#and how they’re surrounded by light and fire yet their eyes look empty lol

[lavenderjewels]

JJK s2 ep 16 Previews

Let’s have a fire-power battle! 🔥

[crossbowking]

More Than Anything (Part 2)

(Click HERE to read More Than Anything Part 1)

Summary: (Set mid-season 6) The reader’s feelings towards the archer evolve, but a supply run that goes south threatens to destroy it all.

Request: “I’d love to see something w protective Daryl and some angst, maybe set at the start of their time in Alexandria w an established relationship?” - @pulplorrd

A/N: See, you'd think I would've learned after making you guys wait a year and a half for No Way Out Part 2, that I should probably FINISH my stories before actually posting the first part...yet, here we are, one month later lol I'm sorry for the wait but hopefully it's worth it!

Happy reading and let me know what you think :)

xx Jess

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Previously...

But as its grasp slipped away from around Tara’s arm, the walker’s deadweight, in turn, collapsed against you.

You lost your footing and fell backward.

Except the solidity of concrete never rushed up to meet you.

Instead, you were embraced by water, the tarp that’d laid across the motel pool coiling around your body as you sunk deeper and deeper into nothingness.

Now...

When the world ended, you’d accepted the idea of death — your death, specifically.

You knew that one day, your life would undoubtedly end — most likely at the hands of the dead, ripped to pieces, torn to shreds, the way so many others before you had been taken. But you’d always hoped your death would at least mean something — maybe laying your life on the line, sacrificing yourself so the people you loved could survive.

Something noble, something brave.

Not like this.

Before the fall, you’d managed to inhale a sharp breath — though once you’d submerged into the grimy pool water, the coldness, the darkness, the shock of it all, had zapped the air right out of your body. You were becoming increasingly aware of the tightness in your chest, the burning in your lungs as you struggled against the walker pressed against you, its weight sinking you further into the depths of the pool.

Then, the panic set in — your heart pounded against your ribcage, right alongside the immense pressure crushing your lungs. Glimpses of sunlight hung just above you, peeking through parts of the drifting tarp you frantically attempted to push aside. You were completely disoriented, your vision obscured by the murkiness surrounding you, floating specks only visible beneath the shattered light above.

When your back connected against the bottom of the deep end, you managed to wriggle out from under the dead’s listless body — though the tarp remained twisted around your limbs. No matter how hard you fought, how hard you struggled, you couldn’t free yourself from the suffocating material. You could’ve sworn you were caught in a dream, your movements lagging and sluggish as you thrashed beneath the surface.

It felt as though someone had reached their hand directly through the center of your chest, squeezing your insides in a vice-like grip. A tingling sensation crawled down your spine, settling atop your churning stomach as the throbbing behind your ears began to slow.

You were listening to your last heartbeats.

It became unbearable, the water threatening to force its way past your clamped lips, the simple need to breathe. A sharp stab of pain shot through you as the blackness in your vision intensified, pulsing reddish-white around the edges as the fire in your chest consumed you at last.

Then, with nothing else left to do, you inhaled.

You weren’t sure what happened next — everything felt faint and fuzzy and quiet. The darkness that lingered no longer struck fear in you — instead, it was warm, enveloping you in its arms like a long-lost lover. The silence was soothing as you drifted in the emptiness, like careless whispers and forgotten melodies. You were weightless, you were freed, you were everything and nothing all at once.

You were dying.

That you were sure of.

Yet much to your surprise, you weren’t afraid — no, instead…you felt at peace.

But the brevity of calm didn’t last as you were suddenly aware of a vague pressure, though it wasn’t all-consuming nor constant. It was distant at first, a feeling you could’ve easily brushed aside had it not begun to gradually grow in force, in vigor — a steady pounding, coming from the center of your chest, over and over again.

The warmth around you began to splinter, shattering like shards of glass, the fallout piercing your skin as it collapsed around you. The pain was deep and burning and you longed for just a moment ago when all you felt was the sweetness of oblivion. The pressure pounding against your chest increased, becoming the sole thing you could feel, the only thing you could focus on, the unwavering thuds drawing you back from whatever place you’d drifted off to.

In the next moment, you were awake.

Your body flailed, jolting upright, but you’d only managed to get an inch or two off the ground before water began to suddenly spurt from your mouth. Your eyes squeezed shut as you choked on the liquid, every nerve ending in your body red-hot. You were vaguely aware of hands, rough and calloused and familiar, gripping onto your arms and forcing you onto your side, the motion allowing the water leaving your lungs to flow easier.

You gasped a constricted breath, coughing harshly on the exhale, completely and entirely disoriented as to what in the fuck just happened. Your chest tightened as you spit up more water, your throat closing around the sensation as you fought for control of your breathing, the feeling of concrete against the side of your body grounding you.

When your coughs finally died down, the same hands from before grabbed onto your arms, pulling your deadweight upright, maneuvering your limp body as if you were a rag doll. You blinked your bleary eyes open, wincing from the sunlight directly above as you drew in shaky breaths.

And then you saw him.

Daryl knelt in front of you, his ragged breathing mirroring your own, soaking wet from head to toe. Strands of hair stuck against his forehead, droplets of water still dripping from the ends as he stared at you, wide-eyed, his expression a mixture of horror and shock — something you rarely witnessed when it came to the archer.

He was mouthing something — no, he was shouting something — but you couldn’t hear him. You couldn’t hear a damn word he was saying as you sat there, dazed and confused, wondering if what just happened actually happened.

His hold around your arms slipped away, his hands cradling either side of your face instead, tilting your head up and brushing your drenched hair back. He leaned forward a fraction, frantically studying your features, his haunted eyes bouncing back and forth between your own as though making sure you were there — really there.

The silence was becoming a little less resounding, the world around you gradually seeping back, though muffled and dull — but the way Daryl was looking at you, the apprehension in his gaze, shook something loose inside you. Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. You wanted to tell him it was okay — that you were okay — but damn it, why couldn’t you speak?

So instead, you slowly lifted your hands, weakly grasping onto Daryl’s wrists, the small motion all you could muster — you had to let him know you were here. He glanced down at your hands, a small huff of relief escaping him.

But when he looked back up, you noticed the moisture that’d built in the corners of his eyes.

Daryl’s hands slipped behind your head, holding you still as he leaned forward and pressed his forehead gently against yours.

You, on the other hand, silently thanked whatever God or higher power was out there for giving you one more moment like this.

When the archer pulled back, you spotted a red streak smeared across his forehead that hadn’t been there before. Your brow knitted together as he sat back on his haunches. You tried clearing your throat, the sensation burning the rawness that’d spread. “You’re —” you croaked, your voice sounding foreign. “— you’re bleeding, D.”

Daryl’s expression darkened, his jaw clenching as he lowered his gaze and unsheathed his hunting knife. “It ain’t mine,” he rasped, suddenly slicing a long strip of fabric off from the bottom of his dampened shirt and balling it in his fist, ringing out some of the water.

Before you knew what was happening, he was reaching forward, pressing the material gingerly against your forehead and wrapping it behind your head, tying the strip into a knot to keep it in place. You were surprised at the sting of pain you felt, unsure when you managed to cut your head open in the midst of what had happened — everything was still sort of…fuzzy.

The sound of a car door slamming drew your attention. You peeked out of the corner of your eye, spotting Tara jogging towards you, the car you’d driven to the motel running idle in the parking lot.

“They’re coming!” she called out, motioning towards something just behind Daryl.

You craned your neck, attempting to get a look, but before you could, the archer was looping his arms beneath your armpits and hefting you up to your feet. The world tilted unsteadily around you, and had it not been for Daryl’s hold, the ground would’ve surely rushed up to meet you.

“I got ya,” he rasped, slinging one of your arms across his shoulders, his grip snaking around your waist.

Tara appeared at your opposite side, slightly out of breath. “Welcome back, chicka,” she shot you a slightly strained smile before following Daryl’s lead and winding your other arm across her shoulders, keeping you propped upright between them.

You wanted to tell them you were fine, that you were more than capable of walking on your own — but your strength had depleted, your legs shook beneath you, and the shock was beginning to wear off, making all the little aches and pains in your body alarmingly obvious.

Then, you were moving.

They half-dragged, half-carried you across the stretch of concrete, hurrying towards the parking lot where Tara had left the car. You peeked over your shoulder, managing to get a glimpse of what you were leaving behind — the small herd from earlier had been taken down, their bodies splayed out sporadically on the other side of the pool. Some sporting knife wounds, others bullet holes. The pool itself was rippling, the water sloshing back and forth, air bubbles visible at the surface.

Some of the dead had followed you into the water.

Just beyond the pool, you spotted exactly what you were running from — another herd, three times the size of the first one, ambling in from the woods behind the motel, most likely drawn in by gunfire.

When you reached the car, Tara slipped away and jumped into the driver’s seat. Daryl flung open the back door and maneuvered you carefully inside. You grimaced as you inched further into the car, only stopping once your back was pressed up against the opposite door. The archer quickly slid in after you and slammed the door shut, grabbing onto the back of the driver’s seat as Tara peeled out of the parking lot.

The silence that followed rang heavy.

Your heart hammered against your chest, your breaths coming out slightly wheezy, almost like there was still some water left in your lungs. You met Tara’s eyes in the rearview mirror before she focused back on the road — you noticed then that the sleeves of her shirt, up to her elbows, were wet.

She’d helped drag your body out of the pool.

You glanced over at Daryl, the archer’s grip on the driver’s seat white-knuckled as he stared at the back of the headrest. Waves of tension rolled off him, the feeling nearly palpable. But his eyes flickered towards you a moment later, as though he felt you watching him, and some of the rigidity faded.

He wordlessly shuffled closer, grabbing your arm and pulling you away from the door you leaned against. You were too tired and too sore to object, your body slumping against his side as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders — you thought for a brief moment that he was hugging you.

But instead, he wound your seatbelt around your body and locked it in place.

Daryl fell back against the seat beside you with a huff, keeping his gaze focused ahead, staring straight through the windshield. He didn’t look at you again — he remained still, like he was carved from stone. You weren’t even sure he was breathing. His arm just barely grazed the side of yours, but despite whatever hidden turmoil was surely happening inside of him, he made no effort to move away.

He needed time to process what happened — what almost happened.

But so did you.

You shifted, closing the small gap between you and resting your head against his shoulder, ignoring the way he stiffened. The material of his shirt was still damp and smelt like a mixture of chlorine and mildew from the murky pool water, but you couldn’t find it in you to pull away either.

You hadn't realized you’d dozed off until the archer gently shook you awake, the car now parked outside Alexandria’s makeshift infirmary.

You still felt weak and lethargic, but you managed to make your way inside without any help — although Daryl, silent and stoic as ever, remained at your side, his hand hovering over the small of your back.

The infirmary was quiet as Denise checked you over — Tara had gone to update Rick and the others on what happened, as well as distribute the supplies you’d managed to bring home. Daryl, on the other hand, paced — back and forth, like a caged animal, on the opposite side of the room. Almost like part of him desperately wanted to run, but a bigger part of himself needed to be there.

“Are you feeling any nausea? Confusion? Loss of basic motor skills?” Denise suddenly asked, breaking the silence that’d stretched on, looking up from the textbook she was reading from. She’d never dealt with an ‘almost drowning’, but had been able to scrounge up some old medical textbooks for help.

“Uh,” you cleared your throat, shaking your head once. “No. No, nothing like that.”

“Okay, good. Yeah, that’s good…” she murmured, mostly to herself, before flipping to the next page and skimming the stretch of words. “Besides your forehead, any other lacerations?” she looked up at you once more, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“I don’t —” you shot Daryl a look, but he was too busy pacing to notice. “I don’t think so,” you shook your head again, your fingertips ghosting over the bandage Denise had patched your head up with.

“Good, good. We’ll want to keep an eye on that in case of infection,” she informed before flipping to the next page, mouthing the text to herself. “Okay, and any soreness?”

You grimaced as you sat up a little straighter. “Just — just right here mostly,” you admitted, motioning towards your center, below your chest.

Denise shut the textbook and placed it on the metal table you sat on top of. “Can you show me?”

Your brow knitted together but you obliged, sliding off the table and grabbing the hem of your shirt. You fought back a wince as you rolled the material up, stopping just below your chest, exposing your skin.

The first thing you noticed was the way the room suddenly stilled — you glanced up, spotting Daryl standing frozen across the way, pacing no longer. But he wasn’t staring at you — he was staring at your midsection, a look in his eyes you’d never seen before.

When you lowered your head, getting a good look at yourself for the first time, you realized exactly what he was seeing.

Bruises. Dark and discolored. Scattered down your sternum and along the center of your ribcage.

Your head snapped up at the sound of the front door slamming shut.

And Daryl was gone.

You tried to ignore the pinprick of tears that grew, the hurt that settled across your chest as you lowered your shirt back in place — but when Denise suddenly reached out and placed her hand on top of yours, patting it softly, your features crumpled.

Everything that happened seemed to catch up to you in that moment — the fear, the shock, what Daryl must’ve felt pulling your unmoving body out of the water. You’d nearly died. What would’ve happened if he hadn’t been able to bring you back? Would he have been the one to put you down when you undoubtedly turned? Or would Tara have done it — the act far too painful for the man you loved to follow through with.

The man you loved.

Denise wrapped her hand around yours, squeezing gently and drawing you back. “Hey, it’s okay,” she soothed.

You quickly swiped at the tears that slipped down your cheeks, huffing a hitched breath. “I know, I’m just —” you glanced up at the front door, hanging onto the foolish hope that it’d swing open once more. “I don’t know,” you finally mumbled, albeit defeatedly.

Denise followed your gaze, scoffing slightly. “Men suck,” she finally shrugged.

You sniffled softly before shaking your head. “Not that one,” you murmured fondly.

Denise squeezed your hand once more, shooting you a sympathetic smile before she pulled away. “It could’ve been worse — most people who have CPR done on them end up with broken ribs or punctured lungs. You, my friend, are one of the lucky ones.”

You inhaled a deep breath, fighting back a wince, the motion stretching your bruised body. “Thank you. For everything.”

Denise nodded before taking off her glasses, using the hem of her shirt to clean the lenses. “Y/N, I don’t mean to overstep my boundaries, but,” she paused, sliding her glasses back on as she regarded you seriously. “You smell like a sewer rat.”

You faltered, completely caught off guard by her statement before remembering that you were still wearing damp, swampy, pool water clothes. Then, despite everything, a laugh slipped past your lips, breaking the tension. You let out a hiss as the movement sent a wave of pain through you. “Ow, fuck, don’t make me laugh,” you bit back another chuckle, lightly swatting her arm.

Denise smiled before motioning towards the door. “Go home, shower, get some rest — Doctor’s orders,” she grinned, turning away and beginning to clean up her workstation.

You thanked her again before hobbling out of the infirmary.

As night drew near, most residents of Alexandria were already in their respective homes — you were grateful for that. You didn’t want to see anyone right now, their worry and endless questions something you were more than happy to put off until tomorrow.

When you made it back to the apartment you and Daryl shared, you were, yet again, fighting back feelings of disappointment — he wasn’t home. You felt a pinprick of worry, but knew he needed time and space to process whatever it was he was feeling.

And when he was ready, you would be too.

You walked through the kitchen, the morning you’d shared earlier feeling like a lifetime ago — the pan he’d used to make eggs, now dry, remained sitting on the counter. The bedroom was untouched, looking exactly how it had this morning, just the way you’d left it. You grabbed a fresh set of clothes before making your way into the master bathroom attached, ignoring the bone-deep tiredness settling over you.

Showering was a good call — the warm water rained down as you scrubbed your body of the muck that clung to you, being extra careful not to get the bandage on your head wet or make any sudden movements. When you were finished cleaning up, you stood beneath the shower head for a few minutes, eyes closed, inhaling the steam around you with deep, calming breaths.

You were okay. You were alive. You were here.

You shut off the water, stepped out of the shower, and dried yourself off, gingerly patting down your chest and around your ribs, before slipping into clean clothes. You wiped away some of the steam that’d collected on the bathroom mirror before hanging up your towel, combing out your knotted hair, and brushing your teeth — the same routine you did every night.

The normalcy was soothing — you were already beginning to feel better, more like yourself. You were ready to put what happened behind you and move forward, sure to never take another day for granted.

But when you opened the bathroom door, ready to curl up in bed and doze off, all of your feelings from earlier came rushing back at the sight of Daryl.

Once again, he’d been pacing the length of the bedroom, only stopping after you’d entered the room, his gaze snapping towards you. He shifted his weight back and forth, opening his mouth before clamping it shut. You could feel his energy, rolling off his body in waves — tense, rigid, wild. He was struggling to say whatever was on his mind, only furthering his evident frustration. He flicked his hair away from his eyes, turning to face you head-on, clearly gathering up the gall to speak.

You took a small step forward. “Daryl —”

“Ya were blue,” he suddenly rasped, a fire in his gaze that wasn’t there before. “Tara was shoutin’ for ya an’ I — when I went in an’ pulled ya out, there wasn’t — I didn’t —” he huffed a breath in frustration, his face tinged red. “God, damn it, Y/N, ya were fuckin’ blue,” he finally growled, chest heaving, hands balled into fists at his side.

His anger wasn’t directed at you, but the situation itself, you knew that. But still, his words — or more so the emotion, the truth hidden behind them — had you recoiling from him, your heart breaking at the thought of what he’d seen, of what had run through his mind when he realized you weren’t breathing.

You couldn’t imagine how scared he must have been.

And that was what was beneath his outburst — not rage, but fear.

But he wasn’t finished with what he needed to say — if anything, he was just getting more and more worked up as he began to frantically pace once more. “This is why — I fuckin’ told ya — I didn’t need ya comin’ out there. I didn’t need ya on that run but ya — ya didn’t listen ta’ me an’ then —”

“I love you.”

Daryl stilled, mid-stride, his gaze widening as if all of the air had been sucked from his lungs.

You felt your face flush, the air between you so thick it could be cut with a knife. You hadn’t meant to say that aloud, but the words just sort of…tumbled out? And now, there they were, hanging between you. Part of you wondered if the archer could hear your heart pounding from where he stood — or maybe it was his heartbeat, synched up to yours.

You sputtered a soft breath, shaking your head in disbelief, trying not to panic because the last thing you wanted was for Daryl to look at you the way he was looking at you after telling him you loved him. “I’m —“ you took a breath, regarding him earnestly. “I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. And I promise — I promise — you do not have to say it back. Hell, you don’t even have to feel the same way,” you huffed an awkward laugh, but the noise hitched somewhere in your throat, betraying your words. You grew serious once more. “I just — I couldn’t have another night going by without you knowing. Not after what happened today,” you swallowed the lump in your throat, shrugging a shoulder up meekly. “So, I love you — I love you more than anything.”

You weren’t sure what sort of reaction you were expecting from him. But you absolutely refused to acknowledge the tiny part of you that secretly wished he’d swoop you into his arms, pull you close, tell you he loved you too — because that wasn’t Daryl. That wasn’t the type of man he was — and you were okay with that.

Because you hadn’t fallen in love with that type of man.

You’d fallen in love with the man standing shell-shocked in front of you.

You cleared your throat and stepped forward, moving away from the bathroom doorway. “The shower’s all yours,” you murmured, needing to break the uncomfortable silence that carried on.

You sidestepped around his frozen form, ignoring the way your legs shook like jelly beneath you as you made your way towards the bed. You took a seat on the edge of the mattress, keeping your back towards him, staring ahead at the blank wall in front of you instead.

After what felt like forever, the floorboard squeaked beneath the shifting of his weight, his footsteps growing faint as he slowly walked away and entered the bathroom, closing the door shut after him.

You strained your ears, listening for any movement beyond the door he’d disappeared behind — but you heard nothing. It was like you could feel him through the panel of wood between you — you could almost picture him, just standing there, trying to process whatever the hell was going on inside that mind of his.

A moment later, the shower turned on.

And you released the breath you’d been holding.

Exhaustion swept through you, the day’s events wearing you down. You carefully maneuvered yourself into bed, pulling a thin sheet over your body and settling onto your side. Your eyelids grew heavy, the sound of the shower lulling you to sleep despite the strange, sort of freedom your admittance had brought you, the feeling buzzing through your veins.

You didn’t regret your vulnerability — he needed to know he was loved, damn it.

When you heard the shower turn off, you snapped your eyes shut. You listened to the archer move about the bathroom until the door finally creaked open. He seemed to be just standing there, and you could’ve sworn you felt him staring at the back of your head as if he was gauging whether or not you were actually asleep. But a moment later, you heard his footsteps padding across the bedroom before the mattress dipped beneath him.

You held your breath, covers drawn to your chin as Daryl shifted in bed, eventually lying down beside you. Another beat of quiet passed, neither of you moving, nor breathing it seemed.

But then suddenly, you heard him speak, so softly you almost missed it. “I know ya ain’t sleepin’,” he rumbled.

The corner of your mouth quirked up — because of course he knew.

You sighed, shifting gingerly onto your back, the sheet pooling at your waist as you looked over at him. He laid on his side, facing you, propped up on his elbow. He was dressed in clean clothes, his hair still wet from the shower, pushed back out of his face.

He really was rather beautiful.

“Busted,” you smiled, though the archer’s expression remained solemn.

Ever so gently, he reached towards you, his fingertip grazing the material of your shirt, over your ribcage, below your chest, hovering the bruises that lingered. “Does it hurt?” he rasped, the mouth turned downward into a small frown.

You shook your head. “Not really.”

Daryl’s eyes met yours, his expression skeptical and knowing.

You never were a good liar.

“At least you didn’t break a rib?” you offered sheepishly, your lame attempt at a joke falling flat given the current audience.

But when Daryl’s features fell, a flash of what looked like guilt settling over his face, you placed your hand on top of his, resting them against your stomach. “Don’t do that,” you murmured, reading him like a damn book as you rubbed circles with your thumb over the back of his hand.

The archer grumbled something indistinct, staring down at your intertwined hands.

Your grip tightened around his. “I mean it,” you spoke, an edge to your voice, only softening when he looked at you instead. “You saved my life, D — that’s it. You can let go of anything else you’re holding onto.”

Daryl’s lip twitched as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, seemingly mulling over your words.

You were sure he’d hang onto whatever unnecessary guilt he carried — because that was just who he was — but eventually, he nodded once and settled down on his back, staring up at the ceiling. You were too tired to press the subject further so you curled into his side and rested your head against his chest, winding your arm across his midsection. His arm automatically wrapped around you, his fingertips trailing absently up and down your spine, sending shivers through your body.

You weren’t sure how long you laid like that, melting into the warmth he exuded, the steady pounding of his heartbeat easing you to sleep.

You’d nearly faded away when Daryl suddenly spoke.

“Did ya mean it?” he rumbled, the noise vibrating from deep within his chest. “What ya said before?” he grunted, his hand pausing at the small of your back.

You could’ve imagined it, but you almost felt the slight tremble of his fingertips against your skin.

You slowly pushed up onto your elbow, your faces mere inches apart. You searched his uncertain gaze, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Of course I meant it,” you whispered. “Every damn word.”

Daryl’s eyes narrowed, as though not entirely believing what you said could be true.

So you leaned forward, closing the remainder of space between you, and pressed your lips gently against his. He returned the kiss, a quiet desperation growing as one hand came up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb sweeping back and forth across your cheek. You broke away from the kiss, brushing his hair back before meeting his lips once more, settling your hand on his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath your touch.

When you pulled back, you noticed his skin flush, surely mirroring your own. He looked up at you, slightly breathless, a fondness in his gaze that sent your stomach somersaulting. He cleared his throat, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face. “Well, alright,” he finally resigned, accepting your answer to his question.

You snorted a breathy laugh, leaning forward and kissing his cheek before burrowing against him. A soft sigh slipped past your lips as Daryl’s hold tightened around you, as though afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t.

You closed your eyes, reveling in the feeling of contentment, unsure how many more moments like this you, or anyone else for that matter, had left in this kind of cruel and harrowing world.

But for at least tonight, you could be at peace.

“I love you,” you murmured groggily, beginning to sink deeper into unconsciousness.

Right before sleep came, long after Daryl thought you’d drifted away, you heard him whisper three, simple words.

“More than anythin’.”

Then he pulled you closer and the world dimmed.

A/N: Aw...a happy ending! (I figured I owed ya after putting y'all through Honey & Whiskey lol)

P.S. Feedback is incredibly important. I write for my own happiness, but I also write for YOU. So don’t be afraid to shoot me an ask or leave a comment with your thoughts! It truly motivates me and helps move along the writing process. Also, please consider donating to my Tip Jar. Every little bit helps!

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[angelicyoongie]

the crimson shell (II)

— pairing: jungkook x f!reader — genre: mermaid au, yandere au — w.c: 3.5k (drabble series) — warnings: mentions of death, mentions of drowning — notes: well, it wasn’t supposed to take four months to write the second part but here we are lol. still, mermaid jk works well for spoopy season too!! the next and likely last part of this drabble series will be inTEnse, so you better prepare yourself!

Part I / II / III / IIII

— summary: you had always found comfort in being at the beach, often spending hours just watching the waves lap against the shore. but unbeknowst to you – something had been watching you back.

You wake up with a gasp, your chest burning as you begin coughing up the remaining saltwater in your lungs. You stare down through bleary eyes at the pearly white sand beneath your fingers as your whole body heaves, your limbs shaking with exhaustion. You let out a choked cry as something wet laps at your toes, sending you scrambling further up the beach to escape it. The fresh water on your skin brings back memories of the night before, of how helpless and trapped you had been underwater, and how the ocean had judged you as unworthy and left you to drown – to die.

You roll onto your back, squinting up at the blue skies as you attempt to catch your breath. There’s no sign of the storm that threw you overboard, no dark ominous clouds looming on the horizon. Only an endless blue, stretching on infinitely. You groan as you push yourself up, your muscles aching and protesting as you test them all out to make sure nothing’s too badly injured. Your arms are blooming into hues of blue and yellow from where the ship knocked you around during the storm, but for a person that was thrown off the side of a ship and almost drowned, you’re surprisingly .. fine.

Maybe you have a guardian angel out there. The thought makes you snort.

You twist around, letting your gaze sweep over your surroundings. Although you can’t say it for sure just yet, you’re fairly sure you’ve washed up on a deserted island. Judging by how vast and empty the ocean is, and how untouched the beach and the vegetation behind you looks, you don’t think there’s a high chance of running into anybody else here. But even if you aren’t alone, is that really any better? You have no guarantee that the inhabitants of the island won’t just kill you on sight.

Suppressing a shudder, you try your best to will your thoughts away from all the horrible scenarios running through your mind. You'll just have to be extra alert until you’ve made sure you’re actually alone here.

Something digs sharply into your thigh as you shift your weight. You let out a gasp as you scramble to push your hand into your pocket, your fingers closing around the shell you had tucked away before the storm started. It’s still intact. You look down at it with wide eyes as you pull it out of your trousers, the crimson hue still looking as pretty as ever as you run your fingertips over the ridges. You have no idea how it managed to stay in one piece, but then again, you’re not sure how you managed to do that either.

“We must be lucky,” You mutter. You gently tuck the shell back into your pocket, dusting off the sand that’s clinging to your clothes as you gingerly get yourself up on your feet. You bury your bare feet into the cool sand, thankful that the sun hasn’t managed to warm it up just yet. There’s no sign of your shoes on the shoreline, so you think you’ll just have to resign yourself to the fact that they’re a lost cause. They probably won’t do you much good here anyway. You furrow your brows as you see something sparkle a little further down the beach, your curiosity getting the best of you as you make your way over on shaking legs. You don’t know how long you’ll be here, so you might as well indulge your whims and keep yourself entertained.

Your eyes light up in amazement as you realize what the object is; the fine layer of sand not managing to cover the sparkle properly. It’s gold. And real gold too, judging by how heavy the coin is in your hand. It doesn’t look like it’s been here for very long, so maybe it washed up along side you? You don’t think any of the other travellers were rich enough to carry it, but it’s not like it would be wise to flaunt it around either if they did have some money.

You tug at the chain around your neck, lifting the pendant up from underneath your shirt. The village crest looks almost burnt in the low sunlight, the edges turning black from the prolonged exposure to the ocean. You frown at the simple design.

Your initials are pressed into the surface alongside the name of your town, and the outline of a fish. You’ve always had an inkling that the pendant was never made from gold, that your village head was overcharging you for something you had to have to live in your village. Turns out you were right. Seeing it side by side with the real deal leaves no doubt in your mind that he’s skimming off the top for himself. If you ever get out of here, you’re going to give the village head a piece of your mind. You swallow thickly, tucking the pendant back under your shirt.

Right. If you get out of here.

Frankly, the silence on the island is unnerving. You’re used to the hustle and bustle of a busy town, and the only sound you can make out here is the waves gently crashing against a nearby cluster of rocks. It’s too silent. You can already feel the panic festering in your stomach, the emotion only growing stronger the longer you stay still to dwell on your predicament. You clutch the coin in your hand, feeling the smooth circle dig into your flesh as you tighten your hold. You’ll get out of here. But first – you’ll have to figure out how to survive.

You throw one last look at the terribly open ocean, lips pressed into a firm line as you turn your back on what will with no doubt become a horribly familiar sight. It’s with newfound determination that you start walking towards the thick vegetation, the sand underneath your feet giving away to grass the closer you get to the tree-line. You don’t need to look back to know that the vastness of the ocean is mocking you, that it doesn’t think you'll ever survive as long as it’ll take for another ship to sail past. It’s fine, you think. You’ve always had a thing for proving others wrong.

The island is surprisingly big. Judging by how high the sun has risen in the sky, and how the trees and underbrush continue to stretch on for as far as you can see, you don’t think you’ll be able to reach the other side before nightfall rolls around. It’s hard to tell, but you think it’ll likely take you around two days worth of walking to get to the other side. You let out a tired sigh as you rest against a fallen log, your feet bright red from the continuous walking. The ground is unexpectedly soft despite the variety of plants and grass growing here, but that’s probably the least curious thing about the island. There are no animals to be found here. Not even birds. Had this island only been a stretch of sand in the ocean, you wouldn’t have questioned it, but the thing is, this island is thriving. Logically, it should be bursting with some sort of wildlife. So far you’ve walked past a plethora of bushes so heavy with berries that should be able to sustain a whole array of animals.

As if that wasn’t enough, you even managed to stumble upon a deep pool of water that appeared to be fresh. Considering the island is surrounded by the ocean, by salt, it shouldn’t be possible. But somehow, it is. And that’s not even the weirdest part. The island is littered with gems and gold. You gave up hours ago on collecting them when your pockets became too heavy. You shake your head. This whole place is just bizarre, you’ve never heard of anything like this before. Jimin’s words did tickle the back of your mind, but you quickly brushed them off. There’s no way that this is the island he found, not when you still had one more week left to sail.

You push off the log, hoping to retrace your steps back to some of the more familiar looking bushes. You don’t have the luxury of being afraid of poisonous plants, not when it’s the only thing that might sustain you while you’re stuck here. Your stomach is rumbling obnoxiously by the time you make it back to the berries, and it’s with all of your self-restraint that you manage to hold back from finishing a whole bush in one go. You need to be smart and ration it so that it can last for as long as possible. You plop the last berry into your mouth, savouring the sweet taste as you begin the trek back to the beach. Despite not running into an ounce of life beside yourself, you can’t help but be vary of the parts you have yet to explore. So for now, you decide that the beach will serve as a good place to set up camp.

By the time you make it back to the beach, the sun is barely hanging on to the horizon. You squint against the fiery red, noticing a small lump resting on top of the flat rocks on the shoreline. A pang of joy travels through your body when you realize what it is you’re looking at. It’s a fish. It’s food. The fish is completely still, so the poor thing must’ve somehow jumped out of the ocean on its own. A voice in the back of your mind reminds you that the ocean is too calm, the waves to quiet, to throw the fish up on the rocks, but it’s quickly muffled by the sheer joy you feel of having something proper to eat. Who are you to question Lady Luck’s kindness after all?

You just count yourself lucky that you at least learned how to light a fire with minimal resources when you were younger. Once the fish is roasted and resting in your filled belly, it’s time to tuck in for the night.

You lay down as close to the fire as you dare, mindful to keep enough distance that any stray sparks won’t catch on your clothes. The island has grown chilly alongside the arrival of the moon, so you’re thankful for the extra warmth the fire provides. You empty out all the little treasures you collected into a neat pile, placing the crimson shell carefully on top of it. It’s strangely comforting to look at the flames dancing across the scalloped ridges, the gems and gold glittering in the low light. You keep watching until your eyes grow too heavy, exhaustion finally pulling you under into a deep sleep.  

It’s been three days, and the fish keeps appearing on the rocks like clockwork. You’ve taken to exploring the thick vegetation during the day, but there’s always a new fish waiting for you when you return to the beach. You would call the whole thing weird, but you’ve come to understand that most things on this island are. So, you quickly stop questioning it. But you shouldn’t have. That was your first mistake.

You shove a branch out of your way with a little more force than necessary, huffing in annoyance as you trek on deeper into the greenery. You’ve started to lose hope that you’ll ever get saved. You’ve run through every possible scenario in your head hundreds of times, but the heavy feeling in your gut tells you that it would only be foolish to hope. You’re not even sure that anybody knows that you’re missing.

“There you are,” You grumble under your breath as you finally spot the pool of fresh water, the large pond surrounded by beautiful orange flowers. You sink down to your knees in front of the body of water, eagerly scooping up the cold liquid to quench the dryness in your throat. The water is clear enough that you can make out the smooth stone lining the pond, but not enough that you can gauge just how deep it really is. The bottom is too dark, almost pitch black, and it always sends a shiver down your spine when you stare into it for too long. You’re about to take another sip when you swear you see a flash of red zoom past, your hands freezing above the water's surface. What if there’s something lurking down there?

Your eyes search frantically around the pond for another glimpse, but there’s nothing. You shake yourself out of your thoughts, scoffing at your own stupidity. It’s likely just another gemstone reflecting the light back up from the depths of the pool, nothing more and nothing less. You ignore the weak tremble in your hands as you rise back to your feet, your steps a little more hurried than usual as you begin the trek back to your beach. You must be starting to lose your mind.

When you return to the beach, there’s no fish waiting for you. You shrug it off easily, chalking it up to your luck finally running out. It was probably just a strong current that dragged some unsuspecting fish close to the island, and had enough force to throw them up on the rocks. Probably. It sounds plausible enough. With the absence of the fish, you just thank your past self for already having eaten some berries on your walk back, so that you won’t have to go to sleep hungry.

As morning rolls around, there isn’t a fish that catches your attention, but rather something else. Resting on the rocks is a massive pearl, the sphere so large your thumb and middle finger barely manage to meet when wrapped around it. The colour is mesmerizing. You roll the pearl around in your hands, watching as the deep red colour shifts into lighter and darker hues as you move it around. Come to think of it, haven’t you seen this exact colour before? You sprint up the beach to your little pile of treasures, carefully holding up the shell next to the pearl. They’re identical.

Your brows furrow in confusion as you twist and turn them around. How can a shell you picked up in your village match a pearl found over a week’s travel away? That’s impossible. You gently place both of them down on the ground, nibbling on your bottom lip as you turn around to face the ocean. A ripple in the surface catches your attention, but it’s too far out for you to see what could’ve caused it. A fish, you decide. That’s the only thing it can be after all. You sink down into the sand, running your fingertips along the smooth surface. It’s a pretty pearl – and you decide you’re going to cherish it just as much as your shell.

That's your second mistake.  

After you pick up the pearl, the fish miraculously return. In the following days there’s an abundance of fish greeting you on the rocks, some even showing up before you wake up. You can’t remember the last time you were so well fed. Not even your life back in the village kept you this sated every day. Maybe your fleeting luck has returned. Slowly, the days begin blending together as you keep exploring, picking up little treasures along the way and adding them to your ever-growing pile at the beach. It’s not much, but it’s keeping you sane.

You poke at the blazing bonfire in front of you, making sure that the fire is burning steadily before you venture down to the shoreline. Little gems keep washing up every now and again, so you’ve made it your nightly routine to go pick up those you can find. You halt as you reach the flat rocks nestled between the beach and the ocean, another ripple in the quiet surface a little further out making you curious.

Your third mistake.

You walk carefully over to the edge of the rock, peering down into the dark water. Dusk has started to settle in, but the last rays of light clinging on to the horizon are enough for you to notice something bright underwater. It looks like it’s leaning on a ledge in the rock, the item long and pale. You can’t really make out what it is – a long shell maybe? – but since you’ve already committed to picking up everything around the island, you might as well retrieve this too.

You get down on your knees, one hand curling around the edge of the rock for support as you lower your other arm into the cool water. You frown as fingers only graze over the top, not quite managing to reach it. Your arm is already drenched, so you figure it doesn’t matter if the rest of your blouse gets a little wet too. The fire will dry it quickly enough.

You lower your body further, your face nearly flush with the ocean as the last little push finally lets your hand finally close around the item. You smile, starting to pull yourself back up when something slimy wraps around your wrist, a harsh tug forcing your upper body down under water before you can even think to catch your breath.

Your eyes open in shock as the cold water suddenly surrounds you, and you swear you heart stops as the bubbles settle enough for you to see the creature in front of you. It has a human face, a handsome face, with long dark locks framing it, but the pupils in its eyes are unnaturally wide and blood red – and you can see your own terrified expression reflected back in them. Your eyes fly over the exposed skin of the creature’s torso and arms, your still heart dropping to your stomach as you notice that its skin starts transitioning into crimson scales around its hips, and that there’s a fucking tail where its legs should be. The pressure around your wrist tightens, and you snap your attention back to the creature’s face just as it opens its jaw to let out a series of clicking noises. It barely parts its lips, but it's enough for you to see the rows of sharp pointed teeth lining the inside of its mouth, a forked tongue moving around as it speaks. It’s a man, but it’s also not– it’s .. it’s a monster.

Your heart finally jumpstarts as your lungs begin to burn from the lack of oxygen, adrenaline shooting through your veins as you begin trying to pull yourself back up to the surface. The creature’s face seems to grow confused at your sudden struggle, another series of clicking noises leaving its mouth. A webbed hand comes into your line of sight, clawed fingertips reaching out towards your face. You’re sure your face will be mauled if they come in contact with your skin, so with newfound vigour, you finally find the last push of strength you need to rip yourself away from the hold around your wrist.

At the first breath of air, you scramble away from the edge of the rock, your trembling legs stumbling and folding underneath you as you race up the beach. You collapse against the sand besides your bonfire, barely hearing your own ragged breathing over the blood pumping in your ears. Your whole body freezes up in panic as you watch the creature’s head pop up over the edge of the rock, blood red eyes finding yours immediately. The low clicks that fill the air makes the back of your neck feel tight, your skin prickling in terror at how the noises seem like a warning. You don't dare move your eyes away until the creature sinks back down into the ocean, and out of view. You don’t know how long you stay there, warm tears streaming down your cheeks as you silently stare out at the calm water. You’ll never get away if that creature is out there.

It’s only when you’re sure that the creature is gone that you allow your attention to shift downwards, to the item still secured tightly in your grasp. You slowly open your hand to study it, eyes growing wide as you realize what it is.

A human jaw.

Choked sobs rip through your chest as you fling it into the bonfire, the smooth white surface even brighter in the midst of the flames. You furiously rub your hand on the fabric of your trousers, your stomach turning as the fire crackles louder around the bone. The gems, the fish, the bones, they wouldn’t have just ended up here alone. That creature must have brought it all here. It must have brought you here.

It dawns on you that you haven’t been lucky at all, no, instead you’ve only been surviving because the creature has wanted you to. Your fate is in the hands of a monster – one that seems furious that you ran away from it.

“Fuck,” you whimper pitifully, burrowing your head into your shaking hands. You have a feeling your time might be up.

a/n: hope you enjoyed the second part to the crimson shell! i would really appreciate a comment/reblog if you did! the next chapter will be the most spicy? disturbing? whatever you want to call it hhh. (ps. i’m not doing a tag list for this mini series!) as always, see you all soon and stay safe! and in case you enjoy my stories and want to buy me a coffee, you can do so here! 💖

[sunnysviolin]

i am curious about the violin (soulmate au), so Basil doesn't have that mark and sunny does if so i want to know who is the secret soulmate lol (you don't have to answer if you don't want to)

Hi dearie! I love to answer y'all don't even worry about that! I might not always answer because life kind of imploded on me, but I treasure everything you guys send!! As for this, well it's one of my favorite twists in Broken Melodies, so let's get into it. I'm just really hoping people follow along with me, because this could get misinterpreted. Also TW: Sunny/Basil Fight and everything that comes with it

Romantic soulmates are the most common, but they aren't the only kind of bond a person can have. Platonic soulmates are not unheard of, and in fact well known.

These kind of bonds usually happen between a parental figure and a child, but they can also happen between extremely close friends, or even siblings. There isn't an across the board way of distinguishing one bond from another, but those who share the bond are always in agreement on what kind of bond they have- whether platonic or romantic. Regardless of the type of soulmate, losing them is still the worst pain a person can go through and still live.

There is one kind of soulmark that is extremely rare, a kind that almost never happens- a trauma mark

Trauma bonds are rare because they only happen when a person is in mortal peril, long after a person is born. These types of marks aren't natural, they're created during moments of extreme stress. There isn't a lot of research into how exactly trauma bonds are formed, but these are not the same as other soulmarks.

The unfortunate reality was that most trauma bonds are short lived, as most people who form a trauma bond succumb to whatever had caused enough emotional distress that their soul had linked itself to another.

For those that do survive, the connections between soulmates are stronger than any other type. The link between them is forged not by blood or whatever force there might be, but by a person's trust in the other to protect them. To save them.

That night during their fight, Sunny was more frightened than he had ever been. The night of the concert, he hadn't had time to be frightened, he had been thrust deep into White Space before he could fully process his horror. But seeing Something surrounding him and Basil, having Basil swipe at him with a silver pair of shears...Sunny was completely caught in the icy grip of terror. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't calm, there was nothing but fear. He couldn't begin to think, couldn't even start to try and rationalize what was happening.

Basil tackled him and pinned Sunny down underneath him. Sunny blindly thrust his arms up pushing against Basil who was pressing down on him. Sunny's arms, already weak from years spent doing nothing but lying in bed, were screaming in exhaustion. He was going to lose. He was going to die. Basil kept saying Everything Was Going To Be Okay, but it wasn't. Sunny was going to die. He couldn't save them. He was going to die.

Sunny felt the same feeling he had in the lake, when Something was holding him under, wrapped around his ankles like a vice. It was the same darkness, the same cold. When it had him, Mari had saved him. She had pulled him back into the light. Mari couldn't save him now, he had killed her. He had killed her, and now he was going to die too, because he had made it so she couldn't save him.

Except. Except Mari hadn't saved him. Not this time. He had thought it was her, the arms pulling him up to the surface had felt like hers, but they weren't hers. It was Hero. Hero had saved him yesterday, Hero had pulled him out of the water.

Sunny wanted Hero here. Sunny needed someone else to save Basil, to save him. His wrist blazed in a searing burn, and Sunny gasped, his arms giving out from the strain and the hurt.

At the same time, in the quiet and peace of the living room, Hero shot up with a loud shout, somehow not startling the rest of the house into waking.

He was gripping his own wrist in a bruising grip. The strange fire on his arm settled almost as soon as it had come. Hero blinked through the sudden tears of pain and looked down.

There was Mari's mark, as black and empty as it always was. Her music notes drifting down the back of his hand, limp and lifeless. But under them was something new. Hero flipped his hand over, staring down in bewilderment.

Starting at his wrist and extending down his forearm was a violin. It wasn't a large mark, it was barely as long as his palm, but it pulsed with a throbbing ache. It was a soft brown color, not grey like new marks should be. Hero shouldn't have any new marks, yet somehow he instinctually knew who's it was. There was only person that made sense.

But Sunny didn't have marks. Sunny. Hero looked across the room. Kel was snoring next to him. Aubrey was on the couch, her face uncharacteristically soft and vulnerable.

Hero heard a loud cry of pain from behind him in Basil's room, and his right eye exploded in agony, starbursts flodding his vision. Sunny.

He was up and running before Polly, Kel, and Aubrey even woke up.

[mysticalmusicwhispers]

lovers’ dreams

Summary: “A day fit for a spring dream.” And then he kisses Roshan, and they become lost in each other.

Characters: India (Aditya), China, Iran/Persia (Roshan, genderfluid). Human names used. Indran, Churan, and Indchu for ships!

Notes: 100% distilled surrealism! This was supposed to be a writing exercise that ran away from me rip. There are many footnotes that explain Many things. Enjoy!

also on AO3! (there are bonus thoughts and explanations there for anyone who’s interested or slightly confused 😅. everything necessary for you to understand the story is here too but I ramble about my thoughts going into the piece on AO3 lol)

———

The willow’s drooping branches hide Yao’s face like a beaded curtain, a bride’s sheer red veil. The spring breeze snakes through the tree, and the sound of wedding suona—sorna rings through the silence. A flutter of phoenix wings brushes past their ear, a whisper on the wind. Roshan walks languidly until they are in front of Yao; it takes a minute—it takes a month. Yao’s face is sharp and his eyes glint, like the jade in his belt. But the kiss is soft when they take his lips in theirs, and it tastes of the rose’s tender petals. The clean sweetness of flowers is warm against Roshan’s face and the fragrance of tea drifts into their nostrils. 

Yao pulls away, and Roshan opens their eyes to polished jade thorns sprouting up from the earth around them—crisp green, sharp-tipped; elegant, dangerous. So these are the fruits of our love. It is fitting. They lean to kiss Yao again, and this time, a laugh peals through the air when they part. It is not Roshan’s, and it isn’t Yao’s. But it is clear as spring water and tinkles like a bell, a joyous sound, and it makes Yao smile—a smile that is gentle, calculating; sweet, dangerous. A copper coin hides in the corner of his lips. “A day fit for a spring dream.” And then he kisses Roshan, and they become lost in each other.

When Roshan opens their eyes again, Yao is gone. They are standing in nothingness, a shell of a dream. A liminal plane. A wedding song echoes in the empty space, loud and cheerful, although there are no musicians to be seen playing the dohol, the sorna. Then sprung from the air, a mirror of fate, Aayeneh-ye Bakh, with its customary candelabras flanking it, and with their dots of golden light—miniature suns, sparkling stars. Its face shimmers, clear and gleaming: a pond on a full moon night—and in it, Yao stands, his reflection bright, splendid robes shimmering like gold scales and fine silk. Roshan reaches out a hand, and pulls him into a kiss.

“Welcome back, my dear.”

———

It is sunset, and a chill brushes past Yao’s shoulders and winds through his hair. The sky burns red, and fork tongued flames lick at the sun. A world bathed in fire, on the cusp of night. A lotus pond sits before him, and a figure is at its edge—Aditya, adorned in gold, the perfect figure of a prince. He, a dream of glittering palaces and beady emeralds, bright against the glow of the setting sun, sharp against the bloody sky. He holds a lotus blossom out, and Yao takes it. It is pure, tender in his calloused hands. A drop of blood drips from a petal. He lets it float into the water, and Aditya watches with him as the peach pink petals drop before their eyes—the lotus head balloons, then falls with the weight of seeds; it withers, a shell of its fruit. Divine beauty is short lived—seasons turn with the winds of change.  

Aditya loops an arm around him, bare skin on bare skin, the warmth of the sun hanging around them like a curtain. Their lips meet. The kiss is long, and lingers even after Yao pulls away; it is slightly bitter, but how could it not be? Aditya’s eyes are like black tea, and Yao tastes acrid lily bulbs. The sky has faded into burnt orange, the aftermath of a blaze. Autumn leaves fall from ginkgo trees, golden yellow, bright with memories of the past. Aditya closes his eyes, and Yao watches him sink into a dream.

The scene shifts before his eyes. The lotus pond morphs into a giant chessboard, and they are on opposite sides. Aditya plays white. Cream colored pawns meet chocolate brown knights, and they watch as kings rise and fall, as steady as the spinning of the world. Chariots race and elephants trumpet; the cavalry fight with long swords and bows, and the peasants use polearms, raised fists. Yao meets Aditya’s eyes, warm but gleaming with an ambition that has never gone away. He nods to his neighbor to the west, to his rival, lover, partner, equal. Aditya smiles.

“So we meet again.”

———

It is afternoon, and the sun is warm on his face. Roshan sits on a bench in the courtyard, holding a cup of coffee in one hand, a pomegranate in the other. Aditya nestles into their side, and they give him a feather light cheek kiss, gift him a wisp of air. They hold out the pomegranate, offers it, and Aditya takes a bite. Roshan takes the other half. They watch as the fruit regrows, seeds become jewels, glittering rubies in folds of red fabric. Roshan holds one up to the light with a critical eye. They spread tawny wings, amber eagle eyes alight with the pride of the past present future. A lion and the sun. The wings disappear—a trick of the light, reality fallen away. Then they hold up the cup of coffee.

“For you.” Aditya smiles, and offers a cup of black tea in return.

We have shared many things, and fought over equally many. How will it be in the future? He takes a sip, and falls through the cup.

A cemetery of swords surrounds them, a memory of things gone by. Afternoon sunlight filters through the trees, winds into Roshan’s hair. Idly peaceful. Flowers sprout through the earth; wither; climb up the rusted metal once again. A vine of roses twists around the hilt of a ceremonial spear, supple and full against cool, glinting steel. The leaves flicker, green yellow dead green again. Its blossom is still fresh red, like passion, like their love, pooling around them like a million memories, a still night in the river of time. Aditya looks at Roshan, different yet the same, a reflection of what they once were. Familiar, always, despite the changing tides and shifting dreams.

———

Notes

this part might actually be longer than the fic itself rip 😔 reminder that there’s extra rambling on ao3 lol

Suona/sorna: suona (唢呐) is a traditional wind instrument often played at wedding and funeral processions in northern China! (also used in Southeast China + Taiwan) It’s very loud and has a super brassy sound, but personally I think it sounds alright! The instrument came from Central Asia and is also used at weddings in Iran (where it’s spelled sorna/sarna), where it’s played with a dohol, a large cylindrical drum.

Phoenixes: wedding imagery in China, where a dragon symbolizes the groom and the phoenix the bride. There’s also an analogue to the phoenix in Persian mythology, a simurgh, which is a benevolent creature that is said to purify the land, roosts in the Tree of Knowledge, and apparently has seen the world be destroyed 3 times. Can symbolize healing, divinity, wisdom, and life. (the simurgh symbolism doesn't have much relevance to the fic but I thought it was incredibly interesting to read about lol)

Spring dream: very loosely referencing the Chinese phrase 一场春梦 (yi chang chun meng), which literally translates to an episode of a spring dream. It means the feeling that past predictions or events were actually totally wrong and fruitless, like you expected something (probably really good), but then woke up to reality not being up to your expectations? I can’t translate 😔

Mirror of Fate: In traditional Iranian weddings, a large, elaborate table with flowers and food and different spices is set up (sofreh aghd). A mirror of fate and 2 candelabras are also placed in the center of the table. The mirror represents how fate brought the bride and groom together, and the candelabras represent light and fire. The mirror is there so that when the groom looks into it, the first thing he should see is his betrothed's reflection.

Lotus blossoms: in China and India and many other parts of Asia, lotuses represent purity (they grow from dark mud but the flowers are pure white/pink), the divine, elegance, spiritual promise, the good part of humanity. so, a lotus with a drop of blood in Yao’s hands would be interesting.

Lily bulbs: this is purely self projection but lily bulbs (baihe) are used in Chinese medicine and I despise them. They're not super bitter but they taste starchy, bland, and off. Also lilies and lotuses are pretty similar and I thought that would be interesting :>

Chess: idk if I need a note for this but chess originated as an Indian game called Chaturanga and spread over to China and Iran, among many other places in Asia.

Tea and Coffee: nothing really special about this besides that Iranians Really Like tea. Decided to make India drink coffee instead for contrast; realistically he’d also be drinking tea lol

Eagle eyes: the Iranian/Persian symbol of the Faravahar, from Zoroastrianism has wings that are supposed to be eagle wings (I think? correct me if it’s just unspecified). You’ve probably seen it; it depicts a man with spread wings, half kneeling in a side view. Nowadays it’s also a symbol of Iranian culture, history, and national pride, besides being representative of Zoroastrianism.

Rose: national flower of Iran, and obv I don’t need to explain the other rose connotations. Also I’ve fully adopted the hc that Roshan and all their stuff smells like roses so that’s there too.

Lion and the sun: getting lazy with the explanations, but the short version is that it was a very important Iranian national symbol for many reasons, moreso tied to the state than culture (imo); it was also on the national flag up till the 1979 Islamic Revolution. Although I’m still debating how much Roshan is associated with the state, I also think sun and lion imagery fits them (glory, golden days, pride and courage). It’s super interesting, go search it up if you wanna read more!

This whole fic was somewhat inspired by this one, and the indchu bit was also somewhat inspired by this fanart.

If you made it down here, you have all my gratitude. Feedback is welcome and appreciated! Thanks for reading <3

[chocosvt]

⚬ pairing: soonyoung x fem!reader ⚬ word count: 6503 ⚬ warnings: degradation, drinking ⚬ genres: this is just smut. filthy smut. featuring a lot of dirty talk from soonyoung and a hint of a secret au!

 ✧✎ synopsis: the tension between you and a mystifying stranger at the club only thickens each time you meet. he seems like a risk you’re willing to take.

✧✎ a/n: GOD. i have not written straight up smut in two years! i mean, there is a little bit of a background plot, i hope it’s all enjoyable hehe. also, the “secret au” is pretty easy to guess lol, but i suppose it could be a couple of things!

The first time you see him, you’re surrounded by your friends, packaged into a small space that grants you just enough room to sway your body and bring a pink-coloured drink to your lips. He’s across the room, leaning back on a white sofa. Impassively, he overlooks the crowd, until his entourage returns from the shadows to occupy the hard cushions. One of them leans into his ear and whispers something. You force yourself to swallow more of the sweet syrup from your glass, wondering what was said that makes him smirk.

A hand touches your bare shoulder, to which you turn around and grin rather intoxicatedly at your friend. She’s equally inebriated, and as the music reverberates toward the centre of the floor, you wrap an arm around her waist to pull her in close and move with the beat. You take another sip from the glass before hoisting it high in the air, hips undulating, feeling the heat and the dizziness and her hot breath hitting your ear as she mouths along to the lyrics.

Eventually, you two part, and your turn yourself back around almost immediately. As much as you want to believe it’s not because of the stranger, that seems to be the only plausible explanation, and it only burns that much deeper when you realize he’s staring at you. One arm stretches around the back of the sofa, his other hand loosely holding an amber shot glass at his knee. For a moment you stop moving to return his gaze. The stranger isn’t coy. He evidently scans your body, starting at your laced stilettos, venturing up the black fabric hugging your waist, and landing at the haze in your eyes.

You feel warm, but it’s not the muggy air, the crowded club, or even the violet lights.

However, you’re soon met with the repercussions of the dance floor as an unfamiliar body slams into yours, jostling you forward. You grimace as alcohol sloshes over your glass, prompting you to quickly escape toward a less populated pocket of space. The stranger’s glance follows you, yet his mood has shifted. Instead, he chuckles and shakes his head while bringing the shot glass to his lips, downing the golden liquid in a short swig. Your heart thunders upon watching him gently elbow his friend, where he utters something into his ear that preludes their amused, somewhat snide expressions.

It’s downright embarrassing. You can only deduce they’re enjoying your accident with the drink, even when the same predicament had probably just happened to someone else at the opposite end of the room. The stranger’s gaze seems to be searching out a different body, though you aren’t certain, rather you weave your way through the tables to find the washroom and rinse the alcohol from your hand. Admittedly, you feel disappointed to lose the stranger’s attraction. You can’t remember the last time you experienced a successful hook-up where you weren’t exaggerating your lacklustre pleasure.

Your hopes had simply been too high.

The second time you see him, you’re sucking restlessly at a straw, completely emptying the glass until there’s nothing but crushed ice cubes watering down the last few drops of alcohol. Looking up from the table, you spot him buried in the wave of sluggish bodies, the violet light tingeing his partially unbuttoned dress shirt and his black hair. But it rapidly dawns that he’s not dancing alone, for a girl twirls into his arms, pressing her backside to his front, rubbing herself against him while his hands explore her torso. The light hits a new angle on his throat, illuminating the trail of hickies.

It cuts through you, for the envy is like a blade generously sharpened. Even though you will yourself to look away, it becomes an impossible task, to which you trace their every movement without missing a heartbeat. His hand, clad in a myriad of silver rings, engulfs her breast and squeezes. Her head tilts back onto his shoulder, gasping something that seems to be full of euphoria. His eyes flicker quickly, and as though you’re a rabbit that’s to be nicked by an arrow, you’re caught directly in the crosshairs. You wish there had been more alcohol lining your glass so you could’ve turned further numb.

Enveloped in the stranger’s trance, you watch his hand slide around the column of her neck, how his gaze never falters even when he licks a stripe up her skin and nips at her ear. Folding one leg over the other, you attempt to snuff the venereal warmth that flutters at your abdomen, hating that you’re imaging what each sensation would feel like if you were against his body rather than her. His eyes are black, poisonous, and yet you contain so little care that he might be a menace, not when he grinds his hips against the dip of her spine while she hides her face in his neck, already suckling another bruise.

You have no idea what she’s feeling, or why he can’t take his eyes off you. It’s a bit unabashed and perhaps from a place of unsatiated neediness, but you’d really love for him to fuck you.

Maybe your third encounter will be the charm.

“Drink or dare?”

“Dare.”

For the past two rounds, you had purely subjected your body to the potent taste of sour, cold lime and gin mixed with tonic. Not desiring to ram your consciousness further into the ground, you finally chose dare, which uproots some whistles and snickers from around the table. Your friend bites her lip, straining her neck while her eyes cherry pick through the club-goers. Despite the alcohol exchanging your blood for liquid fire, there’s a nervousness in your tummy, and you can’t help fiddling with the hem of your black dress upon waiting for her sinister verdict.

“Alright,” she says, almost yelling over the thunderous bass, “I dare you to ask that guy what his biggest secret is!”

You follow her pointed finger, and your heart seems to immediately shrivel. He’s standing by the white sofa, invested in a conversation with another man who’s holding a martini glass, filled with a drink that’s an electric shade of blue. He offers the drink toward him, but the stranger denies, aggressively pushing away the glass. You sense a scuffle is going to break out between the two men, until someone else who always seems to accompany the stranger steps in, diminishing the conflict.

“Well?” She calls out to you, quirking an eyebrow. “You going or not?”

“I’m going!”

You slide off the stool and pull down your dress. As you shift your way through the crowd, you attempt to rally some confidence, rehearsing the different approaches you could take upon introducing yourself. Yet, there’s a gigantic roadblock. How are you going to persuade him to reveal his biggest secret? From what you already gleaned, he appears unforthcoming, but awfully magnetic.

By the time you’re tapping his shoulder, your confidence disintegrates like a dried flower petal and every nonchalant line you practiced in a spasm floats out your head.

His eyes are much darker in proximity, the colour of sable, and he smells like a royal cologne you can’t afford. He waits for you to speak first, almost as though he knows how nervous you are, wanting to revel in the trembling notes of your voice.

“I-I’m supposed— I’m, uh… How are you?” It’s painful, but you manage to choke it out.

With his hands casually buried in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed, he shrugs.

“I’m fine, honey. And yourself?”

Your blood surges, for you can feel it dragging through your veins, and a heat unlike any other draws a glimmering film to your palms. Due to the pounding music, you both have to raise your voices.

“I’m –uh– good? Yeah, I’m good!” Somehow, your lexicon could exist on the point of a needle.

The stranger chuckles. He’s enjoying your flustered nature far too much.

Quickly, you spiel out another question: “what’s your name?”

However, he doesn’t catch it. Instead, he taps his ear and leans in.

“What’s your name?” Your entire chest beats wildly upon repeating the question. The black fibres of his hair smell like passionfruit, but there’s a distant scent, and you think it’s charcoal.

He pulls back and smiles. “Soonyoung.” His name simmers in the thick air for a moment.

Your skin intensely prickles as his gaze then traces the length of your body, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, plump and pink as he asks, “what about you?”

Soonyoung lowers his head again, to which your lips nearly touch his ear upon replying with your name. Once more, he smiles contentedly, while you believe that the scent in his hair has to be charcoal, or maybe even gunpowder. You think about the man with the electric blue drink, how he must’ve sunk into the shadows after Soonyoung’s friend intervened. The dare is still in the back of your mind, even when you inquire on a different topic.

“Why do you look at me all the time?”

There’s something about the darkness in his eyes that keeps you allured, even when you sense it’s better to reject the dare all together and brace through another gulp of gin and tonic.

“Hm. That’s not what you came here to say now is it, honey?”

His response unsteadies you. As Soonyoung counters your question with another question, a small curl develops at the corners of his mouth, as though he knows something you don’t. From his backside, another companion of his abruptly slides by, his hand settling on Soonyoung’s shoulder while he whispers into his ear. The man disappears immediately afterward, like he was nothing but mist.

The strangeness of it all leads you to fumble.

“Well… I-I was dared to come over here. I have to ask what your biggest secret is…”

It’s rather embarrassing to admit. You’d shoot a glare toward your friends if you weren’t so enraptured by Soonyoung’s unfaltering eyes.

“My biggest secret?” He drags a hand slowly through his hair while he bites his lip, thinking. You presume the gold watch on his wrist must cost more than your rent.

“I think I have a good one.” The manner in which Soonyoung’s tone had deepened piques your curiosity, though his soft smirk suggests you should consider if you truly want to know the answer.

Not willing to capitulate when you’ve succeeded this far, you dare grin at him, ensuring that you’re heard overtop the club music when you invite, “tell me.”

The sweltering of the amethyst lights and the concentrated gin coursing beneath your flesh does nothing to mitigate how hot you feel. When Soonyoung steps in close, his cologne seems to envelope you in an unbreakable spell, and your fingernails dig into the flexible, tight fabric of your dress when his lips brush your ear’s cusp. His voice laps like velvet at your very core.

“I think about fucking you, calling you my pretty little slut as I shove your face in my pillow and put my cock so deep inside you that you’re screaming. Every time I have a girl in my bed, I imagine it’s you, begging me to give it to you harder, begging me for my cum, and I make you take it all, just so I can watch how it drips out of you, honey. ”

Then, Soonyoung is leaning away with an expression that’s wholly complacent, meanwhile your universe is splitting itself apart beneath the flame of his words, a sensation much too slick now dampening the lace between your thighs. You can’t help but wet your dry lips.

“Is that a big enough secret for you, huh?” He purrs, a purple glint flashing in his eyes.

Nothing pieces together in your head. There is not one sentence bothering to make itself apparent, let alone any margin of thought that was relatively pure. Engulfed in the midst of unintelligible music and sanity that endlessly dwindles, you decide the only sensible reply is to kiss Soonyoung. This is just an opportunity you can’t lose. Pressing your chest to his, one hand gripping his shoulder, you at long last acquaint yourself with his candied taste and the softness of his pink mouth.

Soonyoung grins upon the pressure, the gin and tonic that coats your unhesitant tongue, how you mewl so helplessly when he digs his fingers into your hips like they were meant to be imprinted with bruises. Winding your arms around the boy’s neck, you fall into him in complete vulnerability, pull him down closer while he licks into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he chuckles breathily, his hands venturing lower to squeeze your ass, “bet you’d let me bend you right over on this couch, wouldn’t you, honey?”

Sliding your fingers through the feathery, black hair at his nape, you push your lips to his once more, nipping at his bottom lip that shimmers with your own saliva. Honestly, Soonyoung isn’t far from the truth. The last time you experienced such a sharp, needy pang at the apex of your thighs is thrust back too far in your memory. His hands reach down over your ass to the dress’ hem, where he hikes up the tight material slightly, his fingertips suddenly stroking you through your underwear.

“Please, Soonyoung,” his name feels so right as it escapes your throat, “I need you.”

“Yeah?” His firm grip plants back on your hips, and he catches your stare, deep and lustful. “You’d let me take you home, baby? Are you sure you want this?”

Immediately, you nod your head, arms fastening around his neck. “You can take me anywhere.”

Maybe it’s selfish, but you don’t once consider your friends crowded at the table across the club, nor would you care if they witnessed Soonyoung’s hand slipping beneath your dress to brush your clothed folds, not when a sensation felt that appeasing. He smirks, then briefly turns around, tapping a member of his entourage on the shoulder to exchange another whisper. The only thing you register is your burning excitement when Soonyoung tilts his head in the direction of the backdoor exit.

“C’mon,” he takes your hand, “my place isn’t a far walk.”

Soonyoung seems to live in the esteemed, Grand Plaza that’s no further than a street down from the club. It’s surrounded by the flashy nightlife, and as he pulls you into the foyer, completely marbled and elegant, you infer that he must be paying bigtime in order to maintain an apartment amidst the city’s pumping heart. The second you reach the elevator, he’s already pinned you against the cold metal, his kisses full of aggression and clever tongue that you pathetically whine for.

His palm sneaks up your dress, cupping at your pussy aching for any degree of attention. You grind into his hand and Soonyoung delights at your arousal. In fact, as the elevator nears the appropriate floor, a desire to touch every crevice of your body consumes him. Before you can take in another breath, the sweet pressure deserts your core, his fingers now pulling aside the plunging v of your dress so that he can free your breast, to which he immediately licks and suckles over the soft skin. A small ding resonates from the elevator, though he spends an extra moment lapping at your nipple.

You step away to avoid an embarrassing blunder with the doors and hastily readjust your dress. Once Soonyoung confirms that the corridor is clear, it’s a blitz to his room, his key card shoved carelessly into the slot before he’s dragging you inside. The sight of his apartment admittedly stuns you, particularly the tall, slender windowpanes that reach directly to the floor, the high arch of the ceiling and the diamond chandelier hanging like a celestial object.

Soonyoung touches your waist, pushing your spine to his door. His fingers then graze underneath your dress to the inside of your thigh, where he merely snaps your lace panties against the skin.

“You’re going to be my good little slut for the night, aren’t you?” He asks, his tone dripping much like syrup. You nod without question, and his other hand rests next to your head while he murmurs huskily into your ear, “take your underwear off for me, sweetheart.”

The fabric slides down your legs and drops at your ankles, which you manage to kick away, though you don’t miss the embarrassingly large wet patch that stains the lace. It only amplifies this desperation that’s been blooming inside you, and as Soonyoung slowly drops to his knees, a shaft of moonlight falling across the complete blackness in his eyes, you can’t help the shudder that strings so icily down your back. He begins tucking up the dress until it sits nice and snug over your hips.

Something about the way he gazes at your heat crushes every bit of breath from your lungs. Without warning, Soonyoung nestles his face between your thighs and delivers a long, hard lick, his eyes fluttering open to gauge your contorted expression as his tongue drags against your nerves.

He smirks wolfishly. “You’re so gorgeous, baby. Does your pussy always get this soaked?”

You struggle to articulate when Soonyoung places another lethargic lick with the flat of his tongue, a scoff half-rumbling in his chest while he massages your clit using the slick muscle. Somehow, you find the words, though they sound strangely distant as they echo outside your haze of pleasure.

“N-No, only when I-I think about you.”

Soonyoung’s guttural laugh strikes your core, and with a swift movement, he manages your leg over the back of his shoulder, improving his access to your plentiful wetness. A sharp inhale rushes between your teeth upon the boy sliding his index finger past your slit, until the thick silver ring dissuades him from pushing the digit in any further. He curls it, rubs against your silk to make you moan. Your fingers scratch into the door, not yet sure if you should be rifling them through his locks.

“Yeah? You think about me, baby?” It almost seems like a taunt. “Entertain me then.”

Just as you open your mouth, Soonyoung deviously slips in another finger past your opening, trails of gloss seeping down his hand as he stretches your pulsating warmth.

“I-I imagine this,” even with the boy on his knees and his fingers ticking your sweet spot, it’s still difficult to admit such filth, “I imagine you e-eating me out, n’making me cum.”

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” He purrs knowingly against your clit, his lips kissing the sensitive bud. “Such a good girl, letting me taste this pretty pussy.”

You hum in agreement, eyes falling shut to bask in the overwhelming sensations and how expertly Soonyoung reads on your slightest twitch or exhale, pinpointing the areas that prominently break you down and render you incoherent. Every so often you feel the cold silver of his rings brush your heat as he continues pumping his fingers, to which Soonyoung notes that your leg always trembles against his shoulder. Smiling, he presses his fingers in further, the rings just touching your inner walls while he swirls his tongue at a slow, thorough pace against your clit, satisfying the ache.

Unable to process the insane pleasure, your spine arches from the door and your fingers latch into the boy’s strong, black roots. You pull up on his scalp, cursing vehemently.

“F-Fuck, Soonyoung! Soso good—nngh—don’t stop, please!”

You almost feel apologetic for his neighbours who must hear these unabashed shouts muffle through his walls each night, though you can’t be bothered to moderate your volume when Soonyoung abuses your g-spot with the deep, consistent massaging of his fingers. He attaches his mouth overtop your clit, his tongue lathering across the bud before he starts flicking it harshly. At that moment, nothing else surges through you but an unprecedented hedonism, and you stuff his face in further to your heat. With your head tossed back against the door, you almost fear how greatly this orgasm builds.

It feels like the pressure situated at your abdomen could burst you open like a water balloon, and the only manner in which you can express the pleasure is to wail helplessly. As Soonyoung’s touch sinks so deliciously against that heavenly spot, his tongue, unrelenting and passionate, working to abuse your swollen bud, your body discovers its incapability to hold out a moment longer. Instead, it crumbles, and with a piercing cry of Soonyoung’s name your arousal gushes onto the boy’s awaiting face.

But he doesn’t wither away or allow the room to stop spinning, rather he delivers a few more vigorous pumps with his fingers and licks over your throbbing bud, all while you feel some of the liquid drip down your inner thigh. Breathing feebly, you tug hard at his scalp in an attempt to make him remove his mouth, for your heat feels raw and swells with oversensitivity.

“Soonyoung, please,” your eyes heavily pull open, “i-it’s hurting too much.”

At last, his fingers retreat from your opening and his mouth allows the cool air to ghost over your flesh. It’s alarming to observe the droplets of your cum that glisten on his face, his lips, so flushed and shiny, yet the boy’s tongue only curls out to collect the arousal.

“Fuck, you’re amazing. Did you know you could squirt, sweetheart?” His smile is cunning. “Or has no one ever treated your pussy that well?”

“I’ve never done it before,” you laugh breathlessly, and your head hits the back of the door as you attempt to process what just happened, “I didn’t know something could feel that good.”

While your fingers brush back his hair, Soonyoung places soft pecks up your inner thigh until he reaches the enflamed skin of your core. He catches your infatuated gaze, ensuring you watch as the very tip of his tongue pushes in shallow past your opening before the muscle circles delicately around your clit. Your hips jerk against his face, to which the immediate reverberations in his chuckle vibrate past your folds. Attentively, Soonyoung kisses the sensitive bud, and then your stomach.

After removing your leg from his shoulder, he rises to his feet, the darkness still dancing in his eyes like a flickering shadow. He feels like a foreboding addiction, one that you can’t give up.

“You’re perhaps the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” He compliments, his hand sliding around to stroke the small of your back, his lips just brushing your ear’s shell. “Even better than I imagined.”

Despite the complete filth laced into his speech, his voice somehow contains a tender cadence when he pulls back slightly to murmur against your temple, “now that I know how you taste, I wanna know how you feel, honey. How tight that little pussy is when it’s squeezing around my cock.”

A lightheaded blur emerges from your high, now subsiding, less electric. At the mere thought of Soonyoung pounding you remorselessly into the pillows, your knees begin to wobble and that yearning ache rebuilds itself at your abdomen. To steady yourself, you grip his shoulder, though when you look down, you’re somewhat astounded at the pool of wetness gathered on his floorboards. If just his tongue and fingers could force you to gush, then you wonder how you’ll stay together on his cock.

The trip to his bedroom is all but graceful, rather it’s your legs wrapped snuggly around his waist while his palms splay and squeeze against your ass, your tongues consistently brushing together as you taste yourself from his plump mouth. You had been expecting Soonyoung to just toss you on his bed like an insignificant ragdoll, but to your gratitude, he lays you down gently, spends his next few minutes licking and suckling at your throat. To be marked by him ignites a small grin on your face.

“I want this off, sweetheart,” he demands, tugging at your dress, “do you need help?”

“Yes please. I-I think, with the zipper.” You grunt, reaching behind you to feel the ridges.

After shifting yourself around, Soonyoung stands at the end of the bed, one hand resting on your shoulder blade while the latter undoes the zipper and reveals your back. The little hairs bristle along your skin as you feel a compassionate kiss against the first bump in your spine. Upon helping you slide the fabric down to your waist, Soonyoung’s mouth continues to drift across your shoulder, his hands sliding up your ribs until each hand palms reverently at your breasts. His teeth then dig into a sensitive patch at your neck, giving more vibrance to the low groan that flutters past your lips.

He whispers silkily, “I can’t wait to be inside you, baby. Hm? My good little slut? So beautiful and needy? I can’t wait to fuck you ‘til you’re nice and full.”

Your dress lands somewhere at the base of the mattress, and once your heels are unbuckled, they thump against the floor next to it. Soonyoung guides you into the exact position he desires, which entails your chest flush with his grey bedsheets, cheek sinking against his pillow while your ass pokes into the air. Behind you, there’s the rustle of his clothes being removed, prompting you to wriggle your hips in anticipation and whine for his touch to continue grazing your skin.

His slides off his belt without any particular haste. Impatience prickles, and you moan for him.

“M’so wet, Soonyoung. Please, I need you to fuck me, c-can’t wait anymore.”

You spare a glance over your shoulder, examining his firm torso, the muscles smooth and lithe, how he begins shoving his pants down over his hips. It’s antagonizing.

“I know, honey,” he soothes, his black eyes glistening, “you’ve been so patient for me.”

At last, the mattress dips to suggest that Soonyoung is taking his place behind you, to which you can hear the lewd sound of his hand passing up and down his cock, leaking and painfully hard. Despite the sensitivity lingering from your last orgasm, your entire core still throbs in such overwhelming arousal, a sweltering urge to be stretched completely open. He leans over you, pecking your temple.

“Terrible timing,” Soonyoung laughs, his fingers circling below your navel, “but you are on the pill, right? I’d love a child one day, just not at this exact moment.”

“I am.” You smile, though you aren’t sure how entirely bad it would be to bear his child, and you can’t tell if it’s the gin and tonic finally bleeding through your rationality or the viscid lust.

“Perfect.” He hums, his hand gripping onto one side of your hip while he presses his engorged head into your slick. 

At an indulgent pace, Soonyoung drags himself through your slippery folds and rubs at your clit, a satisfied, low rumble emanating from his chest upon a sight so impure, especially as your gloss coats his length, sticky and wet. Your chest heaves largely at his teasing, engendering you to grind back against his body in a desperate hope to have him split you open.

It’s to your absolute pleasure that Soonyoung obliges. He begins pressing his cock in past your opening, your jaw falling slack until he’s digging in as far as he can fit, inducing the delicious stretch that ripples throughout your body. You breathe in raggedly and hiss his name between clenched teeth, fingers curling into the bedsheets once he’s grounded himself enough to start thrusting.

“O-Oh ffuck,” Soonyoung slurs, swallowing tautly, “you’re such a tight little bitch, hm? Just begging for me to ruin this pretty fucking pussy. I’ve waited so long for this, baby. You have no idea.”

He clutches your hips and slams you back onto his cock, grinding himself so deep inside you that the edges of your vision speckle with white dots. While it’s a bit tough for you to admit that your last sexual encounter had been months ago, it only seems to enhance how wonderful each sensation is now, how euphoric it is to feel his length rub against your inner heat and tick all those aching spots that your own fingers fail to prod. Soonyoung shifts onto his one knee, and suddenly he’s striking a newfound depth. You can’t help the loud squeal bursting from your mouth as he bruises your hips.

Suddenly, the boy is reaching for your arm. It’s pinned behind your back, his fingers latched around the wrist while his other hand threads against your scalp.

“That’s it, babygirl,” he growls upon shoving your cheek into the pillow, “scream for me, just like that. Let everyone know how much of a slut you are.”

With an unrelenting pace, he snaps into you, and the obscene noises of your heat sucking in his cock echo endlessly around the bedroom. At this point, you’re completely void of shame. As Soonyoung pounds into you, his hand ironclad around your wrist, your desire to cum warps into a critical essentiality. The tears stream hot and abundant down your face, muddling your makeup.

“H-Harder, Soonyoung! Please! Give it to me harder!”

“Yeah?” The sweat gleams on the column of his neck, black hair tousling before his eyes that shine mercilessly. “My pretty little slut wants it harder? You want me to fucking break you, baby?”

You don’t care if your body cracks in half like a ceramic. The way his cock is pressing consistently and roughly against that pliant, sensitive spot, it’s the only sensation you can feel. Even his fingers helping to smother your cheek against the pillow, damp with your tears and drool, is a sting rather infinitesimal compared to the pleasure. A cold breath expands in your lungs, and you take advantage of it to plead with Soonyoung, your voice falling apart at the seams while you beg to cum.

Unable to deny you, he takes it upon himself to fuck you so hard that the bedframe slaps into the wall. Soonyoung has already adapted to that spot which makes you weep, and he bites his lip harshly while abusing it with the head of cock. Your body immediately attempts to twist itself up as the ecstasy splatters like rain, though Soonyoung uses his grip on your arm and hair to keep you in position, instead forcing you to take the stimulation until you’re erratically clenching around him.

“Right there, honey? Does it feel good when my cock hits you right fuckin’ there? Huh?”

“Fuck, Soonyoung!” Your howl pierces the dense air, and he can tell you’re sobbing. “M’cumming!”

He tosses his head back as you convulse around him, the juices dripping down the back of your thighs while your world momentarily fades. You’re clamping against his cock with such warmth and silk that Soonyoung releases only a minute later, his seed thickly coating the inside of your heat, his length throbbing with every hot spurt. His guttural cursing subsides into laboured breaths. You feel his hands leave your wrist and hair, retreating to their favoured hold on your hips where he manages to deliver a few more thrusts, languid enough for him to watch his cum get pumped back inside you.

Spent in every single manner, you possess only a dying wisp of energy. You whimper and tremble at the vacancy when Soonyoung removes his cock, a feeling you never thought could be this horrible. Not soon after, his cum slowly pools from your opening, trailing down the inside of each thigh, to which he slightly stretches your ass in order to see just how much he’s emptied into you.

“I can’t believe you’re this beautiful,” he sounds mesmerized, “fuck, baby. Just look at you, so full of my cum. I’ve waited so fucking long to see you like this.”

Soonyoung then leans forward, pressing a kiss to the base of your spine.

“My good little girl. Perfect, aren’t you? Just for me?”

His soft chuckle is somehow a comforting sound, even when your body collapses against his sheets and there’s nothing you’re able to do but nod in agreement. You’re purely exhausted in the afterglow, too tired to even care that his cum is spilling out of you or that you’ve completely deserted your friends at the club. Soonyoung kisses a trail up your back and stops at your shining temple. You can’t tell if he ever joined you in bed or not, though he did stay with you for a few minutes afterward, rubbing your back, brushing his lips over shoulders, a beaming praise whispered every now and then.

You just know you fell asleep smiling.

By the fragile light of morning, you hear Soonyoung’s voice. It doesn’t seem as though he’s beside you or even sitting atop the bed, more like he’s standing somewhere distant. The dimness to the room helps your eyes adjust, and with a low groan you turn your back to the window, snuggling into one of the boy’s cold pillows. When you peek downward, you notice that a decent-sized blue blanket had been strewn across your waist, which you quickly pull further up your body to hide from the cool air. Through the fuzziness, you spot Soonyoung leaning against the doorframe to his washroom.

He’s partially dressed, wearing his black pants while a towel hangs around the back of his neck. The bathroom mirror is smudged with fog and slipping beads of vapour. It isn’t until you hear his quiet voice for the second time that you realize Soonyoung is speaking with someone over the phone. Your eyes fall shut as you attempt to concentrate on snippets of the conversation.

“Fine, we’ll meet at the abandoned hanger off Lake Avenue… Yeah… Just the handgun… Isn’t that too many though?... No, no, not the stash at East End… If he shows up then it’s fucked… That’s what I’m assuming… Okay, sure… Call me back after noon.”

Then, Soonyoung hangs up his phone and slides it with a sigh into his pants pocket. Your eyes open wide again, and you blink a few times to properly clear the sleepy, clinging remnants. Not wanting to overstay your welcome and become a potential hinderance, you slowly shuffle up in his bed, the blue blanket pooling around your hips.

“Did you sleep well?” Soonyoung inquires, tossing the towel from his neck onto the bed.

Pulling the blanket up to your chin, you nod at him. “Yeah, I did,” your voice has yet to lose its monotone rasp, “who were you talking with?”

“Just a friend.” He replies.

Soonyoung walks toward a desk placed across from the bed, picking up a white dress shirt that he slips into. He leaves the front unbuttoned, though he cuffs up the long, flimsy sleeves.

“Hey, do you think I could take a quick bath or something? I promise I won’t be long.”

As he continues to adjust the sleeves, he shrugs. “Yeah, you want me to start it?”

“It’s fine.” You decline politely.

Though the moment you swing your legs over the edge of the bed and prepare to stand, a doubtful inkling has you rethinking that choice. A resounding soreness thumps at your core, the marrow of your hips, yet you pretend that your muscles feel nothing like gelatine and attempt to take your first steps after such a rigorous night. Soonyoung watches in amusement, for your knees immediately begin wobbling while that deep-rooted ache has you buckling to the carpet.

When you look up, cheeks heated from embarrassment, Soonyoung is standing before you baring a fond smile.

“Are you sure you don’t need my help?” He inquires again, folding some black hair behind his ear.

“No,” you sigh, “I’m sorry. I need help, please?”

“All you have to do is ask, sweetheart.”

Soonyoung proceeds to bend down, tucking you carefully against his chest while your arms loop in a secure fashion around his neck. Feeling like a moonstruck bride whose being carried off to her honeymoon, you can’t evade the tiny smile that flits from each corner of your mouth, and it sticks coyly, even when Soonyoung sets you down on the closed toilet in order to run the bath water. You realize you’re going to need your dress, heels, the lace underwear that’d been deserted by his doorway.

Swallowing nervously, you watch as warm water fills the tub.

“I’m sorry to keep bothering you, but do you think you could grab my clothes? A-And I might need to use your phone, since I never took my purse with me last night. My friends are probably worried.”

He stands from the porcelain edge, a laugh rumbling in his chest, “why are you so apologetic?”

“I don’t know,” you quickly shrink into yourself when Soonyoung’s gaze falls over you, hardly as poisonousness compared to the night before, “I don’t want to be an inconvenience if you’re busy, and you just seem like a busy person.”

“And I also fucked you so hard that you can’t even walk.” He reasons lightheartedly, keeping an eye on the bathtub, “I don’t mind, honey. I’ll get your clothes, okay? I’ll take care of you.”

At least if he’s a poison, it’s a sweet one.

“Don’t worry about your friends either,” Soonyoung comments, at last shutting off the faucet while thin steam curls into the air, “One of my guys told them you’d be safe. They know where you are.”

“Really? Thanks.”

He baffles you; he feels mysterious yet personable. You want to ask him what he does for a living, especially upon recounting his earlier phone call, though you dismiss the question when Soonyoung helps you slide into the tub. The hot water works magnificently to relieve the soreness from your muscles, and though it’s a bit uncomfortable to squeeze back into that tight, black dress and the expensive heels, at least you’re able to walk (as long as you keep a hand flush against the wall).

Thankfully, Soonyoung helps you toward the front door of his apartment. A one-night stand has never felt so painful to leave behind, and you’re overwhelmed with poignancy as you wonder why you had never approached him sooner. He announces that there’s a driver stationed out front the Plaza, in a jet-black car you don’t catch the name of, and that you only have to lend him your address.

“He’ll take you home.” Soonyoung assures you.

Already, you find it astonishingly natural to trust him, engendering your hesitance as you stand in the corridor wishing you could somehow stay.

“What if I want to see you again?” You pipe up, catching his gaze.

Your heart is racing, and warmth dapples each arch of your cheek.

Soonyoung steps forward, cupping your face in his palms, his soft mouth pressing to yours while a fragrant, winter mint cuts sharp to your senses.

“You know where to find me, sweetheart.” He responds casually, and smiles as though he knows you’ll come back to him. “See you around.”

✧✎ a/n: i am handing out water bottles down here guys, it’s okay i got you covered! after not writing serious smut for so long, it just FELT SO? BIZARRE? TO TAMPER WITH IT AGAIN. like i remember the times when i could write smut with a straight face and you’d think i was typing my will or something. anywho. I REALLY HOPE IT SATISFIED SOME OF U!! and WHAT DO U THINK THE SECRET AU IS HEHEHEH

[xlady-saya]

i’ve had a love of my own [ch 2]

Relationships: andrew/neil

Summary: Despite everything Neil could’ve imagined for his life, he never thought he’d be here, finally giving the world the interview they’ve always wanted.

It’s been decades, but even with his numerous accolades and sports wins, he finds that they’re the least important thing about his life.

Neil can’t help but laugh. Andrew would be so annoyed if he were here.

Of course, Neil only wants to talk about him, and the life they spent together.

Tags: interviews, post canon, major character death but not how u think I swear lol, neil is an old man retelling his memories about andrew, cheesy romance, post retirement, see more tags on ao3

Read on ao3!

"What do you remember most about the night you were inducted into the hall of fame?"

Neil's suit collar feels especially tight as he descends from the podium, his body pulling him in one direction and one direction only. The smile on his face feels too tight, but the hoard of smiling faces and applauding hands around him don’t seem to notice. The rabbit instincts, as Andrew would call them, surge up aggressively. Neil hates public appearances like this, especially when the event is partly focused on him. He can only hope his speech wasn't too terrible.

People shout out their congratulations as he passes, but they all blend together like an oil slick meeting water. Pretty on the outside, but otherwise devastating to the fragile nature of his mind. Bright lights above bounce off full champagne glasses, creating a blurry horizon he has to squint at.

Years of public exposure has done nothing for his dislike of crowds, and he chases the feeling of Andrew's protective bubble. Warm, safe, home.

It feels like that one time Nicky dragged him to a party hosted by the baseball team in college, and left him to go hurl his guts out over the side of the house. At a certain point, Neil had been so overwhelmed he had hastily retreated from the drunk mob into the safe haven of the bathroom.

It's an eerily similar feeling, except this time his safe haven comes in the form of Andrew, suave and bored as he leans against the back wall. Much, much better.

Neil nearly trips over his feet in an effort to reach him, but Andrew is always one step ahead. As if sensing Neil's distress, Andrew extends a hand, and Neil refrains from rolling his eyes at the muffled gasp he hears somewhere in the back.

Catching a glimpse of them acting like a couple is akin to seeing a shooting star in the daytime, according to tabloids. In Neil's mind, they all simply don't look hard enough. Sometimes just the way Andrew looks at him makes Neil feel like they should be behind closed doors, with how it radiates off both of them. He's not sure why people don't see it, because surely Andrew's denials aren't believable. He's incredibly affectionate, if all his gifts and gestures say anything. And more than that...

At the end of any given day, if someone checked, Andrew's fingerprints would be all over Neil. Some on the back of his wrist, trickling down his spine and ghosting over his lower back, dotted along his throat.

Skin deep, with heat that travels even farther.

He takes Andrew's hand gratefully, letting himself be pulled in by the relief of that unparalleled shelter.

"You call that a speech, Josten?" Andrew asks, though Neil catches the spark that sets his eyes aflame. Good—Neil missed it. These events sap the energy out of Andrew like a vacuum, and he knows he only puts up with them for Neil's sake. Neil is happy to be a compact little battery when Andrew needs it.

Neil readjusts their hands but doesn't pull away, giving Andrew a small squeeze to pair with his smirk.

"Like you could do better," he snarks, but moves against the wall anyways, shoulder pressed to Andrew's. They've both bulked up from years with the pros, but where Neil will always be somewhat lithe, Andrew is stocky and built like brick. Neil sighs, breathing in the scent of Andrew's cologne and the subtle mint of nicotine gum.

There are still some eyes on them, but people are mostly looking at the next speaker. Neil can't make out Kevin or Thea in the crowd, but that's probably a good thing given what's about to happen. "You didn't even give a speech," he remarks playfully, a hint for Andrew to chase.

Andrew purses his lips, not taking it until Neil leans further into his space. Neil knows he has the advantage here; he's dressed in a fitted suit, personally picked out by Andrew, with blue accents that match their team (and additionally, his eyes). However, that’s not Neil’s biggest advantage, considering he's wearing the watch Andrew bought him for Christmas—the one with a rabbit stamped cleanly into the back of the metal face. 'Now you can't use your dead phone as an excuse,' Andrew had said, but Neil had seen through it.

Neil nudges him cheekily, gesturing to the room full of people.

"Surprised you're even here," Neil adds, feigning shyness in another effort to break through Andrew's (flimsy) blockade.

It works. Neil's not sure if Andrew's gotten softer over time, or if he's gotten better at this. Though he guesses he's the same. There are not many walls left for Andrew to scale on his end either.

"Don't be stupid," Andrew replies, firm and sharp. It sends comfortable shivers down Neil's spine, Andrew’s sternness causing the joke to evaporate. Even the insinuation that he'd miss Neil's crowning achievement...he won't allow it.

Come to think of it, Andrew's probably thought about it more than Neil. Neil worked so hard for this moment, to make a name for himself in the sport he adores. And he's proud of himself, he is, and he deserves to be in the hall of fame with how much he's fought. Yet now that he's actually here, surrounded by people who want nothing more than to sing his praises, all he needs is...

Neil giggles, whispering in quiet Russian. "You're proud of meeee."

Andrew huffs, but Neil powers on. "Admit it or...you know what will happen, don't you?"

"Neil."

"You look really handsome tonight—"

"Neil, I'm serious," Andrew tries, and while Andrew isn't the type to blush, the way his entire body stills might as well be equivalent to a fire. Neil's hand drifts to Andrew's lower back, because casual touches are second nature to them now. Instead of pushing away from the touch, Andrew's back bends for him, and Neil's gives a subtle press.

Truly, this is Neil's favorite tactic, complimenting Andrew. He'd learned in their last year of college that Andrew can't handle it, and the blond can try to say he hates it all he wants. But Neil never hears a 'no,' does he? "I love seeing the way the suit jacket fits over your shoulders. It reminds me of how strong you are. You're my anchor, you know? You always keep me safe, I feel like I can do anything if you're there. I love knowing this is real, that you're here with me and you'd fight to keep us—"

Neil jumps when Andrew turns on him, but his triumphant grin sits firmly in place.

Andrew leans him in to cut him off with a kiss, like he's accustomed to, but that's not something he's willing to give the paparazzi today. He takes Neil's hand again, glancing around. "We're leaving," he says, because he knows that's what Neil really wanted all along. Duh, Neil already knows Andrew is proud of him. "I've had it with this place."

Neil's body sings at the word choice, at the words unspoken: 'but not with you.'

"Mhm," he agrees happily. When Andrew had been inducted into the hall of fame, they'd ditched the ceremony even earlier than this. So it's about time. "What's the plan?"

Andrew doesn't miss a beat. He tilts his head in the direction of the far doors, and Neil zeroes in on them. He'd clocked all the exits when they first arrived from force of habit, so he follows along with Andrew easily. "Reporters are at the west wing entrance, we'll have to sneak out the service entrance past the kitchens. It's handled."

Neil smirks broadly, and lets Andrew lead the way. One advantage to being so short? It's a hell of a lot more efficient to duck down behind people. "Did you already make a deal with the wait staff?"

Andrew's expressions in public are still quite reserved and closed off, but Neil can feel the smug energy radiating off his back as they push through the kitchen doors. None of the staff even bat an eye. In fact, some of them are trying extremely hard to not look at them.

Neil looks at Andrew, brow raised.

"You'd be surprised what a couple autographs can get you," Andrew says, pulling them around a corner to survey the last stretch between them and the outside world. They should be in the clear, but the last thing they want is to run into a security guard or overactive publicist walking through these back hallways. Neil can't contain his excitement though, his leg thumping uncontrollably against the linoleum. Andrew pauses when he notices, and there's that flash of amusement Neil loves so much. "Control yourself, bunny."

"Stop making me wait," Neil shoots back, because he rarely has the opportunity to be this rebellious. As much as he cusses out reporters and fights people on the actual court, he misses the giddy mischief of sneaking around with Andrew. It's like making out on the roof all over again, or trying to be quiet during movie nights with Andrew's hand caressing his thigh.

It's exhilarating, and he can read Andrew's physical cues so well by now. The shift of his feet, the tension in his shoulders...It's like when he's about to block a shot with his bare hands, except this time he pulls Neil down the hall in a sprint.

He knows he's supposed to be quiet, but the best he can do is muffle his laughter with his free hand as he lets Andrew carry them out of the venue.

If Neil bumps into a cart of metal trays, they're long gone before anyone can react to the sound.

--

The Lotus comes to a stop in the empty parking lot of the old football stadium. It's one of their favorite places to escape to, a project the city keeps claiming it will repurpose but never does. The lampposts lining the giant lot still work, but there's not a car in sight, the old building dark and menacing. To Neil, it's just...theirs.

Neil stumbles out of the small car, missing the backseat of the Maserati. He wishes they were driving their new Maz instead, but it's Andrew's signature car, and they knew they'd need to lay low.

Ha. To think they'd be invisible in a car like this.

Again Neil has to right himself, his pants still sitting halfway down his thighs. He's glad Andrew thought ahead with bringing them a change of clothes, but the cramped space isn't the best for changing into jeans. He has a feeling Andrew did that on purpose, forgoing Neil's sweats.

Doesn't help that Neil's legs are jelly for other reasons.

Andrew slides out of the driver’s side with a lot more finesse, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as he comes around. Helpless, Neil drops his arms and lets Andrew pull up his pants.

It's the little things.

Neil smiles when Andrew sighs, loading some of his weight on top of Neil. He won't call it a recharge, Neil just knows. Neil plays with the loose strands of hair at Andrew's nape, at peace in the piercing cold, no real landmark in sight apart from the decaying stadium. It's weird; it reminds him a lot of when he and his mother would camp out in abandoned lots. Vantage points from all sides, but the risk of exposure and openness were high too.

Here though, more than ten years later, Neil basks in the vulnerability, because nowhere feels unsafe with Andrew in his arms like this. He lets Andrew sway them back and forth for a bit, and yeah, this is preferable to the sounds of clinking champagne glasses and excessive applause.

His publicist will give him shit for it later, but he wouldn't exactly be Neil Josten if he didn't cause problems.

Neil smiles into the distance, watching the flickering of a nearby lamppost. "The movie starts in an hour," he says eventually, and Andrew nods into Neil's neck once before pulling away. There's no disappointment in his eyes, and he taps Neil's watch to the beat of a song Neil can't place.

Instead, he just zips up Andrew's open fly, smirking at the unimpressed stare he gets. "You're a nuisance."

"I know," Neil says proudly, and watches as Andrew goes back to the driver's side. He looks a lot cozier and harder to recognize now, dressed in Neil's Palmetto hoodie and jeans.

"C'mon, we need to grab food still," Andrew says, and at the reminder, Neil's stomach growls. If they had stayed an hour more at the event they probably would've been fed fancy catered meals, but that would've messed with their Friday tradition of greasy drive in food.

Neil knows they’re showing a double zombie movie feature today, and he does not want to miss it. He straps in just in time for Andrew to hit the gas, and doesn't even speak up about all the traffic laws they break to make it there on time.

--

"How mad do you think Kevin is?" Neil asks when Andrew is passing him his soda. He fits it snuggly in between his thighs, jumping from the cold. It can't be helped; the lone cupholder is reserved for Andrew's milkshake, in danger of overflowing from whipped cream.

Andrew turns back to the cashier at the drive thru, and their eyes are still on the verge of popping out of their sockets. They must be new. The other coworkers regard Andrew and Neil with warm familiarity, a little too used to the two famous athletes rolling up for food their nutritionist would not approve of. Andrew takes their bag from the worker without much acknowledgement of his shock, peeling off before they can so much as stutter a sound of disbelief.

They'll get used to it.

Greedily, Neil digs through the bag.

"I think he expects it by now," Andrew answers, uncaring. His eyes flick to the side when Neil's rummaging pauses, and Neil sends him a suspicious look.

"Two fries," he states, not quite a question, but a confirmation of what he's seeing at the bottom of the bag. Two orders of fries.

Then, in the privacy of their car, Andrew lets his feelings shine through. He rolls his eyes, but the edge of a smile plays on his lips. "Don't act like you don't eat half of mine. I got you your own for once."

A 'hmph' escapes Neil's mouth, and he holds a fry in front of his face. He can't exactly refute Andrew's claims, he is a notorious fry fiend, but...

He doesn't have to like it.

"Aren't I sweet?" Andrew says, mockingly, and Neil hates that the answer is actually yes.

"Salty," he corrects, surrendering to pop the fry into Andrew's mouth.

That's all he's getting from Neil's stash though.

The Lotus roars as Andrew pulls away from the stand and up the nearby hill. Most people at the drive in come early, eager to get spots closer to the screen, but they have a special spot far away from the throng of people. The hill only houses one or two other cars who have the same idea, spaced out far and free to talk or fool around in the backseats.

Neil never pays them any mind; it's hard to give attention to anything that isn't Andrew once the blond actually starts talking, offering theories about the plot or characters on screen he may or may not actually believe.

Neil has a suspicion Andrew just likes giving him more reasons to talk too.

The first movie is older, remastered but still carrying that grainy quality old horror movies have. The colors are subdued, almost rusty, and Neil's fixated by the way the flashes dance on Andrew's skin. Whether it be splotches of red or the ominous sunset, just before the eerie music begins, the scenes reflect in Andrew's golden eyes to the point where Neil can hardly follow the story.

Not that it matters, it's zombies. What more is there to get?

"Are you satisfied with the effects for once?" Andrew drawls, though surely he knows Neil's been staring at him for the last ten minutes. He doesn't put up a fight anymore when it comes to that, instead playing with Neil's salt ridden fingertips and drinking his milkshake.

Smiling, Neil lets his eyes drift to the screen. A show of gore and fake blood has him nodding, not nearly as affronted as he usually is. The woman on screen is a good actress, though movies will never get true anguished screams exactly right.

"Mm, practical ones are better," Neil says, commenting on the lack of CGI. Another good thing about older movies: they had to build the monsters themselves, had to spend a lot more time on the makeup and fake guts. It's slightly more unsettling, considering what Neil has seen and done, but less annoying than the computer generated stuff.

When Neil zones out too long, he feels a fry poke his cheek, and he opens his mouth automatically. Andrew watches him with a small smile. Neil's not sure when Andrew grew more comfortable smiling, but somewhere along the way they both got used to it. It's a subtle, quiet expression on the blond, but that's how Neil likes it. Andrew's personality will never be loud, never cheery like Nicky's or Matt's. But it feels like a secret, something reserved for those that mean a lot to the blond. Neil can never feel anything but pride when he sees it, when Andrew lets himself express a bone deep contentment for those people in his life.

For Neil.

"What is it?" Andrew asks, and Neil waves at the screen, bored with it all of a sudden.

"I'll never understand the point of people who approach the first zombie," he says, and he says this every time. And alright, he knows that's the only way to truly kick off the plot but it always rubs him the wrong way.

"It's not like they know it's a zombie, Neil," Andrew replies, in reference to the next unfortunate victim to approach the zombified man in the park. The zombie had been stumbling around, and the older lady simply couldn't help but ask if the man was alright. Being a good samaritan will get you killed every time.

Neil throws Andrew a look, aware that Andrew isn't so much inviting Neil's rant as much as he's poking it hard with a stick.

"Excuse me, I'm already wary of normal people walking around," Neil points out. And that's justified in his mind, given what he's been through. People are weird and should be avoided unless absolutely necessary. Neil's therapist, who he's begrudgingly getting used to, might not agree but Neil's not quite ready to fully tackle the issue yet. Instead, he gestures to the way the poor lady's face is now being eaten. "I see someone stumbling around like that? I'm not going near them! At minimum you should consider them drunk and violent."

Or at the very least: real fucking annoying.

"I think you have more survival experience than most people," Andrew says, but Neil knows he's not actually defending the character's stupidity. Andrew agrees, and his smile grows when Neil huffs.

For effect, Neil slumps back into his seat, arms crossed. When Andrew tries to reach for his hand, he playfully swats it away, doing his best to not show cracks in the mask he's wearing. It's a skill he learned from his boyfriend, the complete lack of expression. Problem is he can seldom keep it up for longer than a few minutes.

Neil eventually smirks, right on cue, turning over in the passenger seat so his body is facing Andrew. It's not nearly as seductive as he wants it to be, what with the food wrappers and wrinkly clothes, but he knows it's enough to be infuriating. "You think it's hot," he sing songs, and Andrew sighs.

This time, when he reaches out, Neil doesn't refuse the offered hand. On screen, more unassuming citizens are devoured.

The image of the crowd reminds him of the banquet, of his switched off phone that's probably blowing up with questions about where they are. It's another world at this point—the expensive suits, dinner, the rehearsed words.

Here in their car, sitting in the dark in his hoodie with his boyfriend's hand in his, Neil feels far more spoiled. That doesn't mean he's not appreciative though, and the weight of his accomplishment sits warm in his chest, flowing through him to remind him it's not a dream. He's alive, he's here, he's with—

"Yes," Andrew interrupts Neil's train of thought, voice nearly a whisper. "But your downfall is obvious."

That gets Neil's attention, though he does preen from the compliment. "Hm?"

Andrew shifts in his own seat, and for the first time that night, Neil realizes how tired the blond must be. His muscles slump with exhaustion, his eyes blinking away the strain, but it's a good tired, the kind you feel when you can finally relax and sink into your bed. Home. Neil experiences that a lot, when it's the two of them, and the scope of the feeling is only intensified by Andrew's words.

"You'd go back," he reminds Neil, because that's now something that can't be debated. Neil's breathing stutters, and he hears the unspoken words: for me.

It's no surprise that no matter how things change, Andrew's first instinct will be to chip away at something, to present a flaw to protect himself. Neil's not sure he's even aware he's doing it, the need to value himself as something lowly and not worth fighting for.

Neil will keep proving him wrong, time and time again.

"That's not a downfall, that's strengthening my team," Neil quips, and Andrew huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes.

But Neil won't let him get away with that. He picks the buzzing insecurity swarming around Andrew's head right from the air, and crushes it until there's nothing left. At least for the moment; with them it always comes back, they just get better at dealing with it.

"I mean it," Neil says, and it's not him being a shit like back at the banquet. This isn't a barrage of compliments to make Andrew flustered, and from the way the blond stills, he understands that. Neil's tone holds an almost dangerous quality, ready to slash anyone who would dare refute it. It's hollow, haunting; he would've been a much better actor for horror films than the ones in this movie. "Andrew, if you're with me, I can do anything."

That hasn't stopped being true, and he doesn't think it'll ever be the case. He won't ever be without Andrew.

Andrew doesn't tell him to be quiet or stop, just lets the words settle between them and mix with the suspenseful music from the screen. There's a muffled scream below from an open window as soon as the jump scare happens, but neither of them flinch. Andrew's gaze bores into him as the blond shifts in his seat, mirroring Neil's awkward pose.

They're both still so compact though, they make it work. Neil pulls their hands up onto the center console, rubbing the back of Andrew's palm.

"Hey," he says stupidly, after he's been staring too long. Andrew's gaze turns sleepy, gooey, if Neil will be so bold. Andrew doesn't respond to his earlier claim, and Neil knows parts of Andrew's language well enough to know that the silence speaks more towards his agreement than anything.

Andrew may not accept all of it, but he'll hold it close, he'll remember it and chew on it as much as he needs to. That's all Neil can hope for.

"Hi," Andrew whispers back, during a lull in the on screen violence, and Neil scoots as close to him as he can. He doesn't want to miss a single syllable, a breath.

Without much else to say, Neil lets the giddiness from before rise up, finally speaking on it. His smile is too much to smother, but he tries and fails. "We're in the hall of fame together."

In an instant Andrew's smile falls, but it's an obvious show. And he calls Neil dramatic; it's a shared behavior. Neil laughs uncontrollably from it, from the way Andrew shakes his head up at the roof of the car.

"Junkie," he mumbles, because there's not much more to explain.

Or so Andrew thinks. Really it's less about Exy in that moment for Neil. The part that makes him so overjoyed, that pushes him over the edge into bliss...

"I'm proud of you," Neil manages through the laughter, and repeats himself with a few reallys thrown in for good measure. But still, Andrew doesn't get it. Or he does, and he's being a shit on purpose.

"Tonight was about you, you know," the blond tries, tone suffering, but the itch of a smile threatens his blank facade again, and Neil's main job is to poke and prod it out of hiding. It's a fun game, no longer difficult. Not that he ever minded, not that he could mind anything about what makes Andrew...Andrew.

Neil looks up at the ceiling too, as if he can see through it, like he can see far beyond their universe and beyond the cosmos. They're so insignificant, he knows, but funny how these moments never feel swallowed up by the weight of it all. One day though, he supposes they'll fade into that nothingness, and that's why it's such a comfort to him, to know their names will be next to each other in some way beyond gravestones. "I know, but I just like to remind you. Everyone is going to remember you now."

Andrew is one person he doesn't want to ever be forgotten, for how he makes Neil feel...it would be criminal for that to even be a possibility. Neil huffs a laugh; Andrew's more the type to wax poetic, to say sappy bullshit and then try to act like he hasn't. But here Neil is, heart singing.

There will never be a way to leave that feeling behind as evidence, so everyone who ever doubted Andrew will know, but Neil can wish...Neil can dream. He can do whatever he wants.

Andrew tilts his head, his free hand casting itself forward, gesturing to the world beyond the screen, beyond the ends of the planet. "There’s no point in being remembered like that. When we’re gone, we’ll just be gone."

And in some ways, Neil agrees, or at least understands. Legacies only mean so much, can only withstand so much time. There will be other sports heroes, new rookies and players with their own accomplishments, their own time in the spotlight. But that's not what Neil means, not what he believes in. His fame is meaningless, it will wither and die. So will Andrew's. But...but, he's not afraid now to have that spark of want, the need to preserve as much as possible.

Though if he's being honest, and he won't tell Andrew because he's sure to refute it, there will never be as good a goalie. Neil knows that.

Neil grins gently, squeezing Andrew's hand to call his attention back to where it belongs. Andrew listens, always bends for Neil in some way. Andrew extends his free hand across his lap, and in sync, Neil lifts his leg to drape it across the console. Andrew catches his ankle gently, thumb resting in the dip of bone. Neil shivers; he's been treated with such care for years, but it's never easy to fathom all the way. Andrew's hands are weapons, and yet he cradles Neil like glass, like he's not the tainted mess he is under these clothes.

"Normally I would agree, but you’re kind of my loophole," Neil whispers, shrugging in that infuriating way, the one that communicates clearly that nothing Andrew says can convince him otherwise.

Andrew is familiar with it, and is no longer dead set on fighting Neil every step of the way.

"You're ridiculous," the blond says instead, tracing through Neil's jeans, over the memorized lines and scars of his calves. Neil wonders if he likes to do that especially in these moments, to remember Neil is real. He's not going anywhere. "I don't ever know what to do with you."

"Kiss me? That might help," Neil offers, and in the next moment Andrew is meeting him halfway over the console. Neil wasn't even aware he'd shifted so close, but then he's surrounded by just Andrew. There's a hand in his hair, tangling the curls, and his mouth opens for Andrew's like a switch has been pulled. It's automatic, a craving satisfied. Over the years, Andrew's kisses became predictable, the taste of him no longer surprising or laced with desperation. Despite all that, Neil thinks they're even better now.

It's an exhilarating feeling, to know someone so, so well, down to the press of his tongue and the slot of his lips.

Neil sighs when Andrew pulls away, breath hot and eyes lidded, and alright, maybe they're not completely predictable. Neil is always taken aback by how quick his body is reduced to jello, barely keeping himself upright.

It makes him brainless, makes him ramble, so it slips out again. "I want everyone to remember you," Neil breathes into Andrew's mouth, chasing him as he pulls back. Andrew's hand on his chest stops him, Andrew's stare as intense as ever.

It's quiet; Neil has no idea what's going on around him, either with the movie or the crowd. That's unheard of for him, isn't it? But he's not scared, or nervous. Eventually the instinct will come back, the urge to check the locked doors and look behind the car for things lurking in the shadows. But right them, it's just the two of them, wrapped up.

Andrew tugs on his leg, pulling Neil forward until his thighs hit the console, and looks disappointed they can't be glued at the hip. It's cute, but Neil bites his tongue on the comment. Andrew must sense it, because his eyes flash back up to Neil's face, reaching up to cradle it. Neil can predict that trajectory too, the way Andrew's fingers brush the burn marks.

"Idiot," Andrew says. "Only you get to remember me like this."

Damn you, Andrew.

The edges of Andrew's lips quirk up, triumphant in the face of Neil's stunned silence, but Neil refuses to admit he's won. Only...partially.

Neil will hold these moments for himself, close and free from prying eyes. He'll do that for as long as he can, covet them until he can't keep it in anymore. He supposes that's the best compromise either of them could ask for.

The swell of need in his chest intensifies, and he reaches forward to tug on Andrew's sleeve. It feels so dumb; he's allowed to touch more than this, he's allowed to grab and cradle Andrew's skin. But it's too much in the moment, and he tugs again, like he's right back in college.

"Home?" he whispers, unsure. Andrew looks around them, back at the screen and then at the moon hanging high in the sky. Technically, this is a double feature, and it feels almost wrong to pop this bubble around them. Neil's not sure he wants the moment to end either, not even when the credits for the first movie roll and early birds start to peel out of the lot. Headlights ghost over them, but the only move Andrew makes is to lean down and lower his seat all the way.

Neil, smiles, and knows exactly what to do.

They reach a silent agreement as Neil hops into Andrew's seat, fitting snugly against him as the new movie opens up:

No. Not yet.

~

Neil notes with amusement how the reporters sit, slightly more relaxed, like they're not quite ready to let go of their professional personas in favor of pulling their legs up. Soon enough, they'll get there. Neil's barely begun to scratch the surface, and he hopes their matching looks of disbelief will fade too.

Neil puts down his water, throat already aching, but if that's the price he has to pay so be it. He's been feeling extra lethargic today, underwater and tied at the ankles, but it's not enough to dissuade him. Rubbing his throat, he smiles. "We ended up really sore from sitting like that all night, but we didn't regret it," he says. The purr of the Lotus is so loud in his mind he almost expects for someone to roll up to the building in one.

Andrew had driven them extra careful that night.

Blake jots something down in his notepad, skims it, then crosses out something else. A question he no longer needs answered, perhaps. When he looks up, Neil is waiting. "That's where you went? You got a lot of flack for that disappearance."

Oh he did, lots of speculations; a feud with Kevin Day, a PR war, a statement about the sports climate.

Really, he'd just wanted some snuggles.

"I've caused worse scandals," Neil says, brushing it off. Compared to all the other segments he's had in the tabloids and news media over the years, including the reveal of his bloody family business, the hall of fame incident is far from important.

And honestly, Neil doesn't care about any of that. Rayah seems to sense that the sports talk won't get them anywhere, and she offers him a laugh. "Andrew wasn't very social, was he?"

Ah, good. They're learning.

Neil's demeanor changes, happily steered in the direction of Andrew, and he leans back. An understatement.

"Neither of us were," he replies, examining his nail beds. That's not entirely it though, and he knew it then too. He's not sure why he never called Andrew out on it, maybe because it was so obvious he didn't need to. "But...I think in that case he was just trying to protect me. I was tired from all the preparations all week. Even when I was young, Andrew wasn’t really keen on letting me stretch myself to my limits."

In fact, after his freshman year of college, no threats in sight, Andrew's protectiveness was even more apparent. Neil endangering himself was a thing of the past, and Andrew made sure to keep it that way. After Baltimore, Andrew simply wouldn't tolerate it. He was aware of Neil's exhaustion, his fatigue, and while he never babied Neil, he wouldn't stop himself from intervening when he could sense Neil would not.

The stress of the hall of fame ceremony sapped Neil clean of any energy, that final speech pushed him to the edge. So Andrew took his hand, and pulled him away from it.

The two reporters share a look then, and Neil gets that surge of annoyance. Andrew would tell him to calm down, that it doesn't matter, but well...

Andrew isn't here, and Neil can be as angry as he wants when people misinterpret their relationship.

After a while, Rayah clears her throat, cutting the tension. At least she has the decency to treat him with the same respect he's giving them and not lie. Neil was never one for politeness. "I'll be honest, it’s hard to imagine someone like Andrew Minyard being that way. He sounds so gentle when you talk about him."

Though the insinuation was clear: to everyone else, he was the exact opposite.

"He had a lot of sides to him," Neil responds, because it's better than the petty response of well he was. He supposes that's not fair, not to them and not to Andrew. He plays with the watch on his wrist, now a little dated and not nearly as shiny. He's pretty sure the time is off now, so he's still the rabbit, running late.

"He could be so caring, but he never gave up his firmness, or his no bullshit nature. Believe me, if he didn't agree with me, he would've let me know. He had a way of snapping me out of bad decisions...not always kindly," Neil says, still grinning.

"You sound like you didn't mind," Blake says, though the confusion is still clear.

Neil had been deceived and led astray so much in his life, forced to swallow lies and spit them back out. Being with Andrew was so freeing; he never had to worry about those things ever again.

"No, I...I loved that about him," he says quietly. He's having a bad time with words, nothing new there. It's hard to make it sensical without having experienced the relationship first hand. He wishes Dan were here, she's able to convince people of anything. Still, he pushes, he needs to explain this if nothing else. "No one ever bothered to see Andrew beyond the hard exterior. Like you said...you can't see Andrew as gentle. Well, he was seldom anything but around me as we got older. I trusted him not to lie to me, and to take care of me, and I did the same in return."

He realizes his voice is taking on a desperate quality, but he can't help it. He could fill books with anecdotes, times where Andrew held him close or was just an absolute pillar of comfort. Try as he might today, he knows he'll never say enough.

People will still remember Andrew primarily as an unfeeling ghost, as the person who punched other players or was quick to anger, though that was far from the truth. Unless Neil makes his case here, that'll never go away.

"It's not that either of you ever provided proof," Blake says, and flinches at Neil's glare. It's a fiery thing, he hasn't used it in a while, but he assumes it's still just as acidic from how guilty the reporter looks. He stutters, and backtracks as best he can. "And based on what you said, I totally get why! It's just—"

Rayah, who is far better at making a case for the public's idiocy, is quick to lean forward. "There were only a few moments people ever saw him act like he cared as much as you say," she tells him, and it's followed by a wince. "One of them...wasn't exactly happy."

Oh.

In an instant, Neil knows exactly what they mean. It was all over the place, wasn't it?

He almost forgets that; he was too busy drowning in his own terror. It was over forty years ago and yet the memory is so strong, the same pain shoots up Neil's legs. The nausea is faint, a reminder of how unbearable and sleepless the following few nights were. He remembers a sickening crack and the shout of people, the flash of cameras.

And Andrew.

Always Andrew, running towards him.

Yes, he supposes it's hard to challenge that moment between them, to categorize Andrew's actions as anything other than fierce protectiveness and worry. Yet when Neil thinks of that incident...what the public saw barely scratched the surface.

He can still feel Andrew's hands digging into his shoulders, can hear the slow footsteps walking into their home...

The room is quiet for a beat too long, and Rayah and Blake exchange a look. It's Blake that eventually clears his throat, and Neil regards him slowly, trying to shake off the beast of a memory.

It's over, it passed. But...it was important, so...

"Are we allowed to ask about that day?" Blake asks, voice small and gauging Neil's reaction.

He sighs; he can't exactly avoid it. There's lots more stories to tell after the fact that won't feel the same without the context, but there will be some conditions.

Neil nods once, tightly. He spreads it out in his head, and an old beat of paranoia surges up in him. Stupid. He's not that dangerous anymore, no one is watching him, no one is looking for him. But it has him looking at the door anyways, wondering if the room is bugged or lined with cameras he can't see. Well, he'll just be careful.

He flattens his hands across the blanket, chewing on his words. "I suppose it would be a disservice to what I'm trying to do if I didn't talk about it," Neil answers, gesturing to Rayah. "Go ahead."

Neil braces himself before taking the plunge, and gets lost in his past once again.

"The day you were injured, what was it like?"

[sonicchaos-fanfic]

| Sonic Chaos | Chapter Nine: Sticks and Stones

(lol here I am again nine months later lolz. Y'all are probably sick and tired of me taking such long hiatuses..all I have to say is...I have no excuse. School is hard. T_T I did this in one shot so I’m sorry about any typos!!)

                                                 ~ Chapter Nine ~

The trio walked for about half an hour until they decided to take a break for the night. They discovered a small clearing where an old, swollen dead tree had fallen many years ago. They settled around a fire that Sticks had created. Sonic was tossing his newly discovered emerald up and down in one hand.

“I wonder how many of these are still out there,” he said.

“Yeah,” Amy said, lying on her back and flipping through an ancient book given to her by the seer. Although she couldn’t understand the language, she enjoyed looking at the pictures and creating stories in her head.

“Well, I hope we find them soon. This place is nice, but I’ll admit, I’m getting kind of homesick.” Sonic paused to yawn.

“Yeah, I miss home too,” Amy replied. She set down her book and went to warm her hands by the fire. Sonic went from tossing his emerald to spinning it on the tip of his finger. Sticks watched both of them with curiosity.

“What’s your home like? Is it different from here? Is it better?” she asked.

“Ehh, It’s just like any other world. Same sun, same plants and animals, same kinds of people...” Sonic waved his hand mindlessly.

“If it’s the same, then why do you miss it so much?”

“Well...I guess when I say that I miss home, I mean that I miss my friends more than anything else, ya know?” Sonic smiled at her.

“Yeah, me too. I miss baking with Cream.” Amy said. She hugged herself and looked solemnly to the ground. Sticks noticed a gleam in her eye that was very familiar. She vaguely remembered seeing that kind of look from someone else long ago.

“Oh, I see...” Sticks thought for a moment, “What are your friends like?”

“Amazing,” Amy giggled, “they’re all so amazing.” 

   Amy took time to describe some of her adventures with the gang to Sticks while Sonic listened peacefully, occasionally adding in a couple extra details when Amy forgot. Sticks listened with admiration. Then, Amy asked Sticks about her own family.

  The badger’s eyes dulled a little. She lost her smile and turned away. She stared at the fire intensely, as if trying to see something within it. Her face contorted as she thought to herself. 

“My family? Well...it’s been a while. It’s hard to remember,” she said.

 Amy and Sonic looked at each other with concern. 

   “My momma and papa were both really smart. Every day, they would try to teach me something new! Like...how to make a trap, or why turtles' shells aren’t soft. My mom would explain things like the turtles’ shell through magic stories. I used to believe them, but now I know better...”

  Sticks’ parents were both scientists. Most days her they would be consumed in their books, always researching and recording every new thing they discovered. They also were expert survivalists. When they weren’t studying, they would take Sticks out on adventures through the jungle, where they would teach her all sorts of things. They taught her about all of the different types of plants and animals, about how to make tools and clothes out of the resources found around them, and even how to hunt efficiently. 

   Exploring the wild wasn’t the only thing they would do though. Her mother always told her about all the myths and legends of the land and would show her the ancient trinkets and artifacts she would discover on her travels to the ancient temples.

But those memories are kind of hazy...” At the sight of Amy’s worried expression, Sticks began to explain.

  One night, she wasn’t sure exactly how long ago, there had been a terrible storm. The thunder clapped like clanging metal and lighting flashed terribly across the sky. The wind blew with a force that could move mountains, thrashing and ripping the trees apart. The rain fell heavier than Sticks had ever seen. She remarked how it felt like she were actually underwater. 

  That night, she and her parents were caught in the storm. They hurried as fast as they could through the thick greenery, squinting in a desperate effort to see through the darkness and pouring rain. They were hunched low and held each other’s hands firmly so that they wouldn’t lose track of each other. As they got nearer to the treehouse, the same one that Sticks lived in currently, her father had tripped and fell. 

  She and her mother turned around. A giant branch had fallen on her father’s back, pinning him to the muddy floor. As the two rushed forward to help him, thunder and lightning boomed right above their heads. The wind carried a punch like no other, and a tree suddenly was uprooted a couple of feet away from them. Her mother assessed the situation; a grim look befell on her face. Sticks tried to grab the branch and help her mom free her father, but her mother suddenly grabbed her and pulled her to the side. 

 “Sticks, listen to me. You need to go straight home. I will stay here and help Papa, but you need to go right now!” she said. 

 Sticks, not understanding, protested. Thunder roared again. 

“We’re running out of time! Listen to me, you need to save yourself, okay? Don’t worry about me and Papa. You just go and run as fast as you can, and when you reach the house you go into your room and lock the door shut. Do you understand?” her mom cried. “Sticks, do you understand? Do you remember everything we taught you?” 

   Sticks, frozen in fear, nodded her head furiously. Her mother then pulled her in and hugged her tightly. That hug was the warmest Sticks has ever felt that night. When they parted, her mother kissed her on the forehead. The woman’s eyes were glassy and her cheeks were wet. Sticks had figured at that moment that some rain much have gotten stuck in her eyes.

“I love you so much, Sticks. We both do.” said her mother.

Thunder exploded above them again.

  Desperate, her mother cried for her to run, and Sticks, although very reluctantly, followed her orders. She ran as fast as her little legs could take her. Being as small as she was, it was hard to see exactly what was behind all of the shadowy masses that surrounded her. She shivered every time her shoes hit the muddy floor and caused a splash. She panted and cried out in fear as the storm continued to escalate. Loud crashing, howling, screeching, and splashing engulfed her and filled her ears and head. It was like a nightmare.

  Just when she felt like she could give up, she happened upon the treehouse. She scaled up the latter and dashed inside, going straight into her room just as her mother ordered. For the rest of the night, she couldn’t sleep. The monstrous storm has rattled the walls all night.

 The next morning, the storm had left just as quickly as it had arrived. Sticks stepped outside to see nothing but the destroyed remains of the hurricane. Broken, uprooted trees her scattered about all helter-skelter. Sticks grew worried, her parents hadn’t come home yet. 

  Sticks recalled that she had searched the surrounding area for days. But they were nowhere to be seen. She looked and looked and looked, and found nothing. They had just completely vanished. 

 “I haven’t seen them since...I always thought that they probably got lost on the way home and went somewhere far away. My mom always told me how confusing the jungle could be, after all,” Sticks looked up to Amy, who appeared to have been wiping her eyes. 

 “What’s wrong?”

  Sonic had gotten up by this point and went to comfort Amy. She tried hard not to show her emotions in front of Sticks. Being able to keep herself from tearing up, she told Sticks that she was staring at the fire too long and her eyes had gotten too dry. 

   After some time passed, and the young badger had fallen asleep, Amy went towards the fire to put it out. Sonic was still lying beside it on a log, staring up at the sky. Amy tried not to stare at him as a thought crossed her mind. Sticks was asleep, so they had some privacy. Maybe, she thought, she could try to have that particular conversation with him again. 

   She sort of squirmed uncomfortably to herself as she tried to think of a way to start the conversation naturally. Every couple seconds, she would glance to him out of the corner of her eye, almost opening her mouth to talk to him, but never quite going through with it. She blushed. Why was she so nervous all of a sudden? She’s never been this shy about her crush on him before, so what was different?

   Finally, she mustered up the courage to speak, but when she turned to talk to him, he had fallen asleep. She had a sinking feeling in her chest and frowned at the missed opportunity. Sighing, she finally put out the fire and found a spot nearby to sleep. 

   As she lied down on a bed of leaves and closed her eyes, she felt a sudden disturbance in the air. It wasn’t necessarily a sound or even a movement, but nonetheless, she sensed a presence nearby. Her eyes shot open. Her limbs felt cold and it seemed as though the darkness surrounding her became even more black and empty. Even the tiny slivers of the moonlight peeking through the trees went out like a candle. All of the creatures of the night went silent, leaving an unsettling emptiness lingering in the air. An overwhelming feeling of danger consumed her and she stayed frozen in place for a few seconds. There was a faint whisper. Amy quickly sat up. She looked around her in an effort to find where the noise came from, but couldn’t see farther than her nose. She wanted to call out for Sonic or Sticks, but it was as if her vocal cords stopped working. Then, she saw it. 

Two eyes. Bright and piercing through the absolute darkness. They were wide open, vibrant and lifeless at the same time. Unblinking. Curious. 

Amy felt as if she were paralyzed. Fear had risen up inside her so much that she began to sweat. She wasn’t sure if the feelings she had were real or not, much like the thing she was seeing. It was almost primal, instinctual. Fight or flight? Fight or flight?!

 Then it spoke. 

“Can you see me?” it was a female voice. 

  Without a word, Amy nodded her head. Although she was still terrified, the concerned tone of the voice somewhat eased her nervousness. The woman asked “Really?” Amy nodded again. The eyes made an expression of relief and moved around like they would if they were attached to a face, even though the face wasn’t visible. 

“Oh thank the stars, I was worried,” said the voice. Then the eyes made an expression of shock and looked back at Amy. “Oh goodness, I’m sorry! You must be frightened beyond your wits. Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you,”

  Amy, for some reason, was comforted by this, and she was able to relax a little more. 

“I came to see you because I needed help,” said the woman.

  Amy gave the eyes a look of suspicion, and she asked for the woman to come closer and show herself. The woman explained that she couldn’t. In fact, she wasn’t even physically there. She was projecting herself from her physical body, which was trapped in a prison. Eggman’s prison. She explained that she was a spirit that had been asleep for thousands of years and that Eggman took her prisoner upon discovering her tomb. 

“He claims that he wants to use my power to take over this world, and because I’m in such a weak state, I’m not strong enough to fight back and escape. But then I found out that you and your blue friend were here to stop him! So tonight I mustered up all the power I had left to try to visit you through my spirit, but it only works at night, which is why I had to wake you up from your sleep.” 

 “How do I know that you aren’t one of Eggman’s tricks?” Amy asked. 

“I can prove it to you! While I was watching over you, I was able to use my powers to access your dreams. You have been having many visions, haven't you? About a kingdom long ago?”

 Out of thin air, a smokey cloud of light formed between the woman and Amy. Inside was an image of the ruins of a lost kingdom, with the palace carved into the side of a waterfall. Amy gasped, it was the same place where she had dreamed about just recently. 

 “All of those visions and dreams you have been having are actually my memories. When you and your blue friend discovered my tomb a few days ago, you happened to absorb the powerful magic that was protecting my soul. Therefore, at least for the time being, our spirits are now connected. That’s how I knew how to find you.” 

Amy blinked in astonishment. The woman continued.

“Eggman happened to reach me before you two did, which is why my box was broken when you discovered my resting place. He’s been keeping me, prisoner, ever since...”

  Amy thought for a moment, she seemed hesitant to trust the woman. The woman sensed this and her eyes looked gloomy. The eyes looked over to the figure just a couple feet away, snoring loudly and curled up on top of a log. Amy followed her gaze. When the woman noticed that Amy was keeping a close eye on her, she stopped staring. 

 “I understand if you are hesitant to believe my story. How about I give you some time to think about it?” 

  The eyes disappeared. The heavy darkness subsided and the animals began to chirp and croak just as normal. The slivers of moonlight suddenly reappeared, and Amy anxieties went away. She sat in silence for a moment, not really sure if what she experienced was a dream or not. 

Chapter Eight

Chapter Ten Coming Soon

[thebestpersonherelovesbucky]

I absolutely adore Of Broken Dreams; it was the fic that got me into Stucky, and it's my go to when I need a pick me up! I love all of it, but Christmas at the farmhouse is one of my favorite sections and I would love a little bit of a DVD commentary on your favorite bit of this section! (I can't decide which is my favorite bit XD)

Omg, yes, my dear Lords Rogers and Barnes. I miss them. I should write a one shot with them. anyway I’m gonna do this bit. It’s on the long side, but you need the whole thing for my feelings on it lol 

And thank you so much! That is such a huge compliment!! 

“You’re even the most popular one here.” Steve chuckles as he fixes the ends of the blanket with one hand so that it sits around him. The other hand’s holding a saucer and teacup. “I think they like you better than me.” He smiles and hands him the saucer. “Here.”

Bucky looks at it without taking it. “What’s this?”

Steve gives him a shy smile. “Your cocoa.”

“My…” Oh. Bucky’s tickled pink. He can’t believe Steve actually made him this. A giggle’s about to ripple through him. “I was only fooling, husband!”

“I know.” Steve chuckles. He shrugs and sits down, placing the cocoa in his hands now. “But I promised.”

“Is that where you’ve been?”

“Yes. I’m sorry it took so long. I had to wait for my chance at the stove.”

“Oh. I thought… maybe you… forgot about me.”

Not forgot, not truly lost from his mind. Became distracted and engrossed in deep enough conversation that Bucky was just a distant memory. The expression on Steve’s face though, those large eyes filling with worry and possibly bordering on the edge of panic, tells him his fears have been for naught, and Bucky feels positively absurd. He’s not quite sure he even understands himself anymore.

A year ago he could waltz into uncharted territory, date on his arm--lady, fella, it mattered not--room crowded with people whether he knew some of them, none of them or all of them, and the air would breathe contently around him. Bucky can smile with ease and make others blush with just a bat of the eyes. He’s sweet-talked his way into lots of bed before, taken great care to be the source of pleasure and tenderness to those he’s shared nights with. But this place, surrounded by the House of Rogers’ laughter, he feels small and timid.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers. “I didn’t mean to take so long. I should have come back to sit with you while the water boiled.” He leans in closer, scoots over enough that he’s able to slip his hand under the blanket and across his thigh. Gives him a tender, arousing squeeze. “Shall I show you how you’ve been on my mind, my Sweetheart?”

The cup rattles in Bucky’s hands. Steve stays them so he doesn’t drop it and spill cocoa all over his lap. Everything, everything, in his body is tight.

“No…” Bucky whimpers. Eyes frantic as they glance around the room to make sure no one has noticed. “Steve!”

His husband snickers and takes his hand back. “M’sorry.”

Bucky glares at him. Tries to anyway. He can’t really complete the expression, can’t fully conjure up the proper amount of heat when it’s too busy surging through the rest of his body.

“You really are mean, husband.” He sniffs. Turns his nose up. “I hope you realize you can no longer hide this fact from me.”

He laughs. “I know it. You don’t really seem to mind all that much.”

“I suppose I don’t,” Bucky sighs and glances down to take a sip of the drink he’s been given. He laughs before he can even bring it to his mouth. “Are there really seventeen marshmallows in this?”

Steve folds his smile in, blush sneaking under his skin as he peer through his lashes.

“That’s how many you asked for,” he says softly. Innocent, even pouty like. “And you were tickling me.”

“Oh boy.” Bucky takes a drink this time. Gives him a peck on the cheek as a means of a peace offer. “Maybe you’ll go easy on me when you find out how ticklish… I am?”

“Ah.” Steve lights up with this information and lets his fingers run along Bucky’s ribs. Bucky tenses and makes a funny, embarrassing noise, but Steve doesn’t wiggle into his side any more than that. “I can be nice, too, you know.”

“Nice?” Bucky muses. “I think you can be much more than nice, husband. But I still believe you’ll tickle me.”

“First chance I get.” He snickers.

Bucky whines. Lip pushed out and eyes big, round and puppy like. One of those illegal looks he knows Steve likes. Letting his eyes fall closed, Steve rests his brow against his, lips curving up.

“And you say I’m unfair,” he mutters.

A giggle rivers through Bucky. Soft and tranquil, and he’s about to run fingers through his husband’s hair when someone shouts. Loud, powerful and followed by a bursting round of laughter. Though neither of them were paying attention, Steve is smiling; gaze focused on the red-headed aunt that doesn’t seem to have use for an indoor voice.

Bucky watches him for a moment. His husband, here, comfortably surrounded by all these people, where it’s noisy and loud and there’re so many different things happening at once. Music is playing from the big phonograph and the children have taken to singing along. Stories are being shared by means of affectionate shouting. Not all that different from a club yet nothing like one at all. Something inside Bucky clicks.

He’s nervous around these people. Feels those knots tying inside of him whenever he thinks of them ignoring him, even tighter whenever he think of them talking to him. They’re sweet and kind, friendly and accomodating and every bit as easy to get along with as Steve. None of that makes being lost in the middle of all of them any less nerve-wracking. Because Bucky’s not here to put on a show.

Not like going to a club opening. There’s no flashy smile or flick of the eyebrows. No running his fingers through his hair and a cool, casual wink or witty remark that’ll win them over. This isn’t about Bucky. Or rather, not just about Bucky.

This is for Steve. This is Steve’s family. The House of Rogers is Bucky’s House now. And… Bucky wants them to like him.

“Are you okay?”

He hears Steve’s question. Looks at him and tries to offer a smile. There’s no real answer. Bucky’s as okay as one who keeps discovering new things of themselves lately can be.

“Okay, everyone!” Lord Rogers, Joseph, as he’s been insisting, just like Sarah, for Bucky to call him, announces. “It’s five minutes to midnight and you know what that means!”

The children hop up and down. Their little hands clap together and they cheer while some of Steve’s aunts and uncles whistle through their fingers. Only Bucky’s not quite sure what it means. Other than it being five minutes before the official start of Christmastide’s Eve, of course. He glances over his shoulder. Steve smiles at him.

“House tradition,” he whispers in explanation. “Dad’ll tell one ghost story before we open the parlor doors and we’ll all add one decoration to the tree.”

“Oh…”

Bucky can feel his face falling as quiet descends upon the room. The walls that once held a cacophony of voices are now hushed as they wait patiently for Joseph to begin. The electric lighting have been turned off, the children excited to make the atmosphere right. Shadows lick the ceilings and floors, hugging everyone as they dance out of the fire in the fireplace and along the wicks of the candles placed haphazardly around the room.

“Is that…” Steve tilts his head. Must see the apprehension growing in Bucky’s eyes even in the dimmed light. “All right?”

“Uh… it’s…”

Something he’s always been teased about. Always. Ghost stories are tradition even in the House of Barnes and from childhood to adolescence to adulthood he’s never outgrown his embarrassing fear of them. Fear of the unknown, of unseen creatures sneaking into his room in the middle of the night to make a playground of his privacy, of his life. Fantasy or truth, it matters not. As a child he’d crawl into his mother’s lap. When he got older, Rebecca would hold his hand. When he grew older still, she held his hand under the table where no one could see.

There’s no Rebecca this year. No sister to hold his hand in hers, fingers gliding over skin when he tenses at the parts that get to him most. No mother to kiss his cheek and offer to check under his bed when the stories have all been spent. A joke of course, but Winifred would’ve done it for him if Bucky asked. No father to clap an arm over his shoulder and remind him that they’re only stories. Stories meant to remind the living to live true and righteous.

“Bucky?”

“Yes,” Bucky whispers back since Joseph is clearing throat to begin. “I’m… fine.”

This story is one that Bucky particularly hates. It’s the outcome that gets to him most. The uncertainty of it. Does the school teacher live or die? Does he make it across the bridge? Does the headless man catch him or not?

Bucky’s trying to focus mostly on the cocoa that he has. Making heavy work of drinking it slowly. But not even halfway through the story the glass is empty and if he doesn’t focus enough, it’ll rattle atop the saucer in his shaky hands. The second time this happens, a pair of large hands cover both of his and the teacup and saucer. They appear out of the darkness and startle Bucky enough that he gasps.

From next to him, Steve, the source of the hands, of course, snickers. More embarrassment flushes through Bucky when he peers up at his husband. Even in this darkened room his eyes glow, piercing through the blackness like a lifeforce. He leans forward after setting the cup aside, mouth by Bucky’s ear.

“Are you scared, Bucky?” he whispers. “Do you not like ghost stories?”

He opens his mouth to answer. Nothing comes out though. All he can manage to do is give Steve a weak nod. Hope his husband won’t be too harsh with his teasing. Only Steve smiles at him. Smiles and then opens his arm out for him. There might not be a sister here tonight. No mother. They’re back on the Isle of Manhattan. No father. Lost to the world. But there is his husband. His Steve.

Bucky scoots closer, lets himself melt into Steve’s embrace. To help out even more, Steve gently cradles the side of his head, pressing a hand over Bucky’s ear so that his other is resting up against his chest. He can hear, even feel Steve’s heart. Beat, beat, beat. His chest rises up and down with his contented breathing, as though having Bucky so close provides some sort of extra comfort. Smooth, rhythmic movements that at first hide the small vibrations running through him. It takes him a few minutes longer for Bucky to figure out what it is. Steve is humming. Blocking out the sounds of the story even further by humming to him.

Not just any tune either. Bucky recognizes it immediately. Their wedding song. Steve is softly humming their wedding song.

I love this particular scene because of how much Bucky’s grown over the course of only three to four months. I think it was easy for people to forget that his life was literally upheaved. The rug was pulled out from under him after his father died and this was not the life he’d been groomed for. And, sure, we the readers know that Steve would never do anything to hurt him, but in the story, Bucky has no idea. 

Bucky’s been in a spiraling depression since the night his father died and it’s around now that he’s finally seeing his way out of it. Not for Steve, though, but because Steve’s been shining a light for him and letting him climb out on his own terms and at his own pace. 

No longer is Bucky wary of Steve’s touches. In fact, he’s so comfortable with him now that he misses him when he’s simply another room away. And because Steve is so much more comfortable here with his family, Bucky gets to see just how real and genuine he is. Steve is so kind-hearted and good-natured that Bucky is blown away by it. 

This is also Bucky’s first holiday away from his family, people he’s not even supposed to consider his family anymore and even though he still mourns for what he’s lost, he’s able to take comfort in Steve. 

And, Steve, well, Steve is just thrilled. They’ve been playful and teasing and touching. Exploring a whole new side of their marriage. Since they’re all pretty sure this will be Sarah’s last holiday with them, this is hard on Steve and having Bucky here with him is like a warm anesthetic pumping through his veins. 

The children are all taken with Bucky, too. Even when he’s not trying, Bucky’s charming and sweet. It’s just part of who he is and the House of Rogers fully embraces him. Bucky’s always been popular and well-liked, but he actually wants Steve’s family to like him for who he is, not a song-and-dance for Society and their watchful eyes. 

Fanfic DVD Commentary Asks

[skania]

On Haru (S2 + Episode 10)

I usually love trying to read Haru (it’s honestly my favorite sport in Free!), but this season he’s just been so soulless. Like he smiles and engages others and is more assertive and all (and I’m very proud of him for this), but it’s like he’s just going through the motions.

Gone are the careful zoom ins on his eyes and in the most minute change of his expressions. Or all the subtle ways in which Utsumi brought him to life.

While Utsumi got her show-and-don’t-tell down pretty well, this director is more about telling and not showing. And since Haru hasn’t said what’s going on with him, it all just feels pretty empty IMO.

My best guess about his current behavior is that Haru just... doesn’t get what people see in him and is honest to God fearing he’s just not all that special / plus not finding the competitive world all that rewarding just yet.

Warning: the post is image-heavy!

In the first episode, we saw Haru worrying about eventually having to become "ordinary”. Aka, about no longer being regarded as a prodigy or even as someone exceptionally talented. He also wondered just for how long would the water welcome him the way she always has, which is another subject that got brought up this episode.

Then, in Episode 7, when asked whether his dream was to swim at the global level, Haru didn’t know what to reply.

He perfectly explained how he got where he is now, but obviously had zero idea where he wants to go or just how far he can go.

What’s more, when he imagined the light that represents the future and a dream/goal ahead of him, he… closed his eyes. He was blinded by it and couldn’t stare right at it.

Which is another thing we have already seen before when Haru felt lost and wanted to follow Rin into the World Stage but felt like he didn’t deserve it because he didn’t feel as strong about it as Rin did.

On the other hand, Ikuya, Hiyori and their drama made Haru question one of the only things he knows for certain: that swimming with and for the team is a good thing. With their drama bs they effectively made Haru wonder whether he should even be allowed to swim with his friends at all.

And it’s worth noticing that Haru has not swam with nakama at all throughout the entire season aside from that race that was all about Ikuya and nothing about Haru. I think this is one of the reasons why he looked so lost in the first episode when he looked at his side and instead of finding Rin he found... no one.

But he already looked pretty sad at the start of the episode, when he had the entire pool for himself.

Haru is someone who gets fired up by two things: people (until now, Rin) possibly beating him at being the best in the water and swimming with/for his nakama. Until his race with Albert, Haru literally had none of those things. So I think he was finding it all to be kind of empty, even if he was driven to succeed.

Then in Episode 08, Ikuya says that Haru is like a hero. That people look up to him.

And Haru, who is lost as hell about what he wants to do with his own swimming, doesn’t get at all where Ikuya’s coming from. What could Ikuya possibly see in him? Why does Ikuya say that Haru has been helpful to him in any way?

And lastly, the straw that broke the camel’s back: Albert. Haru raced Albert and met a beast who’s way faster than he is.

But before racing him, Haru wasn't particularly driven to win. Albert wasn't his rival and there was nothing on the line. Haru just swam because it's what he had to do.

So I think that after all this crap, Haru wonders just how far he can actually go. Does he actually have what it takes to swim in this competitive world? Why do so many have expectations of him and look up to him when as far as he’s concerned, he’s not as special as people think he is?

And of course, then comes Rin. Who tells Haru that the one constant in his life is that he still wants to swim with him. 

And Haru, who sees Rin like this shining being who belongs in the competitive world,

most likely just feels even more pressured because can he actually give Rin what he wants and keep swimming with him? And would swimming with him even be good for Rin? And why does Rin even want to swim with him when they’re surrounded by people who are more talented than he is?

So basically I think Haru’s pretty much boiling under the surface like the opening suggests but it’s all just veeeery badly portrayed.

This season should’ve been about Haru coming to reassert his decision of “coming into that world of wins and losses” and finding meaning in it.

About Haru actually getting fired up by swimmers other than Rin, because even if they'll always be THAT person and rival to one another, Haru needs to actually feel that there are other people out there who he wants to beat.

But it all got side-tracked by (so far) irrelevant Little Mermaid drama that only held Haru back instead of pushing him further. And it’s getting even more held-back because Haru’s character is simply not being done justice to. And at the end of the day this will all get solved with a magical relay like always lol

But oh well, this is all just my wild guess. I honestly don’t know for sure because I can’t read this Haru lol

[intoanewlife]

great comet 8/5 matinee

so first of all, great comet was amazing, not that i was expecting anything less, but still. i saw the matinee on 8/5, sat in the front mezzanine (house left, row A seat 3. 10/10 would recommend this view) and pretty much everyone was the usual cast except anatole was blaine alden krauss, sonya was ashley perez flanagan, and mary was courtney bassett. and they, and everyone else, totally killed it

so here’s some of the stuff from the performance i saw (under a cut because its A Lot):

pre-show: -the cast came out for the pre-show stuff, with the boxes of pierogis, and heath saunders (i believe) came right by my seat, asking who wanted one. i shouted ‘me!’, and he immediately tossed me one, so i guess enthusiasm helps. they all did like little PSAs about cast coming through and the strobes and no recordings, and heath did this little thing about making room for actors, like, heath: *gestures to seats* this is yours *gestures to aisle* this is mine *points to me and gestures to my seat* whats this? me: mine heath: *gestures to aisle* and whats this? me: yours heath: good job, 100%

prologue: -when anatole introduced himself and said “he spends his money on women and wine” he said it to a guy sitting next to him, who responded with one of those ‘sup nods -on the last big run-through of naming characters, when someone’s name was said, they were lit up in spotlight, spun in a circle and took a shot, which was great -paul pinto did a super quick costume change from balaga into what i think was a servant? anyway i glanced away for like a second and suddenly he was someone else, i was impressed

pierre: -ok first of all, oak is incredible. like, there’s something very sad and tired about his pierre, but at the same time, there’s a sense of youth in certain scenes, so despite everyone calling him old man, he feels like his canonical age and i loved it -right before pierre sings “you empty, you stupid contented fellows”, anatole walks by and toasts him

moscow: -when marya delivers her first “welcome, welcome to moscow”, all the audience members around her jumped on the first ‘welcome’ because it was so loud lol -marya was so enthusiastic about a game of boston, the whole audience laughed -when marya tells natasha to be kind to andrey’s sister, mary walks right between them, which i thought was cool -also at the start of the song, i saw mary trying to help old bolkonsky to his chair and he kept brushing her off

private and intimate life: -in that pause right before “people enjoy me though”, nick totally drew it out, and lights came up on the audience to his left and he stared at them for a long time. one girl did a little wave with the finger waggle and he did it back lol -when mary sings ‘yes father, yes father’, the lights all over the theater, including all the lights on tables, pulsed in time to the beat -paul pinto as the servant is hilarious? he’s all hunched over like he’s igor and he shuffles around the scene -when bolkonsky is freaking out about his glasses, marya is playing the cow bell looking so unimpressed it was hilarious

natasha and bolkonskys: -it was so awkward yet so funny, the way they not only put themselves at a table, but in a spot totally inconvenient for everyone sitting there, so there was a lot of scooching chairs around and giggling audience members -natasha had the most disney-worthy forced smile the whole time

no one else: -i had heard the staging of this was beautiful but thE STAGING OF THIS WAS BEAUTIFUL -the lights going blue! the way natasha practically floats around the stage the whole song! when andrey appeared in the snow! -i was in a spot so my view was natasha directly behind andrey, and i watched him read her letter as she stared at him longingly and let me tell you i was crying -when andrey hurries off, natasha chases him a bit, so then she’s the one in the snow and it was emotional -also pierre seemed to ignore a lot of things going on when he’s not in a scene and just sitting in his tavern, but he was watching natasha this whole scene

the opera: -when pierre says he’s enjoying himself at home he waved cheerily to the audience and gave an overly-enthusiastic thumbs up with a big grin, which immediately vanished when the lights on him faded -when natasha and helene meet, its like, there is no hetero explanation for it, they both sing their lines while reaching out to the other -marya sweeps in and grabs natasha’s shoulders and physically turns her away from helene -the opera was so weird but so great, one of the opera dancers, after the music stopped, kept making this weird noise you can hear in the soundtrack, and just? kept going? long past anything else? it was hilarious -the lights came up on natasha and sonya and sonya had this cute head tilt like ‘????’ and natasha’s jaw was dropped, eyes wide, it was so funny -anatole entered, and god, with blaine i could finally see what natasha saw in anatole because damn -OK SO ONE OF MY FAVORITE MOMENTS was when the opera performance was ending, andrey was getting “killed” right? except after he does, all the other “actors” clear off and he’s alone, all bloody and torn, and natasha had ended up in front of pierre’s tavern at that point, and andrey was on the other side, and he just stares longingly at natasha, until she turns around and spots him and realizes its him. they both circle pierre’s tavern, reaching for the other, and andrey has that red ribbon from natasha’s letters dangling from his hand, and where pierre had been ignoring the opera until then, he looks up and right after natasha saw it was andrey, so did he, and he jumps to his feet and watches natasha and andrey circling and reaching for the other with the saddest expression on his face and mY HEART

natasha and anatole: -for the entirety of the interactions between natasha and anatole down by pierre, pierre is reading with one hand over his eyes, not seeing any of it -yeah anatole totally primped in the mirror before entering the box, and then he struck a pose and waited for natasha to notice him -when natasha is all “as handsome up close as at a distance”, they’re standing behind a railing and anatole is looking away, and natasha leans her elbows on the railing and puts her chin in her hands and stares at anatole in that schoolgirl crush way. she immediately straightens up and turns away when he turns back

the duel: -when pierre is talking about natasha all “and long carried affection for her”, the way anatole says “yes. charming” basically translated to ’cool story bro’ -once it gets to the club, basically everything happens so much? people are everywhere, the strobe is going, andrey is being dj andrey 3000 in pierre’s tavern, THE OUTFITS, marya’s catsuit had me dying, pierre just drunkenly stumbles all over -on helene’s “he will kill you, stupid husband’ her voice broke, she was so upset oh my god, both anatole and helene were both so genuinely concerned when dolokhov fired, god my feels

dust and ashes: -holy shit oak is incredible, he’s a gift, he’s amazing, i love him -he actually flubbed a lyric near the beginning, but he absolutely killed the rest of the song -it was like a slow gradual build, where he started out sounding tired and then it crescendoed into this heartfelt longing and i cried and i died -let me tell you, hearing dust and ashes in surround sound (pierre in front, cast behind in rear mezz) is An Experience and i’m pretty sure thats what heaven sounds like -the applause was enormous and very long, which was great

sunday morning: -yeah i loved how pierre was right behind natasha when she was looking the mirror -marya was right next to our section when she did the “suuuuunday morning, time for church!” part and i basically got that at point blank range, which was amazing thank you grace mclean

charming: -natasha spends a lot of the song imitating helene, which was pretty cute. it started out when helene wasn’t looking, then by the end they were both doing the same gestures with their skirts and stuff

the ball: -at one point natasha and anatole are dancing together, but they’re across pierre’s tavern from each other, so they’re both doing the motions like they’re dancing together, but separately, which actually looked pretty cool -when natasha tells anatole she loves him, his face is so much ‘...what.’, god what a fuckboy

letters: -when pierre was talking about wanting to be in the war, he was like pretend-firing with the pistol he used in the duel, it was cute -when natasha and pierre sing “i see nothing but the candle in the mirror, no visions of the future...” they sing it facing each other -”a letter which i composed” had anatole whirling around to face dolokhov with a ‘cmon man why’d you have to say that’ kind of gesture and expression -oh my god anatole’s ‘just say yes’ bit. he did the first one standard, but the second one, he paused first then dragged the yes out for forever, then the third one he paused even longer and then he did like ‘just...say...yeeeeesssssssssssssssss’ and slowly got higher while grabbing onto natasha and god it was just hilarious and so Extra

sonya alone: -ashley fucking killed this one and i cried and the applause was so big -also pierre seemed like he was ignoring everything after his bit in letters, like he had in act 1, but he was watching this whole song

balaga: -pierre got up and joined the dancing with a shaker in each hand, he was having so much fun, i loved it

abduction: -anatole’s ‘whoa’ was so long oh my god -when pierre did his thing and everybody dropped, he bent over, stayed there a while, then stood up, looked around, and giggled, like he was so pleased -during this pause, everybody had dropped to the floor, except marya and helene who were standing side by side holding hands  -marya was banging the huge drum after pierre’s bit, which was so cool, and helene played that drum for a bit earlier, but i can’t remember when -when anatole yelled for everyone to sit, he rushed up to a stage right table, and literally shoved and pushed at the guy sitting there, complete with dramatic grunting sounds, then plopped down, gave the guy the ‘sup nod and they fist bumped. anatole then let the pause drag on for so long, half the cast started looking exasperated, including pierre lmao -fucking marya’s entrance was so good holy shit. she delivered the line so calmly and crisply like, ‘you. will. not. enter. myyyyy house...ssscCOOOOUUUNNNNDRELLLLLLLLLL’ and it was amazing, anatole fucking bolted

in my house: -marya was so calm at the start of this song, it was kind of terrifying -when marya says to let natasha sleep, sonya is approaching natasha, and marya like, snarls at sonya

a call to pierre: -pierre was asleep at his desk at the start -there was a super cool lighting effect here, where marya had sat down on stage right, handed the letter off, and the lightbulbs hanging overhead lit up in a line (like they flashed one at a time) that went out into the audience and all the way back around to stage left where the letter was handed off to pierre -pierre’s ‘what’s started off kind of confused and calm, but once marya said natasha had broken with andrey they became more shocked and aggravated 

find anatole: -oak actually missed the first ‘find anatole’ at the start because he was trying to get into his coat -he totally shoved paul pinto out of his way -anatole has his head in helene’s lap when pierre enters, and when helene is all “ah pierre, sweet husband’ i always thought it sounded kind of sly on the soundtrack, but when i saw it, helene sounded more genuine and concerned -when pierre is all angry and “more repulsive to me than ever”, he stalks towards the siblings and they spring apart and helene actually throws herself out of pierre’s way and they both looked so nervous when pierre asked to speak to anatole

pierre and anatole: -god this scene was intense, and oak plays pierre with such a tightly-bound rage, it was kind of frightening -when pierre is listing what anatole needs to do, anatole got angry and swiped everything off pierre’s desk -”amuse yourself with women like my wife” helene looked so offended and pierre delivered “then youre within your right” directly to her, ouch -natasha poisoning herself was so intense, she screamed and ran offstage and both marya and sonya ran after her

natasha very ill: -pierre helps marya to a chair, while everyone just slowly settles somewhere

pierre and andrey: -i had heard andrey shoves pierre, but when i saw it, andrey just straight up jabbed pierre in the chest and when andrey walked away, pierre just sort of rubbed at the spot

pierre and natasha: -here’s where i died again, because as soon as i saw natasha come down the stairs clinging to the railing i was crying -on “she began to cry” oak choked up and it was painful -when pierre called anatole a bad man, helene lifted her head looking pained, then when natasha said “don’t call him bad”, helene smiled sadly and lowered her head again -during this number i saw helene, marya and mary all crying so there was that -pierre delivered The Line to natasha’s back, since she was leaving, then immediately turned his back, which gave me a perfect view of pierre crying and wiping at his eyes. he didn’t turn back until natasha was right behind him again and he jumped, then the face touch was so tender and beautiful, and natasha had to shuffle forward a little to reach, god it was so pure great comet of 1812: -this finale was so beautiful and oak did an amazing job with this simple and quiet song, i loved it and the lighting effect that makes the comet was great, and the front mezzanine was a great place to see it

ok so this was really long, but i noticed a lot, and it was such a good show. if i could see it a thousand times more, i would, and i’m so thankful i got to see oak in it. long live the great comet!

[blucalifornia-eyesxx-blog]

Checkin’ In

I know it sounds ridiculous but I think I went through some kind of mid life crisis/self transformation. These past couple weeks have been the most amazing, eye opening best times of my life with the best people. I feel amazing. I feel like I just need to recap on 2018/2019 and the future to come.

First of all, I graduated college. What the fuck. I graduated top 20 outstanding seniors, employee of the year for 2018-2019. Who? Oh yeah thats right Katie lol. I fucking rock. That’s amazing! To think that I sat in my guidance counselor (at the time’s) office and she told me there was no way I’d make it into any other school besides the community college. Bet. Good for me, i really went out there and proved everyone wrong and I am so fucking grateful for the people who helped and supported me along the way. 

Most importantly I am thankful for the people I have met along the way. 2018 was full of love. How blessed am I to have so many amazing people in my life. Working at Loon MTN and living with my best friends, my soul sisters was the best time. We were so broke but so full of love it didn’t even matter and we had the best Christmas, all of us surrounded by an empty tree but with full hearts and so many laughs. That winter was amazing, learning to snowboard turning 22 in Plymouth, my home, my heart. So cold in our shitty little apartment but so cozy and always filled with white lights and so much love and good energy. Getting a job as a Bartender and learning SO much. Expanding myself and my abilities, and I am so fucking proud that I made that jump because girl you killed it. FLORIDA. Spontaneously deciding we fucking deserved a vacation and just book a flight 10 minutes away from the homies at the Sheraton. Orlando Shores. Holy hell I will never forget that spring break. *Insert cheer here* Graduating with the best group of people I could ever ask for at the best school, for that I am grateful. Alden Luau. Something else. Thankful for all the friends who made the time to come to ye ol’ Cape Cod for a night of bad decisions and heavy drinking. One last time FTB. Summer of 2018 wow what a time. Crisp family literally meeting the best people at Crisp and becoming so close with my loves, drinking tequila, sexually harassing everyone (everyone). The days. New York. What an experience. So lucky to have my other half who lives such a cool life. Buying that one way ticket and just exploring the city with my best friend. The views, the fireworks over the skyline, the joy of just being alive and being able to live this life was overwhelming. And that’s when it hit me. September 5th, 2018. A one way ticket to LA with my entire life packed in 2 bags. The best decision I could have ever made. Taking that jump, taking that risk, risking it all for a whole new life, a clean slate, a fresh start it was all worth it. And you know what I am amazing for doing that. Fucking amazing. 

Don’t get me wrong 2018 had some tears, some deep cuts. But I’ll keep that short and sweet. Don’t think I don’t think about it and I’ll never forget that type of hurt but I will live and I will love you for who you are today. This holiday was so hard. Being alone. Alone, alone. That was my own fault tho, I got out of my shell, out of my comfort zone I had to remind myself what I’m worth. It was sad to be away from the people I loved but this New Years was the best one yet.

LA has introduced me to the most amazing people. They have all done so much, everyone is out here with big dreams. It’s so inspiring. This New Years I ended and began the year with real homies. Racing out of work to get alcohol before they stop selling at 2 am, how pretty I looked and felt. Laughing and dancing with my coworkers just enjoying each other and drinking in my apartment. So amazing. Long beach, driving around California jamming and listening to his stories. Hiking the abandoned zoo, seeing LA from the top of the world even beautiful at night time. It was like something you’ve never seen before. The city was on fire with lights and the stars, they’re never usually visible but you could see them and they dotted the sky just enough to have to stop and look up for a minute. Sectional and chillen with the boys, eating little Ceasars. Staying up all night just all hanging out. The best. I’ll never forget that. 

This year I accomplished a lot of shit. And 2019 is going to be the shit. I am so grateful to be alive. To live in this beautiful world. To have the opportunities I have had and will have. I am so proud of myself for everything I have accomplished. I am amazing and I can’t wait to see where life will take me next. Cheers to good vibes, good people, new opportunities, old and new friends, wealth, clear skin, memories and new stories. Here’s to life. I am grateful and full of love.