

"Ma’am. I'm gonna need your help."

And nothing in this man is humble. Even though he rarely speaks and never shows his talents, not to talk of showing off, he reeks of pride and testosterone.

You set the glass on the table and straighten the file to align with the leather pad on your desk. Your fingers are not trembling. Yet.

"What do you mean?" 

He gives a hoarse laugh. The sound drills straight to your core and starts to bloom there. You realize you have never seen him smile before. And he's not smiling now: the short laugh is just a dark chuckle that mainly stays inside his chest; it only makes those stocky shoulders rise and fall.

"Not like that," he looks down at you with a tad of mercy. "You're gonna serve as bait."

"Isn't… that what I've been the whole time?"

"Yeah. But this time, we're gonna lure him in."

The way he talks makes your thighs rub together without your consent. You wonder what it would feel like if you were trapped between that solid chest and a wall, what it would be like if those hands woke you up with a calloused caress of a thigh.

You don't quite understand the difference between bait and a lure but find yourself willing to do whatever you can to help him. Help Simon…

"Sure... I'll help you," you say as if this man wasn't on your payroll.

"That's the least you could do."

That barely hidden bite in his dry retort doesn't escape you. This man's audacity buries whatever odd want you have started to feel for him and replaces it with searing, womanly fury. 

He could be a little more sensitive.

You're the one who has a target on their back. You're the one who fears going to sleep at night and feels lucky they're alive come dawn. If he wasn't so crude and uncaring, you would've asked him to sleep in the same room with you from the start. But he has to be a brute, has to follow and mock you with those ink blot eyes at every turn.

You rise from the chair when he turns and walks toward the door. It's almost a snappy jump, an attempt to reclaim your power. You're sore and thoroughly peeved.

"I never wanted this," you tell him with an annoying timbre in your tone. He stops right before the door but doesn't turn.

"Neither did I."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Could be somewhere warmer with no damsels giving me their cheek."

The BDU blouse you saw in that picture was yellow, burnt yellow. Desert wear… He wants to be in a hot desert with a cold gun in his hand. Dropped straight from some plane, working alone, in a place where damsels aren't giving him their cheek. Where there are no damsels at all. 

You're relatively sure there is no Mrs. Riley. No woman could stand this man.

"Then go somewhere warmer," you snap, almost stomp your heel on the soft carpet. This man is simply intolerable. The way he never reacts to anything makes you want to throw things at him. 

He must be trained to be so calm, but you're not. You're used to making men a little stupid and flustered. You're used to men eating out of your hand. He's not behaving at all like he's supposed to. Simon Riley is just a mountain without emotion.

He turns with that eternal, downgrading look in his eyes. There's a flash of amusement there, too.

Soddy bastard…

"Nah. Not until I've done my job."

His voice is warm now; the gruff and gravel make way to a smoothness that goes directly to your knees. Your lips part, and his eyes fall on your mouth just before he lifts his chin a hair of an inch.

"Your job…" you breathe, too furious to even rage or shout. 

Your fucking job.

Why did you even want this job if it's so–

"Yeah. My job. Some people got one."

You have to take support from the table with your fingertips. 

"Excuse me?"

There's the tiniest curve at the corner of his mouth before he takes his leave.

"Good night, ma'am."

…......…......

The next day, you start the breakfast by apologizing. 

You barely slept that night, first because of this man's utter nerve, then because your wrath eventually cooled down into a bleeding consciousness of how you must look in his eyes. 

He has accepted this job, something different from what he usually does, for reasons unknown to you. He might not be on some faraway battlefield where bullets fly past, but this is no less risky. The picture he showed you, the file on König, haunted your restless sleep last night – when you finally did get some sleep. 

You have been running around like everything’s normal when it’s not. The man’s just trying to do his job. 

And you're the one who hired him. Not your lawyer.

"I want to make peace," you coo while spreading some jam on toast. You expect Simon to finally melt a little. You might even get a smile. You secretly hope your reward is that this brute turns into a tamed lap dog you can feed some treats every now and then. 

The situation is thrilling: the beefiest man you have ever seen is going to kill someone for you. Even if he's being paid to do so, he is prepared to die for you. There's something incredibly sexy about that.

But there is silence at the other end of the table. Only the crunchy sounds of toast getting sugar on top can be heard.

"That so?" 

He doesn't sound like he's melting. He doesn't sound at all domesticated. He only sounds more and more amused.

"Yes. I'm happy that you're here," you put the toast down and turn to look at him with angel eyes.

He laughs. When he stops, he looks you up and down, then laughs some more, a silent, shoulder-shaking chuckle.

"I'm… I'm serious," you hurry to add. "I mean it. I haven't been treating you the way I should–"

"That's for sure."

You see more warmth in those eyes. But it's not because of your humble apology.

His eyes are trekking down the neckline of your blouse, and to your horror, you notice – feel – how one of the top buttons has opened, revealing much more than just some skin. You're pretty sure he gets an ample view of the fuchsia bra you're wearing underneath.

If you reach for that button now, you underline that he's not supposed to look, even if it's your mistake that you're so obscenely exposed. If you close it now, you tell him he's not allowed to look. And that's not entirely true.

"Will you forgive me?"

You feel like you're offering peace, or at least a truce, with more than just that peepy question. Because your breasts swell inside that blouse. They rise and fall with your breaths, your nipples grow hard from that look that stays down a bit longer before drifting back up. 

"There's nothing to forgive," he says, voice dropping a note or two. 

"Good," you swallow. The following sentence comes out so weakly that it's almost a whisper. "After all, I hired you."

"Ain't that the truth."

The dim glint in those eyes still holds you as a prisoner, and his tea is growing cold.

"Are we going shopping today?"

"No," you utter, dreading the next inevitable question.

"What then?"

"I… I have a yoga class."

"Of course you do."

…......…......

Taglist: @cumikering

[astraystayyh]

red lollipop.

f2l. tension and mutual pining under the stars.

a red lollipop.

that is the most recurring vision in felix’s dreams, the scarlet candy swirling around his mind in abstract shapes, draping his sleep-state with saccharine thoughts.

felix realized that he liked you because of one singular red lollipop.

he had known you for as long as his memory allowed him to recall. years of friendship where you had laughed until your stomach ached, but also dried his tears and held his hand until his darkest nights passed. wherever you were, so was he. his one platonic pilar in life.

so, when felix watched you indulge in a red lollipop on a random summer afternoon, he felt distraught, to say the least.

the candy swirled around your tongue absentmindedly, its vivid hue imprinting itself onto your glossy lips. your eyes were cast on the open book before you, and the lollipop seemed to liquefy and drip on felix’s cheeks, for they were blooming with a blush he had never sported before.

felix wanted to kiss you, suddenly, without a previous warning. he imagined pressing his mouth onto yours and letting the sweetness of your being run through his, over and over again, till all he remembered was the chant of your name and the taste of strawberries melting on your mouth.

it is weeks later and you are sucking on another lollipop right now. only this time you are looking up at the sky, stars scattered like gems reflected in your eyes— a mirror crafted solely to capture the beauty surrounding you.

you love stargazing with felix, dragging him with you each time the weather forecast predicts a clear sky. the blanket you laid out feels soft beneath your bodies, but it pales before the softness of your hands as they brush against his own, each time you point out a star that twinkles a bit more than the rest.

he’s awfully quiet tonight, afraid if he opens his mouth then the only words that would spill out would be “you’re so pretty” and “please, please kiss me till i can’t breathe.” so, he chooses silence, his gaze subtly lingering on your form, his eyes fixated on that damned lollipop.

“you know, i think astronauts missed the prettiest constellations,” you muse and he hums, intrigued, tilting his head to look at you.

you prop yourself up on one arm, your hair cascading like a blanket over the contours of his face, its ends brushing against his cheeks akin to soft feathers. you nudge the lollipop to the right side of your cheek, a gentle smile playing on your lips as you gaze down at him.

felix’s gulp is awfully audible in the quietude of the night.

“they missed this one,” you trace with your finger over his freckles, as if they are coffee-stained stars forming constellations of their own. you then follow the trail over the bridge of his nose, your finger lingering just above the slate of his cheekbones, gliding slowly over the freckles beneath his eyelids.

his heart hammers in his throat, pulsates in his knee and stomach— you are bringing each one of his pulse points to life with your touch.

you are flirting with him, right? friends don't gaze at each other like this, with pupils fully dilated and a hand delicately grazing their cheeks as if tending to a fragile china vase.

he’s too far gone in you to back out. he yearns to find out, now.

so, he boldly plucks the lollipop from your mouth, guiding it teasingly over your lips, leaving them coated with the sticky sweetness of red. His breath catches as you tilt your head, a silent dare in your gaze, and the stars above fade into oblivion as he gazes at you – you, whose essence is crafted from moon dust itself.

“can i kiss you?” he whispers quietly.

“i thought you’d never ask,” you smile softly, before leaning down to press your lips on his own. they remain there for a few seconds, unmoving, but felix grows greedy as his hand untangles in your hair, moving you even closer to him.

your lips move in a steady rhythm and felix feels drunk on the softness of your lips, on the way your mouths meet only to part once more, on the dulcet way you bite his lower lip, on your saccharin taste tinted with strawberries and summer fields.

“i… i like you so much it’s driving me insane,” he confesses, chest heaving. “can i be yours? please?”

felix dreams of the lollipop yet again that night, red like the blush that sprouted on his cheeks as you kissed him again before you freed him from his longing, ‘yes,’ you said, ‘i’ve only ever been yours’. red like the blood coursing through his veins carrying your name to the chambers of his heart. red like the marks you left on his neck, collarbones and chest, anywhere your lips could reach, everywhere your love would be felt in.