#because sky still has that unbridled confidence that i want to have still | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ronanwolff · 3 years

Text

Loki, god of Mischief

Content Warning- 18+ smut, swearing, submissive Loki, oral(f), fluff

Summary: Short story. Enemies to lovers arc- You’ve always wanted to prove that you were not just some stray Frigga took in as a child and now, your chance has come. You’ve been given a mission, one that will prove you are the powerful witch you claim to be, but it seems there is someone to disrupt the plan, and we know how much he loves to cause mischief.

Months. I had gone over the plan and trained for months, and it had all been for nothing because of him. I strode through the halls with angry purpose as I thought of all the ways I would make him suffer, and when I heard his voice—that familiar chuckle, the anger in me morphed into fury. I marched up to him and removed the rein on my anger as I pushed him. Loki’s green eyes twinkled with amusement as he regarded me, and I could almost hear the words that were about to leave his parted lips.

Why so upset little princess?

And so, I stopped him. I made sure I didn’t hear those words that would soften me, those words that would leave my mouth dry and leave other parts of me wet to my annoyance and denial.

“You traitorous bastard!” I snapped at him. “Blithering idiot.” My chest heaved underneath my armour as I tried to get my breath out. “That was my mission and you ruined it. My chance to prove my worth to Odin and Frigga.” I continued, and I felt the magic brewing in me and wanting to be let out. My skin bristled and the rage within me began to tear at the well-kept seams.

“It sounds like you’re angry with me, but you know me, I like causing mischief…dare I say you need some of it.” He said to me in a low tone as he watched me, sensing just how tense I was. He leaned forward and I caught his eyes briefly fall below my nose and land on my lips. I inwardly cursed whoever among the gods had decided to burden me with the man who stood proudly before me. It had to be a curse because no matter what he did, my true feelings would never change. I tried to hide the bobbing of my throat as I swallowed and without thinking, I raised my hand and struck him across the face. I panted again and stepped back, awaiting his reaction but I was surprised when Loki turned his face to me with a mischievous smile. It was that smile that was all knowing, especially towards my feelings. It’s like he knew how he made me feel. His jaw tensed as he moved closer. “Did that make you feel good?”

“Go to Hel Loki” I hissed as I begun to walk away, he grabbed my arm and suddenly his lips were on mine. I was ashamed to admit that I had been dreaming of this moment for a while and now that it had become a reality, it did not disappoint. I felt the flush in my skin and the feeling of loosening in my limbs. Every bit of tension seeped away as his lips melded into mine. Rage turned into passion and unbridled emotion seemed to escape from me. It was only when I moaned that I remembered where I was and what I was doing. I pulled back sharply and slapped him again, but once again it didn’t have the desired affect because he only chuckled at me and gave me that same smile before pulling me closer. His eyes seemingly glowed underneath the light of the fires around us and mine glowed back in response. A light blue glow that I saw in his own eyes.

“I want you.” I finally breathed in a tone that had never escaped my lips. It was breathy and needy, and the vulnerability seemed to take him aback; it took me by surprise, and yet, he drew a breath and looked at me intently. His hand moved from my arm to my face.

“I’m yours.”

I didn’t let him say anymore, I only crashed my lips back into his, tasting the sweetness of the words he had just said. In fact, I had tasted no sweeter fruit than that of his lips and I knew in the moment his hands held my face and pulled me closer to him, I would want no other thing but him. We moved until my back was against the pillar and I grunted as the impact took my breath away. I had forgotten the injuries I had sustained, and I was sure that bruises would have started to mark my skin. “Are you alright?” Loki asked with concern. His kisses had stolen my breath and I could only nod at him. He stared at me, his eyes studying every inch of exposed skin on my body, but I lifted his chin and made him look at me.

“I’m fine, just kiss me.” I ordered and the grin returned to his face. That beautiful face. Loki Laufeyson, god of mischief was the most beautiful god I had ever seen.

“Yes. Always yes.” He panted as he returned to my lips. His hands surveyed my body, feeling and tracing every curve as he wrapped my legs around his hips. I didn’t know what to do with my own hands, but they seemed to take on a mind of their own as they worked their way through the dark mirth of his hair. My moan echoed in the halls around us and so did his hiss as he inhaled my scent. His face was buried in my neck, nipping at my skin painfully but it was fuelling me until a loud clang sounded around us. The gates.

“LOKI!”

Thor’s booming voice was unmistakable. I had no doubt he had questions for his brother over the failed mission or me. I hoped it was the former. I couldn’t stand before the All father and the council, not like this.

“Gods,” I sighed, trying to ignore the burning heat of my body but it would not dissipate. I wanted more of him, and I could tell he felt the same away as he quietly cursed. He turned his body towards the voice, but I held him close to me. “No. I’m not done with you yet Loki Laufeyson.” I pictured our destination and within a few seconds we were there. My chambers. I ignored the feeling of strain through my body at the use of my magic and I looked at the man who stood before me and for a moment, I didn’t know what to do or say.

“Tell me what you want.” He whispered and like that, a bolt of Odin’s lightning seemingly hit me. I had heard things about what he liked when it came to being intimate, but I had never thought it was true. He had always seemed so…sure, a master of control and yet here he was, staring at me like I was the brightest star in the sky, and he was waiting for me.

“Take off your clothes.”

He gave an amused huff at my command, but he obeyed, unclipping the daggers slowly from his waist before moving on to his gauntlets, and he was purposeful and slow in the movements of his long fingers. I swallowed as the gauntlets fell to the floor, leaving his hands and forearms bare and he then moved to his chest, unclipping the fastening of the leather of his armour and I gasped as he peeled it off his body and exposed his chest.

“Do you want me to continue?” He asked in that low husky tone that made me forget who I was and where I was. I shook my head after a moment and tried to find my words.

“Kneel.” Was all I said. It was the first word that came to me because it was the first word that returned to my mind, and it was also the first word he had said to me when we first met. I remembered it clearly as he held the sceptre under my chin as he made me look at him. He smirked as if he too was reminded of that exact moment. He then slowly sank to his knees, keeping his eyes on me as he straightened his back and laid his hands flat on his covered thighs. His muscles flexed as he positioned himself.

I didn’t need words to know what he was doing. He was submitting to me. Me, who was less than him, lower than him. I had grown up in Asgard knowing my place until Loki came along and made me question everything, I thought I knew. I was not a god and yet, here he was treating me like I was. I did the same as him. I slowly moved my fingers over my gauntlets, undoing them and then I moved to the protective armour on my chest. Once that was over with, I was left only in my corset and undergarments. I shook away that all familiar feeling of my power being loosed as the conduit of my armour fell away— something Frigga had constructed for me, and while I would be eternally thankful to her for such a creation, it was a breath of relief when my power was free to snake and coil within me.

Before I could reach behind, there was a spark of green in the corner of my eye and then hands that touched the bare skin of my shoulders and trailed their way to the ties of my corset. Loki remained still in front of me, but there was a playful smile on his lips. I gasped at the phantom touch as he unwound the ties whilst placing kisses on my skin and soon enough, I was bare in front of him, and I had never felt more glorious. The hunger in his eyes turned the usual green of his irises to almost black as he bit his bottom lip. I had never seen someone filled with wanting and so I took cautious steps until I was close enough to feel his breath on my skin. I could feel his eyes like fingers trailing up my body until he reached my eyes, and he was almost panting. His eyes were big and filled with need as he waited on my next command and a part of me loved seeing him hang onto my every word and instruction.

“Kiss me.” I finally said and I expected a quick and fast approach, but he surprised me. He moved slowly towards me, and he kept his eyes on mine as he kissed the skin of my stomach, and the feeling almost broke me. It seemed he had inherited his adoptive father’s abilities because I could have sworn, I felt lightning pass through my body. My head fell back, and I let out a breathless gasp as he continued his relentless assault of my lower body, placing kisses everywhere but that part of me that craved it the most. I let my legs fall open slightly to give him a hint, but he didn’t oblige me. “Please.” I gasped as I clutched his hair.

“You have to tell me exactly what you want.”

I could feel the blood rush to my cheeks. I had never been nervous around men, and yet, he almost brought me to my knees. His eyes caught the shaking of my hands and he brought them to his lips, kissing away the tremble of them.

“I want you to kiss me…there.” I told him with more confidence, and he thankfully granted me my wish as he put his lips to the core of me. My knees buckled with every flick of his tongue and my hands held his own which he rested on my waist. I tried to bite back my moan, but when he moved his hand to cup my breast, I failed, gasping loudly. I was about to fall off the cliff of euphoria when he pulled away. I looked down at him. “Don’t stop.” I told him and he chuckled in response. His eye twinkled as he winked at me.

“I want to savour every moment of this, princess. I want when you moan, for all the nine realms to hear you praise my name.”

“You are so vain.” I said breathlessly, but I couldn’t help the smile that appeared on my face as I looked down at him. He was beautiful. I touched his face, memorising the angles of his jaw and the feel of his black hair. The green of his eyes. “That is what you like is it not? Seeing a god on his knees for you. Worshipping at the temple that is your body. Admit it, you like having control just as much as I like relinquishing it.” He whispered before he kissed me again. I whimpered under his lips. “You are my only god, the only one I will go to my knees for. Do you understand?”

I nodded absentmindedly and suddenly I was in his arms, but not for long because he laid me gently on the bed. He trailed kisses up the skin of my leg, biting when he could and his eyes remained solely on me, seemingly also memorising my every reaction. His normally neat black hair was now frazzled from my hands. I pulled his face to mine impatiently and kissed him while my hand wondered his lean body. I made quick work of his trousers pushing them halfway and my hands fondled the skin of his backside whilst his lips marked every bit of skin that surrounded my chest. I mumbled my approval as my body settled into his touch. He pulled away from me and I had to resist the urge to groan in impatience, but from the way he looked at me, with his green eyes so earnest and sincere. The gaze made me pause.

“You don’t have to prove your worth to me.”

The words hit me in a way that almost surpassed what he had been doing to me thus far. He used his fingers to caress my lips before kissing me again and I didn’t realise there were tears in my eyes until I felt them spill over my skin and without breaking the connection of his lips to mine, he wiped the tears away.

“I want you. I need you.” I panted and he swallowed my words with a deep kiss before biting my lip and pulling it. My eyes caught a brief glimpse of what lay in wait for me between his legs and I took a sharp breath in. I had seen all manner of men, but none were compared to the god before me and as my eyes dropped back down again, I joked to myself. I guess he is part giant

Loki smiled as he followed my eyeline and the smile morphed into a small laugh, it was almost as if he had read my mind. I felt the blood rush to my cheeks as I turned away from him, but he brought my face back and leaned forward, except it wasn’t to kiss me. I felt his breath tickle the skin of my ear, a feeling which sent a shiver through my naked body. “I will be gentle, I promise.”

I pulled him towards me and knowing what I wanted, he granted my request as he pushed into me, gently. My head lulled back as I got used to him. The feeling was alien at first but as I started to move against him, I began to crave more of him. He moved over me, and I relished every feeling and movement. I had watched him train several times, even fought him, and he was incredibly skilled; skills which went beyond combat it seemed. Every movement he made was poised and graceful, purposeful, and steering. It was almost like a dance, his body firm and yet fluid beneath the feel of my hands. He knew when to take the lead and when to step back. His lips never left mine or my skin and his hands held me, grabbed me, and soothed me.

It’s like I wasn’t in control of my body when I turned him over so that I was on top of him. I gave him a smile as I put his hands behind his head and kissed him. I wanted to worship him just as he worshipped me, he deserved venerate adoration. I slowly sank onto him and just remained still even as he fumbled for movement. It only took for me to shake my head and he stilled underneath me. I was in control and the feeling of it was magnificent. As I gave him a nod, he thrust into me and groaned in pleasure, and I heard the slightest whisper of my name. I let go of his hands, but before he could move, I replaced my hands with my magic, binding his wrists above him with blue energy. I rested my hands on his chest and closed my eyes, enjoying the combined feeling of him inside me, and the feeling of my unrestrained power, which burst forth from me in gratitude for having released it—having used it fully even if it was for decadent purposes. I could feel his eyes on me, watching me please myself and I could sense the smile of satisfaction.

“I need to touch you.” He said hoarsely and I only nodded, loosening my magic and he reacted immediately, sitting up and holding me closer to him. I gasped at the difference in feeling, and the presence of his hand on my throat. He kissed me deeply, using his teeth on the sensitive skin of my neck and shoulder. I circled my hands around his neck and then made my way to his back, while his hand reached between my legs. I choked at the intensity of the feeling and for a moment, I just looked at him. I loved this man. I wouldn’t be able to say those words out loud, but I loved him despite his flaws and deception and his affinity to push me towards murderous tendencies, I had come to know the man behind the god, the lost and misplaced boy who just wanted to belong to something...or someone. I wanted that too, and as he carried on moving again, I could swear I was about explode into stars.

“Loki.” I gasped as I finally fell off that cliff. I dragged my nails across his skin causing him to hiss, but he brought my lips to his again. I felt endless, not just stars, but a whole universe of galaxies and realms. When sensation returned to me, I could still feel him moving within me, building up to his own finish. I felt guilty for not doing more than planting lazy kisses on the skin of his face, but as I gave into the feeling of sensitivity where he continued to move, I moaned his name once more. He grunted as he held me close to him. His teeth bit into the skin of my shoulder once more as he gasped, shielding my body before giving me back the breath I had lost.

I watched him as he slept, he seemed more at peace with his eyes closed and the small rise and fall of his chest. He seemed more vulnerable. I pushed a strand of his hair away and smiled at him before controlling myself.

He’s a god, a prince, a son of Odin and you’re…nothing. A simple warrior. I thought as I got up gently, trying not to wake him up. I quickly got dressed, fastening my gauntlets and guards before looking at him once more. I moved closer to him and kissed him softly once.

“I love you.” I whispered, before leaving the room.

#loki #loki layfeyson x reader #loki fanfic #loki fandom #god of mischief #loki imagine #loki smut #loki fluff #loki series #marvel #loki of asgard

146 notes · View notes

foodieforthoughts · 3 years

Text

Sand and Stars - Chapter Five

Series Summary: After the water pump being blown up, the insurgents in Baqubah are taking a hold of the food supply to the village. Camp Warhorse is in dire need of reinforcements. It has been eight months of submitting countless requests when the High Command commissions Sergeant Olivia Ross to take her group of men and women and help Captain Syverson and his team to restore a semblance of normalcy. But with the war raging, does it get two hearts closer too?

Pairing: Captain Syverson x OFC x OMC

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: 18+, Mentions of war, military technicalities, slight angst, fluff, implied smut

A/N: Well Hello! Our dear Captain Alex has finally made an appearance! A big thank you to @thelastsock who is patiently beta-reading this, I love you woman with my whole heart.

<Chapter Four

Title: Chapter Five

The sun felt scorching hot on her skin as Olivia loaded her gun near the parked Humvees. A mild throbbing at the base of her skull added to the uncomfortable sensations each time she moved. She hadn’t planned to drink almost half a bottle of whiskey last night, but it was cold, and she needed the warmth.

Also, the drink had sort of been a gift from Sy.

Olivia groaned as the memories from last night flashed through her mind. She had literally invited him for a kiss, throwing herself on her Captain like a wanton whore. She felt embarrassed even thinking about it. Thankfully for her, Sy had a better judgement about entertaining drunk women and had resorted to just giving her a tight hug.

Her stomach felt queasy as a sour taste filled her mouth. She swallowed as the uncomfortable feeling set at the pit of her stomach. Running a hand over her sweat covered forehead, Olivia rested against the vehicle.

She felt worthless. Olivia couldn't shake the feeling of repeating history, despite the extreme effort of will she put her hungover mind to this time. She slung her gun over her shoulder as a distant memory of her time with Alex began flashing before her eyes.

The sound of their hurried footsteps on the marble floor echoed through the empty hall. It was almost noon, the temperature soaring high and drinks becoming difficult to keep down. Alex chuckled as Olivia pulled him towards a bathroom door, not caring whether it was for the ladies or the gents. She had been begging for Alex’s attention ever since they got to the wedding party for a fellow soldier, downing an unusual amount of alcohol before finally gathering up the courage to whisper naughty things in his ear. She had been hung over her Captain for far too long, it was time for her to finally taste him.

Olivia massaged her temple with her fingers. She had been so stupid and naïve to start something with Alex. Her Captain. She regretted it now more than ever, 3 years of hookups later. Alex had been her friend since she re-enlisted again after completing her Aviation course. Though to tell the truth she'd been crushing on him since she first laid eyes on his beautiful face. His unbridled confidence, panty-melting smile and boyish charm had worked its magic on Olivia’s mind. It wasn’t something she thought of pursuing on a long-term basis, but his sweet nature only kept driving her closer to him. She liked that he showered her with affection all the time, something her attention-starved mind craved desperately. Only she had mistaken her lust for love.

“Really? Here? You know our seniors are present out on the lawn.” Alex snickered as Olivia began undoing his belt. His blazing eyes sparkled with what was to come next, the anticipation dancing in his beautiful orbs. Dinners together had turned into overnight stays and eventually Olivia had kissed Alex one night, crossing the line of friendship with no turning back.

“We are on leave, aren’t we?” She had suggestively smiled at him, palming his bulge through his pants. She leaned in to kiss Alex, feeling the softness of his lips brushing against hers. She felt her arousal beginning to wet through the thin fabric of her panties as Alex plunged his tongue into the warm cavern of her mouth.

Olivia grinned mischievously as she hopped on the sink counter pulling Alex by his tie to stand between her legs. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he pulled her in to steal another kiss. She unzipped his pants as Alex began trailing down her neck, planting soft kisses over her warm skin and cupping her breast through her dress.

“I don’t have a condom,” Alex said against the skin peeking just above her breast.

“I’m on the pill,” she shrugged and pulled his hardening cock out of its constraints. It pulsated in her hand as she pumped him. Alex groaned into her soft skin and nipped at her in retaliation, making her hiss with pleasure. She bit her lip as she watched him take over his cock and enter her aching folds. Alex let out an unrestrained moan as her warmth enveloped his throbbing member.

“Happy birthday, little birdie.” Olivia blinked as Sy appeared in front of her, smiling from under his cap. He was dressed in his combat fatigues, the vest making him look bigger than he already was. “Hangover?”

Olivia shook her head, warmth spreading over her chest as the vivid memories registered in her mind. “Just…uh, regular headache.” She smiled at her Captain. Her eyes lingered on his, mesmerized yet again by the intensely blue orbs looking back at her. She noticed the freckles on his nose and his lip and the changing shade of brown of his beard as it travelled down his neck.

“Maybe later we can have some chai while we watch the sunset?” Sy leaned against the metal body of the Humvee, one hand resting low on his hip.

Olivia tilted her head to the side and raised her eyebrow. “Sunset? You do realize I fly a chopper for a living? I’ve seen my fair share of sunsets and sunrises by now.”

“But you haven’t seen a sunset with me.” A smirk formed on Sy’s lips, challenging her for another excuse.

Olivia felt a flutter in the pit of her belly and her mouth opened as she was rendered speechless. She felt herself balancing over the same dangerously thin line again. In a weird sense, this didn’t feel the same for her like it was with Alex. With him she had felt a rush of becoming reckless, but with Sy she wanted to be cautious, mindful. When he had kissed her forehead last night and embraced her, she had never felt more safe in the world like she did in that moment.

“Okay.” She nodded, “Rooftop like last night?” Olivia suggested as her unit members began getting into the Humvees, ready to head out. Sy tipped his cap in confirmation before walking towards his own team and barking orders to mount up.

Out in the desert, Olivia spent the rest of her day interacting with the locals and listening to their problems. She was following Lieutenant Pepps's orders about sympathizing with the public, to ensure they get local support in the future. As she listened to a weeping woman complain about the scarcity of food, her mind drifted back to a memory with Alex.

“What changed, Liv?” Alex pulled at her wrist, turning her around to face him. Olivia yanked at his hold, trying to free herself from his grasp. “Don’t you love me anymore?”

“Alex,” She pleaded, closing her eyes to escape this conversation. She had spent time in Afghanistan and the things she’d seen had changed her. She had seen the fragile nature of life and understood it was useless to be wasting her precious years on someone she only cared about as a friend.

“Tell me, Liv.” His voice was laced with anger, his eyes burning with hatred. “Tell me you don’t love me so that I can remove myself from your life. Because I can’t be your friend, not after all this.” He let go of her hand, slumping his shoulders as his eyes misted with tears and he fell on his knees.

Liv felt the weight of her actions crumbling her down in front of him. She never intended to hurt him, but she couldn’t love him, at least not the way he wanted her to. The possibility of losing her friend forever made her emotions win over her determination to end things with him. “I’m sorry, Alex. I’ll do better. I’m so sorry.”

Olivia sighed as she watched the sun slowly drift towards the horizon casting an orange hue over the sky. She had never gathered the courage to break things with Alex again. He had tried labelling them in a relationship, but she had avoided the topic like the plague. Their arrangement worked as they were deployed to different locations which gave her time away from him, only forcing her to pretend when they were on leave together. She grasped the Saint Christopher medal lying against her chest in her hand and felt the consequences of her actions pricking at her heart.

“Hey,” Sy called out from the doorstep leading out on the roof. He had a canteen in one hand and two cups in another. Liv had walked up to the roof as soon as they had returned to base. The parked white truck had indicated that Sy was back too but since there still had been time until sunset, she had decided to wait out alone on the roof.

“Hey,” she cleared her throat, shaking her head to ward away thoughts about Alex. She smiled weakly at Sy and walked towards him.

Sy frowned with his eyebrows scrunching together. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Did Mahmoud make the chai for us?” She changed the subject, sitting on the pile of sandbags against a wall.

“No, I did.” Sy proudly informed as he took a seat beside her.

Olivia watched as Sy poured the steaming cardamom tea in the cups and handed one to her. She breathed in the aroma before taking a sip of the hot liquid. “Incredible. When did you learn to make chai?”

“Picked up the recipe over the years.” He shrugged his shoulders, but Olivia noticed his chest puff up with pride on getting complimented on his acquired skill. Sy turned to face towards the expanse of the desert beyond the compound, silently sipping his tea.

“Captain Syverson, man of many talents.” She said in a sing-song voice and leaned back against the wall, bringing her knees up to her chest and holding her cup with both her hands.

Liv watched as Sy chuckled, his shoulders shaking with his laughter. The hair of his beard over his upper lip glistened with steam caught in it, almost urging her to wipe her hand over his mouth.

“You are staring, little birdie.” He looked at her sideways, his lips curling at the corners.

Liv rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched with a smile forming on them. “What’s with the nickname?”

“Well you fly the Little Bird, so that makes you little Birdie.”

She laughed as he finished his sentence, looking at him to see if he was joking. “How original, Sy.” She shook her head dismissively, but a fluttery feeling settled in her heart.

“Hey, I didn’t want to call you by the names everyone used.” He defended himself, feigning hurt dramatically by clutching his left pec over his heart.

Liv continued to laugh thinking about the silly reason behind the nickname, but adding it to the list of names she already had. They sat in silence, enjoying their tea as they watched the sun dipping down the horizon with every passing minute. The sky burst into a mixed palette of orange and purple, the clouds drifting away with the wind.

She felt Sy’s eyes on her as she sipped the remnants of tea from her cup. She bit her lip feeling mischievous and commented, “You’re staring, Captain.” She tilted her head to look at him, only to feel her breath hitch as she stared into his cerulean eyes. Sy had the softest look on his face, his smile barely visible from under the bush of his beard.

“What?” She asked, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

“Who’s Captain Coop?”

His question caught Olivia off-guard and she blinked several times to understand that Sy had indeed asked about Alex. “Wh-what?” She tried to not stumble over her words but Sy had left her stunned.

“Yesterday, they were teasing you with his name. I just thought I should ask.” Sy’s gaze never left her face, even when he placed his cup to the side along with hers and the empty canteen.

Liv let out a slow, ragged breath. The mention of Alex’s nickname had her heart racing, her mind going through a carousel of his memories. “He was our captain, before you. My men...they were just… fooling around.” She plucked a jute strand from the sandbag she was sitting on, avoiding Sy’s stare.

She felt him shift on the bag and when she peered, she noticed him coming to stand in front of her. Liv looked up at him as his body loomed over hers. He bent down so as his face was right in front of her.

“So, you’re saying, I don’t have to worry about another man in your life?” His voice was low, and his breath felt warm against her skin.

“N-no. Why?” She gulped as her throat became dry. She watched as Sy licked his lips wet and smiled at her.

“Because I am going to kiss you and I ain’t gonna kiss some other man’s girl.” Sy whispered and waited for her to answer. A slight nod of her head was all he needed as he brought his lips down on hers, placing a soft and gentle kiss over her desirous lips.

Liv closed her eyes as the feeling of his lips sent sparks down her spine. The coarse hairs of his beard grazed against her face as she moved her lips against his. Sy placed his hand over her cheeks as he moved his lips with hers, darting his tongue out seeking permission to enter. She grabbed a hold of his t-shirt and another at the nape of his neck and pulled him closer to her and opened her mouth slightly to grant him access.

The minutes felt like they stretched into hours as Sy’s tongue danced against hers. She could taste the faint taste of cardamom on his tongue and breathe in his musky scent as she willingly deprived herself of oxygen. Panting as their lungs struggled to take in air, Sy let go of her with a last pull on her bottom lip.

When Olivia opened her eyes, the sun had set beyond the horizon and darkness was falling over the desert. Sy let out a slow breath as he grazed his knuckles over her cheek. She felt herself leaning in his touch as her breathing came back to normal.

“Sunsets and kisses, aren’t you a romantic Syverson?” She teased, biting her lower lip between her teeth.

Sy chuckled. “Told you our first kiss would be memorable.” Sy shrugged his shoulders with a cheeky smile, before pulling Liv up for another breathtaking kiss.

Chapter Six>

🌟 Series Masterlist 🌟

#captain syverson #captain syverson fanfic #captain syverson x ofc #sand and stars series #henry cavill #henry cavill fanfic

150 notes · View notes

yeoldontknow · 4 years

Text

The Edge of Summer

Author’s Note: happy birthday @kyungseokie !! this has been sitting in my wips since january when i attempted to write this for his birthday. and that...came and went like a lightning bolt so here we are. im finally tossing this into the wild! wanted this up an entire hour ago but my internet died so T~T HAPPY BIRTHDAY I LUV U! Pairing: Kyungsoo x Reader (oc; female) Universe: this is an installment to the Did You See universe however Kyungsoo does not have a full story. this will be the only story centering on him | you do not need to read the other stories to understand, enjoy, or appreciate this one Genre: friends to lovers; fluff; romance; angst; au Summary: As summer comes to a close, your friends make the annual trek to the lake house for one last hurrah. You’ve done this before - countless times, but this year Baekhyun brings his new girlfriend along with him and this, of course, means some plans have to change. You just have no idea how much will change by the end of the trip. Rating: PG-13 Warnings: some strong language; a lot of lust; baekhyun being the worst wingman to exist; it gets pretty spicy by the end but like..only if you squint? just playing it safe yall Word Count: 13.1K

It is only when Kyungsoo’s hand falls delicately into his lap, fingers grazing your thigh with the aimless of touch of nonchalance that you decide:

If you make it out alive, you are going to kill Baekhyun.

Three hours into the road trip, and you think the conviction of this decision carries with it the bitterness of gunpowder and the relief of satisfaction, two distinct feelings entirely befitting the situation you have found yourself in. A five hour journey is long enough on its own, time blurring seamlessly around you in the close confines of a car - but, when pressed against Kyungsoo like this, against the strong muscles of his arms and thighs, feeling the heat of his warm skin radiating into yours, five hours is centuries of pining. These hours are too long for anyone to survive, the weight of yearning compressing your lungs into phantoms of their former glory, breath too quiet, and too slow, afraid of disrupting the fragile pretense of peace.

Being this close to him, this close to the embodiment of your pining, carries the same impact in your bones as a cataclysm, and so you grimace in dismay, silently aware that you might not even live to make good on your silent promise. Baekhyun will live another day and you will wither amongst the remainder of your desire, buried with yet another promise you failed to keep.

Somewhere in an alternate universe, you are happy, and this happiness comes easily. In a different life, you are comfortable, riding in Chanyeol’s car with him, his girlfriend, and Yixing, listening to the playlist Chanyeol had enthusiastically curated for the journey. You would be laughing, talking, teasing - or, perhaps, none of those things, instead luxuriating the jovial warmth that always seems to bloom in their company, the kind that overtakes you without warning, mind unfocused and hazy with thoughts of freedom.

Instead, your back presses into the middle seat of Junmyeon’s old car, knees and thighs aching with the effort of making yourself small between Kyungsoo and Yixing. Glancing to your right, you eye Yixing’s placidly neutral expression, his unfazed smile as he teases Sehun, reaching forward to ruffle his hair from behind the seat. Briefly, you envy him, his loud laugh and the way things are always uncomplicated for him - the way he always gives over out of love, even if he has the briefest moments of internal protest.

At 8AM, Baekhyun insisted he bring his new fling on this vacation. It was important, he said, his eyes pleading with you and Yixing, the puppy dog expression you'd grown used to fixed securely in his cheeks and pout. Chanyeol’s car would be the couples car, and so it was important he be there to set the mood. Yixing had eyed him amicably, biting the inside of his cheek with an endeared sense of amusement, complaining only because the plush seats of Chanyeol’s car were far more comfortable and because it would insight a brief riot in Baekhyun that served only to amuse him further.

And he conceded almost immediately, an ever supportive wingman, winking at Baekhyun before excusing himself to gather his things.

You, however, protested valiantly, arms crossed over your chest and heart unmoved. Baekhyun pleaded, promised french fry dates and to do your dishes for a week - even though he does not live with you, even though you actually enjoy doing your dishes, and, still, you protested, lips pursed and eyebrow cocked in disdain.

But, standing gracefully in the doorway, the sunlight gliding over his shoulders, craving an angle against his jaw you found almost holy, far too magnificent to be human, Kyungsoo laughed. The deep honey chocolate of his tone brought gooseflesh to your skin, teeth biting down on your tongue to keep your spine from trembling; your favourite laugh, and one he so rarely gives only to you. Behind him, Chanyeol’s tall frame lingered by his car, calling for anyone to get in so he could make his departure, and you think Kyungsoo’s bemused, affectionate smile is really what you agreed to.

Hours of his smile, even if it was put out, even if it was a barely there glimmer of fond annoyance, even if it faded almost as quickly as it came - this is what you agreed to.

Even if it meant letting your own heart break, and mend, and shatter once more, chest tight with the burden of proximity.

‘I can feel you looking at me,’ he mumbles, just softly enough that only you can hear the dulcet nature of his voice, teasing and sharp.

Shifting beneath your gaze, his arm nudges gently into yours, soft and supple and smooth, the cotton of his white shirt reduced to little more than rough muslin in comparison. He keeps his head turned as he looks out the window, one hand in his lap while the other holds his chin in its palm, trees and grass streaking past beneath an endless expanse of blue sky. Sunlight pours through the window onto him, casting shadows along his jaw and cheeks that somehow make the curvature of his lips ever more pronounced in profile.

Around you both, conversations live and die, the rippling cadence of Yixing’s laugh losing its edges as you continue to stare, unblinking, at the hard edge of Kyungsoo’s jaw.

‘Is there something you want?’ At this, he directs his attention to you, your dry mouth and unwavering gaze, hand still cradling his chin as he regards you expectantly.

His eyes move over you slowly, taking their time getting acquainted with your features in this light. You feel him where you never feel anyone - all over you, yet ephemeral and nowhere at all, this kind of touching a mystery that runs deep. In a single moment, he is both above and beneath you, walking over the map of your skin and treading just below the surface, the blood in your veins rushing to your heart in celebration. The air in the small car becomes thin, lungs tight and breath constricted. Your hands curl into fists, pressing nails into the muscle of your mount of Venus, but it is not in frustration or fear, rather, instead, the only way you know how to suppress this insurmountable adoration.

By stopping the surrender before it starts, you do not even have the choice to give in.

Perhaps, in the same life in which you are riding in Chanyeol’s car you are also bold, brave enough to give him the best words, the most beautiful words, the ones you keep perpetually beneath your tongue, waiting. How would he look in the aftermath of honesty? What smile would you be given? Would you even survive? You’re unsure, the aspects of such a reality hidden from you now, and so you swallow thickly, giving moisture to your voice to ensure you can speak, even if it is not entirely brave.

‘You’re blocking the window,’ you lie, surprised that you sound so confident, so calm, when the border between your bodies has been so ruefully challenged.

Eyes squeezing closed, they press into crescent moons as his cheeks rise up along the bones, and Kyungsoo laughs, genuinely amused by the absurdity of your statement. So unlike the booming force of Chanyeol’s laugh or the high pitched delight of Yixing’s, Kyungsoo’s low and deep giggle is a thunderclap in the center of your chest, an endless roll of electric pleasure along your nerves. The force of it has him jostling into your side, shoulders vibrating through the humor, and you feel yourself bristle, wholly unprepared. This moment of contact brings with it the absence of thought, the absence of protest, running far deeper than you imagined it could. In a single moment, your longing threatens to unmake you, wanting more of his pleasure, more of his joy, certain nothing is as sacred or magical as this.

Offering you a sardonic, yet amicable smile, he leans back into the seat, making himself as small as possible to take up the least amount of space. Tucking his arms into his sides, he moves away from the window entirely, and releases a hiss of breath through his nose. One eyebrow cocked in question, he pouts, the fullness of his bottom lip sticking out childishly.

‘Is this better?’ he asks through grit teeth, though his smile is tucked in the corner of his lips as a secret; dawn just about to break over the warm glow of his skin.

In this position, his shirt becomes constricted and stretched over his chest, shoulders, and abdomen, revealing the deep contours of his torso. The mid-morning sun casts him in gold, making a home of the pores of his skin and revealing amber flecks in the chocolate of his eyes. Immediately, your tongue becomes heavy, the taste of light filling your mouth, the taste of him and the heat of your unbridled wanting. Even with the smallness of space he has created, gaps between your bodies revealed where he has since retreated, the warmth between you both is a fire that refuses to die, and, in the aftermath of his simple question, you feel yourself flush.

‘Yes, much,’ you nod, hoping your expression is cordial and unmoved. Because it is true. You find you enjoy this view far more than the one before. ‘Now, if only you can stay like that for two more hours.’

Once more he laughs, enjoying your teasing banter as he relaxes into his previous position. All over again he relaxes into you, comfortable and content, strong muscles of his thighs vibrating into your legs as the car bounces over a bump on the highway. It frustrates you how swiftly the butterflies in your stomach wander into your heart as you watch him, stuttering in its rhythm as a stubborn reminder there is no escape, no fail safe to liberate you from this craving. If anything, the closeness you must endure over the length of this trip is only furthering your desire to shorten the ever present distance between your hearts.

‘Why did you give Baekhyun such a hard time this morning?’

His question interrupts your thoughts, words soft yet his tone carries with it a deceptive bite.

Narrowing your brow, you almost snort in surprise. ‘Because it’s ridiculous. Changing everything around at the last minute,’ you explain incredulously. ‘It’s ridiculous.’ Settling back against the hardness of the middle seat, you stare straight ahead, casting your unfocused gaze out beyond the windshield. ‘I can’t believe you’re even asking, as if you wouldn’t do the same.’

In the years you have known him, there has never been a moment where he allowed Baekhyun to get away with anything - not least without an argument or some form of protest. Moving Kyungsoo from one opinion to the next requires a fair amount of convincing and explaining, and, usually, results in his profound frustration until he gives over just to end the conversation. This morning, Kyungsoo said nothing, and his laugh, his smile, and his acquiescence is more out of place than your childish protesting.

Chuckling, he turns back to the window beside him, nodding slightly. ‘You’re not wrong,’ he muses in agreement.

Silence befalls you both, one that does not contain walls or barriers but is gratified. Kyungsoo comfortably nestles into his position, ready to maintain this pose for several more hours, and you turn to look at him, bewildered.

‘That’s it?’ He seems both completely satisfied with your answer and disinterested in continuing the conversation, and your mind races with a confusion so thick you think your hands could break it. ‘That’s all you wanted out of that?’

Tossing you a placid smile, he nods once more. ‘That’s it.’

Searching his face for answers, you translate his words over and over, breaking them down into their smallest pieces to grasp at what lies beneath. ‘Did you ask just to get a rise out of me?’

He keeps his eyes on the world outside, basking in the gold of daylight. It refuses to let him go, the sun, like always, pretending it is you.

‘Maybe so.’

It’s after you’ve dropped your bags in your large room, the one with the bay window overlooking the lake, that Kyungsoo asks you to help him make lunch.

You’re not entirely sure where the others have gone, and you find yourself in the open kitchen hugging yourself, looking around the mess for some way to busy your hands. Too many insulated bags and groceries line the counters, the chaos of them inciting a productive sort of stress, the kind that makes you ready to sort and fix, in your veins. Kyungsoo moves around the room with a confident ease, and for a moment you envy him; the answers already seem to live in his actions, not a single moment of question as he clears space and makes room.

Outside, you hear the deep baritone of Chanyeol’s gleeful howl as it heads towards the lake. Baekhyun’s voice follows, higher in pitch but just as eager, and in the silence of the room you hear Kyungsoo chuckling to himself. The smallness of his smile is betrayed by the light in his eyes, his own happiness a private paradise he shares only with those who choose to look.

And even before you had any control over it, before your mind could remind you that you value yourself and your solitude most, you had chosen him. You will always choose him.

‘Do you want to help me cut the vegetables?’

He doesn’t look at you as he asks the question, unloading the set of knives he brought for the week with careful motions. The silver blades seem to gleam in the midday sun, and you recognize them as the ones you bought for his birthday the year previous. He hadn’t asked for them, hadn’t even suggested you buy him anything, but as you passed the culinary shop window, mesmerized by their sharpness, their danger, their promise, you wondered - would they be a present or a plea? An offering of his happiness or yours, a moment of union between you both in which he would feel joy and you would be the cause of such magnificence.

They’re well worn now. Even from where you stand, you can see the streaks along the blades from multiple sharpening sessions, and as he holds them you can see the hidden strength that lives in his hands. His hands, rough and powerful, yet still more fine than sand and warm as maple. You have never told anyone about your admiration for the elegant length of his fingers, the peaks and valleys of his knuckles, and the way they seem to hold you, transfix you, satisfy you simply because they are proof beauty is not a face or a voice, but an art inherent to all things living. You suppose you will never tell anyone, his hands a poem for you alone.

Peering up at you curiously through the length of his lashes, he patiently waits for your answer and, for the second time today, you feel him. He is becoming an invasion, your defenses drawn down over the many hours beside him, the length of your thighs still tingling from his touch, and you are so aware of him the ripeness of this attention causes you to shiver.

‘Why are you asking me?’ you ask softly, taking a few tentative steps towards the island where he stands. Everything about your motions, your words, is careful, tender, mindful that this kind of question is fragile. ‘You never let people help in the kitchen.’

He stills as he lifts his head to appraise you, unabashedly taking you in and holding you under the ferocity of his gaze. Any other man and you would call this entrapment, but you are used to giving him everything, used to his penetrative stare and the way he always, without fail, seems to witness every flawed and contradictory piece you try to keep buried.

‘Because I want you to,’ he says, as if wanting anything is simple.

Aimlessly, you nod at his response, scanning the island counter as you approach with your arms hanging limply at your sides. You’ve surrendered to him without your own permission, but you are not terribly dismayed by this. He asks for help and speaks of wanting as though it’s an easy request, yet the tension at the back of his throat, minimal and almost imperceptible, implies this is something big and bold and frightening for him to say. For as long as you’ve known him, you both have been difficult, anxious, battling yourselves more than you battle the world around you, and so you do not comment on this ask - do not comment on the emotion of it - because you could still be wrong, and he could still take it back.

‘Aren’t you the one with the chef’s license?’ you tease, coming to stand beside him, unloading the food and organizing them into piles to be moved to their respective cupboards or shelves. ‘Wouldn’t my peasant hands ruin your julienne?’

‘Har har.’ The sound of his sarcastic laugh makes you blush, looking over your shoulder as you tuck unneeded cold things into the refrigerator. ‘And no,’ he continues once you’re beside him again, ‘I don’t need things to look pretty today, I just need them to taste good.’

Handing you a knife that fits perfectly in the palm of your outstretched hand, your eyes meet for a moment that is long enough to generate a spark. It blossoms within your blood, the mark of friendship and the mark of love blurring together the same way grief so often follows joy, weaving together to create something tender and something reverent. You look at him, and this moment feels eternal.

‘Besides,’ he mumbles, moving to guide a bunch of scallions, some tomatoes, and freshly peeled garlic on to the cutting board he has laid out for you. ‘Sometimes the most beautiful things in the room are the ones with flaws.’

Entirely unsure what to say to this, you simply bob your head with a noise of interest, a feigned motion of understanding. He does not seem to notice the way his words pierce you, cutting at wounds you have long since done your best to hide from him, and you are glad his smile endures. From the corner of your eye, you watch him carry on, cutting into an onion with little pomp and circumstance, the ghost of his words a phantom that chooses to haunt only you. Your hand trembles only slightly as you move the garlic into position, and you grip the handle tightly to keep your motions steady and even, gathering all your strength to root into the base of your joints.

Moments slip past you freely, moments where you are silent save for the deep inhalation of breath that fills your lungs as you watch him cut. Your friendship with Kyungsoo is still relatively new, in your eyes - two years on and still there are details of his life, his history, his character that elude you. Still, you know him well enough, likely somehow have always known, that he is complicated and oftentimes impossible, unfathomable, thinking too hard about every nuance and detail that colours his choices.

But when he cooks, when he is in the act of creation, making a whole reality to be touched and tasted with his bare hands, you find he has never been so certain of anything. As he turns the onion, halving it swiftly before quartering it, there is no doubt in his actions, no hesitation, and he seems to relax into this confidence, mind wandering freely because there is no room for its criticism.

‘To The Lighthouse or A Room of One’s Own?’ he asks, unprompted.

Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you begin slicing the garlic into small pieces as you consider his question. ‘To the Lighthouse.’

You're unsure who started this game, the habit of asking one another questions on your preferences, something that feels so fundamental to your relationship you imagine it is genetic to the very fabric of its existence. It no longer matters who started it, you think, only that it has persisted without ever fading, something you look forward to whenever you're together. Baekhyun finds this game rather comical, often wondering why you even bother when you both know so much about one another at this point old topics must be rehashed. But each time, every time, he says this Kyungsoo simply looks at you with an expression that could stitch together the stars and you know, together, that he is wrong.

Even if a topic is revisited, the answer is always different. In this way, you ensure that you know one another and you still never stop knowing.

Kyungsoo hums at your response. ‘Why?’

This is yet another unwritten rule of the game: for whatever you choose, you must offer a quote or a reason, the one thing you cling to that makes the choice feel superior over the other.

Three months ago, he loaned you both these books, and you had finished them rather quickly. The day you returned them, your fingers grazed as he took them from you, the resulting tremor of this touch leaving your hands caught in a fire that would not cease for days. He didn't ask what you thought beyond if you'd enjoyed them. You suppose he'd been saving it for this moment.

Pressing your palm into the flat of the knife, you compress a clove of garlic and dig deep. You'd given your answer automatically, on impulse, and hadn't truly considered the fact that you must quote the line that made your breath catch and your very bones quake. It hits you now that he's read these words, felt this kind of swooning even if there is distance between your twin heartbreaks; eyes kissing the same page long after one another has departed.

‘It was not knowledge, but unity she desired,' you begin, focusing intently on chopping so as not to lose your will, 'not inscriptions on tablets, nothing that could be written in any language known to men, but intimacy itself - which is knowledge.’

His knife falters in cutting the onion, the blade slipping against the wood of the cutting board as you finish speaking. Glancing out of the corner of your eye, you watch the juice spread beneath his perfect slices, his lips parting slightly as he takes in a slow hiss of breath. Steadying himself, he gathers his composure and begins chopping once more, nodding in agreement.

It is your turn to ask a question, but you take this moment of silence to watch the light from the wide kitchen window nestle between his cupid's bow, understanding with your whole chest why the moon fought so hard to claim the sun.

‘Are you okay?’ you murmur, keeping your tone quiet and gentle, concerned yet distanced, not wanting to embarrass him.

‘Mhmm,’ he hums, flippantly avoiding the question.

‘Dexter or Supernatural,' you inquire, moving your pile of minced garlic to the corner of the board as you gather the bunch of scallions.

‘Dexter,' is his confident reply.

'Have these already been washed?' you divert, and he glances to your hands, nodding. Lining them up, you continue.‘Why?’

Sighing, he unwraps a large cut of fish from its paper packaging, considering his choice. ‘We all make rules for ourselves,' he quotes. 'It’s these rules that help define who we are. So when we break those rules, we risk losing ourselves and becoming something unknown.’

Amidst your meticulous slicing, you feel yourself bristle. In the choice between the two, you agree - Dexter would be your first choice. Yet, you had not expected him to pick this quote, this particular choice carrying with it the weight of your identity. Your understanding of yourself and your needs has always been wrapped up in these few lines, your desire for rules and control the very thing that allows you to relate to the world. Everyone you know finds things both disruptingly and disturbingly true about themselves through their relations with other people, through their relationship to their surroundings.

You relate to yourself and to them through the rules you have cultivated, based on your experiences of others rather than their integration into your life. You want to break free from this, aware that this is only yet another way you stand to complicate your understanding of everything, but you rely on it.

And, it seems, so does he.

He is soft and sensitive, and yet conversely so rigid, operating within his own rules. To step outside would be a great unmaking, and, for one blissful moment, you find there is no space between where you end and he begins. In this understanding, you are both slinking toward a new reality.

Glancing down at your cutting board, you pout. The scallions will be uneven.

Kyungsoo swallows with a low cough, clearing his throat. ‘Neruda or Siken.’

A wide smile blooms across your features, this question perhaps one of the easiest he has ever asked. ‘Siken.’

Using your knife, you push the chopped scallions to the top of your cutting board and slowly roll a few of the tomatoes down to the center. Your smile falters, already picturing the mess of squashed pulp that will come from this. Years of cooking for yourself, but still your hands are too heavy for delicate things. With a small sigh, you angle your knife over the ripe curve, the skin so smooth you think your knife might slide right off without any incision at all.

As you start to press your knife down, Kyungsoo stops you.

‘Try like this.’

Coming to stand behind you, he takes your hands in his, joining you in holding the knife and holding the vegetable, the touch from his fingers feather light and, conversely, heavy as steel. Your breath halts its journey in your lungs, blood too warm and stagnant in your veins, your heart faltering amidst this disruption. The heat from his chest radiates into your back, meandering down your spine and into your legs, all over your nerves until you wonder if there is anything left of you, any part of you he has not touched.

He makes being near him feel like a season, full years and days lived in the wake of a breath; your every breath heavy with him, and the things your heart yearns to offer him. Every second full of an exhale transmutes into the precipice of a life well lived, because he is there and smiling and sharing the world with you even if he is not sharing the ardor in your lungs. Kyungsoo is the fifth season, a season unto you, an oncoming wind between the border of summer and autumn, between the heat and the chill, neither a warming nor a cooling but a possibility of both all at once.

You know this. You have always known this. But, recently, in the days you find yourself absent from him, your heart unmakes the memory of these small euphorias, unpossessed and eternally lonely, unwilling to cling to that which it cannot keep. And so you are whelmed and unmade by the totality of him, forced, now, to stitch yourself into someone entirely new, someone who knows how it feels to be close.

He guides your right hand forward, easing the knife slowly along the tomato until the base is what presses into the skin, not the middle.

‘Why Siken?’ he whispers, and he is close enough his breath tickles at your ear, cascading down your neck and into your shoulder. He spills over you, and you tremble, knowing he feels you but he says nothing, polite enough to maintain your pride.

He asked you a question. You know he did, and it takes work finding words when he is doing his best to consume you like this, your eyes watching as he, and you, together, slice a tomato into thin circles. The rhythm he creates with your twin hands is steady, even, almost musical in the way you can anticipate the sound of it, and it grounds you just enough to remember you are about to give absolutely everything away.

If he does not know yet, if he has not known, you suppose he will know now. But he asked. And so you will tell him.

‘Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us,’ you whisper, matching the volume of his voice. You know he will hear you. You wonder if he will feel you. ‘These, our bodies, possessed by light. Tell me we will never get used to it.’

Kyungsoo eases the knife down one last time, and keeps it there, pressed against the cutting board as the slice drops mutely against the other pieces, the juice from the vegetable seeping deep into the wood. His thumb moves slowly over yours in small circles - you’d like to call them reassuring, but as he steps closer behind you, as his other hand moves his fingers over your knuckles, you wonder if there is any reassurance to be found here.

In love, in lust, the solidarity you have found in your hobbies and your, almost selfish, avoidance have dissolved, leaving you exposed to the full extent of his soul. No, there is no reassurance in this liminal space, the moment in which you will either become unbreakable or tragically unrecognizable threatening your very sense of self. Had you known when you met him that it would feel this way? Had you known that loving him would be not unlike a benediction?

The problem, you think, is that even if you had known, nothing would have stopped you. In every life, in every choice, you love him like a beginning and an ending, your heart incapable of knowing much other than craving him.

His hands drift away, peeling off your skin, slowly, as though he is reluctant to leave. Turning until his nose is tucked into the hair just above your ear, he inhales deeply, hands coming to over just above your hips. The energy between you is a live wire, your mouth running dry and your tongue coming to wet your lips, feeling yourself grow parched. Kyungsoo takes a long breath, filling his lungs with nothing but you, before he exhales and whispers into the shell of your ear.

‘Can you handle it?’

You’re not sure if he means the quote or the rest of the tomato, not sure if he means if you can handle this, with him, or the rest of your existence without him. You aren’t entirely sure of much other than the force of your attraction, the sheer power of it, and the way you think it will fuel your every thought until your bones become ash, this love a windmill in your chest.

‘I think so,’ you mumble in affirmation, glancing over your shoulder to offer him a small expression of encouragement, hoping you look convincing.

His eyes have grown dark, the chocolate of his irises tempered with an impenetrable black, and a flush spreads across his cheeks so warm and pink you would think he’s been sugared. Immediately, you regret seeing him, the lust in you becoming a sea, the swell of it so deep and so strong, you fear you might drown in it, in him.

‘Actually, I’m feeling a bit warm.’ Side stepping along the island, away from him and out of his orbit, your words are rushed and hurried. Running a hand through your hair, you look at him, pleading. ‘Are you okay to take it from here?’

‘Yeah, are you okay?’ he asks furrowing his brow, concern evident in his voice.

‘I’m fine,’ you nod, looking everywhere but his face. ‘It’s fine. I just need to dip my toes in the water to cool off. Text me if you need me to come back?’

He laughs, watching you affectionately as you turn away from him, heading to the sliding door that leads to the brilliant green grass of the back yard. ‘Okay,’ he calls, his voice following you out.

You know that he will not.

You know that there is a barrier that stands between grief and loving, a door to walk through in which there is a boundary between the knowledge of love and the acceptance of it. He opened the door. You stepped through, momentarily basking in the reverence of it, only to leave, shutting it behind you, likely forever, to wallow in the ever comforting loneliness of wanting.

‘Are you joining me?’

Chanyeol’s girlfriend sits on the dock, leisurely swinging her feet in the water as she cranes her face into the sun to watch your approach. Covering her eyes with her hand to block the sun, she offers you a curious smile as you slide off your sandals and sit heavily beside her. Leaning back on your hands, you let the sun warm your neck and chest in contrast to the cold lake water that laps lazily over your feet and midway up your calf, pressing your fingers into the rough oak. The water’s chill walks up your skin, soothing the tension in your nerves that lingers from Kyungsoo’s breath, smile, lips, and voice.

In the distance, Chanyeol’s laughter mixes with Yixing’s and Baekhyun’s. Just beyond their small circle, Sehun and Jun canoe in amusement, the paddling of their oars a relaxing rhythm amidst the chaos that surrounds them. Baekhyun’s new girlfriend swims close by, her laughter jubilant yet reticent, still testing the limits of her comfort. Eyes still closed, you tilt your head to the side, remembering how you felt the day you were integrated into this group - shy and uncertain, the closeness of the bonds surrounding you both frightening and awe inspiring.

Chanyeol made it easy, as he always does, but, strangely enough, Kyungsoo made it easier. Even without loving him, without the intense desire to be near him, you would have chosen his company over all the rest. He said your name like it was something special, like he was careful with it inside his mouth - like it mattered. He wanted your opinion on everything, wanted your thoughts, wanted your voice first. You’ve lost count of the parties, the gatherings, the movie nights, the drinking games, and as a result all the times you’ve wound up next to him, tucked into a corner just talking and just learning.

Kyungsoo made it easier than all the rest, simply because he demanded you at his side.

Opening your eyes, the light seems to sparkle in the places where it kisses the water, putting a glimmer against your skin.

‘How did you do it?’The words taste bitter and heavy against your tongue, and you find yourself grimacing as you speak.

Chanyeol’s girlfriend, the Countess as he likes to call her, turns to face you. You feel her eyes move over your profile, patient despite her confusion. ‘Do what?’

‘Tell him you loved him.’ Chanyeol dives under the water only to break through the surface behind Baekhyun, dunking him with a gleeful howl. Would it have been easier to manage your feelings with someone so vocal? Someone with such little restraint? Sitting up, you press the base of your palms into your eyes and release a mournful sigh. ‘How did you own up to it?’

‘Well, I didn’t have to do much,’ she laughs. Looking at her, the expression your features decide to wear feels plagued by uncertainty but she does not see you. Her gaze has drifted to where Chanyeol swims, to his broad form and his musical laugh, her own expression softened beyond measure. She smiles as she speaks, unbridled in her admiration. ‘You know Chanyeol. He’s the least discrete person and also not terribly patient.’ Tossing you a knowing grin, she giggles affectionately and you cannot help but laugh, her happiness naturally contagious. ‘The beauty of those things is he figures out what he wants immediately and then acts on it only after he’s decided it’s to his benefit. He’s very discerning that way.’

Humming, you glance down at your legs and lean back on your hands once more, pouting. ‘Did you know, though? All that time, did you know?’

‘No,’ she shakes her head. ‘I suppose, looking back, there were always signs,’ she concedes quickly, ‘but we’re so similar, I would go between thinking it was just our way of communicating and connecting to thinking it was flirting, but only when I was alone. When I was with him, I just wanted to enjoy being with him.’

‘How?’ You don’t mean to sound so incisive or desperate, but the feel of Kyungsoo’s hands still nestles deep within your skin, and you can sense him there even after he has departed. You are certain that you will spend the rest of your life with him pressing against parts of you long dormant and long ignored. ‘How do you do that? How did you not lose your mind being so close to him?’

‘That’s giving me far too much credit,’ she laughs, body jostling against yours in her amusement.

On instinct, as though the very sound itself is a siren call, Chanyeol ceases his movements and turns to see her, the teasing smile he’d been sporting with Yixing fading into one of contented devotion. In a single instant, the mere sight of her smooths away all his edges. There is something unspoken, yet eternal, lurking in the depths of his eyes, his yearning a boundless loyalty that declares her as his treasure.

‘I always wanted to be close to him, and I was always on the edge of my sanity. But..’ her speech dies slowly, voice tight with emotion. Considering her words, she holds his stare and refuses to look away, seemingly adrift with him. Instinctively drawn to him, she leans forward slightly, the bones and the core of her pulling her to him as best they can. ‘He makes me happy. In the purest, most simple sense of the word he makes me happier than I’ve ever been able to really...attain, if that makes sense.’

She looks away from him then, turning to regard you rather seriously. ‘Happiness has always been a choice I have to make, but it’s also something that is elusive.’ All too easily she adopts the austere tone she so often uses when giving you advice - words stern and slightly cold, though still doing her best to remain supportive and encouraging. ‘When I’m with him, he sustains it. I’m not stressed and I’m not anxious, I just get to be. You have no idea how unbelievably peaceful that is. If I spend my time with him overthinking, it rushes me to a feeling, to a place we don’t need to be in. I don’t want to overthink, I just want to be with him.’

She takes him in once more, all the tension seeming to leave her muscles as her eyes touch what her hands cannot, visibly comforted. ‘More than anything, I just want to be with him’

Fundamentally you understand her statements, your heart responding and reacting to the sentiment with little input from your mind. A language has started to develop within you, the kind that seems to be spoken by Chanyeol and the countess, a language that exists where words fail entirely. There are no words to describe the way you yearn for Kyungsoo, not a single syntax that could contain his grace, his imperfections, the breadth of his very soul. There are no words, yet you comprehend all of it - you feel all of it, the very act of this understanding a transgression against your sense of self.

Shaking your head, you groan, doing your very best to stay the same, to stay guarded. ‘That’s too much to think about.’

Chuckling, she pokes you in the shoulder. ‘I know this is about Kyungsoo.’

Waving her hand away, you hurriedly hush her with a loud hiss, looking to the group and back again. Running your fingers over your arm, you massage the slight pain with a small frown. ‘They might hear you,’ you whisper, aghast.

She snorts. ‘They’re too absorbed in whatever competition Chanyeol has created. And it’s not like this is a big secret. But okay. I’ll be quiet..er.’

The blood in your veins seems to chill, matching the temperature of the water at your feet. Eyes wide, you whisper, ‘People know?’

‘Yes,’ she nods, like nothing has changed, like this single fact is the most inconsequential thing in the world. ‘I’m pretty sure everyone knows, except for Kyungsoo which is shocking.’

With a groan, you fall back onto the dock. Heated by the direct sunlight, the wood sends heat through your shoulders and spine, an otherworldly compassion that does its best to ease your tension. Draping your arm over your eyes, you sigh. ‘Must you always tease me?’

‘Yes. It’s my duty.’ Patting your leg gently she offers little condolence, her voice a sarcastic lament.

In the ensuing quiet colours move amidst the darkness behind your eyes, sunlight infiltrating the small gap between your arm and the bridge of your nose, and providing a kaleidoscope of purple and green. Lilacs and lilies are carried in the rustling breeze, the opposite side of the lake decorated with a field of flowers, its tall grass and array of blossoms just as dense as the hunger in your blood. If you were alone perhaps you would weep over this, the inward nature of this secret desire fueled by the feel of his fingertips and his laugh and his breath on your neck - it is enough to consume the very heart of you, leaving nothing in its wake.

To give in to this would be to render yourself unrecognizable.

‘Have you ever wondered who you would be if you weren’t trying to think your way through feelings?’

A groan of discontent bubbles in your chest, her question simultaneously full of good intentions while still demanding you confront the change occurring within you. Like always, she insists that you take control of it, that you become a participant in your very unmaking - that you surrender to it, as though the only thing you must endure is yourself. How much of this can one survive, you wonder. How much of a person can survive the devastation of wanting?

‘That’s not entirely helpful.’ You know that you are whining - you can hear the cadence of your unease seep through the last of your syllables. But this cannot be helped, you think. Your great resolve has been terribly weakened.

She inhales, preparing to reply, only to be interrupted by the sounds of splashing water making its approach. Removing your hand from your eyes, you lean up slightly and squint through the changing light to see Chanyeol, his arms breaking through the water as he swims to the dock. Pressing his hands onto the wood, he lifts himself up to linger between his girlfriends legs, getting both you and she wet. You roll slightly to the side in surprise, doing your best to avoid more water getting on your clothes, but she just leans forward, the stars and the moon shifting through her eyes she takes him in.

‘My love,’ she giggles, kissing his nose. As she pulls away, he follows after her, leaning forward for more, but she is already looking behind him, brow furrowed. ‘Aren’t you in the middle of some kind of challenge?’

‘Yeah,’ he laughs, folding his arms on the dock and resting his head as he gazes up at her. ‘We’re trying to see who can knock Jun out of his canoe first.’

Cocking an eyebrow at him, you smirk. ‘Isn’t that dangerous?’

‘He’s got a life jacket,’ he shrugs, entirely nonchalant. ‘Anyway, I need a good luck kiss.’

Running her hands through his hair, she lets her fingers toy with the tips of his ears as she speaks. ‘You know you’ll win even if you don’t get one.’

His eyes flutter closed under her thoughtful touching, swooning into her orbit as he hums. They stay like this for a moment, awash and enraptured with one another. Their world is foreign to you, a place of belonging where they live only with each other, and more vulnerable and brave than you could ever comprehend.

When he looks at her again, there is a silent communion that passes between them, words and conversations living and dying on their breaths without any speech at all.

‘Still,’ he pouts, and she understands, instantly pulling him up as he raises.

The prelude to this kiss is just as intimate as the act itself, and you look away, gazing over your shoulder back to the house, back to where Kyungsoo cooks, alone and possibly lonely, abandoned because you have not yet learned how to truly hold the sun in your hands. In truth, you are too fond, too enamored, too lost in him to remember yourself when you are with him; and you are too comfortable, too in control of your emotions to forget yourself, remembering all your flaws and the way they will inevitably be highlighted, all the light in the universe culminating in him and illuminating everything, including you.

Chanyeol swims away once he is satisfied, and you swallow the words that have threatened to rise in the back of your throat. In considering Kyungsoo, you have once again considered the reality of love - they have made you consider love, and there is something easy about the conversation you had before he arrived, so you do your best to return knowing, depressingly, she will not let you escape.

‘You both are assholes you know?’ you tease, nudging her gently.

She watches him hungrily, lips red and swollen, before she looks at you once more, distracted. ‘I meant what I said.’

‘You’re not helping,’ you groan, exasperated.

‘Only because you want to apply logic to your feelings.’ Having collected herself once more, her spine straightens, words full of authority. ‘Sometimes, feelings don’t make sense and sometimes they just are. Who are you when you aren’t thinking about how you feel?’

‘I don’t know,’ you shrug, defeated. ‘I can’t know because I don’t even understand what you’re saying. What do you mean by don’t think about how I feel?’

‘Yes, exactly!’ she says, far too enthusiastic for such a non-committal answer.

‘You know I understand even less now, you know this right?’ you murmur flatly, looking back to the water.

Gaze unfocused, your friends are a blur of action far away from you. Their colours merge and mix while you try to surrender your conscious mind in favor of feeling. Every breath you take is full of him, every inhale and exhale an ode to the way you both see and feel him without ever looking at all. The first summer you met him, everything was pure happiness. July was oppressive in the way it kept you perpetually warm, but you thought you would forget him, that the feeling would fade - this kind of craving dies with summer, the twilight of the season bringing forth a reality too harsh for summer’s fruit.

But he has not left you. Not once. Not even a little.

‘How does he make you feel?’ she tries, taking a different approach to her questioning. ‘Don’t think about why you feel it, just think about what it is.’

To you, the question is inherently frightening, the tendrils of it dripping down into the cage of your ribs and tightening, finding all the places the ache in you is the most special and the most tender. The question is frightening, but it bears an even more frightening answer - a frontier and the unexplored desert of truth.

‘Safe,’ you admit, acknowledging, horribly, that while you are safe with yourself, you are, perhaps, even more safe beside him; his aura, a temple. ‘He makes me feel safe.’

When you look at her once more, you’re certain you are something pathetic, but she simply takes hold of your hand and squeezes it, the reassurance of her touch a threat to the dam of solitude locked inside your chest.

‘Then,’ she begins, almost too soothing and too sweet for you to stand, ‘the next time you’re with him, let yourself be safe and nothing else. I think everyone wants to know who they are when they’re safe, without question.’

The problem, you think, is that you have always known who you would be if you let yourself go. The problem, you think, is that you have known and done your best to spirit it away, aware that to feel as much as you do, about everything, would render someone monstrous.

To be free and open and safe with him is to be hungry - not the absence of yearning, but the sheer, irrevocable abundance of it.

'Listen, the Baroness needs your room.'

Baekhyun corners you in the hallway long after the sun has set. Cheeks flushed and eyes glassy, the wine from dinner and the beer from the fire pit still linger in his bloodstream, giving him the sort of dazed, sleepy appearance that usually makes you soften towards him. Leaning against the wall for support, his closeness allows you to smell the smoke and ash from the bonfire on his clothes, and if he had posed any other question, said, quite possibly, anything else, you would have ruffled his hair and given him a hug, wanting to be close to him.

Instead, you rear back slightly, so bewildered you are certain you have mental whiplash.

'What?' The word comes out quickly, more an exclamation of sound than an actual word. ‘The who?’

Baekhyun shrugs, sheepish. ‘You know how Chanyeol calls his girl the Countess, Jongin calls his Duchess.’ He sways as he speaks, a sign of his drunkenness or a sign of his shyness at the question, you cannot be sure. ‘I’m trying this one out for mine.’

Humming, you nod. ‘That’s very nice. And no.’

'Come on,’ he pleads, already starting to whine. ‘You can share with someone else, but she really needs your room.'

Crossing your arms, you mirror his pose and lean against the wall. The dim light of the hallway puts shadows under his eyes, making his expression look far more forlorn than it likely is.

'Absolutely not,’ you say, sternly. Twelve hours later and you are in the same position as this morning, protesting against the unfairness of his requests. ‘I paid for that room out of my own pocket. She can't just come on this trip and freeload. Besides, didn't you bring her on this trip to get laid? What are you going to do, astral project through walls?'

'No, not really, I mean maybe but not exactly,’ he stammers, doing his best to piece his argument together. Too tipsy to mask his meaning with the smoothness of words, all he can do is suffer the truth of his emotions. ‘It’s not exactly like that but I can't make it that obvious.’

Rolling your eyes, you sigh, exasperated. 'Baekhyun, it's already obvious.'

'Don't you know there has to be finesse to this?' The barely restrained emotion in his voice dismantles the playful tone he has done his best to adopt, the intensity of his desire not something to be trifled with.

But so too are you unafraid of a challenge, your mind already made up, your heart already enclosed in your room with the lakeside view.

'What are you, seven?’ you laugh, incredulously. ‘I think she knows exactly what you're looking for out of this, it's why she's here at all.'

'It's not that obvious,’ he pouts.

'Literally, why would anyone agree to go on a vacation with a bunch of strangers and one guy they only kind of know?’ you challenge, unable to fathom any other conclusion. Even in the beginning, when Chanyeol would invite you out, your proclivity for quiet nights at home always had you leaning toward spending the evening with a book until he would mention Kyungsoo’s name. The sound of the word alone would draw you out, his name dissolving the essence of your loneliness if only for one night. ‘She's here for the same thing as you, just get it over with.'

'I don't just want to fuck her!' he exclaims in a loud whisper, both your eyes widening at his admission.

In the aftermath of his outburst, there is a looming silence in which you are uncertain what else there is to be said. It weighs down on you, on your shoulders and on your heart, the uprising in him so unlike his usually soft and sweet demeanor. He has never been one for committing, never been one for avoiding what he wants either, and so this limbo between wanting her to be his while also keeping her at arm’s length puts a throb in the center of your temple.

Squeezing your eyes closed, you dig your nails into your arms. 'I'm so confused about what's happening here.'

'I really like this girl.’ It’s the most careful Baekhyun has ever spoken, as if he is just as perplexed as you by the sheer tenacity of his emotions. Hearing himself say the words seems to put a colour in his cheeks, deepening the shade of his blush beyond alcohol, beyond the kiss of the afternoon sun. Baekhyun grows almost weary in his relief, glad that he has said it out loud, to someone. ‘I don't want to just make it about that one thing.'

Resting a hand on his shoulder, you offer him a sympathetic smile. Over the years of your friendship, you have watched him fall in love several times a day, with so many different things, his heart an atrium that endlessly nurtures romance and affection. It’s rare for him to settle on one single person, and even more rare for him to act on it.

'I respect you,’ you say slowly, pressing your thumb into the strong flesh of his arm in solidarity, ‘but I still paid money for that room, so it's not happening.'

'I'll pay you back for it,’ he tries, starting to sober beneath your perpetual refusal.

'Baekhyun -'

'Kyungsoo's room has two twin beds,’ he blurts out in a rush, all his words condensed on a single breath. Feeling yourself pale, the axis of the world seems to shift beneath your feet, your vision suddenly blurred and unfocused, dizzy, and he takes your surprised silence as volition to speak. ‘It's like a pleasant surprise! You can share with him.'

Even in the dark, you can see the mischievous glimmer in his eyes, the sparkle of an ulterior motive lurking in the depths. It would not be the first time he attempted to be your wingman, would also not be the first time he would fail at such an endeavor, and your hand slides away from his arm, falling limply at your side. You watch him, slack jawed at the horror of it all, stomach dropping all the way down to your toes.

'Baek, no.’ It is your turn to plead, amazed your voice even makes a sound with how dry your throat has become.

'Oh, come on!' Baekhyun has the audacity to laugh, slapping your arm congenitally as if his encouragement is enough to placate you. 'I'm trying to help you!'

Sarcastically, you snort. 'You're helping yourself and clinging to the hope that it would ever be about me.'

Somehow immune to your admonishment, he simply wiggles his brow salaciously. 'You know you like the idea.'

'Fucks sake, I should never have told you about this,’ you hiss, crossing your arms over your chest once more. ‘I got drunk one time and now you think you can play matchmaker.'

Baekhyun sighs, shrugging his shoulders. 'Listen, I already told her she can have your room -'

Rearing back, you blink rapidly, appalled and bewildered. 'What the fuck?'

'And Kyungsoo already agreed to letting you stay in his,’ he continues, ignoring your seething disdain as though this is simply a negotiation about where to go for breakfast.

Blood rushing away from your cheeks, running to service your overactive heart, you simply stare off into the distance, beyond Baekhyun, beyond the house altogether, to a time in history when you would not have to spend the evening sharing his air. 'I hate this.'

'I know.’ It’s his turn to rest a hand on your shoulder, his expression somehow far less sympathetic than yours had been. ‘But if this is the only way for both of us to get what we want, then someone has to put some fire under your ass.'

Shaking your head, you do not allow him to come into focus, mumbling with scathing contempt. 'Wow, I actually hate you.'

'You move at a glacial pace.’ Assuming the conversation is over, he removes his hand from your shoulder and turns away, no longer giving you any opportunity to complain. ‘At least now we all can say we tried.'

Hurriedly, you follow after him, pushing off the wall and gathering the strength to move your things from your lakeside room to Kyungsoo’s, the phantom memory of his skin on yours awakening once more.

'Why are you still talking?’ you call after him.

But he just tosses you a sly wink over his shoulder, laughing to himself as he heads down the stairs.

‘I can hear you overthinking from across the room.’

The light from the moon creeps in through the sheer curtains covering the window, Kyungoo’s voice filling the space, dancing on the rays, with a tired rasp. He’s worn himself out - laughing, yelling, drinking. Somehow, the sound is thick and heavy, sinking down and deep into places long left untouched, your body wired by the sound of him alone.

'Just go to sleep,’ he chastises, turning over in his bed.

It is only the two of you contained in this small space, twin beds side by side, close enough you can hear his breath. Pressing your head against the pillow, your mind has become divided in two, living in two places at once - this moment, and your time spent with him in the kitchen, doing its best to rationalize the difference. Cooking with him, he was all over you, hands on yours and chest against your back as if he was learning how to make a home of you. It was different then, almost too tactile to comprehend but the sun through the kitchen and living room windows somehow made the world seem wide.

His touch had a distance, a space - even if you could not see it, you could sense it, the light finding its way through, reminding you there is a line between your body and his, a line between simply touching and truly feeling.

Now, in the dark, everything, even the gap between your mattresses feels close - too intense, too raw, to real. The darkness is oppressive, like that, a brief moment in time in which you are aware of the edge of things. Resting in the center of your bed, you are aware of the edge of your limbs, the absolute limit of your body. In the room, you are aware of the edge of your bed and the way there is just enough distance between yours and his for a single person to stand. In his bed, you are aware of the edge of his lips, and the way his breath cascades over them, facing the window to kiss the moon.

And you are aware of the edge of your resolve, threatened and thinned to breaking by the way the light casts him in silver, illuminating all the parts of him you find sacred.

‘You’re wide awake too,’ you say to the ceiling, not allowing yourself to see him. ‘I guess that makes us even.’ Biting your lip, you close your eyes and sigh. ‘I’m not the only one who can’t fall asleep,’ you finish quietly.

Kyungsoo laughs, warm and rich, utterly intoxicating, no trace of irritation in his words as he speaks. ‘Okay,’ he muses. 'How about this.’

You hardly have time to knit your brow together in thought before he begins singing, the rich honey of his tone turning the room into amber. He doesn’t often do this, a talent he likes to keep to himself. Sometimes, when he is drunk, he can be convinced to be the start of a song, not the result, but even this takes an equal amount of convincing as it does bottles of beer. But you have found, over time, that the talent itself is not so secret - hidden, but not entirely forbidden.

When he is with you, somehow you always hear his music, your ear always finding and listening to his voice first. You have found there is not a single moment he is without music, the way he speaks a melody unto itself, but when the sun goes down and the others go to bed, and it is just you and just him, and the dying embers of a fire that blazed too high, he sings with you.

He sings, often, just to make you smile.

'Oh, dear god, is that supposed to be better?' you laugh, skin tingling with adrenaline and a down turned corner of your cheeks as though you are saying goodbye to a time in your life when things were safe.

Kyungsoo interrupts himself, and even though you do not see him, even though you cannot yet bring yourself to look, you know he is beaming. 'I'm not going to stop until you sing along.'

He continues singing and the joy in you sets itself free, liberated like a terror. You would be frightened if this moment were perfect, would feel the world dissolve around you, his voice a nightingale leading you to perish. You would retreat from all of this, except -

'I hate this song,’ you sigh, flopping your arms atop the mattress to signal your unrest.

'I know,’ he persists, turning in the bed to face you. The darkness does little to hide the intensity of his focus. If anything, it feels heightened, the angles of your profile burning beneath his scrutiny. ‘But you know it.'

In spite of yourself, you close your eyes and let the bliss send shivers through your veins. When you are not looking, held in the darkness of your own making, your body becomes otherworldly, something entirely outside of yourself, someone you don’t recognize. How far have you crossed? What line have you transgressed and ignored, blithely meandering into the irresistible territory of passion? It’s all over you now, your smile full of teeth and your mind empty, save for his melody and the advice of Chanyeol’s girlfriend:

Who are you when you are not trying to think through emotion?

It happens in the limbo between who you are and who you want to be, the room suddenly a cathedral devoted to your wanting. With your eyes open, your love takes a verbal form, this voice yours yet better, enhanced and empowered, and you sing because you no longer can help it. Nowhere near as confident or stable in your notes, your voice does its best to hold onto the words, finding the center of the notes almost too late before it’s time to move to another, but, strangely, you don’t find yourself blushing. It is not, you think, that the darkness has made you less inhibited, rather that with a song you hate and a smile at your lips, you simply don’t have it in you to mind.

'There it is!' he celebrates, raising his arms off the mattress and clapping.

Pressing a hand to your forehead, your shyness in the dark somehow even more amusing, you cackle. 'God, this is terrible.'

Adjusting his pillow, he hums. 'Exactly.'

The aftermath of your twin voices seems to reverberate around the room, long after you both have fallen quiet, the echo bouncing off your skin. This kind of euphoria could only be brought by him - his intelligence, his stubbornness, his perceptive intuitiveness. With only the echo and the memory sustained, your breath becomes unsteady, reminded that this place, this room, will no longer just be a place but a sanctuary and you will no longer just be you, but you will, forever more, be his.

'Sometimes,' you begin, words a whisper that you know he will still hear, 'you're funny.'

'It's just something I'm trying.' Such a simple statement, one full of humor and sarcasm but one with a texture that makes you press your tongue to the back of your teeth as he says it. He sounds tired of running - from himself, from all the great complexities he finds in the world, but not from you. 'Just something I want to try for a little while.’'

'All the time.’ Your own words are abrupt, clipped at the end of their syllables as you rush them out, needing him to hear the correction - to not miss it, not for a second. 'You're always funny, all the time.'

For a long while he considers your statement, and, in the absence of sound and conversation, the air in the room becomes thick, sluggish in your lungs. Your fingers curl into the sheets, eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling because now, if ever, it would be terribly dangerous to turn to face him. At least, you presume, he finally knows. He must know, the layers of this confession wholly befitting the hallowed energy that lingers between you.

Swallowing thickly, you let him take his time, forcing yourself to be patient. The darkness has brought everything together, the gap between your beds somehow closed, as though he is right next to you, even unreachable as he is.

'You're the only one who sees me that way,’ he says finally, and you hear the care laced in his voice, doing his best to articulate his appreciation.

You want more of him, more of this sound, more of everything he keeps tucked away where prying eyes cannot follow. You want all of him, his very existence an addiction.

'It's because I see you.' This time, you are more brave, more confident, and there is a pleasing dissonance to your voice, the old you starting to become devoured by the new.

Tonight tastes different on your tongue. Something about the moon and something about the sun, about the way you have spent too long in the light with your private luxuries shrinking ever further away, has allowed you to gather blossoms of starlight, their twinkling mysteries putting a hope in your joints that has never dared to trespass until this moment. All your life, the darkness has been a shroud and a veil, a cloister keeping you contained only with your yearning thoughts and your inadequacies, an invasion that has wormed its way within you for too long. It leaves you now, spilling outward and shimmering in the moonlight, leaving you free and empty, with room to nurture a burning flame.

Kyungsoo remains completely still, and you have the passing thought he does not move for fear of causing your retreat. 'And what do you see?' he asks softly.

Fingers pressing deep into the feather comforter, you hum. 'It depends.'

A low chuckle rumbles through his chest, the very sound a ripple of thunder in the night. 'That doesn't sound reassuring.'

Taking in a deep breath, you hold it in until your lungs hurt, smothering the doubt, the fear, and the inexplicable notion that this will fail until you can convince yourself you are indestructible.

'It depends on how long I let myself look, and depends on what you feel that day.’ Furrowing your brow, you tuck the inside of your cheek between your teeth. This should be sufficient, but he is so much more than a summation of looking, a summation time. He is something that is held without time, something you wish to behold eternally, even long after you are dust. 'It's not that you're mercurial,’ you continue, doing your best not to cringe at the clarity in your voice, ‘it's not that you're not consistent. I think I just see other things because I take my time looking.'

How would he look if you said these things to him in the daylight? What would the midday yellows and oranges reflect if he looked at you, and let himself be seen? Would you tell him your looking extends beyond admiration, beyond mere affection, and into the shuddering truth of love? To say all this in the sunlight, what would become of you?

You think it’s for the best that you will never have the answers to these questions, the night the only thing clinging tenderly to your pride, protective and secure.

'And do you like what you see?'

His voice is full of bashful apprehension, the rustling of his own sheets a symphony to accompany his tentative questioning. He shifts restlessly, hopefully, and you feel the sound with your whole body.

Licking your lips, you press onward, getting used to breaking the darkness - getting used to feeling raw and open. 'That also depends.'

'On what you see?'

Unable to help yourself, you finally turn to your side and look at him, eyes adjusting almost instantly to trace the nuanced details of his face, the moonlight painting silver shadows along his features. You’ve been lured to him, driven to see him now that he is asking to be seen, wanting your eyes on him; the very question begged you to look, and to take your time looking. Incrementally your longing grows, a swell in your chest that challenges the very depth of the lake, rushing through you until it cannot be contained.

'On whether you want me to like it,’ you clarify.

Leaning up to support his head on his hand, he looks at you and the hunger painted over his expression is enough to have your fists curling into the mattress. It stirs in you the need to be consumed, to be loved by his mouth and the palms of his hands, the greed in you not unlike an uprising. The flush in your neck spreads over your chest, your shirt constrictive and tight, suddenly no more room for you and all this impossible craving. Even still, Kyungsoo still remains calm, a king in the world of pleasure, looking at you as though you are a gift for feasting.

'I think people always want to be liked in some way, don't you think?’

A low growl lurks in the back of his voice, tone dropped down an octave to find gravel you have never heard before. All month, the nights have been uncharacteristically cool, heralding the slow death of summer as it bleeds into autumn, but you are heated. His gaze lives beneath your skin, now, a fire that refuses to burn out.

‘And,’ he carries on, as though you remain unlit, ‘I also don't think your opinion of me should depend on me. That's for you to make.'

Lips parted, mouth wanting to take him in, you mirror his pose and lean up on your arm. Slowly, you shake your head. 'That's not what I meant.'

The rasp in your voice surprises you both, and he smiles at the tension he has created, excited at the prospect of snapping it.

'Then what did you mean?' he presses, and you would rejoice at the sensuality of it, at the way the fullness of his lips shapes the words, but the appetite within him is like a hand at the center of your throat.

'I meant whether you want me to like it...' The admission drifts away, the choir of blood in your heart on fire with the weight of honesty. But you are glad for this burning, the fire that eats at you every bit his as it is yours. 'Whether my opinion matters.'

'Your opinion matters.' Kyungsoo doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t allow room for ambiguity or dishonesty. His eyes narrow, penetrative and demanding, keeping you still. 'You matter.'

Unfurling your hands, your fingers press into the sheets as though they are his shirt, his hands, his skin. The angular brutality of him has unmade the careful concealing you have spent years constructing. Hours ago, you had admitted that Kyungsoo makes you feel safe but now you are realizing the peril of letting him in - realizing you are the torment and the danger, little more than the ghosts of your desires. Now, you are starved for him, your tongue a desert aching to be drenched.

Tossing the sheets to the side, Kyungsoo moves his legs over the bed and rises to a stand, taller than you’ve ever seen him stand. Steel keeps his spine straight, shoulders rolled back in pause as though his mind is catching up with his limbs, before he crosses the small space and comes to sit on your bed. You don’t trust yourself with him this close, not anymore. Not after you have learned to love, not only him, but the very act of loving him.

Shifts closer to you, close enough he could touch all of you, not just your legs, your hips, your waist, your chest, but so too your face and your lips - close enough you can taste him on the air. With your lips parted, every breath you take is full of him, tongue wet and heavy with his flavor.

‘What are you doing?’

‘We aren’t like the others,’ he says plainly, fingers toying with the sheets beside your hands.

Your eyes drop to his hands, avoiding the power of the intimacy you find in his expression. It feeds into the room, your tongue coming to lick your lips and he takes in a shuddering breath, the very sound sending a jolt of desire between your thighs. Taking your silence as permission, he continues to speak, the very anguish of his words exhausted at the prospect of not having you.

‘We don’t…’ Taking a deep breath, he glances around the room, searching. ‘Flirt,’ he settles, though even this word does not seem to satisfy him. His gaze on you is hard, urging you to look up and see him, to meet his eyes and witness him. When you do, you’re certain you could smell his very heart, your blood suddenly full of his seductive magic. ‘At least, not like they do. I don’t make speeches and you don’t surrender, not unless you’ve been given explicit proof that it’s safe. That you’re right.’

It’s as though he looks down into you, deep enough that his gaze means to caress your ribs, your bones, wrapping himself around your spine until all your senses belong to him.

‘You see me.’ His teeth glide roughly over his bottom lip, nipping it quickly before releasing it, the blood beneath the skin rushing to make it more plump than it was before. ‘And I see you. I have never stopped seeing you. I’ve not wanted to stop seeing you, finding you, learning you since the day I met you.’

If you are the devil lurking in the dark, the hungry one with eyes of greed then he is the lust, the one who has torn through you and pulled out the language you have only just started to understand. The moment that follows is enormous, a moment in which you realize love is not only the act of feeling but the act of seeing, of being seen. He describes you as though he knows you, as though he knows the clawed and ugly parts of you that threaten to tear the fabric of your existence apart, and as though he loves even what he sees in those.

You don’t think you’ve ever been so aware of gravity, of the way language is not only a syntax but a physics, and of the way he has slowly inched closer and closer, your vision full of only him. With your eyes adjusted to the dark, you come to see yourself as a hawk, able to find yourself in his eyes, able to see yourself as he sees you - pupils dilated and not allowing you the privilege to remain invisible. In feeding on him, you feed on yourself, and so, too, you suppose does he feed on you, on himself, on the carnal savoring of your longing, united.

‘What are you saying,’ you whisper, certain he hears you, certain he hears your plea to be explicit.

‘I’m saying,’ he begins, lifting his hand to cup your chin. He holds it in his hand and pulls you close, his breath on your lips a fever, the feel of his bones pressing into yours sparking a voracious desire to be devoured, ‘if you are thinking of taking a risk, you are safe.’

His truth is a dawn breaking over your skin, spirit sanctified by the permission he grants you. Before you can even comprehend your actions you press your hands into the mattress and give yourself the momentum necessary to close the distance between your lips. The sheer force of the kiss gnaws at you, his free hand coming to wrap around your waist to pull you close. Flush against him, you think you are powerful enough to eat the moon, to eat the sun, to have him and keep him buried beneath your tongue.

He moans against your mouth, the sound of it shuddering against your chest and vibrating through you. Your own arms wind around his neck, fingers toying with the soft hair at the nape of his neck, unable to mind that this new position is awkward and difficult to sustain. You have managed much worse, have contained whole stars in the center of your chest for years and still have survived - you think you can manage the slant of your waist as he holds you against him, unforgiving.

Running his tongue along your lips, he asks for permission you are eager to grant, slipping his tongue against yours in a tentative stroke of possession. In your mouth, he is the blunt edge of a knife, cutting you deep enough that you think no other hands, no other lips will have their fill of you - no one else will have their fill and still find themselves engorged with an unconquered thirst. Sucking his bottom lip between your teeth, you nip the flesh to a swell that feels warm and plump.

He smiles against you, pulling his lip away and you smile too, his voluptuous mouth a blessing.

‘You’re wrong,’ you murmur, grazing his lips as you speak.

Insatiable, he kisses you again, stealing what he can of you until you are breathless. ‘How so?’

Moving one hand from his neck, you cup his cheek and laugh, a sound he eats with his own chuckle. ‘We are exactly like the others.’

Author’s Note v2.0: i do not own the quotes from Virginia Woolf - To The Lighthouse; Dexter, the TV show; or Richard Siken - Scheherazade

tag list: @yehet-me-up @wonderlustlucas @junkfoodwriting @taestfully @heatofmyexoheart @majci @ahgishaman @softly-savage-mint-yoongi @lamichellee

349 notes · View notes

mortemersgf · 3 years

Text

serendipity

hot couture: hazel nguyen x f!mc (arden moore)

summary: months after paris fashion week, a chance encounter reignites arden’s feelings for her former boss.

warning: suggestive themes.

word count: 2.2k

@choicesficwriterscreations

a/n: happy valentine’s day :D

click here for part two

Arden strides into Cremona’s, bearing a polite smile as patrons cast discreet glances at her. She slides into her usual table, the one located in the snug corner by the windows. It gives her an excellent view of the whole restaurant, allowing her to pick out who’s a diner and who’s a paparazzi pretending to be a diner.

She peruses the extensive list of dishes Cremona’s has to offer, settling on an order of Cacio e Pepe and a glass of white wine and murmuring a quiet thanks to the waiter as he glides away to prepare her dinner.

Some months ago, her eyes would have bulged at the price of the pasta dish. Now, she only breathes out a quiet sigh, too worn out to be startled.

Arden started her own business after the events of Paris Fashion Week. Her success in the states led to the opening of another branch in Milan. Since then, she’s been spending time in this beautiful city, solely focused on the task of overseeing the whole process. Milan is stunning with its vibrant culture, but Arden is lonely without Luz or Marco by her side.

She feels especially lonely this evening being Valentine’s Day and all. When she takes a gander around the restaurant, she sees couples after couples. A table to her left is sharing a slice of cake waist giggling to themselves. Two tables down, a man watches with adoration as his lover nibbles on her dessert, affection practically oozing out of his lovestruck smile.

Arden exhales slowly and unpockets her phone, swiping through various social media sites to pass time. A small smile dimples her cheeks as she reads positive review after positive review regarding her new collection. Who needs love when you have public validation? … Okay, me, but still. Her designs are being featured on the front covers of a range of fashion magazines. So long was the starry eyed newbie who picked up modeling as a means to work at Hazel Boutique.

Hazel Boutique… That’s a name she hasn’t heard in a while. Arden sets down her phone, fixing her gaze towards the kitchen. She must really miss her former job because she swears she sees Hazel Nguyen seated in the far corner, unbothered and nursing a glass of red wine as the man sitting across from her stomps away.

It’s indeed her. She’s wearing a dark dress that hugs her soft curves at all the right places with a dangerously high slit that teases her leg. Arden always found her tantalizingly beautiful no matter what she wore, but under the dim lighting of Cremona’s where the yellow gleam casts an ethereal glow on her, she looks all the more bewitching.

Arden is moving before she can absorb the absurdity of the situation, a hopeful smile spreading across her face.

“Hazel,” she breathes in greeting, “Hi…”

Hazel Nguyen, just as alluring as Arden had remembered, looks genuinely surprised. Her dark eyes widen. Goosebumps appear on her arms, sending chills down her back, the good kind. The kind you get when you see someone who you’ve been longing to see for the better part of a year.

She sets the wine glass down, eyes moving up and down the length of Arden in careful scrutiny before her gaze finally settles upon her starstruck features. An amused smile blooms on her face.

“Arden,” Hazel finally says, “Hello.”

Arden looks to the empty seat, asking, “May I?”

“Please,” Hazel nods. “How have you been?”

Arden slips into the chair, clasping her hands on her lap to keep her leg from bouncing in elation. “I’ve been good. Haut Monde has been doing well, too.”

“I know. I’ve been following your work.”

“You have?”

“Are you going to tell me you haven’t been following mine?”

“... Touché,” Arden says, recalling the way her eyes widened when images of Hazel’s new designs emerged online. They were fashionably elegant to say the very least, but the real prize was the genuine smile on Hazel’s face in those photos. She was posed among a crowd of local designers in Majorca, completely in her element. It was more than delightful to see her fall in love with creating once again.

Arden glances at the plate of untouched food sitting in front of her and shifts her gaze to the nonchalant woman across the table, mustering a small smile, “So, was that a supplier? An exec? He looked pretty upset.”

“That was my sorry excuse for a date.”

A date. Arden brushes off the strained feeling that washes over her with a small smile, willing herself to not bristle. It’s not as if they were anything more than a flirtation no matter how badly she wanted to be more with Hazel.

“Oh, that’s—that’s good. It’s good to date,” she murmurs, biting back a grimace as those words leave her lips. ‘It’s good to date?’ Really?

“Not so much when he’s an egotistical imbecile,” Hazel says, noting the way Arden’s posture tenses.

She pauses, letting the moment hang for another second before a faint, mischievous smile spreads across her face, adding, “That was Darren, my production manager. I don’t go on dates with just anyone, and I much rather prefer your company anyway.”

A surge of confidence rushes through Arden at the remark. She relaxes into her seat, huffing out a small laugh of relief, “Is that your way of saying you missed me?”

Hazel hums lowly, eyes slightly narrowed as she considers her words. Finally, after a brief pause, she reaches for her wine glass, swirling the dark contents gently. “I did miss your enthusiasm,” she says, “What happened? You look drained.”

Arden fights to keep her composure intact. She wants to slump over the table, truth be told. Running a business is tiring. “I am drained,” she admits, “Been stuck in meetings all day.”

“That sounds all too familiar.”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t know a thing or two about running a fashion empire, would you? Any advice?”

“You have a team, don’t you? Utilize them, don’t pile everything on yourself”—Hazel pauses, noting the earnest look in Arden’s eyes—“Find the balance between leading and creating. Don’t get lost in the system, and don’t lose sight of what’s truly important to you.”

Arden nods, taking in her counsel with the utmost sincerity. “Thank you for that. I’ll remember it.”

As a waiter passes by, Hazel raises a hand, speaking coolly, “Another glass for my friend here, and clear this plate, please.”

“Oh, that’s…” Arden mumbles.

“Scared to share a meal with me?” Hazel questions.

“No, that’s not it,” Arden says. She bites her lip in thought, meeting Hazel's inquiring gaze. Something about her look coaxes Arden to straighten her spine, confidence filling her chest, spurring her on to speak her mind.

“I’m just still processing us, you know?” she says. “You said someday you could be convinced.”

An amused smile plays on Hazel’s face. She leans in and places her index finger below Arden’s chin, tipping the latter’s head upward. Arden swallows and pushes to keep her expression even, though her warming cheeks gives everything away. She catches the familiar scent of jasmine and vanilla wafting from Hazel being in such close proximity with the woman, and her heart drums with anticipation. It brings her back to Paris, back to the balcony.

“I did, didn’t I?” Hazel says, voice sultry.

Arden hasn’t got a clue as to what’s going on in Hazel’s mind. The woman is absolutely unreadable and she loves it, the mystery of it all, the unraveling of her thoughts. Right now, having her lips only a breath away, Arden doesn’t care to figure out Hazel’s intentions. Her legs feel weak. She’s sure she’d stumble if she were standing.

“Have you eaten, Arden?” Hazel asks, moving her hand to Arden’s cheek, grazing her face ever so lightly.

Arden’s face flushes with heat as she struggles to meet Hazel’s intense gaze. Her teasing touch leaves tingles in their wake, sending a thrilling chill down Arden’s spine. What is she suggesting?

“I—no, I didn’t eat yet,” she answers, “but I don’t feel like having dinner right now.”

“I don’t either. Come with me.” Hazel drops her hand, moving to stand. She places several hundred dollar bills on the table.

Arden follows suit and shoots an apologetic look at the waiter who’d just strolled out of the kitchen with her meal. He flashes her an understanding smile as if to say, It’s okay. I get it. It’s Hazel Nguyen.

They leave in a flurry with Arden tripping into the elevator. The ride down is silent, but there’s visible tension in the air. She waits with bated breath for Hazel to move, to push her up against the wall or even spare her a quick look, but the older woman looks straight ahead, face impassive.

Ping!

Arden follows Hazel out of the restaurant and into the darkening streets of Milan. The cold rushes at her like a swarm of bees, leaving her shivering. She wonders how Hazel is able withstand the chill having only a faux fur shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

“So,” Arden begins, “where are we going?”

“Eager, are we?” Hazel answers, striding down the streets of Milan as if it were a runway, elegance laced in every one of her steps.

“Just wondering is all…”

After walking for another block, Hazel halts. They’ve stopped in the middle of a bridge that overlooks the canal. Arden breathes out a sigh of wonder at the sight of glittering lights reflecting off the water.

The sun is setting, painting the sky in vibrant colors of pink, yellow, and violet. It’s unbridled, bold, and stunning. The colors blend together so well, it tempts Arden to create an outfit, a new line, just something, based off of this sunset. She had been trapped in meetings that always ran long since she landed in Milan, which never gave her the chance to appreciate the simpler things the city has to offer. This scene before her envelopes her in serenity, and she wants to share that feeling.

Arden is inspired, but her trusty sketchbook is currently sitting on her nightstand in her hotel room to her utter luck. She didn’t expect to see such a sight nor did she anticipate running into Hazel, who is observing her carefully.

The sunset reminds Hazel of dusk time in Majorca. Half of the time, she worked in her beach suite with the setting sun as the backdrop. The other half, she was thinking about Arden, checking up on her work via social media whenever she had spare time. Hazel was invested, itching to message her a congratulatory text after her new collection sold out. Is. She is invested in Arden, and being away from the young designer has helped her realize that. Arden Moore is truly something else. She’s not just anyone.

“This is beautiful...” Arden breathes, “I bet I can do something with this color scheme.” She whips out her phone, snapping a couple of photographs at different angles.

“You haven’t changed after all,” Hazel comments. Her eyes trace over Arden’s beaming features before flitting to the water. The faintest smile graces her lips.

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“It is.”

“Does that mean you still like me?”

“You are relentless, aren’t you?”

Arden pockets her phone, looking at Hazel with a playful smile. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Hazel trains her gaze ahead, studying the horizon as she speaks. “I said you couldn’t handle me once. You were inexperienced, new to the fashion world, to this life. That was nearly a year ago, and I see that you’ve grown exponentially as a designer and a businesswoman while retaining your authenticity. That’s certainly invaluable. I admire your passion and drive, Arden”—she finally turns, meeting Arden’s hopeful gaze—“I pushed away all thoughts of starting another relationship after my divorce, but I may have to reconsider that.”

Arden is flushing with her mouth slightly ajar at Hazel’s confession. To think Hazel Nguyen, her ultimate idol and former boss might actually want to pursue a relationship with her is something she didn’t see coming. It’s a delightful surprise to say the least, one that makes her heart soar with glee. She decides to play coy though, just to get back at her for the months of lack of contact.

“Hmph,” she murmurs, “You never did arrange a plane for me to visit you, you know. I could’ve helped you come to that conclusion sooner.”

“You would’ve been a distraction to the creative process,” Hazel simply says, “Being in Majorca, creating and refreshing my perspective, was what I needed to remind myself why I do this in the first place.”

“That makes sense,” Arden agrees. A crooked smile finds its way to her lips as she adds, “But you couldn’t have sent me a text? Maybe a letter?”

“I’m willing to make that up to you.”

“... How so?”

“You’ll find out soon enough...” Hazel says, leaning in so her breath fans over Arden’s ear, adding, “in my hotel room.”

Arden’s face splits into an incredulous grin. “Are you asking me to come home with you?”

“Depends,” Hazel answers easily, the hint of a teasing smile resting on her luscious lips, “Are you accepting my invitation?”

As if Arden needed to be asked twice.

#choices #playchoices #choices stories you play #choices fanfic #hazel nguyen #hazel x mc #choices hazel nguyen #hazel nguyen x mc #choices hot couture #hot couture #choices hc #choices fic writers creations #fics of the week #play choices fanfic #pixelberry #choices fanfiction

40 notes · View notes

indianamoonshine · 4 years

Text

𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑘 𝑖𝑡 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑒

• 𝚋𝚎𝚗 𝚡 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚝!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 •

➪ 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑔𝑛𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠𝑛’𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑏𝑗𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑏𝑒𝑛. ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑛 𝑢𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛. 𝑀𝑂𝐷𝐸𝑅𝑁 𝐴𝑈.

☕︎︎ 𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔: 𝑡 (𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑎𝑑𝑢𝑙𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑠)

꧁꧂

autumn in new york.

it was your favorite time of year. it smelled of dead leaves and school supplies. the sky was usually clouded with rain, wind swirling whirligigs from maple trees in a chaotic dance at your feet. and while new york was polluted, the air felt clean. crisp.

the leisured walk to your apartment from your nearest starbucks wasn’t very long. the knitted scarf made by your sister protected you against any chill that might redden your cheeks, but the two cups of coffee in your hands did most of the warming.

well, one cup of coffee. the other was a hot chocolate. you couldn’t have coffee. not anymore.

you walk up the stairs of the apartment building and buzz the com. you’d forgotten your keys when you’d left this morning. ben was asleep when you’d gone; he’d worked a late shift at the garage outside of the city. seven A.M might as well have been midnight for him.

“yeah?” a voice calls from the speaker. it’s sleepy. rough. friendly.

you lean in, pressing the button again. “it’s me. i brought you something.”

ben clears his throat. “where’s your key?”

“i forgot it,” you admit. you wish you could blame it on your current physique, but you’d always been forgetful; it’ll probably get worse as the months go on.

you smile as you listen to ben’s laughter filter through the speaker. “of course you did.”

the door unlocks with a loud mechanism. you push through and sigh with relief upon entering the warm lobby. it had to have been forty degrees outside.

the stairwell was a bitch - your natural born enemy - but you made it after five minutes.

you rapt on the door marked 218. the gilded numbers were chipping a bit, the handle also somewhat in need of a paint job, but it was the least of your concerns.

ben opens the door. he’s shirtless, only in his sweatpants that cling to his hips, and a head of hair that was rustled from sleep. even after three years, the sight of him half-naked and still lingering of dreams was enough to make you swoon.

you stand on your tippy toes for a kiss when he greets you. he obliges with a small grin, lips pressing against yours like a gift. and they were.

ben pulls away and looks at the coffee in your hand. “that for me?”

you nod, pushing past him and into the apartment. he quietly shuts the door behind you and takes the cups so that you may shed your coat.

“must be cold out,” he jokes. he sets the coffee on the kitchen table and places a hand on your cheek. “you’re freezing.”

“it has to be, like, forty degrees outside. the wind chill might make it less...” you mumble, untangling the scarf from your neck. you toss it onto the couch, along with your beret.

ben smirks at you, probably admiring the way your cheeks have blushed from the cold - how the pink makes your eyes look brighter than what they actually are. under his scrutiny, you duck your head in embarrassment and reach for your hot chocolate.

“starbucks?” he asks, taking a drink. he prefers black coffee. no sugar. two shots of espresso. it absolutely disgusted you but it’s what he liked.

you hum in agreement. “of course. what are we? animals?”

he laughs, opening the fridge. “you hungry?”

“no, actually...” you trail off. your stomach churns at the inevitable conversation.

would now be the right time? while he was still enjoying his coffee? or should it be said later when he was lounging across your lap where he could potentially feel the swell of your hipbones?

ben pulls out a package of sausage and starts searching for a pan. “you sure? i have your favorite sausage.”

bob evans sausage. growing up in the midwest definitely had its perks, but new york didn’t provide your comfort food from out of region. ben had actually ordered it specially for you after you’d complained of cravings. you hadn’t understood why you were salivating over it so much until last night, but suddenly the idea wasn’t appetizing at all.

“i’m sure,” you confirm, watching as he turns on the knob of the stove.

there’s a brisk silence. nothing but the sizzle of meat against iron or the way ben hums the song that’s been in his head for past two days. and watching this domestic bliss, despite it being so simple, brought tears to your eyes.

now was the right time.

you pull a chair out from the table and it squeaks along the linoleum flooring. “ben?” you ask when settled.

he turns, dark eyes looking more alert then before. sleep was vanishing from his face. “what’s up, baby?”

you smile at that, warming your hands against the sides of the cocoa you’d ordered with extreme caution. it was becoming increasingly difficult to find something you could keep down this past month. you trace an invisible pattern against the grain of the table.

“um, i picked up something at the drug store last night,” you sort of mumble. how did one broach this subject, anyway?

ben looks warily at you over his shoulder. “yeah?”

maybe he knows? maybe you’re not giving him enough credit? your thoughts swim so rapidly you feel as though they’ll drown and you along with them. you gulp, suddenly wishing very much that you could’ve spiked your drink with liquid courage.

you decide to blurt it out. otherwise, you’d dance around the news for hours.

“it was a pregnancy test.”

ben doesn’t freeze like you thought he would. he doesn’t even turn around. he continues to tend to the sausage in the pan like life-changing news hadn’t just escaped your mouth.

finally, he nods to the meat in front of him. “okay.”

you gulp. “it was positive. i’m pregnant.”

this is what causes him to freeze. you’re greatly relieved by this. finally a legitimate response.

ben takes the flipper and tosses the sausage onto a plate. there’s four pieces. he takes two of them and stuffs them in his mouth, despite the fact that they’re sizzling hot. you cringe on his behalf.

he walks the plate over and sets it before you. the expression on his face is indistinguishable until he seats himself in the chair opposite of you.

he swallows the last remaining bit of food. “i know,” he says simply.

he knows?

you blink. “what?”

he nods wordlessly and pushes a fork to you. “yeah. i knew before you got the test.”

you ignore the fork. “how?”

“you’ve been having cravings. you can barely sleep. and if you think i can’t hear you in the bathroom in the morning...” he trails off, but his expression is in good humor. “now eat. you need the protein.”

you’re at a complete loss for words. “you knew?”

he nods. “you haven’t started your period yet. yours is always on schedule...and the only reason i know that is because of the calendar in the bathroom.”

finally a good reason for the calendar; you knew it’d prove useful one day.

you grab the fork with hesitation and slowly cut a piece of the sausage. it suddenly smells appealing, even mouthwatering. you chew on it for a second, mulling over the taste and grease, and finally decide it’s okay.

“i would’ve said something, but i didn’t know for sure and i didn’t want to assume,” ben says, meticulously watching every bite you take. it’s almost as if he’s expecting you to spit it out at any moment.

that didn’t seem so far fetched. nothing ever seemed to settle your stomach.

“it’s okay,” you smile. “i’m glad you’re so observant. i was worried i’d give you a heart attack.”

ben gives you a full-bodied smile back. he shows teeth while laughing. “don’t be so relieved. now that i know for sure, i feel a little faint.”

your grin fades quickly. “you’re not...”

his laughter stops and his eyes grow sad. when he realizes his implication had sounded disappointed, he rushes to your side and looks up at you from his knees.

“no, no.” he takes your hands in his. “that’s not what i meant at all.” he brushes your lips with the back of his knuckles. “i meant that i’m faint with happiness.”

you blink rapidly again, his unbridled joy still registering in your mind. logically, you knew his reaction would be positive, but there was always that fear he’d be disappointed, that he might suggest getting rid of it. you suddenly feel guilty that ben would think these things at all.

“you’re not mad?” you ask, tears threatening again.

he chuckles under his breath. “baby, why would i be mad?”

you shake your head. “i don’t know. i just...”

ben nods. “i know.” he kisses the back of your hand and presses it to his cheek. “i know.”

the wetness gathering in your eyes clouded your vision, but you smiled all the same. “do you have a preference?”

he automatically knew what you meant. he didn’t have to consider at all. “a girl,” he says confidently.

you let out a relieved giggle, though it’s masked with tears. you nod. “i’m so glad.”

“and you?” he wonders, looking up from your hands.

you run your free hand through his thick locks. “i want a boy. he’ll look just like his father...” you pause. “and hopefully have his hair, too.”

ben lets out a hearty chuckle and sets your hands against your belly. it didn’t look much different than before - it still curved the same way it had just a few months before, but it felt different. it felt useful - like a home. and it was.

“whatever it’ll be, they’ll be ours...” ben murmurs against your stomach. he kisses you just below your belly button, as though he’s confident you’re carrying low.

you weave your fingers through his hair still, massaging that part of his scalp that makes him purr in delight.

“does this mean if i want watermelon at midnight, you’ll get it for me?” you tease.

ben’s chuckle is muffled against your stomach. he’s still pressing kisses against the nearly invisible bump.

“watermelon is out of season, but i’ll make it happen anyway.”

#maybe i’ll make this an actual fic???#for autumn anyway #ben solo #ben solo x reader #kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #mw1 #star wars

84 notes · View notes

bisexualiteaa · 3 years

Text

Cloud 9

Jaskier x fem reader

Warnings: none, other than maybe a little angst?

I do not own the song or the show, but I wanted to try my hand at something new! :) please pardon any grammatical or spelling errors. Enjoy!

Key: Italics means the reader is singing.

You sat in a deeper part of the woods, sitting by the coursing river that flowed over a bed of river rock. You sat by yourself, picking flowers, your body resting against a tree, taking purchase in it's shade from the harsh sun. You had stepped away from your camp as Geralt went out to hunt for a monster that the locals paid him to get rid of. Jaskier was off gathering wood for the fire, taking forever, likely having gotten lost or found someone along the way back. The idea made your chest ache. Why did you leave when you were already alone at the camp? Well, because you wanted to make sure you would be truly alone, and away from them both as you indulged in your moment of unbridled emotion. Your moment of self realisation that was rather hard for you to wrap your head around. You were in love. Madly at that.

*"I don't wanna seem the way I do'*

*"But I'm confident when I'm with you"*

*"Lately all I feel is bad and bruised"*

*"Tired of tripping on my shoes"*

You started to sing as you looked at your reflection off the beautifully clear water. Catching yourself for a moment in a day dream of him next to you. You both sitting like this, only in your dreams, you weren't alone by the water's edge. In your dreams, his arm was draped around you, holding you close, sharing in each other's body heat as you spoke of nonsensical things. Your feet dipped into the water together. In your dreams, you were the subject of his songs like he is in yours. In your dreams, he was yours.

*"But when he loves me I feel like I'm floating"*

*"When he calls me pretty I feel like somebody"*

*"Even when we fade eventually to nothing"*

*"You will always be my favorite form of loving"*

You sang as you held a flower in your hands that you had picked from beside you, leaning your head back against the tree behind you as you continued to daydream. The white flower seemed to shine in the light. It was so pure, so pretty. You dreamt of the time he placed a similar looking flower in your hair, proud that he had found you your favorite flower on a trip you all shared some time ago.

Deep in the woods, Jaskier gathered a pile of sticks, twigs, pinecones and any other things that he could think of that could keep a fire kindled through the night. He was on the hunt for more, for bigger and better options, when he heard a voice in the heart of the woods he was searching in. He was weary at first, unsure of whether to approach the voice or not. He knew better than anyone else, after traveling with the witcher, that not everything is always as they seem. He was weary of possibly walking into a trap, but he couldn't help but to feel entranced by the voice. Pulled towards it even. It wasn't until he drew close did he realise it was someone singing. A woman singing at that.

*"When I start to tumble from the sky"*

*"You remind me how to fly"*

*"Lately, I've been feeling un-alive"*

*"But you bring me back to life"*

You continue to sing, your emotions taking over you like a giant wave crashing along the shore. Your heart clenched in it's place in your chest, a tightness growing from it as you began to wonder if he could ever feel the same for you as you did for him. Time and time again he was called the fool. A, seemingly shameless, fool who carelessly falls in love with women on a whim, only for it to pass like the seasons do. Perhaps you were the fool. A fool for thinking someone like him could love someone like you. Someone who yearns for stability and life long love. Someone to be there for you as much as you for them. Your heart told you it was possible, yet that voice in the back of your head, was ever present, spouting tales of the opposite. For just a moment you wished to shut it out, to drown in the possibility of reciprocated love. For now, it was nothing more than a possibility.

Little did you know, you were no longer alone. Jaskier approached the voice that seemed to call out to him. He creeped behind the trees and hid behind the shrubs, trying to keep his distance, not wanting to stumble across something that could cause trouble, but also not wanting to disturb or disrupt the alluring voice. Their song was beautiful, and he found himself wanting it to never end. He found himself wanting to sit there all day long, just listening to them sing. He'd never heard someone with as beautiful a voice as this mysterious woman had. He had to get closer. See who this woman was.

*"But when he loves me, I feel like I'm floating"*

*"When he calls me pretty, I feel like somebody"*

*"Even when we fade eventually, to nothing"*

*"You will always be my favorite form of loving"*

You sang, putting your all into it, your emotions getting the better of you as tears began to well to your eyes. You closed your eyes as you sang, a tear or two rolling down your soft cheeks, landing on the petals of the beautiful flower you had in hand. Tears brought about by sorrow filled thoughts of a love that would likely never be. You were so new to these feelings, to these desires, all of it. You were never one to see what was so appealing about the romances they spesk of in story books. They were all so unrealistic and filled with false hopes. How could you when the world around you told you it could never happen? Nobody truly ever had a happily ever after. Did they..? At least, you wondered if you ever could.

Jaskier quietly moved closer, finally catching sight of the woman that dat under the tree. The sight shocked him. It was you. That gorgeous voice, that entrancing song, it was coming from you. Your eyes were closed as you seemed to pour your all into the song that tugged at his heart strings. He'd never seen you so full of emotion before, so enveloped into something. He had no idea you even knew how to sing, let alone that you sounded this good. It made him wish you would do it more often around him. Sadly, he found your song coming to an end, watching as small tears ran down your cheeks. The sunlight caught them perfectly from this angle, making them seem to sparkle in the light. You were beautiful even when you cried. You looked no less than a river goddess sitting by her river, singing a siren's song as she ran her hands through the flowers. You were always beautiful in his eyes, but like this? You were truly otherworldly.

*"But when he loves me, I feel like I'm floating"*

*"When he calls me pretty, I feel like somebody"*

*"Even when we fade eventually, to nothing"*

*"You will always be my favorite form of loving"*

You finished, the lyrics softer this time, a little more drawn out than the previous verse. You opened your eyes to look at the sky, your eyes scanning the fluffy clouds that seemed to hold no distinguishable shape as they traveled across the sky. The bright blue sky. It's hue reminded you of his eyes. Those gorgeous eyes that could hold you as if you were casted under a spell. Those eyes that held concern for you when you were hurt. Eyes that would light up at a joke, a compliment, or a story told by the fire. Eyes that would tear up and cry when he was overcome with sorrow. You could stare into them all day long and never grow tired of it. They told a story, a almost never ending story of love, lust, pain, and adventure. If only he knew. If only he knew how you wished you could be special in his eyes.

He sat there, beyond words at your performance. You were blissfully unaware of his presence, yet he couldn't be more honored that you had graced him with such a show. Nothing is more beautiful than a song from the heart, and this one sounded full of it. He wondered who the subject of your song was, wondered who it was that claimed your loving heart and kind soul to the point you could only admit it through a ballad deep in the woods. Was it someone from your past? Someone you haven't spoken of before that you still harbored feelings for? Or perhaps was it Geralt? The strong and brooding witcher that could draw in any woman with his skills, looks, and guarded personality? He hoped to himself, however greedy it may sound, that your song was about him. That you held him so close to your heart that you would create such a song just about your adoration. He would be honored if that was the case, but he wondered if a fool like him could pull someone as wonderful as you. Someone so happy, so caring, so full of life. Someone who loves with all of their heart, mind, and soul. You offer something no one else ever has. Stability. It scared him. In a life filled with adventure and curiosity that was too often over taken by his sexual desires. You were the first of anyone to make him consider spending the rest of his life with one person. The first to show him so much care through everything you all had been through. You weren't merely a fling like the rest, you were someone he wanted to pour all his time into. Someone he wanted to overcome his fear with. He wished he could know if he was special in your eyes as you are in his. If only you knew. If only you knew how much he truly longed for you.

#jaskier #the witcher #jaskier x reader

12 notes · View notes

moonoreos · 4 years

Text

fic: it’s a metaphor

Dosan remembers that first day. He saw her in the midst of a bustling crowd. He saw her, and it was as if time had stood still. He very well knew time actually did not stop, but it sure felt like it had. Pedestrians zigzagged through the paved concrete to make their way across the park, but he stayed immobile. It was only when their eyes met that he released the breath he had been holding.

Was that the moment everything changed?

It’s impossible not to agonize over what could have been in the aftermath of heartbreak. It was all he could think about for a good while. He spent years trying to beat it out of himself, trying to convince his wayward heart that it doesn’t need an anchor, but one look at her and he’s right back where he began. Time away did nothing to dull the sting. It remains just as acute as it was the day it found him.

Or was it when it first dawned on him that sail off without a map held a world of possibilities?

She is leaning against his shoulder now, asleep and unaware of the chaos she inspires in his mind. The fire he stoked earlier crackles in the quiet night. He's not sure if the warmth emanating through his body is feeling its effect or the effects of her closeness that he has been starved for all this time.

Dalmi shifts a fraction, and the hair he’d tucked behind her ear falls over her face again. Reflexively, he reaches over and pulls it back for her. She has smudges of dirt on both of her cheeks. He thumbs over one side, and it’s barely a graze but he still feels the pleasant buzz of her skin. The smudge remains. With a sigh, he turns to the business plan he holds in his hands.

The possibilities were endless, Dalmi had said about Tarzan. Just how much could it learn?

Dalmi has always been a dreamer. A seasoned one at that who is keen on solving problems, not letting them become the nail on the coffin of the ideas she spins.

It was a concept he couldn’t ever grasp. To dream was to be brave, to want something so unfailingly that the prospect of failure itself would never be a deterrent. It was a terrifying idea. He could not set himself up for something that was just as likely to fail as it was to succeed. Life offered too many uncontrolled variables, too many uncertainties.

He flips through the pages, studying the scope and intended applications, the road to an MVP, short term and long term goals, and he can see it all so clearly. Dosan has never been particularly visually inclined, but Dalmi evokes something in him. She has a formula figured out, a way of imagining things, that immediately make sense to his one-track mind. She speaks, and he sees colors in her words—red, green, blue, and all the others he never thought of before he met her. He sees moving pictures brought to life in vivid sharpness, sees the solution of a problem he had never even thought of. Dalmi is a visionary, bursting with life and ideas for how it can be elevated. Dosan became familiar with the sense of fulfillment that had alluded him most of his life in working with Dalmi, in making her colorful, broad stroked dreams come true.

Perhaps that is why she came to be his dream. He wonders now; was it then that he reached the point of no return? When he realized that he wanted nothing more than to become the man who was deserving of her beautiful heart and the pure, unbridled warmth it exuded? It was the first thing he'd wanted unfailingly, even with the heavily skewed probability that he was going to fail.

Dalmi stirs awake, lifts her head off his shoulders leaving room for the cold air to rush in.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” she says, not looking at him.

“You should get some more sleep.”

“No,” she says, decisively turning to him. “I didn’t come here to sleep. We need to—”

She is pointing at the Tarzan business plan still in his hands.

“Did you read it?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you think?”

What did he think?

His thoughts are clear as the starry night sky, but he struggles to verbalize them. This is another fork in the road. The first time he knowingly took the wrong turn. The road was riddled with several thorns, but the joy of falling in love with Dalmi easily overpowered any pain he felt, any pain he still feels. If given the chance, he’d take the same wrong turn again in a heartbeat.

But he needs to do right by her this time. It’s what Dalmi deserves. He will survive even if he is not standing next to Dalmi, even if there is someone else in place next to her. After three years being oceans apart, he’s just grateful that he gets to breathe the same air as her.

“What can I do to make you work with us? At least tell me the terms you want,” she prods, when Dosan doesn’t offer anything.

“Forget it.”

“Stock options, ten percent?”

“Dalmi-ah, forget it.”

“Or do you want shares now? I can try and persuade unnie.”

“The money I got when 2STO took over Samsan Tech,” he begins, steadying his voice. “I still have it. With that money, I want to acquire shares in Cheongmyeong Company.”

He turns to face her, holds her gaze confidently, as she furrows her brows in confusion.

“What are you talking about? That should be your money. Just join the company. About shares, I’ll talk to unnie—”

“That’s my condition.”

The question in her eyes makes the dull ache in his chest sharper.

“I know, you and Team Leader Han are…,” he can’t say it, he just can’t. “I will always respect your decision. In business and—, and in everything.”

He looks away, moves to pick up the cup ramen that is lukewarm to touch now. He can still feel the weight of her eyes on him. It makes the storm inside his heart rage even harder. He reaches for the second cup ramen and pushes it towards her.

“Team Leader Han and I,” she starts, pulling the chopsticks off the edge of the cup ramen. “We’re not… we’re not together.”

It’s possible his jaw would have dropped to the floor if he hadn’t been chewing mouthful of ramen. He slurps the last of it and looks at Dalmi uncertainly.

“But Team Leader—”

“It’s not true,” she interrupts, hastily.

Dosan would be much more upset with Han Jipyeong if Dalmi hadn’t been looking at him with her wide expectant eyes this very moment.

“I—,” he starts, and stumbles immediately. “I mean, it would’ve made sense if you two were together. He is your first love.”

“My first love, Nam Dosan from the letters, doesn’t exist.” She sighs, setting the cup ramen down. “My first love was an illusion, but my feelings for you, the real Nam Dosan, was never an illusion. I’m sorry I said things I didn’t mean.” Her voice is shaking by the end, her eyes filled with tears.

Dosan is overwhelmed, but his hands move of their own accord when her tears spill. He pulls her closer instinctively, an old habit borne out of the need to reassure her in times of distress.

“Dalmi-ah. Don’t cry.” He has her face cupped in his hands, wipes the tears running down her cold cheeks with his thumbs.

“I thought about you everyday,” she says, lips quivering. And Dosan can’t believe what he is hearing. He wants to echo her words, because it’s true for him too. His every waking moment was haunted by traces of her—sometimes as a pleasant memory that gave him the strength to pull through a difficult day, more often as an omnipresent ache in the hollow of his chest. He wants to tell her these things, so she knows what she means to him, but there is a knot in his throat that he can’t unentangle. All he can bring himself to say is, “Why?"

She blinks back her tears, looks at him in confusion. “Why do you like me?” He asks again.

He continues when she doesn’t offer a response. “I am not the one who wrote the letters. I’m not the one who comforted you. I lied to you, I hurt you. Why do you like me?”

Dosan feels tears stinging the corner of his own eyes. He’s still recovering from the whiplash after learning that Dalmi is not with Han Jipyeong, but these doubts have plagued him for a long time. Even when things were fine between them, before the house of cards crumbled, he could never be sure that it was really him that Dalmi liked.

She takes a deep breath, reaches for his hands that are still cupping her face. Her hands bring a sharp awareness, but Dosan doesn’t flinch. It warms his heart instead as she uses her own hand to steady his and nuzzles her cheek into his palm further.

Sensing what is coming next, he beats her to the punch. “You like my hands. Only my hands. How can that beat someone you held in your heart for fifteen years?”

“You really don’t know, do you?” The pain in her eyes is a pinch in his own chest. He would do anything to take it away from her, but he needs to know for certain so he persists.

“Why do you like me?”

“It’s a metaphor,” she says, squeezing his hand.

“What?"

“Your hands. They’re so much more than just that, they're all of you. I like you because of you. You’re the whole and only reason.”

It takes a moment for him to process this but when he does, he is dizzy with relief. Dosan feels his heart soar, and suddenly, he is a different kind of overwhelmed. Tears spill over his eyes, but he's smiling through them. Dalmi’s eyes soften, and mirror the relief on his own. For the first time in a really long time, it feels like they are on the same page again. And that means everything to him.

His eyes slip to her parted lips, his thumb inches closer and just barely grazes the tip of her cupid’s bow. She closes her eyes at that. Dosan doesn’t know much about physical intimacy, but he knows that that's a green light.

Nam Dosan has relived their first kiss countless times since that blissful evening on the Morning Group rooftop. He had been so sure he would never forget the softness of her lips, the dizzying force of her fondness. It had been one of the few things that kept him going when he woke up in a foreign city, not knowing how he fit in, for three years.

When their lips touch, he knows his memory had failed him. Her lips are ice cold but gliding his own against it is a high like no other. They kiss slowly at first, like they are building a fire from the sparks that fly between them. She moves closer, snakes her arms around his neck, and the fire ignites in earnest. Dosan chases after the heat, licks it off her bottom lip, and feels her breath hitche. Reluctantly, he breaks the kiss but he can’t bring himself to put much distance between them. Dalmi’s cheeks are tinted pink, and the smudges of dirt do nothing to deter from the picture of loveliness she makes.

She opens her eyes after a moment, like she’s waking up from a daze. Her pupils are dilated, and her brows raised in question.

“Thank you,” he says, voice hoarse and overcome with emotion. He doesn’t wait for a response, immediately leans back in and closes the gap between them. There’s so much more that needs to be said, but it can wait. Tomorrow will come soon enough, and the sun will bring with it light and clarity.

For now though, under the cloak of the starry night, Dosan wants to curl closer to her warmth, and whisper his boundless longing into her lips.

#start-up #startup #tvn start up #nam dosan #seo dalmi #dodal

25 notes · View notes

roseskiesandbutterflies · 4 years

Text

Le Démon Déchu - Chapter 1: Nouveau Départ

Summary: The summary is kind of long so please check a previous part or my masterlist if you want to read it.

Warning(s): implied/referenced trauma, swearing (this goes for probably every chapter, but I’ll keep putting it here)

Word Count: 2.8k+

Inspiration: Do You Know What Eternity Is? by Elderly_Worm on AO3, Great Omens (The Big One) by falsepremise on AO3, Pray For Us, Icarus series by Atalan on AO3, Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma: An Integrative Approach by Nnm on AO3, Doctor Who (don’t ask) and, of course, Good Omens itself

A/N: This was probably a bad idea, considering I have three other series on the go right now as well as a one-shot that isn’t done yet, but life’s too short so here it is. Updates on all of my works are going to be a bit slower from now on now I’m back at school (I’m in Year 11 too so I have even less time to write these days), so just bear with me. I promise I have a plan for the next twenty chapters at least, I am planning for this to be longer, but I haven’t decided where I’m going to take the rest of the story yet.

By the way, you can imagine Eloise to look like whoever you want because I’ve been a bit vague with her descriptions, but I imagine her to look something like @angelknives13 on TikTok.

As I do for most of my stories, I’ve made a Spotify playlist for this fic! Just copy and paste the link below to listen and remember that I’ll probably keep adding to it. Please listen at your own discretion because some of the songs contain spoilers. Just be wary of that. Also, some of the songs’ lyrics don’t actually make sense/relate to the story, but they’re on there because they fit the general vibe of the story. Hopefully, that makes sense.

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6BaXMlb26dBYyhRCqXrEeP?si=6rY8lOkeSSmE8LRDC_Cb5w

Taglist: @bhmay @briarrose26

Ask or comment to be on my taglist! Let me know if it’s for a specific fandom(s) or series. Full list is in my bio.

Fool (upright) + Six Of Swords (upright)

New beginnings. Transition. Shaking things up a bit.

She called herself ‘Eloise’. That wasn’t her real name. She hadn’t been referred to by her real name for an awfully long time. No, Eloise is what she called herself so Eloise she was. Somewhere along the line, humans had decided that one’s name should have a meaning, and in some cultures that that name should tell of your past and also of your future. Eloise had been all for this notion, thinking it a marvellous idea. She’d then found out that the meaning bestowed upon her chosen name was ‘famous warrior’, which she thought was rather accurate. For before all else, Eloise was a fighter. She had fought tooth and nail to carve out the identity she had cultivated for herself and by God was she willing to fight again to keep it that way. It was an identity that she kept in her metaphorical left breast pocket, right next to her metaphorical beating heart; right where she could have it close to her, always and forever, but also where she could take it out, hold it in the palm of her hand and just admire it from time to time before popping it back in the metaphorical pocket, safe and sound. Art for art’s sake. It was an identity that she had chiselled out of the finest marble, chipped at to perfection or the closest thing to it, so that now it was the image of a Roman bust, of an ancient and long-forgotten deity. It was taller than giants and softer than the clouds above her head, richer than the finest food that the humans could create and more complex than the human mind. It burned with the heat of a thousand fires, never to be doused nor tamed. It flowed freer than the flow of a thousand rivers, winding and twisting through the corners and crevices of her mind–

She looked at it for a second longer before placing it back ever so carefully in the metaphorical pocket. It’s healthy to admire one’s soul every now and again but look into its depths for too long and you will get sucked into your own vanity. So, she returned it home to the pocket, where it belonged.

After all, there were things to be getting on with.

*************

I would like to see that light once more. […] The light of the hour before the sun goes down. When every object begins to glow with its own light and gives off its own particular colour.

– Christa Wolf (Cassandra: A Novel and Four Essays)

*************

There was something about evening sunshine. The sun beats down on every little thing without mercy during the day, but five o’clock rolls around before long and everything turns sweeter. The usually red bricks of identical townhouses glow orange as they cast shadows down on passers-by, the leaves of oak trees turn golden-green as they sunbathe, not all that different to the humans that seek them for shelter. The breeze blows a little cooler, the sun shines a little softer, the sky rejoices in the oil painting below it. Sunbeams caress your face, holding you in an embrace that’s warm and comforting and oh-so-familiar. It feels like returning home, and in some ways it is.

Aziraphale loves to read at this time. Though nothing should be inferred from this, as Aziraphale loves to read at any and all hours of the day and night. Aziraphale would read all day, every day for the rest of time if he could. Unfortunately for him, he can’t do such a thing, but he does read an awful lot, and he likes to make a point of always reading in the evenings. He would swap his east-facing desk for the comfort of his lapis-coloured armchair, where the window that peers over his left shoulder tries to read with him in comfortable silence. The sunlight spills into the room, casting the soft pages beneath his fingertips in a homely, golden glow, illuminating and enhancing the words printed on them. Dust particle dance like fairies in this natural spotlight, but Aziraphale is, more often than not, too engrossed in his reading to pay attention to things like these.

He is not, however, too oblivious to notice sudden noises. Unfortunately for him, Aziraphale tended to find them too loud to ignore most of the time.

His head popped up like a meerkat when he heard the bell hanging above the bookshop door ring, its tune singing out and filling the quiet of the room. The noise of outside chatter and traffic disappeared as quickly as it came as the door swiftly opened and closed. His brows furrowed in confusion, for he was sure that that door had been locked ever since that phone call he’d had with Crowley which had eventually resulted in the latter coming to stay with him, and as far as he knew, Crowley was upstairs somewhere, probably watching yet more reruns of Golden Girls. He rose cautiously and ventured into the main shop, worst case scenarios flooding his mind with every step he took.

“Hello? I’m sorry but we are most definitely closed, as you would know if you read the sign on the door…”

He faltered when he finally came face to face with the intruder. She looked at him with dark eyes wide with curiosity, her gaze intense but at the same time comforting, as if you could get lost swimming, drowning in them if you searched for too long. She then softened with the realisation and nostalgia of reuniting with an old and long-forgotten friend, her smile small but full of unbridled joy. Her voice was no louder than a whisper but held a power that compelled you to pay attention as she murmured, “Oh, there you are.”

Aziraphale’s throat ran dry with an emotion he couldn’t quite pin down, couldn’t quite name, an emotion that was on the tip of his tongue yet so out of reach. He scrambled to gather his senses because for goodness sake, this is a complete stranger whom you have never met until now, pull yourself together. “I-I’m not quite sure how you got in, but the shop is very much closed so I-I must ask you to leave,” he managed to stammer out, much less confident than the Aziraphale from a minute or two ago.

“Oh no,” she said reassuringly, her joyous expression never waning for a second, “I’m not here for a book.”

“Angel!” Crowley suddenly called out from upstairs, melting some of the awkwardness that was hanging around the room like a rather awful smell. Aziraphale noticed how the stranger’s eyes lit up even further, smile grew even wider, and more and more questions swirled around his head. He forced himself to look away from her as he heard Crowley saunter into the room from behind him. “Angel, I’m just about to put the kettle on, did you want a cup of tea or–,” he stopped when he finally noticed the other presence in the room, “I thought the shop was still supposed to be closed?” he asked warily, something in the back of his mind telling him not to trust the stranger.

“It is,” Aziraphale replied uncertainly while she waved awkwardly at them, “I don’t know how she got in, but she said she isn’t here for a book.”

Her face twitched slightly as if she wanted to comment on being spoken about like she wasn’t even in the room, but quickly decided against it for the sake of politeness.

Crowley’s face morphed into the epitome of confusion as he asked, “Well, if you’re not here for a book then why are you in a bloody bookshop?”

She looked at him as though the answer was blatantly obvious, “The bookshop has an owner, does it not? Or two unless I’m very much mistaken. It’s you. I’m here for you two.”

Crowley was quick to defend his image, “’S not my bookshop. I’m just, you know, here,” he gestured vaguely at his surroundings.

She nodded with understanding, then seemed to shake awake, “Sorry, I’m forgetting myself. Do you mind if I sat down? It’s just I’ve been travelling for an awfully long time; it’s been a while since I’ve been able to rest.”

Aziraphale nodded almost immediately, “Yes, yes, of course. Be my guest.” He didn’t think he’d be physically able to refuse her if he tried, there was something, something about her, “Could I get you a drink, or something to eat, perhaps?”

She smiled gratefully as she took a seat on the ancient looking yet somehow almost pristine armchair in the corner of the shop, “A glass of water would be lovely if that’s okay with you.” Aziraphale was gone in an instant, bustling around the make-shift kitchen in his backroom, quite glad to have something to do with himself if he was honest.

Crowley, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes at the stranger ever so slightly. Her story so far wasn’t adding up in his mind; if she’s been travelling for as long as she says she has, then why was her only luggage a handbag that she’d discarded on the floor when she’d sat down? And then there was the nagging in the back of his head that he was trying to stifle as best as he could. He stopped his train of thought dead in its track when he noticed that she’d been staring at him the entire time, still grinning like the Cheshire cat. There was something in her eyes, those damn eyes, that momentarily made him worry if his whole thought process was being projected above his head. She was observing him with a scrutiny that made him positively squirm. Finally, he said something, managing to stutter, “I’m gonna, erm, go, yeah,” he awkwardly pointed his fingers in the direction of where Aziraphale had left before sighing and making his much-needed exit.

She just nodded even though he could no longer see her, then suddenly sat up straight and let out a shaky breath. “Here goes nothing,” she whispered to herself. This was about to be the biggest risk she’d taken in years.

She took a deep breath and let go.

*************

“Do we know her?” Crowley asked from his seat on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs like a child and cradling a cup of coffee in his hands, “Or is she just some random stranger who couldn’t read the ‘closed’ sign?”

Aziraphale looked at him as though he wanted to comment on his bluntness but had decided against it for the sake of not wanting to pick a fight, “I don’t recall meeting her at all. Surely, she would have mentioned where we know her from…”

Crowley looked at him knowingly, “But yet she seems oddly familiar and you can’t for the life of you figure out why?” His face softened when Aziraphale’s eyes widened in shock, “I know what you mean. It’s off-putting. Her, I mean, not you, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled softly at him before looking away and asking, “What do we do? Do we ask her to leave?”

“Okay, you know as well as I do that you’re too curious for your own good,” Crowley smirked, “You want to find out everything you can about her, and that’s exactly what you’re gonna try and do.”

“I, well, um,” Aziraphale stammered out, face flushed bright red much to Crowley’s amusement, “Well, when you put it like that, I sound awfully nosy.”

Crowley snorted, “Well, you are a bit but where’s the fun in minding your own business?”

“Oh, hush, you wily old serpent,” he said, pursing his lips in mock discontent.

“Ah,” Crowley grinned, “Haven’t heard that one in a while. ‘Wily old serpent’. What ever will you think of next?”

“Stop it,” Aziraphale smiled with no real malice behind his words, playfully swatting Crowley with a tea towel that he’d miracled into his hands for that precise purpose, “Now get down from the counter, we can’t put this off forever.”

“Why not?” he asked as he jumped down with a swing of his legs. That earned him another swat from Aziraphale and his evil tea towel.

They continued to bicker as they reluctantly made their way back to the front of the shop, the unease in the atmosphere palpable to point where you could cut it with a knife. Neither one was quite sure why they were so nervous to talk to the stranger.

Crowley noticed it before Aziraphale did, stopping dead in his tracks and holding a hand out for Aziraphale to stop and just notice.

For standing in the middle of the bookshop with her back to the pair of them was the stranger and it was now painfully clear that she was in no way human.

A giant pair of wings sprouting from her back, spread out with pride, not unlike their own except they were the most beautiful shade of grey. The grey of an elephant in the sunlight, of the cobblestones shining in the rain, of shields from empires of long ago. They were the mist that lay on the sea in the moments before dawn and the oh-so-cold breath on a frosty morning. They were the fog that lay on a path yet to be crossed, the ashes of people long gone. They were almost hypnotising with not only their beauty, but also with the colour itself, and a hundred questions were swirling around their heads.

Who was she? Where had she come from? And, how on Earth did she come to have grey wings?

It was only when Aziraphale’s cup smashed to the floor when the stranger whirled around to finally meet their eyes, her expression unreadable. Her eyes flicked down the mess on the floor, and she smiled warmly at one very shocked angel before forcing the mug to reassemble itself in Aziraphale’s hand with a flick of her wrist, “There, no harm done.” Her smile faltered when she noticed their blank expressions and she sighed, “I think we best sit down, don’t you?”

The pair of them exchanged a nervous glance, speaking a language with just their eyes, before wordlessly following her suggestion and taking a seat on the sofa next to Aziraphale’s desk, while she perched on the chair opposite. “So, I’m guessing you have a lot of questions–”

“That’s putting it lightly,” Crowley scoffed, earning him a small glare and pursed lips from Aziraphale who just wanted to know what was going on, thank you very much.

“No, Aziraphale, it’s okay, he’s right,” she said, holding a hand out to stop him. The silence that followed was thick with unease and uncertainty, but she didn’t notice until it was too late, “Oh, shit,” she said simply, bracing herself for their reactions.

“How do you know my name? I didn’t tell you my name, how do you know it?” Aziraphale asked, the words tumbling out of him before he could even think about what he was saying.

Her eyes widened in alarm as she rushed to settle him, “Aziraphale–”

“Who put you up to this? Who sent you here?” He was standing now, blind with panic because what if they’ve found us, what if this is it, what if these past few months were all we were going to have before they came for us-

“Aziraphale, please,” she cried before looking at Crowley for help, not quite sure what she was dealing with here.

“Angel,” he said, voice as gentle as he could make it, smiling slightly when Aziraphale finally looked at him, “Just hear her out, okay?”

The angel stayed standing for a moment, collecting his thoughts because the worry in her eyes, no one from Heaven or Hell could even pretend to care for him so much. Finally, he nodded and sat down again, a trifle warily, a blush dusting his cheeks with a sad kind of shame.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you like that,” she murmured, voice a lot quieter, a lot less confident, but tenfold more sincere. She let the moment hang and dissolve, and then she perked up a bit, getting back to the manner at hand, “And no, no one sent me here. I came of my own accord, alone, just like I always do,” her eyes trailed away for a split second. They can’t see the memories if they can’t see your eyes. They can’t see the pain if they can’t see your face.

She felt Crowley’s eyes linger on her face with curiosity, grateful that he let the flicker of hurt wash over her face. After a second, he asked, “Who are you?”

Silence followed, for a moment. She sat there, thinking to herself, because who are you is a tricky question to answer when you have things that need to stay hidden. “My name is Eloise–”

She was cut off by a loud noise that must have come from upstairs, sounding not altogether dissimilar to someone crashing through the roof, followed by an overwhelming sense of divinity.

Eloise could only find it in herself to sigh and mumble, “Fuck.”

#good omens #good omens headcanon #good omens imagine #crowley #crowley headcanon #crowley imagine #Aziraphale #aziraphale headcanon #aziraphale imagine #good omens fic #oc

2 notes · View notes

littlemisssquiggles · 5 years

Text

RWBY Fables by Squiggles: ”The Most Beautiful Rose”

Squiggly Disclaimer:

...Ooookay. You guys remember this, right? This was originally an incomplete RWBY Squiggle Script that I polished up back in June in the hopes of turning it into my own little project to contribute to the Rose-gardening Rosebuds community.

...Unfortunately; due to school and other responsibilities that came up, I wasn’t exactly able to really do what I wanted to with this story, sadly to say:/. But since Rosegarden Week II is in season alongwith today being the canonical birthday of a certain lovely rose, this squiggle meister decided to just simply post what I had managed to pull together for this short story.

It’s not exactly what I’d call a finished but...it sells what I wanted to convey with it. Apologies to those who were looking forward to seeing this become something. I still really, really, REALLY wanted to share this short story especially with my fellow Rosegardeners because it’s based on one of my favourite Rosegarden fan theories---well several of them actually.

So…in the end, I just decided to post this story anyways, as is. I hope my fellow Rosegardeners will like it maybe if they happen to read the whole thing.

Happy Rosegarden Week 2.0 and a happy birthday to the most beautiful rose who inspired this short tale of mine. Enjoy!

“…It is only with the heart that one can see rightfully. What is essential is invisible to the eye”

- The Little Prince

I was once just a boy. Another simple farm boy from Mistral in a continent full of them. Nothing special and I used to believe that that was all I was destined to be for the rest of my life. Then my life changed. Suddenly I went from being another farm boy from Mistral to one in a culmination of valiant men who gave their lives to protect humanity from the forces of evil time and time again. You would think that then this would grant me some semblance of individuality. But no. Once again I was made just another in a different category. Nothing special and for a second time, I convinced myself that this was all I was meant to be for the remainder of whatever life I have left. But then I got to know you.

Since we met, you’ve always treated me differently. You’ve always treated me like I was my own person. Like I’m still me. Because that’s who you see when you look at me, right? You don't see him. You don't see them. You see me. To you, I'm not just another life in a lifetime of other lives. To you, I'm unique and I've always appreciated that about you. You always saw me for who I was rather than who I was meant to become. You see me. This is why I want you to know that I see you too.

It's kind of hard not to. Hair red like roses. Silver eyes as radiant as the moon. Endearing. Enchanting. Unforgettable. Beautiful. But that's not all I see when I look at you. I see your honest soul. Your courageous heart. Your indomitable will. Your warmth and genuine kindness to those you believe need help. Your dedication to the people you love. Your unquantifiable spark that drives you. That drives all of us. You are such an extraordinary person destined for greatness. You are the one I look to the most.

So don't think for one second that I would never notice if you were hurting. That I wouldn't be quick to help if someone hurt you. That I wouldn't give anything; do everything in my power to protect that spark of yours and keep that flame burning bright from those who dare try snuffing it out. I may not be the strongest. Or the bravest. I am not that special. But you make me feel that way to you. You have given me the strength to believe in myself. In a legacy of lives, you make me feel unique. So please understand just how much I want you to know how unique you are to me too.

“Whitley Schnee may be rich and smart but...he's not the only rich or smart person in this world. He's not even the only guy in this world,” Oscar said slowly, “I guess what I’m trying to say is…Remnant is a pretty big world as Jinn showed us. But it doesn’t matter if you are one person in a world of a hundred thousand billion more people. Find that special someone who only has eyes for you. The person who thinks that you’re the most unique to them in all the world.”

Oscar flashed Ruby his most reassuring smile. His hand was resting comfortingly on top hers and at the sight of her disgruntled expression; Oscar gave it a light squeeze in hopes that it would increase his chances of ridding the silver-eyed girl of her melancholy. However much to the former farm boy’s disappointment, Ruby only frowned further in her seat across from him as she gazed idly at the running water of the statuesque fountain before them. Oscar felt his heart sink at the anguish written on Ruby’s face; cheeks red and tear-stained from her previous cry. When she finally spoke, her voice was a whisper.

“Do you really mean what you said?” Ruby said solemnly, “do you think there is someone like that out there… even for me?

The insecurity emphasized in her words was enough to make Oscar grimace. He was so used to seeing Ruby be a beacon of unbridled confidence that it was heartbreakingly difficult seeing her this torn up over herself. So Oscar wasted no time in taking Ruby’s hand again; positioning himself closer to her so that his other hand was now rubbing her opposite shoulder.

“Of course!” Oscar answered confidently, “You have your people who love you, remember? I don't have to tell you that.”

“I know but...that's not what I meant,” Ruby uttered sheepishly, “I meant like...”

She trailed off abruptly. At first Oscar was confused by this, but eventually his eyes widened in realization of what she was trying to imply and he blushed despite himself.

“...Oh! Y---You mean...like a boyfriend?” Oscar said.

His question was only answered by the deepened frown on Ruby’s face. Suddenly her own cheeks turned an embarrassed shade of pink and she avoided Oscar’s inquisitive gaze in embarrassment. “You know what forget I said anything!” Ruby griped stubbornly.

“No! No! It's okay I get it.” Oscar blurted awkwardly. He then cleared his throat regaining his calm demeanour as he pressed on with his earlier comment. “And yes; of course there's a guy waiting for you,” Oscar assured, “look, I know you were probably hoping for Whitley to be that guy and…it's terrible what he said to you. But...it doesn't mean he'll be the only guy.”

“You sure about that?” Ruby said.

“Of course,” Oscar countered honestly, “You're Ruby Rose. You're amazing.” .

This earned Oscar a smile from Ruby. A small one but genuine at best. Lovely as the twinkle of a star in the night’s sky. But it was unceremoniously short-lived; extinguished yet again as the melancholy returned.

“Oh Oscar, you are so sweet. You’re a sweet guy and it's pretty clear why girls would fall for you,” Ruby said humbly, “and right now I couldn't have asked for a better friend to say such nice things to me. But… I also know you're just saying that as my friend and not a guy who...”

For a second time, Ruby trailed off, suddenly withdrawing herself to hug her arms miserably. As if fighting back tears. Oscar did his best to reach out to her again but Ruby only brushed him off, turning away to hide her face.

“I know…it's dumb of me to get upset over something silly like this,” Ruby said softly, “and normally I wouldn't. I've always prided myself on being the type of girl who didn't care about this kind of stuff.”

“Stuff like what?” Oscar asked.

“My looks. The attention of boys. I mean who cares, right?” Ruby scoffed dryly, “I never had to care. I'm a huntress. I fight villains and monsters ten…no, hundred times my size everyday not for the fame and glory of the title but because it’s the right thing to do. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve always wanted to be like the heroes in the stories Yang and my mom would read to me. I wanted to be the kind of person that gives people hope because when the chips are down, even the tiniest bit of hope can be enough to bind us. I thought that way of thinking was honourable. Admirable even.”

“It is…” Oscar tried to say but Ruby cut him off.

“So then why should I care if some handsome rich boy tells me that my way of thinking is naïve and pointless,” Ruby said, voice rising angrily, “that my goals and ambitions are ridiculous because a single huntress like me is worthless when an army can do my job and more.”

“ …Ruby…”

“WHY SHOULD I CARE IF SOME GUY I LIKED TELLS ME THAT I’M NOTHING SPECIAL!” Ruby cried.

At this point, the tears had returned to her face and Oscar’s heart sank.

“…That….that the only reason he even considered pursuing me was because of my silver eyes?” Ruby sobbed, “that if it wasn’t for that, he’d probably ask one of the many other girls who are far superior than me. That’s the word he used. As if to make fun of my intelligence too. Because…what? It’s not like I have anything else going for me. According to Whitley, I’m no special flower. Why consider myself the prettiest most unique rose when there are plenty others far prettier than I’ll ever be. I mean I didn’t really need him to tell me that. I’ve known that all along…”

“ …Weiss, Blake, Yang, Nora, Neon--- Of course guys would find them desirable. They’re all so very beautiful.

But me…I…”

An aching sob.

“…I’m…”

Tears stained her face, her trembling, tasting her bitterness of her own emotions.

“…I’m not...”

It was evident what she was about to say and at this point, Oscar had had enough.

She was breaking. Literally falling apart before his eyes.

Slowly but surely, Oscar touched Ruby’s cheek. She needed her to hear him. He willed her to listen to him as he ran his thumb gently across her skin, wiping away any stray tears that fell.

“Ruby, look at me.” Oscar said softly.

She ignored him. “Look at me, please.” Oscar implored.

With another whimper, Ruby met the farm boy’s gaze.

“Okay. This is the part where you stop and you listen to me very carefully, okay?” Oscar said determinedly.

Ruby said nothing. So Oscar continued.

“ Y’know when we first met Whitley, I thought he was a pretty smart guy,” Oscar admitted, “It’s…one of the reasons why I thought you liked him so much. But I’ve misjudged him just as much as he’s misjudged you. I can withhold my tongue about a lot of things but I will not stand here and watch you cry in front of me while saying you’re not beautiful. That is ridiculous and don’t you dare think otherwise.”

Gently, Oscar wiped away the tears that streaked down Ruby’s cheek, his tender gaze never leaving her. He was rewarded for a second time with a small smile from Ruby who couldn’t resist the light-hearted laugh that escaped her lips. “How do you do that?” she managed to blubber out, “Know exactly what to say to help me feel better?”

“Well, you always know what to say to inspire others. Let’s just say I learned from the best.” Oscar replied warmly.

“You’re just saying that.” Ruby said coyly.

“ I mean it, though,” Oscar said honestly, “you're an extraordinary girl Ruby Rose. So Whitley Schnee wasn’t the perfect date. That’s fine. Clearly he didn’t deserve you to begin with if he’s willing to look pass even the minor details of what makes you so great. Besides there’ll be other guys.”

Ruby’s face fell and at this; Oscar lifted her chin so she was looking directly at him as he emphasized his next words.

“There will be other guys,” Oscar said firmly, “any guy who gets to fall in love with you or just be with you … is...the luckiest guy in the world.”

“You really think there’s a guy like that out there for me?” Ruby asked.

“Of course!” Oscar answered, “Out there...” He then cupped Ruby’s face, touching his forehead to hers. “…R---Right here. Right...in front to you.” Oscar added softly; voice practically a whisper.

“…What?” Ruby asked.

Oscar’s cheeked turned pink at Ruby’s reaction but still he kept his gaze determined. “I'm saying...I'm that guy,” Oscar said, gentle yet confident, “I mean...I want to be that guy. I want to be the guy who gets to stand by your side. I want to be the guy who does everything he can to make you happy. I want to be the guy who feels like the luckiest person in the world because he gets to be with you. I’m saying…I love you , Ruby…”

Ruby’s eyes widened. Her heartbeat quickened. She couldn’t believe her ears.

Oscar loves her.

He loves her.

Did she hear him correctly?

The heat rose in Ruby’s face extending to her ears which were practically ringing at that point.

Oscar loves her. The thought alone dissolved Ruby’s inner mind into a tidal wave of emotions.

Surprise. Disbelief. Confusion. Nervousness. More confusion. All mixed in with a strange feeling that Ruby never realized was there before. It was…a lighter kind of sensation that the silver-eyed huntress couldn’t quite pinpoint yet she found herself grasping and holding onto it as desperately as she could while riding the high of the sensation.

But before Ruby could be consumed further by her own spiralling thoughts, Oscar brought her a welcomed distraction. To Ruby’s surprise, the boy’s previously confident demeanour broke. No more was he the charming prince who boldly professed his love for her. He became an awkward teenage farm boy again. An awkward country pumpkin as Oscar let go of Ruby’s face; looking away to cover his own freckled face which was now redder than Ruby had ever seen it. “I---I'm sorry.” Oscar practically squeaked.

Ruby only waved her hands wildly; equally flustered. “No, no it's fine! It’s totally fine!” she managed to say, “I…I…I just…I just never… thought that you were---”

“ … Interested?” Oscar interrupted; peeping through his fingers curiously.

“Interested in... me?” Ruby corrected embarrassedly, “Y’know, like that. I mean…why would you---”

“Are you kidding me? Why wouldn't I?” Oscar interjected; now uncovering his face with a look of disbelief.

The two then stared at each other for a beat before eventually; looking away; both blushing like crazy. An awkward silence fell between them with nothing but the rush of the fountain providing the perfect disruption. Until finally; after a while, Oscar cleared his throat to speak again. His tone resolute.

“Let me put it another way,” Oscar said, “to give credit where it’s due, Whitley was right about one thing. There are…other beautiful flowers. The world is full of them. My Aunt Em used to say that flowers are a part of what gives the world its beauty. It’s part of their purpose and people are no different. It’s like what I said earlier. If someone is truly important to you and means the world to you, then it wouldn't matter if there are others because that one person will always be the most special to you.

That's how I see you. When you're with your team or…even if there is a room full of other pretty girls, I'm not looking at them. I'm looking at you. You're the one I look to the most. All the time. I look to you when I'm happiest because most of the time, you’re the reason. I look to you when I feel…overwhelmed because your courage gives me strength when I need it most. I look to you for guidance because your leadership keeps us moving forward. Keeps me moving forward.

Oz once described you as someone with an unquantifiable spark that can inspire anyone even in the darkest of times and I’m grateful I’ve been blessed enough to see the truth in that. I meant what I said when I said you are an extraordinary huntress and you’re an even more amazing person.”

“You…really think that way about me?” Ruby asked.

“I’ve thought this way about you since day one,” Oscar confessed, “the day I first looked at you and since then I’ve always looked to you for many things. And the more times I did, the more I saw your beauty shine through. Please don’t sell yourself short just because one ignorant person told you differently.”

Oscar then stared off at something behind Ruby. Following his gaze, Ruby realized he was looking at a small rose bush not too far from where the two sat by the fountain. Smiling Oscar got up and walked over to the bush. Ruby watched quietly as the former farm boy plucked one of the roses off its stem. As Oscar returned, Ruby got a closer look at the small flower in his hand. At first glance, it appeared to be a yellow rose, its petals a shimmering gold in the evening light. But upon further inspection, Ruby noticed the reddened tips. It was a circus rose. At least that was the name Ruby recalled Oscar expertly telling her during one of their past conversations. Oscar twirled the rose between his fingers, caressing its flushed yellow petals.

“Yes, this world is full of many beautiful flowers. Even other lovely roses,” Oscar continued thoughtfully, “but that doesn’t matter to me because in my eyes, you’re the most beautiful one, Ruby.”

The smile on Oscar’s face widened into a grin; bright and handsome, as he held the rose out to Ruby. At first Ruby just stared blankly at the flower, unsure what to do. But when she noticed the soft look on Oscar’s face and the way the sunset just happened to make his hazel eyes shine, she felt a sudden pang in his chest.

She didn’t know how to describe this sudden feeling. It felt strange. Entirely new to her. All Ruby knew was that it was making Oscar appear differently in her eyes. Ruby couldn’t tell if it was the setting or just her active imagination the way Oscar practically glowed before her eyes. The wind kissing his face. His eyes forever locked with hers. His lips etched in a smile that sung affection. It was a sight that made Ruby’s heart thunder and her face warmer than a summer breeze.

‘What is this feeling all of sudden?’ Ruby thought as she slowly accepted the rose from Oscar; her face a perfect pretty canvas of pink.

“…W—W--Wow I...I… don’t know what to say,” Ruby said blushingly, “I mean… I should say…thank you ? No wait, I shouldn’t say thank you. I mean thank you for the rose. Just not…y’know…thank you for the other thing…you said before. I---I don't think that's what you'd want to hear, right? It's not something you say right after a guy tells you he loves----It’s definitely not something you should say.”

Oscar tilted his head in an expression that unintentionally made Ruby’s heart sing its second chorus.

“Why shouldn’t it be?” Oscar said inquisitively, “If your gratitude is you being honest then nothing bad about that.”

“Yeah but… it's not what I'm supposed to say,” Ruby groaned awkwardly, “I'm supposed to say it back. I’m supposed to tell you how I feel about you.”

“Well how do you feel about me?” Oscar asked calmly.

“I… don’t know...” Ruby said unsurely. A playful grin then toyed at her lips as a mischievous thought came to mind. “I mean… if we’re being completely honest here, you are a little young for me,” Ruby commented sarcastically with an innocent shrug, “you’re also way too old for me. Then there’s the whole bit about you sharing a body with my old headmaster. A little weird but… there was that other Ozpin who had a family when Ozma was around. So I guess we wouldn’t have to worry about Ozpin interrupting us if we went on a date or something. So not entirely a deal breaker for me.”

“Ruby…”

“Hey I’m confessing here,” Ruby grumbled, sticking out her tongue childishly. She had only meant for it to be a casual joke; as a means of lightening the air between them. But instead, Oscar said this:

“I know and I’m asking you to be serious,” the farm boy remarked sincerely, “I’m not asking you how you feel about Ozpin or…Ozma. How do you feel about me?”

This took Ruby off guard and it must’ve shown on her face for Oscar’s expression softened; reflecting almost a silent need for Ruby for confirm something that he almost needed her to say. Something that seemed to almost transcend a requited love confession. Upon realizing this, Ruby felt bad for her previous conduct.

“I know I really like you,” Ruby finally admitted with a smile, “A lot actually. Sometimes a bit too much but that’s only because I care very, very much.”

“Of course, mother hen.” Oscar teased knowingly. Ruby shot him a quick unamused pout; making Oscar chuckled, but otherwise she continued her speech.

“You see that right there. You don’t get annoyed when I say crazy stuff. You’re patient. Brave. Kind. Smart. You could be a bit stubborn sometimes but that’s fine cause I’m stubborn too,” Ruby said, “you’re one of my closest friends. Sure we’ve only known each other a few months but…I feel like I’ve known you longer and I want to know you longer. I don’t want what we have to stop.”

“Ruby Rose is a companion to Oscar Pine for all of his lifetimes. That’s what you promised me, right?” Oscar said.

“I did,” Ruby reassured with a gentle smile, “and I still plan on keeping that promise no matter what because I really do like you a lot Oscar.”

“…But, you don’t love me?” Oscar interjected, expectantly.

However Ruby shook her head. “That’s the weird part. I don’t know,” she admitted, “all I know is that I really like you. But the way I like you is different. It’s not the same as how I like Weiss or Jaune or Blake or Ren or Nora or anyone else. It’s not even how I liked Whitley. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before but yet I can’t say what it is.

I’m mostly just confused . I’m not really saying yes because I don’t want to lie to you and… I’m definitely not saying thank you because even that doesn’t feel right. But…I’m not saying no either…”

“I…don’t really have an answer,” Ruby finally finished, “I'm sorry.”

To Ruby’s surprise, Oscar only offered her another kind smile; as he took her free hand in his. Even through the pair of red gloves he wore, Ruby’s skin felt like hot iron from their contact.

“Ruby, it's okay,” Oscar said understandingly, “You don’t have to give me an answer. I'm not really asking you to.”

Ruby blinked in surprise. “You're...not?”

Oscar smiled. “No,” he said sincerely, “I wanted to know how you feel about me but… that doesn’t mean I wanted to force you to answer my confession. My feelings are my own that I just wanted to share with you. Not because I expect you to return them but mostly just cause I wanted you to know how I feel about you. How I really feel about you,”

‘…While I still have a chance to say it to your face,’ Oscar added as a thought. And though his heart went blue for a brief moment, he still smiled brightly against his inner sadness. He couldn’t afford to stop smiling. Not when he was sitting in the presence of the girl her loved. For her, he would brave anything. Even his own strife.

“But…more than that,” Oscar pressed on, “I just wanted to see you smile again. Whitley’s true feelings made you cry. I was hoping mine would make you smile. I love you most when you're smiling. Your smile is one of the most beautiful things about you. I guess the only real answer I want to know is if I cheered you up.”

Now it was Ruby’s turn to smile. Despite herself, a few tears trickled down her cheek but they weren’t tears of sadness. They were from the sheer amount of happiness that swelled in Ruby’s chest for the young boy seated before her. The boys whose radiance and kind words quelled the heartache she’d once felt. Ruby felt beyond touched. “You did,” she managed to say through her soft sobbing, “You most definitely did.”

Ruby then closed the gap between her and Oscar, nudging close enough to rest her head on his shoulder. “Thank you, Oscar.” She whispered gratefully. With a sigh of contentment, her mind and her heart were finally at ease.

Seeing the silver-eyed huntress so calm made Oscar’s own smile grow into a proud grin. Draping his arm around Ruby’s shoulder, he pulled her closer to him to allow his head to against hers. “For you. Always.” The former farm boy whispered warmly. Though his voice was soft Ruby heard his words. She felt her heart crescendo and she was appreciative that Oscar couldn’t see her face in that moment as the prominent blush that was practically burned into her face from before deepened.

“Okay...now I see it.” Ruby giggled bashfully.

“See what?” Oscar asked.

“Why everyone keeps calling you little prince,” Ruby answered, “you’re kinda like the ones from my favourite old fairy-tales.”

“The ones who save the princess?” Oscar asked.

“The ones who they fall in love with,” Ruby said, looking up at Oscar’s face as she said it. His eyes widened in surprise making Ruby looking away coyly. Seriously, if her face got any redder, she’d give her own signature cape steady competition.

“But y’know…they’re just stories.” Ruby added quickly with an awkward laugh that was louder than she intended.

Fortunately her awkwardness only appeared to amuse Oscar. “You planning on living happily ever after with me now, Ms Rose?” Oscar teased with a wink. This earned him a playful shove courtesy of Ruby. ‘Okay, when did he get this cheeky and why is it so cute?’ She thought, ‘…wait cute?’

“I’m just saying you can be charming when you need to be, Mr. Pine,” Ruby retorted wryly.

Oscar only nudged Ruby’s shoulder; laughing.

“Y’know I should probably start calling you something like that too. I never really liked the little prince nickname. Maybe sweet prince suits you better,” Ruby remarked lightly. She had meant it as a small joke but upon seeing Oscar’s smirk; eyebrows quirked, Ruby regretted everything. Now her face and cape were a perfectly set.

“I---I---I mean…” Ruby tried to correct herself but her words failed her and instead she settled on her humiliation. “I didn't...say that out loud, did I?” she stuttered.

“Yep you did,” Oscar said chuckling lightly, “but it's alright. If it's you, I don't mind.” “And I don’t mind the new nickname either so long as I get to be just your sweet prince.” He then added boldly.

“You’re not going to let me forget that one, aren’t you?” Ruby groaned.

“Never.” Oscar chuckled.

The two friends then shared a laugh.

For a moment, Oscar met Ruby’s gaze, beaming charmingly. Ruby returned the smile, the warmth in her cheeks returning as the two sat smiling at each other.

“So, what do we do now?” Oscar asked after some time.

“Whatever we like, I suppose,” Ruby replied casually.

“Ready to head back inside?” Oscar asked.

“ …I dunno.” Ruby said with a frown.

“What Whitley said still bugging you?” Oscar asked glumly.

Ruby nodded miserably. “A little bit.” She said.

Oscar then poked Ruby’s cheek lightly, prompting her to look at him.

“Hey. Beautiful flowers are meant to be admired by everyone, not kept in the dark,” Oscar assured, “besides what would a rich boy know about caring for flowers?”

“What do you mean?” Ruby asked.

“Well it's like something my Aunt Em used to say about gardening,” Oscar said wisely, “rich folk may have all the money in the world but they don’t know a darn thing about gardening. They're so used to buying that the only green they every learnt to care for is their giant bags of money. Therefore, rich folks don’t make good gardeners. That's why the Gods made farmers because farmers know how to care better for crops and flowers of all kinds.”

“Okay but… what's that have to do with me?” Ruby asked.

Oscar smirked. “Well my lovely rose, sounds like you could use a farm boy. Not a rich boy.” He said with a wink.

Ruby couldn’t resist the laugh that escaped her lips. “Seriously? You did not just say that.” She giggled.

“I made you laugh, didn’t I? That counts,” Oscar quipped with a light chuckle, “I mean we can stay out here all night if that’s what you really want or…you can let this farm boy show Whitley Schnee and all of Atlas how truly beautiful you are. What do you say to that?”

Oscar offered Ruby his hand.

“I say…”

Ruby’s gaze fell to her circus rose; still in her hand from when Oscar had given it to her earlier. With a bright grin, Ruby tucked the rose in her hair as she accepted Oscar’s hand.

She then leaned in and kissed Oscar on the cheek---a gesture which pleasantly surprised him.

“Lead the way, my sweet prince.” Ruby said.

Oscar only beamed; leading Ruby back inside as the two rosebuds re-entered the festivities together.

Squiggly Commentary:

You can almost say that this story is a continuation; drawing reference to other scripts I’ve done before such as ‘A-Dork-You!’, ‘A Sister’s Blessing’ and ‘As You Go’. I made this story under the impression and headcanon that as their friendship grows, so does Ruby and Oscar’s overall trust in each other to the point that they are perfectly comfortable initiating physical contact with one another especially if it was meant to console the other.

Usually Ruby is the one to always initiate contact between her and Oscar, according to the canon. My hunch is that at some point, Oscar will start reciprocating the same gentle touches Ruby would at times give him to the point that the two Rosebuds are completely at ease with committing to gestures such as cupping the other’s face, holding hands, resting their head against the other’s shoulder and breathing in the consolation that comes with their company. Y’know that sort of jazz. So that’s what I used in this story.

Sorry if this also wasn’t the kind of love confession story where feelings are reciprocated in the moment and the two lovers kiss. I wanted this short story to mostly emphasize on Oscar finally being open to Ruby about his feelings for her. Once it was brought up, Oscar had no choice but to bit the bullet and he made that choice.

For me, this is the most realistic I can envision the RoseGarden confession. At least the side where Oscar confesses first and Ruby moves forward knowing how Oscar feels about her.

Whitley is a little shit in this. Sorry to my fellow Whits. Although my feelings toward Whitley as a character have lightened a lot since V5, I based this script purely on my original RWBY Musing #24 where Whitley showcased just how much his father had influenced his behaviour particularly his treatment of women.

I even took it a step further with this concept by having Ruby being enamoured with Whit after their first encounter, believing him to be a pleasant gentlemen and love interest despite Weiss’ warnings about her brother’s true colours.

Ruby expressing genuine interest in a person she considers a crush is a side of her we have yet to explore in the main series. So for this script, I wanted to toy with the notion of what if…Ruby genuinely had feelings for Whitley and thought he felt the same way about her only to be greatly disappointed when it is later revealed that Whitley saw Ruby no different than how Jacques saw his own wife.

I’ve mentioned Whitley asking Ruby to be his date to the Atlas Ball many times over and it’s a headcanon I’m still holding onto; albeit I’ve shared different versions of this hunch. I’ve mostly talked about Ruby only agreeing to be Whitley’s date as a favour to Weiss to help with her investigation into her family affairs.

This is the first instance where I’ve actually entertained the thought of Ruby going to the dance with Whitley because she actually liked him. As you could probably tell by some of my past musings and headcanons, seeing Ruby behave like an average teenaged girl, gushing over boys especially one she might have a crush on is something I think would be cute to see.

I’m probably the cheese that stands alone with this thought but if I may further entertain this theory, imagine Ruby being the type of romantic who falls hard whenever she develops an interest in someone. She already does so much for her family and friends. Can you imagine a hopelessly in love Ruby Rose? I can picture that just as vividly as I can depict a close Rosegardening rosebud friendship and potential romance.

I can definitely see Ruby being the type of girl to gush over someone she likes to her friends. So imagine how it would be for Oscar, being the guy who secretly likes Ruby, to also be the close friend she feels comfortable enough talking about her crush to. I figured Ruby would talk to Oscar about this kind of stuff because unlike her sister and teammates, she wouldn’t be judged or teased about it especially if her crush was Whitley (which Weiss greatly disapproves of for obvious reasons).

This script is a culmination of theories that I wanted to touch base on and it basically spawned into a story that I’m proud of. I know I say that almost most of my writing but it’s hard to not feel giddy when you put a theory to paper and turn it into a story. If I had to picture how Oscar would first confess his feelings for Ruby and her reaction to hearing it, this would be it.

It’s not the typical confession moment nor is it the traditional unrequited love moment idea. I genuinely think if Oscar were to confess to Ruby, he would outwardly admit he loves her. Just tell that he wants to be the guy that gets to fall in love with her. Just as much as I wouldn’t expect Ruby to refuse Oscar’s feelings. In a way she would accept them. Just not have an answer for him. But she wouldn’t keep him waiting either. Just as how Oscar wouldn’t hold it to her to give him an answer because that’s not what’s most important.

This plays into another ancient RoseGarden headcanon I have where Oscar would confess and the two will move forward knowing how Oscar truly feels about Ruby but it wouldn’t affect their friendship as awkwardly. But it would provide an opening for Ruby to ponder on how she feels for Oscar. She understands he’s not holding her to return his love. However at the same time, there is that curious side of Ruby that wonders what it would be like if she were to fall in love with Oscar. Could she see herself doing that? And if she did, how would it affect her? How it would affect their entire relationship? Their friendship. Would she even wish to return those feelings knowing the truth of the Merge and the lingering mystery of the fate that spells for Oscar?

This is why I like this concept a lot. It lays everything out on the table while leaving room for more growth and opportunities to explore bonds and the meanings behind them. I’m not saying this is how I perfectly envision the Rosegarden romance taking root in the canon. I’m just saying it’s an idea.

All in all, I hope you guys have enjoyed this short story of mine and if you can, please let me know if you did enjoy it. I’d mighty appreciate it if you do.

Not sure if this counts as a worthy contribution to @rwbyrosegardenweek but I hope it does :D

~LittleMissSquiggles (2019)

#rwby #oscar pine #ruby rose #rwby rosegarden #rosegardenweek2019 #rwby fables by squiggles #rwby: the most beautiful rose

105 notes · View notes

classified-bluerose · 5 years

Text

put me back together vii || quentin beck x reader

a/n: sorry for the delay, i wanted to get this just right. i knocked this bad boy out in installments, finishing it up in one unstoppable flow of words. this is not the final part, just so you know. i’m not sure how many more parts there will be, but there will be at least one more.

warnings: canon-typical violence, mentions of drugging, obviously some far from home spoilers but i changed quite a big scene (oops) and ofcourse endgame spoilers.

a/n 2: i’m considering expanding this to explore the reader’s relationship with other members of the MCU, if anybody would be interested in that? i have a character in mind that i’d like to introduce, same powers as reader, i’d just be giving her/them a name (it’s actually unisex, really, too.) i’ll see how the rest of this story goes anyway. hope ya’ll enjoy! as usual, edited, unbeta’d etc.

(GIF is not mine)

—

chapter seven: the tremor in a broken heart

—

quentin hates you and loves you in equal measure; you’ve brought a light into his world that he thought was gone for good. you’ve messed up his plan in ways too big to really fix, but he tries anyway.

once he makes it to london he leaves your unconscious form in a locked room, guarded by one of his henchmen. he informs the man that, under no uncertain terms, ‘’ no harm will come to her, understand? ‘’

and the henchman nods firmly - a little thing like you, there’s no danger. quentin presses a lingering kiss to your forehead and brushes back some stray strands of hair from your face. ‘’ i’ll be back soon, ‘’ he promises, ‘’ and you’ll see why this had to happen... you’ll understand and we can be together. ‘’

you moan lightly in your sleep before lapsing back into silence. quentin stays by your side a second longer, before his watch beeps to tell him, the time has arrived for his biggest stunt yet.

remembering the words you said to him not so long ago - ‘’ do it for her ‘’ - he walks down the street, determination in every certain step, thinking, ‘’ i’m doing this for us. ‘’

—

your neck aches. everything aches. you blink awake, bleary, blurry. finding yourself on a thin mattress lazily spread on a concrete floor. your head swims with confusion as you push upwards onto your elbows, waiting for the white spots to recede from your vision before swivelling your head. side to side.

an empty, windowless room. a thick steel door trapping you in - a single plane of glass in the middle, crossed with bars. outside, a single guard, who grunts and then yells at you to shut up as you attempt to wheedle, complain, and threaten your way out.

figuring that it’s not going to work you drop your head in your hands. the only way out now is through stupid powers you can’t access. and all the while quentin is - doing god knows what, really. getting away with murder - the blood in your veins sears white hot. peter. spiderman. gone.

through the surge of dark emotion chewing you up, an idea occurs to you. something you haven’t tried yet, to gain access to your abilities again. you consider the thought for a few long seconds.

it’s like a patronus charm, that works the opposite way. to produce the spell a witch must bring forth a happy memory, whereas with this, with you... only negative emotions can draw out what remains of your abilities.

to draw them out of you this way - forceful, painful, could harm you. could kill you. maybe you won’t be able to control what spills out. but you know that you have to try.

calling on every trauma in your memory, every sickening moment, every sad event, a dull vibration buzzes low in your chest.

‘’ he was my friend - ‘’ ‘’ so was i ‘’

‘’ there was no other way. ‘’

‘’ thanos did exactly what he said he was going to. he wiped out fifty percent of all life in the universe. ‘’

‘’ it’s okay. let me go. ‘’

‘’ and i... am... iron man. ‘’

‘’ part of the journey, is the end. ‘’

‘’ he had to be dealt with. ‘’

something tightens in your chest and explodes with a bang. something akin to the feeling of smoke drifting over bare skin courses through your veins, your hearing sharpens, your vision improves, hell, you can nearly taste the metal of the door.

you eye the door and run at it full-tilt, aiming your shoulder to hit near the handle. the steel crashes off the hinges with a shrieking screech, the guard in the hallway jumping a mile in the air in surprise.

‘’ what the f- ‘’

he’s out cold on the floor before he can finish his expletive, your hands immediately finding the handgun on his hip. a window across the hallway, you head in that direction, frowning down at unfamiliar surroundings.

busy streets, a sea of people moving as one, red buses barrelling down packed roads - a clock tower in the distance.

london.

no time to pause or wonder how the hell you got here - kicking out as hard as you can, a sheet of shattered glass coats the ground and unsuspecting passersby. you land on both feet, turning to the closest person - a pale, wide-eyed lady, clutching at her chest in shock. before you can say anything, an ominous rumble closes in - too close for comfort. you glance up at the sky, at darkening clouds, then look back to the loose circle of people scattered around you.

‘’ get out of here as fast as you can. now. tell everyone you meet. run. go. ‘’ you growl out before pushing past and sprinting in the direction of the sound. running down a long rush of water - the thames, you assume - grey shapes move beneath the blue rolls.

—

‘’ it’s not too late to stop, ‘’ you tell him, a plea clear as crystal. ‘’ you wanna be a hero? you wanna fight bad things? come and work with us. come work with the avengers. or shield, or whatever it is that ends up replacing the avengers. ‘’ you hold your arms open, a welcoming gesture. ‘’ this won’t do anybody any good. ‘’

quentin bares his teeth in a half-smile. ‘’ it’s good for me, ‘’ he corrects, something hazy in his eyes, barely visible behind the lenses of edith, something you’re too afraid to name, ‘’ people will know me, will see me. ‘’

‘’ they’re not seeing anything, quentin, none of it is real! ‘’

‘’ it doesn’t matter, ‘’ he responds, explanatory, ‘’ don’t you see? reality is what i want it to be. ‘’ he grins, wolfish, predatory. gazing at you with sharp focus. ‘’ it could be what we want it to be. ‘’

your throat tightens as you shake your head. ‘’ no. no, it isn’t. reality is what it is and no amount of wishing, no amount of technology can change it. ‘’ you blink back tears threatening behind your eyes, raising your voice to be heard over the crashing sounds of the simulation around you.

‘’ don’t you think i wish you were right? don’t you think i would do anything to be able to create my own little world? a world where natasha romanoff, tony stark, steve rogers, are alive, and with me, and we’re happy? ‘’ a rebellious tear slips out and weaves a path through the dust on your cheek. quentin watches its slow descent, is he even hearing you?

‘’ but i can’t. because it’s not true. it’s not real- ‘’

‘’ what is real? ‘’ the man snaps, face deadly and tone pointed, ‘’ what is real? ‘’

you blink and allow another few teardrops escape. desperately hoping that he will listen, that you can make this stop - make him stop. ‘’ i’m real, ‘’ your voice softens again, but you know he hears you by the pained grimace that flits over his features.

‘’ i’m real, and i’m here. please. just stop this. ‘’

quentin regards you quietly, expression thoughtful. your heart beats painfully against the cage of your ribs, an animal prying itself free. the last moment of hope; that withers away when quentin’s walls spring up around him again and he steps back. he whispers some words that trigger fissure points along the seams of your heart; ‘’ you ruined everything. ‘’

louder, then, more confident.

‘’ it’s too late now. ‘’

he reaches for the device on his wrist and you pull the gun from your waistband.

and quentin, well, he has to give you credit where it’s due. you’ve surprised him, yet again, and he breaks into an amused chuckle at the sight of the pistol.

you stare him down, his hair dishevelled, edith glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose. your own face, bruised and cut, screws up in a grief-stricken expression. you swear you see quentin’s eyes softening before ignoring that thought and taking another step toward him.

‘’ give me the glasses, ‘’ you say, hating the shake in your voice as you speak. quentin doesn’t move.

‘’ i said. give me. the glasses, ‘’ you try again, hand tightening around the butt of the gun. he raises his eyebrows, manic and cocky.

‘’ you won’t shoot. ‘’

you swallow. ‘’ try me. ‘’

a long, tense moment. he studies you carefully, the tight line of your shoulders, how steady you hold the weapon aimed toward his chest. no words are exchanged though there are a million things you want to say to him.

but you won’t let him see you hurt. not again. you’ve been vulnerable with him before, and he will never again have that satisifaction. you swear it.

‘’ one last chance, ‘’ you warn, voice cracking under the pressure behind the words. quentin inhales deeply then blows the breath out slow, still never moving an inch. his hands drop back down-

the shot rings out, deafening, splitting the air in two.

quentin jumps, the bullet whizzing an inch away by his ear. eyes widening almost comically, he stares at you with his jaw dropped. a muscle in your own jaw twitches as you pull back the safety a second time.

‘’EDITH- ‘’

before he can say anything else a blur of red and blue tackles him to the side, knocking the breath from his lungs and the glasses off his face. skidding halfways across the metal walkway, not far from your feet. however you’re too focused on the shifting colors holding quentin down with an unbridled fury - no, wait, how-

‘’ peter? ‘’ you breathe out, and he turns to you. his mask covering his face but you know he’s trying to smile. that’s what peter does, after all, even after an attempt on his life.

quentin’s eyes snap to the glasses and in peter’s moment of distraction, he bucks and sends the kid flying, hitting the railing with a painful rattle. he scrambles for the glasses.

gun forgotten in your panic and haste, it falls with a thud to the floor as your hand stretches out. sparks of orange and blue jump out from the tips of your fingers to engulf quentin’s hand. he hisses, curses, and jerks away- looking up at you with a seething hatred that leaves you breathless.

peter recovers and slings some webs around the other man’s wrists, you dive for the glasses but a drone appears, bullets firing rapidly. sliding to the floor in an effort to dodge them, you accidentally nudge edith with your foot, sending them flying back closer to quentin.

the drone turns its attention on peter and you yell his name - he turns and ducks and ties it up in fluid string, the machine exploding with a bang and crashing down into the water below.

quentin has edith back, now, and suddenly the bridge falls away to leave you in a blank empty space. you barely suppress a wail; how the hell can you even try to escape this?

quentin’s voice breaks the darkness, addressing peter.

‘’ you want the glasses? come and get them. ‘’

there’s a second of still silence - before the edges of the scene begin to tear and shed light, and the more drones peter destroys the more reality comes back into focus.

when the last of the simulation fades, you find quentin on the floor, blood seeping through the grey jumpsuit. you bite back yet another cry, how can you still care after all he’s done?

he speaks some low words to peter, who has removed his mask. the expression on his young face shatters the pieces of your soul into sharp fragments; red eyes, flushed cheeks, trembling lips.

quentin removes the glasses and holds them up to peter. something shimmers just before your line of sight. you frown; and then gasp.

without thinking, the last of your strength gathers, and you launch yourself toward peter, crashing into him from behind. just as the real quentin fires your discarded pistol. his face drops in horror and then he drops due to blood loss. the quentin on the ground disappears and peter grips your face in his hands.

‘’ no, wait, no, ‘’ you pull your arms to loop around his neck, the shot to your shoulder burning - but something else burns low in your gut. something familiar and exhilerating; your healing factor, kicking in. you manage a smile despite the circumstances.

‘’ hey, hey, kid, hey, kid, it’s fine. i’m gonna be fine. ‘’ you cut through peter’s worried stutters and squeeze his face gently. relief takes over for a second.

then, his eyes fall over your shoulder. quentin is gasping for breath. hand pressed to the bloody wound on his belly. your breath catches. peter’s legs fail him and he drops next to the villain, and you don’t need anyone’s illusion tech to transport you back to the worst day of your life.

because here you are, yet again, holding back a screaming peter as he breaks and breaks and breaks, and breaks again until he’s almost slipping through your fingers in pieces. quentin tries to speak. fails. stares at you instead.

‘’ why? ‘’ peter sobs, you barely have the strength left to hold him close, ‘’ why? ‘’

why, quentin? why? you echo the question in your mind, too overwhelmed, too exhausted, too distrustful of your own heart to speak up.

quentin shivers and parts of his body spasms sporadically. he catches enough breath to answer the kid he cut to the bone with betrayal.

funnily enough, it doesn’t make any of them feel any better.

‘’ people needed to believe in something. these days... they’ll believe in anything. ‘’

—

tag list: @djjffkd @kellzogg @bucky4cap45 @tuliptx @evee550 @stargeek727 @hrrykim @angeli-fucking-cat @glitter-rian @ssskeletonsoffun @donkeyshrong @narwhale-overlord

84 notes · View notes

lallemcnt · 5 years

Text

but all i see is him right now — 2.8k (ao3)

let's call this eliott and lucas hanging out in an unknown location, in an unknown setting, in an unknown time; lucas' head is muddled by thoughts of how much he wants eliott.

or, the one where lucas sighs dramatically (several times) and they talk about soulmates.

if he closes his eyes, and just .... thinks back on tender hours of hands brushing and cheeks flushing and red lips and warm breath, he —

“where are you?”

lucas squints his eyes open against the afternoon sun, blinking rapidly, and, perhaps, frowning because the person before him let’s out a light laugh, their silhouette changing from pure light to brown, fluffy hair, indiscernible grey-green-blue eyes and pink lips spread in a teasing smile: “you did it again.”

eliott is sitting there, smiling in all his breathtaking glory, staring directly at lucas who, in turn, grows warm in the cheeks and looks down at his hands. he did it again — the daydreaming seemed a prerequisite to hanging out with eliott recently. in lucas’ case, anyway. recently, he thinks, they haven’t even known each other that long.

“i should put that on my resume: interesting enough to bore lucas lallemant out of his intelligent mind.”

that’s because i spend every single minute of every day thinking about you, making up stupid fantasy scenarios about us; being in your company makes my brain overload, but lucas can’t say that. so, he narrows his eyes and kicks out a leg against eliott’s ankle, because he’s an emotionally mature adult who knows how to respond to digs no matter how lighthearted they are. eliott responds by grabbing lucas’ ankle and squeezing it. lucas tries to kick his leg out of eliott’s grasp, but soon stops — he’s tired and there’s no heart in it — lets out a dramatic sigh before lying down on his back and looking up at the sky.

seconds later he feels light fingers on the bare skin of his ankle where his jeans must have ridden up, his leg jerks in response to the soft touches, the fingers stop and when he relaxes once more, they pick up again.

no words are uttered, contrary to the rush of thoughts that consume lucas’ mind as eliott tattooes lucas’s ankle with his soft, calloused finger tips. the thing is, lucas has never had a friend quite tactile as eliott. someone who hugged everyone he met; he would hang his arm around your neck in a group circle; instead of pointing out you had something on your shirt he’d pick it off himself or take a piece of fluff out of someone’s hair. lucas couldn’t name the number of times he and eliott’s hands would brush when they walked side by side after school, but lucas always put it up to eliott and his cuddly demeanour. he was, by nature, a soft dude. his presence was magnetising; to be at the centre of that attention that everyone, whether they knew him well or not, craved, was sublime. so lucas didn’t question that moment, where others would see it as something more, he knew it wasn’t, and yet against all reason and logic he couldn’t quite help himself, knowing what would follow, he still let himself dream it was. it hurt when he thought about it too much which was all the time, but soaking up eliott’s presence and being with him, even in only a platonic way, seemed to ease the pain, but when lucas was on his own that was a different matter. the nights when he couldn’t sleep because of his insomnia, he would lie there in bed and dream, he would pull back his yellow curtains, encouraging the moon spread her light, initiating thoughts of that drawing. the greek on the moon. lucas liked to think of the moon as selene; ever since he’d learned that greek name, and ever since he’d seen eliott’s drawing, that name seemed to give it a new life — they were both ruled by the moon, after all, being cancers and all.

“i was thinking about the moon.” lucas spoke, volunteering his thoughts for no other reason than he felt like it.

“what about her?” eliott’s interest was palpable, he even stopped tracing patterns on lucas’ calf. lucas yearns for the touch, almost to the point he forgets what he was speaking about, but not quite.

“about your self-portrait on the moon.” he glances at eliott who looks thoughtful, waiting for lucas to continue. “and i was thinking how would you draw me? what animal would i be?”

eliott’s silent for a few seconds, contemplative. then he says, “sit up for me.”

lucas complies, suddenly feeling nervous in that i’m-in-love-with-you-and-it’s-so-obvious way, believing that his eyes will give him away so he gives himself a second before meeting eliott’s eyes. eliott is sitting by his feet, considering lucas. he tilts his head and gets a faraway look in his eyes, picking up the beer resting beside him: “i’d have to think about it.”

okay, lucas thinks, okay.

eliott is fiddling with the label on his beer bottle, so lucas proceeds to lie back down and sigh once more. sometimes he thinks it’s not one sided — the feelings, that is. in the mornings after having drank too much at a party and inevitably retreating back to one of le gang’s homes, and walking home together at 11am because they live only a street away from each other in the opposite direction to the other three. in the mornings when it’s tipping towards a warm afternoon, but they’re both decked out in their jackets, messy hair and morning breath and slow gaits, wishing to be home but also wishing for just a second longer in the other’s company. maybe there’s a hand brush or two, a few glances out of the corner of the eye, playful shoving because can one really be around eliott without some kind of physical contact that somehow leads to slightly longer touches, followed by avoided glances and painful hearts and close tears. but as soon as he’s had a few eliott-less hours logic returns and reprimands lucas for being so naïve because no one ever loves the person who craves love due to severe abandonment issues. no one could ever love the boy who turns spiteful when he’s angry and spits out harsh words he doesn’t mean.

lucas feels himself getting agitated by his ceaseless negative, spiralling thoughts and so he ditches that train of thought to prevent the casualty he can see himself creating. he sits back up, tugs his knees to his chest, tilting the side of his head to rest on them. he glances at eliott who is already staring back at him.

“are you sure you’re okay?” eliott inquiries, concern etched on every plain of his sun-kissed face. summer is almost over. eliott brushes a hand through lucas’ hair once before cradling his beer bottle once more. “you don’t seem yourself today.” he concludes.

lucas shrugs his shoulders and decides to be honest for once. “i don’t feel in the best mood. sorry for my terrible company.”

eliott shakes his head, but before he can come up with what lucas believes would be a placating response, despite no times of this before, lucas interrupts, changes the subject. “i’ve never met anyone guy who is so comfortable around their male friends.”

as soon as it’s out of his mouth he regrets it. eliott’s hand retreats, his body language immediately becomes closed-off: shoulders hunched, no eye contact — eyes squeezed shut before glancing off to the side. lucas wants to hit himself, badly.

“no!” lucas yelps. it’s instinctive because he adores eliott, and hurting the people he cares for is the last thing he wishes to do despite the recent regularity of it. sometimes lucas thinks he hurts himself this way on purpose, punishes himself for being this messed up boy, any time he’s reached the light. he doesn’t find eliott’s tactile nature weird. if anything, he yearns for it — his heart almost craves it. “i-“ love it. he takes a breath, because he can’t say that. “i didn’t mean it like that. i meant- it’s you. that’s just how you are. you’re warm and you-“ lucas stops. he can’t believe he- he can’t look eliott in the eye — doesn’t know if he could conceivable do so anyway because he hasn’t looked at eliott’s face since he retreated into his shell — so he does the next best thing instead. he, ungracefully, pushes eliott’s legs down and flops down on them, resting his head on eliott’s thighs and raising an arm to shield his eyes from the glaring sun which has begun to set.

“it’s just different to all our other friends, you know? but it’s nice. it’s beyond nice,” and he goes rambling on, because he’s nervous but he wants to make sure eliott knows for certain that it’s not weird, that’s it’s good, in fact. “it’s comforting. especially for someone who didn’t grow up with that kind of ... familial affection.”

eliott relaxes after those words, disrupting his own silence with movement. carefully brushes a strand of lucas’ perpetually errant hair behind his ear and he’s smiling, full teeth and beautiful crinkled-eyes, causing lucas’ stomach to drop.

how is he supposed to breathe normally around that? lucas’ mind conjures up paintings from the few museums eliott has successfully managed to drag him to. he pictures contrasting harsh and soft lines, bold colours and soft tones. but his mind lands on muted, yellow flowers- sunflowers, which he’s sure were once bright and confident in their own beauty, dulled by time and the constant attention of roaming eyes: from breathless awe to complete apathetic glances. now, lucas has never actually see the painting in real life, rather, only through the fractured screen of eliott’s phone, but they stole the air from his lungs the first time he laid eyes on them. lucas has never been the most artistic, preferring the practicality and logic of science, he thinks years of unnecessary school trips to galleries tainted art for him, forever, until he met a certain someone. he’s not sure why these sunflowers have this specific affect on him, and whether it’s actually the painting itself, or rather how the moment he was shown them still compels feelings of joy and unbridled laughter from him, especially in his most desolate moments. eliott was practically standing on top of lucas, buzzing with excitement, phone shoved directly in lucas’ line of sight — definitely too close, because lucas had burst out laughing, grabbed eliott’s hand with the phone in, and pulled it back from his eyes, which had closed from the brightness and nearness of the screen to them. his head had fallen back against eliott’s shoulder and he’d looked up at him, shaking his head:

ok, ok, ok!

ok, lucas lied. It’s definitely the feeling of that moment that made him love the painting so.

“look at the sky, lu.” eliott’s quiet voice disperses lucas’ thoughts.

lucas glances up. he hadn’t noticed how late it had gotten; the sky was a gradient of beauty: magenta, easing into a violet, dripping into a cerulean blue. there is something magical about dusk, as the sky is no longer dominated by the burning sun, is left to its own devices, unraveling its perpetual blue to reveal a masterpiece of colour.

eliott glances at lucas whose face must mirror his own feelings because he responds. “yeah.”

“i like this.”

“me too.”

“i’m surprised you’ve been single this long.”

eliott snorts out a laugh, tipping his head back. “four months. all of which you’ve known me for.”

“huh, four months?”

“yep.” a hand brush through lucas’ brown locks.

“feels like forever.”

“i know.”

a few hours roll by, the daylight hours cycling at a rapid pace, it’s almost time for them to leave each other, but that’s not what’s on lucas’ mind, he’s found himself getting all heated over a topic many find nonsensical — that he wouldn't dare raise with le gang in fear of being laughed out — but he’s with eliott and they often find themselves getting all kinds of existential about fate and relationships and people.

“this idea that there’s only one person on the planet who your soul connects with is bullshit.”

“you don’t believe in soulmates?”

“no, it’s not that. i just don’t believe that there’s only one person out there ‘meant’ for you. i think you can connect with more than one person like that. every relationship is different, right? you talk to each friend about something different, or maybe the same thing but in polar-opposite ways. like, yann is definitely my soulmate. i love him. no one gets me like he does. he’s my brother. but i also have arthur who knows science like me; we can discuss new and old theories or articles we’ve read — that’s a passion we both share and i don’t get quite the same feeling when i’m speaking with someone else. then there’s basile who, yeah, jokes around a lot, is inappropriate 85% of the time, but what most people miss, because they don’t take the time to get to know him, is that he’s a fucking brilliant listener, you know? so if someone’s gonna sit there and tell me there’s only one person on the planet for each person then i’m calling bullshit because i have these three great dudes in my life who are without a doubt, my soulmates.” lucas is breathing slightly harder than normal, almost like he’s just finished a 200m sprint. he didn’t mean to get so passionate and worked up. he’s almost embarrassed again. but he didn’t say anything stupid, he’s sure of that, and he meant every single word.

“i always thought the idea that there’s only one person you really fall in love with was romantic as fuck, but...what you just said...your conviction proves that feeling wrong,” eliott responds, licking his dry lips once. “i never thought about friends as soulmates, but it makes complete sense.”

“i don’t know about love...” lucas teeters off. “i’ve never really felt that before.” he admits, looking down at his hands and turning them over, because he’s insecure on this subject matter — the expectations that everyone is young when they first experience it, and if you haven’t you’re automatically deemed an outsider. is it a lie though? has he never felt it, what are these feelings he gets around eliott? he loves hanging out with him but does he love him? can lucas love in that way?

“it’s strange. it’s the most consuming emotion. it’s one of the best and worst feelings...i miss it.”

“you miss being in love or you miss your ex. aren’t they kind of the same thing?”

“i don’t miss my ex, but, yes, i miss being in love.”

lucas doesn’t respond and eliott, it seems, doesn’t feel the need to expand on that, despite lucas’ brain wanting it more than anything — for eliott to explain why and if there’s someone he likes... another few minutes pass by in their companionable silence, no daydreams for lucas, just the sounds of traffic, pushchair wheels bumping over fallen twigs and a cold, subtle breeze — a harbinger of the night — it comes and it goes, much like their conversations that day.

“so, what about me?” eliott inquiries with a teasing smile on his lips. the breeze, though seemingly gentle, has carolled his hair into a wilder state — it brings a smile to lucas’ face, who only tilts his head in response.

“am i a soulmate?”

they’re sitting only a few inches apart, and the question feels personal — almost too much, but lucas has been spiralling on thoughts of eliott all this time, and he can’t help himself any longer.

“are you a soulmate?” lucas ponders, crossing his knees to sit directly in front of eliott who nods in askance.

“hm.” is all lucas replies as he raises his palms and indicates for eliott to do the same, which he does, placing his palms against lucas’. warmth blooms, and they both let out light sighs, masked by the other’s; it’s a cobalt-blue sky now, and the noises of the lives of the people around them are muted to the feeling of their contact.

lucas swallows and puts on a grin, “dear world, is eliott demaury a potential soulmate for i, lucas lallemant?” he felts warm breath ghost out in a chuckle.

lucas raises his eyebrows with a mock reprimanding look in his eyes. “what’s so funny?” eliott rolls his lips in, trying to prevent the smile and laugh from escaping before opening his mouth to sincerely apologise, but lucas interjects. “this is serious. i mean, if you don’t want to find out if we’re destined to know each other for life, then, i don’t know why i’m wasting my precious time.” all this he says, while trying to maintain his raised eyebrows, but eliott’s cheeks are puffing out and lucas’ head is becoming slightly sore from exercising his eyebrow muscles, and they’re looking each other dead in the eyes now — blues and greys and greens dark with no light to illuminate them — trying not to crack up. eliott clutches his stomach, falling forward, his forehead resting on lucas’ shoulder.

it’s a bliss no words can name, no language lucas knows can describe this feeling.

#mine #elu fic #this is scary but i posted this a while back on ao3 and i hope u enjoy :)#skam france #eliott demaury #lucas lallemant #elu

34 notes · View notes

yeoldontknow · 4 years

Text

Sheltered Hearts: 4 (FINAL)

Author’s note: for @iq-biased. i hope you all enjoy the last part in this series as much as i enjoyed writing it! Paring: Yoongi x Reader (oc; female) Genre: enemies to lovers; vet!au; angst; romance; fluff Rating (this chapter): PG Warnings (this chapter): angst; some discussion of surgery but nothing graphic; a sick doggo who deserves so many kisses and is a good boy; a very soft first kiss; a very soft yoongi :( someone hug him Word count: 7.5K

masterlist

Talia’s hands tremble when you reach out to hug her, the strength in your joints equally as unwavering as the strength of your gaze upon your fingers. For now they are clean, gloves discarded and with them Casper’s blood, but that does not change where they have been, does not erase all that they have touched. You hold her gently, instinctually used to soft touches and gentle movements; lingering in a place and time when any pressure, too hard or too coarse, would cause malleable sinew to sever. The relief in her breath against your shoulder is immeasurable, perhaps her first genuine exhale in hours, but you remain silent, altogether still too aware of your hands, haunted.

‘He’s recovering,’ you hear yourself whisper, though you are unsure of the purpose of this statement. Is it to tether you to the earth? To reassure Talia? You cannot say for certain. It erupts from nowhere, a confident murmur, dawning in the center of your chest and desperate to greet the air within the same second. It is unprompted and likely unprofessional, but it matters, brimming over from the place where emotion latches onto blood.

Dr. Hague stands behind Yoongi, observant and encouraging, as he details Casper’s rehabilitation plan, voice bright and clear with sunlight nestled into the corner of his words. Even without looking at him, you can hear he is smiling, that boyish yet professional expression he wears when he is proud, still love-drunk from the concept of recovery. She breaks away from you, hanging on his every word and forcing herself not to celebrate too soon.

Casper will be held for several days in observation, the first three days the most imperative when infection or rejection can set in. Should he come out of these days unscathed, he will then be transferred to recovery therapy and then spend five weeks on lead, unable to freely play. It will be hard, he advises, and Talia nods, prepared to try to understand, chewing at the only question love ever allows to settle in a space like this:

When can I see him?

You don’t wait for her to ask the question, air in the room becoming thin and altogether too stale for your liking. Pulling off your surgical cap, you turn abruptly, moving through the waiting area to push your way through the doors and out to the parking lot. In the field across the street, the sun has just begun to set, blood on the grass that illuminates the earth like wildfire. A single breath is not enough to contain this, you think, a moment of fierce victory and delicate, unfathomable frailty. It could snap, this sense of pride and pleasure, one white blood cell rejecting the next would bring this moment to an endless, perpetual night.

Breathing deep, the smell of the wild flowers finds its way to you, a Spring evening that will eventually fade and fade until other victories and other failures render this moment painfully ordinary. Breathing deep, you cling to this feeling, the understanding that Gods never marvel at their miracles - the knowledge that surgery is not the act of playing with fate and instead is the summation of human suffering, a desperate plea to continue in life’s brief and limited smallness.

All things live, all things die, and it is a blessing to be present at both.

The clack of the door closing breaks your thoughts, but you do not open your eyes. You want this moment to last a little longer, regardless of who sees you, aware that these kinds of successes look almost the same as defeat, brutal and unforgiving. Yoongi’s presence lifts the hair on your arms to standing, an energetic cascade of safety and understanding. He moves behind you, drifting from your right to the center of your back to your left and off, somewhere away from you and carried by the doppler effect of his even footsteps.

He doesn’t speak, and even in this silent awareness that you are being observed you don’t feel pressured to speak with him. Yoongi lets you be, allows you to continue, uninterrupted, and lets you stand in the ever lowering sun, the warmth from the day giving over to a cool breeze, demanding nothing from you. He lingers at the edge of your awareness, a watchful satellite ensuring you are whole and that, if you do break, you do not break alone. When you finally open your eyes, your turn to face him, hands at your sides too full of blood and swollen, now, with excitement.

Leaning against his car, now in his street clothes, Yoongi stands, arms crossed and expression placid, watching you with a whisper of a smile. Liberated from his scrubs and hugging himself in a thin burgundy hoodie, he no longer is the surgeon or the doctor or the student battling for recognition. Instead, he is simply Min Yoongi, young and handsome and magnificent, watching you as though you are the fading light of the earth, intent on memorizing all your nuanced shades.

For a while, you are content to linger in this silence with him, observing him with the same unfettered focus. Eyes wired, the dimming light catches his irises, making him appear as though he glows from within. Thin lipped, he no longer appears severe in this light, instead he is curious and mercurial, hungry for the truth of things - the truth of you. The last strands of light hold tightly to his hair, lighting him on fire, burning the edges of his aura.

‘How about that diner?’ he asks with a gentle nod of his head towards his car, recalling his earlier suggestion.

The rumble in your stomach at the suggestion makes you giggle, though you are unsure if it is food you desire or if it is him, moments alone with him to truly see who he is when he does not have to fight to be seen.

Yoongi orders pancakes as though it would be a sacrilege to eat anything else at a diner, unbothered with the pretense of looking at the menu. In the pale fluorescent light, a pink blush settles on his cheeks, teased to life either by the rush of blood beneath his cheeks or the soft reflection of the red vinyl seat. You feel his eyes on you as you scan the menu, his inquisitive stare taking its time handling your frame. Gripping the edge of your seat, your eyes glaze over, scanning the words and the pictures, idly wondering why you bother with such false shows of interest when, much like Yoongi, you know you will order the waffles - something slightly different, but similar enough in its texture and form that you begin to see Yoongi as your mirror image.

His gaze remains trained on you even after the waiter has departed, arms folded, again, across his chest in a congenial display of interest. You’re not used to such unbridled attention, the kind of focus that comes from learning a person rather than witnessing them. The steel in his features has disappeared, rendering him soft and human and altogether too sincere for your liking, but the stillness in his focus tells you he is disassembling you. Fidgeting in your seat, heat crawls along your skin, joints tense and tongue heavy against your teeth.

You watch him too, watch the way his head cocks slowly to the side, a small smirk pulling at his lips. Watch the way he lets himself be painted by the light, different now to the sun and do the red and pink and blue kaleidoscope of the sky but equally as mesmerizing. No one is meant to be offered a metamorphosis in this kind of light. No one is meant to become beautiful, but he is. Of course he is.

Tearing your eyes away, a small act of desperation, you think, you glance around the diner. People are scattered, the empty spaces between occupied tables perhaps larger in number than those seated altogether, but you are glad for the quiet hum of life and motion. Thursday evening, and you would not say this particular location is prone to a rush hour, but it’s peaceful, a reminder that the weather turns, hearts beat, and lungs breathe.

A reminder that some things do not change even if the way you are feeling about Yoongi is.

‘I’m realizing,’ he announces, calling your attention back to him with his smooth, low drawl, ‘that we have only spent time together in the context of work.’

‘You’re just realizing this?’

‘No,’ he admits. ‘But I’m saying why haven’t we? In five weeks, amidst everything, why haven’t we?’

It’s not an unfamiliar question, one you have been mulling over for days at a time. At the clinic, things have changed - even before Casper’s surgery, the way you move around Yoongi has shifted not unlike the planets around the sun. But then, it is not just you who has been altered, moved by this sudden unified desire to help. Yoongi, too, smiles more - the kind where his teeth are on full display and for one, precious moment, he is not afraid of being himself; laughs louder; allows the creases at the center of his eyes to form without worrying he is being unprofessional.

In the past several weeks, you have found more reasons to be beside him, more reasons to ask for his advice, found yourself craving the very concept and theology of more - not necessarily love or a crush, but the threatening start of one, the thunder of your heart just a little louder when he laughs. Some days, it is no longer Dr. Hague’s praise you crave but his, as if he has any bearing on your success, as though a word of approval from him holds more weight than any paper rewarded to you by the nature of your own hard work - as if hours spent challenging him are as valuable as hours alone in a lab, giving over and giving in, allowing yourself to become better because he requires it.

Clearing your throat, you let your eyes wander over his easy smile and his cool, collected demeanor. ‘I don’t know,’ you shrug, a casual display of nonchalance. ‘You never asked.’

Yoongi chuckles, unfolding his arms as he leans a little closer to the table. ‘You didn’t ask, either.’

Cocking your brow, you feel yourself smirk, pulling at his words the same way he pulls as yours. ‘Are we calling a truce?’

For a long moment, Yoongi considers your words, mulling them over as his cheeks inflate with air. Folding his arms on the table, he regards you in a playful contest, the diner becoming little more than a boardroom for your false negotiations. Mirroring his position, you rest your arms on the table and narrow your eyes. Chewing at the inside of your cheek, it takes work to swallow the smile you want to offer him, the sort of smile he so badly hides at the corner of his mouth.

‘At work?’ he says, finally.

You nod, resolute in your role and your intent.

‘Never.’ He falls back into his seat, reclining into the cushion with his eyes full of promise and mirth. You wait for him to speak, somehow hanging on every word, relieved that this rivalry can continue as is, uninterrupted and unchanged, yet still expectant. ‘But outside of work,’ he continues, slowly, his wide smile blossoming, ‘I’d like to be friends.’

Everything about Min Yoongi is infectious, the light in his eyes a dangerous glimmer that demands your surrender. Taking a deep breath, you prepare your words, aware that your acceptance of this offer is a commitment not unlike love, yet carrying with it the potential to last longer, eternal, the purest form of connection that could exist.

‘I can do that.’

The arrival of your food ceases all conversation, the growling in your stomach a reminder that you have not eaten since before Casper’s surgery. All morning you had felt uneasy, not nauseous and not queasy, but unable to shake that you were standing at the precipice between fantasy and reality. The statement of wanting to be something is entirely different than the process of becoming, said so long and so often throughout your life that you had almost forgotten that the experience of growth is just as important as the commitment to the desire. And so you had not eaten, certain that the comfort of a meal would distract you from the weight of importance.

Taking your time arranging your plates of eggs and bacon, gathering your napkin and utensils, you greet your waffles with an enthusiastic smile. Glancing upwards, you find yourself laughing at Yoongi and his childlike glee. He falls into his meal the same way he falls into surgery, with diligence and an edge of impatience, as though the plate itself carried a seduction he found irresistible. Hands idle over your fork and knife, you wonder if this is the enthusiasm with which he falls into everything he desires, unbridled though careful, unsatisfied until he has born witness to and tasted it all, with a fidelity of devotion large enough to cradle the sun.

He cuts into his pancakes with diligence, holding his fork and knife with surgical delicacy as he makes elegant cuts, shaping his pieces with precision. You’re sure it’s just a habit, something he can’t quit after so long of learning to be careful, but you feel the onslaught of your sudden similarities in the center of your chest, a weight becoming harder and harder to disregard.

‘What you did for Casper was impressive,' he announces, penetrating your thoughts with the cool tones of his voice. 'The foresight required to make that kind of suggestion...to invent something…’ His words evaporate as he chews, glancing from his pancakes to his bacon and back again, unsure which deserves his attention more. Swallowing, he nods, assuming you have already agreed with him. ‘Remarkable.'

The magic of the moment is broken by the implication this is an unusual occurrence, reminded now that, had you been more vocal, more demanding and less angry that the clinic already had a rising star, there would have been more chances, more opportunities to prove this kind of medicine is not a miracle. Briefly, the sterilized antiseptic scent of the graduate school lab hall floods your synapses. All the bones you watched break, only to be put together by someone else; all the innovations, the universal mystery of 3D printing no longer so out of reach; all the advances humanity makes simply because they want to, and because they can.

What you did for Casper, you think, was not as much impressive as it was the morally correct thing to try. Long ago, you decided magic is real and magic is man made. Magic is the decision of recognizing something is broken and taking the initiative to fix it.

Casting your attention to your waffles, you grip your utensils with the same tender reverence as Yoongi, hands giving pause to make your first incision. ‘It wasn’t really,' you murmur with a shrug.

Yoongi halts his movements and swallows, blinking at you momentarily bewildered.

‘No?' he snorts, disbelieving. 'Tell that to Talia. That dog might walk again, with all four legs mind you. That never would have happened without you.'

Humming, you nod in mild agreement. ‘I mean sure, objectively, it is.'

Dropping your shoulders, you consider your words, wondering how anyone could explain the way careful hands and cold metal can create structure - not necessarily life - but still something vital, necessary, and powerful just the same; the offer of a new life, created and manifested simply because you want it to be. How could you ever, you wonder, explain that you are not bringing someone back to life, but adding to the concept of it, extending it- challenging, not death but, life itself.

‘But,’ you continue, meeting his eyes once more as you decide on a worthy enough explanation, ‘you have to understand that’s the standard for orthopedics, this kind of specialty.’

He eyes you expectantly, hands poised and still, knowing that there is more - so much more you want to say - and leaves you the absolute freedom to say with, unhindered.

‘In our surgery labs, you should see what you can build. What you can make with your own two hands.’ Relaxing into your seat, your mind races, remembering. ‘It’s a fusion of all the sciences really - bones and soft tissue, metal and construction. You’re not trying to resurrect - yeah, sometimes it can feel like that, but that’s not the point. We aren’t bringing someone back from the brink - we’re pushing them over the limit and ensuring they survive.’

You aren’t entirely sure when you became so hungry - for food, for life, for Yoongi - but it does not escape your attention how painfully emphatic you sound. Nothing, you think, has ever been so important for him to understand, so important for him to feel.

‘I have no interest in playing God,’ you continue, quieter now but just as determined. ‘Not the way you would in cardio or…’

‘Oncology?’

He offers it almost like a challenge, and, perhaps, on a different day, long before you truly could say you knew him, you would have felt as though there was no way to escape the unintentional insult he means to force on you. Instead, you see the way he watches you, considerate and gentle, fully aware this is not a slight at him or his choices, managing instead to leave you room to breathe in the space of accepting his statement.

‘Yeah.’ You hold his gaze, smiling as though you cannot help it, as though smiling at him is the most natural and wonderful thing - made for it, you think, made for the wonder of his pleasure.

Yoongi smirks, watching you intently, eyes alive with something that makes him look playful and joyful, content to be sharing this moment with you; honored, if only because you decided to let him in.

‘Makes sense,’ he says with a shrug, leaning forward once more to return his attention to his pancakes.

Bewildered, you cock your head to the side. ‘What does?’

‘Why you were resentful before.’ Yoongi reaches across the table, taking the syrup from beside your glass, pouring more over his pancakes and letting it spill onto his bacon. ‘About working here.’

Your jaw falls open, mock offence mixing with genuine abjection. ‘It’s not that I was resentful,’ you begin, asserting that you were neither ungrateful nor bitter. ‘It’s just hard to rationalize how badly you want to help, and how much you know could do, with the limit of your role.’

Even as you say the words, you know they are little more than platitudes you tell yourself - have been telling yourself - to rationalize the level of dejection you experienced. It seems like ages ago, moons upon moons having passed, a dying age when you accepted your stagnancy and put the blame on Yoongi, choosing him as your scapegoat simply because he took control of his life with both hands.

Cocking an eyebrow in your direction, Yoongi laughs, amused and disbelieving. Pointing a strip of bacon in your direction, he refuses you the comfort of your placating sentiments.

‘You were resentful,’ he states plainly.

The mischievous glimmer in his eyes is infectious, your cheeks warming with a sheepish blush that has you giggling. ‘Okay, maybe I was,’ you concede. ‘All the typing and filing is wearing out my perfect hands.’

Eyeing you through his lashes as he cuts more of his pancakes, he considers you for a long while, as though you are a mystery he is only just beginning to solve.

‘You did good,’ he says eventually, words gentle and voice full.

The genuine affection you find in the statement catches you off guard, chest tight as your heart stumbles over its natural rhythm. More and more, he has become tender - someone who offers support in the form of silence when you need to be heard; someone unafraid to give encouragement or honesty when you need it most; someone who, after everything you have seen from them, from their strength to their arrogance to their dedication, is nothing more than a boy with a heart too big to be contained in the cage of his sternum.

Now, with the lights reflecting the neon of the diner and putting the rainbow in his blonde hair, skin pink and warm and eyes almost brutal in their kindness and their candor, Yoongi is a vision - one you do not think you will ever stop admiring.

‘You did, too,’ you murmur, cheeks hot with a blush of embarrassment. You wish you could be loud, unafraid of him hearing just how much it means to you, but softness is what he has pulled out of you, a compassion for people rather than animals you thought had vanished long ago emerging from deep within.

You want to be as confident in this expression as he is, but the fragility of your tenderness is not unlike a fawn, keeping you close to Yoongi so that you can learn.

‘So here is what I know about you,’ he begins, biting down on his bacon strip and breaking your thoughts. ‘You’re smart, passionate, competitive as hell.’

‘You say that like it’s a threat,’ you laugh, cutting into your waffles, the thickness of the atmosphere diluting down to one of amicable comfort.

‘It’s not a bad thing,’ he laughs. ‘In this profession you need that edge. Life doesn’t wait.’ Swallowing, he takes a sip of his water through the straw, lips forming a soft circle that makes you melt, eyes wide and focused on yours. ‘But,’ he continues, ‘I’m still trying to make sense of you.’

Pouting, you grimace. ‘You mean you’ve spent all that time looking at me and that’s all you’ve figured out?’

Yoongi nods with an affable smile, but he does not allow you the comfort of teasing deflection. Instead, he folds his arms on the table and regards you with a tenacity that feels weighted, too heavy for the jovial, easy comfort you have found yourselves in. ‘I think that’s all you let people see.’

Had you not known him to be incisive, the direct comment might have startled you - months ago, you would have been insulted. Now, you find you have to stop yourself from swooning. In the days and weeks you have spent learning Yoongi of your own accord, he has been doing the same - only, he makes it clear he has been watching, witnessing you, and you, usually so careful and professional, find that you want him to see you. You are desperate for his eyes on you, his eyes watching you in the morning after your coffee; his eyes, studying your lips and your skin in the sun, basking in the post-surgical bliss that comes with risk; his eyes, learning the way you move when you do not know you are being watched, when you do not know that you are wanting him to watch you, or wanting him altogether.

Months ago, you’d have been upset, but now you are relieved, yet still uncertain he has done you justice. You deserve more, you think, than just idle watching. You deserve to be consumed.

‘Then,’ you begin, placing your utensils on the plate and leaning forward, mirroring his posture, ‘maybe you’re not looking hard enough.’

His eyes widen, sparkling as they take you in, his smile brilliant and combating the light - every sliver of it, natural and unnatural, demanding he power the universe. ‘Seductive,’ he announces, gleeful. ‘Like a little imp.’

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you take a slow, shaking in hale at the way he lingers on the word seductive, clinging to the S as though he is reluctant to let it go, to let you go. The world shifts on its axis in the aftermath of his sentence, and you both are aware of it. He waits for your reaction, impatient in the way his joints seem to tense around his fork, unblinking in his desire for your response. Tongue heavy against your teeth, you smile, lowering your gaze and regarding him through the thickness of your lashes, watching the pink swell of a flush creep up his neck.

Yoongi is not ensnared but he is waiting for you to hold onto the moment, to clutch it with both your greedy fists, coming to him like the snake in Eden, ready for you to bite.

‘If only you knew,’ you offer, coquettish and dark.

Yoongi tips his head back against the seat, pleased and reassured that you are just as unforgiving in your lust and flirtation as you are in competition. A vibration has commenced in your nerves, the humming in your skin a foreboding sense of vulnerability and the expectation that these exchanges will continue - somewhere, somewhen, not in the clinic but elsewhere, created by your own accord, because you both wish them to be so. You can feel it, and you are sure he can too, though it is still young - a warm, threatening heat that whispers its demands for you both, not yet large enough to consume you.

But it will. You want it to.

Yoongi smiles, and you smile back, letting it take root deep within your soul, its reach far more sweeping than you ever let this kind of expression reach. Yoongi smiles, and the earth moves, and nothing, you know, will ever be the same.

It continues like that for a long while, days and weeks passing with you watching Yoongi and Yoongi watching you, a silent contract that promises you will kiss one another's thoughts before you will kiss lips, these exchanges somehow more intimate and tender than the exchange of skin to skin. The clinic notices the change, the shift from rivalry to competitive understanding to a friendship that borders, tauntingly, on the barriers of romance. Your colleagues watch you both with smiles tucked into the corners of their mouths, knowing everything because you neither hide nor deny anything at all, rejoicing in the sensuality that comes from the force of finally living.

Day in and day out, you trace the bones and the bodies of the animals that come to you, the end to your service at the clinic looming ever closer, a date you deny but do not dread if only because it means you will have him, all of him exactly as you want him. There was no discussion of your eventual transition from friends to lovers, something as inevitable as the movement of the sun over the earth's horizon, but you felt it. In the way he smiled and the way he waited behind you, watchful and awed, you felt it. Somehow, some when, on a night or a day when you both felt comfortable, placated by one another's presence and more alive than you had ever felt simply because he was at your side, you both had decided it would be so.

But not yet.

For a long while, you hold hands through your surgical gloves, fingers touching fingers for the briefest of moments, only to break apart as quickly as you had come together, choosing the airs of professionalism over the airs of romance; evenings spent beneath his parent's peach trees, reading medical books and medical research, pretending your toes do not touch, that the warmth on your skin is from the blanket and not from his skin. In those moments, he is pink - pink as the blossoms and pink as your blush, breathing in unison and waiting, almost too impatiently, for the thrill of being young and being in lust.

The danger of these feelings is that they always feel immortal, immune to the wear and tear of life itself, a blessing that endures. In these sentiments, you are invincible - but the are dangerous because they are more fragile than your own soft tissue, than the supple muscle of your beating heart. They are dangerous because they always end, and when they end, you are always left bereft.

It ends on the hottest day of the summer, mid-day in August with the sun high in the sky and no clouds to cover it. Yoongi had come to work early, the air conditioning of his apartment broken and the sweat on his neck lingering in a tantalizing shimmer. You watch him scribble notes from a medical lecture onto a thick pad of paper from your seat at your newly earned desk in Dr. Hague's office, a small table with a computer and too many charts and notes scattered across it to be remotely organized, too warm to focus.

You are meant to be writing a pathology report for a cat with a broken femur; you are meant to be running labs and inputting charts for Dr. Hague's review. And you will, you tell yourself you will, but only after you memorize the way the contour of Yoongi's cheek seems to catch the light, golden and bronze and almost too ethereal to belong to man.

The phone to Dr. Hague's office rings, making both you and Yoongi jump. He laughs at himself, sheepish, and you laugh with him, though something in this moment makes your stomach drop, your skin slick now with a sense of dread that refuses to leave you. If he feels it too, Yoongi does not let on, reaching for the phone with a confident hand that does not shake as he pulls it to his ear. It's almost inevitable, the way you start to grieve, though you are unsure why the sadness in your chest has begun to spawn like spores. You are grieving, but for what you cannot tell, you can only sense that you are supposed to by the way Yoongi's brows furrow and his lips drop into a frown, cascading downward, almost sauntering lower alongside the trajectory of your heart, before he expresses his acknowledgement and hangs up the phone.

Without a word, he drops his notepad to his deserted chair and moves past you, knowing you will follow hot on his heels, and you do, rising after him with fire in your veins and an ache in your chest, knowing. Somehow, knowing.

In the clinic waiting room, Talia sits with Casper at her feet, pale and lost. Eyes downcast, she is dark, gaze unfocused as she breathes almost too quietly, so far away from you and this moment she does not lift her head on your approach. You and Yoongi halt your steps by the reception desk, simply watching. Hands fisted at your sides, you feel as though you knew, as though you might have always known that they would be back, that somehow it would be different - another day, another war, another reminder that you are human and humans are not meant to solve the problems of mortality.

It's Dr. Hague who breaks the silence, moving past you and Yoongi with somber footsteps as he calls her name. Talia raises her head, eyes no longer simply dark but wet, attempting a hopeful smile as she rises to her feet.

Before she speaks, you know what she will say, certain you do not want to hear it and, conversely, certain that you must. It will be the fire, you think, the fire that will insight another battle out of you, another way to win the day and, perhaps, even the war.

'The vet,' she manages, voice broken and uneven and so terribly small. 'They said his cancer came back. It's in a different part of his leg...worse now, I guess.'

Her words leave you bitter, as though you have been pressed and completely released of your youthful, jovial glow. In the aftermath, you are hardened and battle-born, angry and lost, the tears threatening to burn at your eyes because you saved him. You saved him once and you will do it again, the sheer force of this sentiment vibrating down through your joints, your fingers, deep into the atoms of your blood. You saved him and you will do so again.

The very nature of your will is unflinching, uncompromising as you take a deep inhale, readying yourself. Turning to your side, you expect to see Yoongi, the blood beneath his skin ablaze with the same relentless passion for victory, but he is not there. At your side, there is nothing, just the long tails of his lab coat as he departs from the room altogether.

Bereft, he departs from the clinic with ferocious speed, your own tongue running dry as you struggle to fathom words and reason for his sudden absence. Talia looks to the door, your eyes meeting at this central point, bewildered yet somehow unified in understanding. If she could leave her skin, departing from this moment with a completeness that leaves no discernible trace, you imagine she would. And so it is unfair, you think, for Yoongi to have the liberty of escape.

Gingerly, you follow him, reminded of the day when he followed you, orbiting around you in the evening sun as he watched and waited. The difference, you suppose, is not the circumstance as much as it is the timing. He gave you space, distance, minutes with just yourself to collect and gather your thoughts; and so you are too soon, almost cruel in your interruption. It washes over you, the understanding that to feel something, anything, is a pain that defies the simplicity of language but to be witnessed in the state of that emotion is an act of unmaking, an unforgiving vulnerability.

But right now, you need him just the same as he likely needs you; consumed, at once, with the need to remind him that the experience of defeat only matters in the actions you take in the aftermath.

Crouched against the back of the clinic, Yoongi holds his head in his hands and trembles, small and shy, defenseless as though he naked and raw. You approach him cautiously, footsteps careful as you train your eyes on the curve of his back, catlike and poised to withdraw at a moment’s notice. He looks as distraught and desperate as you feel, gripped by the fear and the remorse - the magnitude and the full breadth of it - as he takes long inhales, demanding that the air itself grows claws within him.

Stepping forward, a twig snaps beneath the soles of your shoes and he bristles, aware that he is no longer alone. Your gaze departs from him, searching other points of interest, sheepish as you bite the inside of your cheek. The silence is deafening, the breeze refusing to rustle the leaves and the birds refusing to sing. Time moves slowly in this space, inching ever forward and yet you seem detached from it, waiting and waiting and waiting.

‘I know it’s wrong,’ he announces suddenly, alarmingly clear toned for a man so broken. ‘It makes me a bad doctor.’

Softening, you are drawn to his side, leaning back against the clinic as you keep your eyes forward, not wanting to upset him further should your presence be a discomfort. ‘What does?’

‘Attachment,’ he spits, resentful that the very concept could exist. ‘In oncology we learn it in year one. You don’t get attached. You’re not God. You can’t save every animal. This kind of thinking will do you in.’

‘Then,’ you try, keeping your voice low and soothing, ‘why this dog? Because it was special?’

Yoongi shakes his head. You can hear the rustle of his hair as he moves, the sound making your chest constrict in affection.

‘It’s not just this dog,’ he retorts sharply.

‘No?’

‘It’s every dog.’ Behind the bitterness and distress, you hear the truth - the anguish of heart that knows too much benevolence, too much affection; the pressure of a heart too willing to love. ‘Every dog and every cat and every rabbit. Each time, I love them.’

‘You have to love them, Yoongi.’ Lowering your gaze to his crouched form, you keep your words calm and even though their meaning is tenacious in its ardent determination. ‘You have to love them enough to take the risk, and you have to love them enough to do what’s morally right - even if that means letting them go.’

‘I know it’s stupid.’ He continues, as though he did not hear you at all, as though you had not spoken. ‘Day one, they say it will make you a terrible doctor. Thinking like this will break you before your career even starts.’ Rising to a stand, he wipes his palms over absent creases in his trousers before he, too, leans against the clinic, arms folded and chin tucked against his chest. ‘Want to know the truth?’

‘Tell me.’

‘I think human doctors have it easier,’ he explains. ‘You’re not going to love every patient. Some are assholes, and some aren’t very good people. Hell, depending on the case you might not want them to live - they might be a goddamn criminal.’

‘It’s easy not to get attached to people,’ you agree with a nod.

‘Fuck, I don’t even like people very much.’ At this he turns to you, worried and wide eyed, uncertainty tainting his features. He looks to you as though you can help him understand, pleading and so endearingly lost. ‘I don’t do this,’ he whispers. ‘Letting people in…,’ his voice fades as he turns away again, walling off one fear for the next. ‘You don’t get that choice with animals,’ he continues, clear toned and persistent. ‘No animal exists or acts out of bad intentions.’

Looking out over the horizon, you watch the early afternoon sun cast its golden rays over the grass, dappling the field. Something in this experience for him is two-fold, the fear of risk wrapping itself around separate, yet not altogether innocuous, events and ensuring they can no longer be parted. A smile pulls at your cheeks, bemused that you had been learning to trust and breathe through the same fear as he, learning to surrender to someone other than yourself.

And so you offer the same lessons to him, if only because you find the easiest way to fight your battles is by looking in the mirror.

‘I don’t think this is stupid.’

‘No?’ he breathes, turning to face you once again. ‘Because I’ve not even started yet, and I can already feel it ending.’

You’re unsure if he is referring to his feelings for you or his career, though you are confident it does not matter. All risk is risk, regardless of the direction.

‘It’s not stupid,’ you repeat, shaking your head. ‘It’s human. I don’t think any vet truly understands why someone becomes a people doctor. People suck.’

You finish with a shrug of your shoulders, a non-committal sign of agreement you hope informs him that people do suck, but he is the exclusion. Always the exclusion.

At this, Yoongi laughs, casting his gaze downward to his feet as his tell-tale blush wanders across his neck and into his ears. Encouraged, you continue.

‘Even the worst animal has a reason for being, well, the worst,’ you explain. ‘Lots of times, it’s people who made them that way. People and their bad habits and their neglect and their inability to understand or care.’

Sidelong, he looks at you through the curtain of his eyelashes, lips pulling into a small grin that gives your heart wings. ‘I see this furthers your point that people suck.’

‘It does,’ you giggle, unable to help yourself and the way you softly swoon at the sight of him, boyish and young and learning to try. ‘But that’s not my main point.’

‘Then what’s your point.’

‘My point is…’ Your words fade, carefully choosing your words, aware that this is the pinnacle, the moment between now and tomorrow, the moment of change that ensures everything is different. And you, just as guarded and so full to the brim, ready to learn to love, tell yourself you are prepared. This is for you as much as it is for Casper as it is for him. ‘We learn this too, but in Ortho we call it something different. For us, it’s failure to rescue. For us, it’s not about who failed less or who failed more. It’s merely who rescued more, that’s the separation. In surgery, things will go wrong - you cannot take a risk without the probability of failure, otherwise it isn’t a risk. You have to be ready for it, the failure, because it is naturally inevitable. The difference between triumph and defeat, rescue and failure to rescue, is what you do after it.’

Yoongi regards you intently, eyes glimmering not unlike the sun at dawn, watching you with enough attentive vigilance you feel valuable, important, the single most important thing in his small universe at this moment. It’s an odd feeling, the knowledge and acceptance that you matter, that you matter and that you are wanted. The world spins, and you feel it, the lightheaded dizziness that comes from the motion of things rather than the lack making you root your feet to the earth, emboldened.

‘Obviously, you continue, chest full and impassioned, ‘you became a vet to save animals, we all did, but this is the moment you take to heart and try to rescue again. And when you get like this...you have to talk about it with somebody.’

‘Ugh,’ he groans with a soft chuckle. ‘People.’

‘With me,’ you offer, leaning to nudge his shoulder with yours, watching as he tucks his bottom lip between his teeth. The very sight warms your blood, heat wandering down your spine and into your core.‘I wouldn’t say I’m people.’

‘Oh, right,’ he nods, the flirtatious candor in his voice just as raw as his emotions. ‘A person.’

‘I’m serious!’ you laugh, allowing yourself the moment of mock offence and amorous teasing. ‘What do you normally do, go home and drink the night away to forget this?’

‘Well,’ he nods with a grimace, ‘you’re not wrong. Can’t usually forget though. I remember every single one I’ve failed.’

Reaching forward, you take a hold of his right hand, letting your thumb graze over the knuckles. It’s so unlike you, so unlike your careful distance and professional stoicism, but the risk of it is a thrill that sends an electric shock up your arm, breath shuddering in your lungs at the feel of his soft skin. Almost immediately, his grip tightens over yours, holding what he can of you with an unwavering stare, demanding that you feel just as much, that you feel just as vulnerable and exposed. Like this, you let the pad of your thumb explore the ever warming expanse of his hand, learning the smooth texture until you are certain, if demanded, you could remember and explain it in such detail all the world would feel it too.

‘Don’t tell anyone about this, okay?’ he murmurs, breaking the moment with a shallow breath.

Cocking your head to the side, you smile impishly, just as he knew you were, and are, all those weeks ago. ‘What, that your heart is the size of a house?’

‘I meant that I cried,’ he laughs, ‘but yeah, that too.’

Breaking from his hold, you turn to lead him back to the clinic, grinning as you offer him a wink. ‘One of those secrets is safe with me, but I won’t tell you which one.’

‘Wait!’

Yoongi reaches for you once more, pulling with such force that you collide into him with a huff. He’s faster than you, somehow three steps ahead and prepared, holding your face with both hands as he presses his lips to yours, skilled and soft and ensuring his gratitude cascades down and down into your soul. Instinctively, your arms wind around his neck, fingers coming to toy with the hair at the nape of his neck, deepening the kiss as you step closer, close enough you’re certain there is no air between your chests, certain that it would not dare separate you. He hums against your lips, a deep roll of thunder through your opens that has you opening for him, his tongue dipping in for one brief caress against yours before he departs entirely, separating, once more, as though he had not been there at all.

But you feel him. Oh, do you feel him.

Catching your breath, you lose yourself in the honey of his gaze, waiting for the rhythm of your heart to return to its normal pace. But you do not relinquish your hold, and nor does he let you go, both of you gripping one another as though seeking purchase during a fall.

‘I’ll keep both those secrets,’ you whisper, lips still wet and tingling with the force of him, ‘if you come back in and find a way to help Casper.’

Yoongi smiles, a wide gummy expression that makes you feel, yes, you are indeed falling. ‘Deal.’

146 notes · View notes

nadineselfships-archived · 5 years

Text

Misguided

A/N: The Seed brothers blow up a building storing important medicine and The Mother has a few things to say to them.

Rubble and ash coat the ground, smoke billows from the once sturdy building, now broken and caved in. Joseph rises from behind the overturned truck, walking slowly forward to stand in front of the crumbling building. He tries to ignore the guilt in his stomach as fire reaches up towards the sky.

Jacob follows Joseph, standing beside his brother and placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. They did good. At least that’s what they told themselves. Jacob could see the indecision in Joseph’s eyes and he tried his best to offer support. Joseph is thankful for Jacobs faith in him and holds the hand on his shoulder, grateful for how it grounds him.

John trails out from behind the truck more hesitantly, there was an uncomfortable weight in his gut as he stared at his brothers backs, this didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel right from the moment Marvin asked them to do this.

“Good job boys, you blew that thing sky high. Better get out of their quick before Nadine finds out and sicks their peggies on you.” Marvin’s voice comes from the radio on Joseph’s belt and slowly they walk away.

Jacob takes lead, expertly manoeuvring through the forest trails with Joseph and John on his heel. They don’t say anything, something feels different but none of them can figure out what. They’re nearing the Henbane River when John’s radio comes to life.

“Tell me you didn’t just do what I think you did.” John stumbles, something clenching his heart as the anger and betrayal rings clear in Nadine’s hissing voice.

“I never thought you’d go this low John. Your brothers, maybe, but you? You have no idea the chaos you just started. You have no idea the pain, the suffering, you’ve just caused.” John fumbles with his radio, heart hammering as he attempts to bring it to his lips. Calloused hands snatch it from him before he can and he watches in dismay as Joseph holds the radio up.

“I think you’re members will live without a little bliss, they’ll probably be better off without it actually.” Joseph speaks harshly into the radio, looking back at the smoke clouds still visible in the sky. He doesn’t think, doesn’t pause to consider his words. He just says them and John flinches when Nadine’s voice cuts through the air again.

“You idiot. YOU. FUCKING. IDIOT. I thought you were smarter than that, i truly did. All that wrath and pride you have truly clouded your goddamned mind. Pray the Mother has mercy on your soul Joseph Seed because I WON’T. You will pay for what you’ve done, one way or another so help me-” Nadine’s voice is cut off as Joseph presses a button on the radio.

John stares at said radio in horror, he knew something wasn’t right. Nadine wouldn’t get so infuriated over bliss, he knew that. They had done something they couldn’t take back but John didn’t know what. Silence hangs over the brothers before Joseph sighs and gently hands John his radio back. His eyes have the same confusion and worry as John’s and the two share a silent thought.

“We need to go.” Jacob grunts, eyes focused on the tree line as the sound of snarling dogs and distant shouts start to be heard. Joseph and John nod, following after him quickly.

They don’t make it very far before bullets are whizzing past their heads and the sound of a helicopter above them is heard. They stumble behind trees and cover each other as they try to avoid being shot. Joseph manages to grab his radio and send out a distress call but they were doubtful anyone would make it to them in time to help.

The Henbane River has a wall of peggies standing in their way, rage in their eyes and guns pointed straight ahead. They were trapped.

“What do we do?” John asks through uneven breaths. Joseph shakes his head in frustration, he didn’t know what to do. Jacob continues firing, covering them and giving Joseph time to think.

But time runs out and so does bullets. They put up their best fight, taking down as many peggies as they can. When John is roughly grabbed by two peggies and dragged back Jacob let’s out a rage filled cry and races forward, but he’s pinned to the ground by four peggies before he can get to him. Joseph watches his brothers being roughly restrained by peggies with anger and shame in his heart.

He too is restrained and the three of them are thrown into the back of a truck, their radios are taken and they’re completely vulnerable. Jacob curses Marvin’s name with venom on his tongue and John hangs his head silently. Joseph should have known, none of this had made sense from the second Marvin had asked them to take down the otherwise inconspicuous building. Why he agreed to it he didn’t know either.

Nadine’s reaction to his words ring in his head and build doubt in his gut. What was really in that building, he was almost afraid to know. With the peggies seemingly as equally enraged as The Baptist Joseph feared he had made a mistake.

Before he knows it he and his brothers are dragged from the truck and shoved onto their knees in front of the very building they had been at an hour ago. The fire was still burning and The Mother stood with Nadine, Michael and James at her side. Her back was to them but her siblings glared daggers into Joseph’s soul, unbridled fury in their gazes. Jacob glared right back and John refused to look up.

Slowly, The Mother turns and walks towards them. Her usual calm demeanour seems off, the deep frown on her face uncharacteristic and unsettling. She stares Joseph in the eye and he feels shame and anger hot on his back. He couldn’t show weakness in front of them so he readies himself, stone faced with a facade of apathy.

“Do you know what you’ve done Joseph? Do you have any idea, what you destroyed?” The Mother’s voice is calm but there is anger biting at the ends of her words. She walks closer and lifts her arms up, motioning to the remains of the building behind her.

“Do you know the amount of my children that will die without the medicine you destroyed?” Joseph’s brows furrow at her words and she doesn’t fail to notice, “yes medicine. What did you think it was? What did they tell you, it was?” Her eyebrows raise as she tilts her chin up, looking down on Joseph almost blankly. Joseph feels his stomach drop. Marvin had said drugs he never said medicine. What was he supposed to think? Bliss was the only drug they were aware of the cult having their hands on. Apparently they were wrong.

The Mother sighs as he stays silent and she lowers her arms, turning to pace slowly in front of them. Nadine, Michael and James stalk forward to stand behind her. Michael and James stare Joseph and Jacob down while Nadine’s angry gaze is set on John’s bowed head.

“I cannot save people who don’t want to be saved nor will I try, there are millions who want to be saved who came to me of their own free will.” The Mother begins softly and Joseph scoffs despite himself. The Mothers glare is harsh and Joseph shifts his gaze to the ground.

“Your resistance started this, we did not start the violence, we did not hurt anyone, we didn’t kidnap nor forcefully convert anyone.” The Mother snaps, anger now clear in her tone as she marches up to him.

“We preached and welcomed those who wanted to be saved. It is not our fault that members of your resistance could not handle the fact that their family members wanted to be saved, that they saw the truth and wanted to follow the path to Eden.” She continues, Joseph snapping his head up to glare daggers into her emerald eyes. Before he can retort she’s leaning down to look him in the eye.

“It is not our fault that your resistance members, like snakes in the night, crept into our homes and snatched our family members away, took their choice from them, scurried like the rats they are, and laid blame on us so they did not have to face the consequences of their own actions.” She hisses dangerously.

“Snatched your family members away? They were saving their family from you, after you brainwashed them and convinced them the world was ending! How can you keep making yourself out to be the righteous one, are you really that delusional? You drug them with bliss and think they’re with you willingly?” Joseph snaps back. Rough hands grab his shoulders as he leans forward and pull him back into place.

The Mother frowns, disappointment in her eyes as she shakes her head. She stands and turns again, walking back to stand between Michael and Nadine.

“Remiel let me-” Michael begins to speak but The Mother holds up her hand, she places it on his shoulder and gives him a soft smile. He nods, a silent understanding between them and he stands back.

“Yes, we use bliss to calm our family, but not to drug them into complacency. When you learn the world is ending, when everything as you know it is going to cease to exist, it can break people. It can rip the hope and the will to live from them just like that. So yes, we made bliss, to ease their minds so that they might be at peace until the day they can walk into Eden and stand on their own two feet.” The Mother’s tone is calm once again and she sighs, clasping her hands together in front of her and gazing back at Joseph softly.

Joseph falters for only a moment, the absolute tone and confidence in her words has a small vine of doubt wrapping around his throat but he vehemently ignores it. He can’t let himself feel anything other than his anger otherwise he knows he’ll crumble too quickly too easily.

“That doesn’t change anything. That doesn’t change what you’ve done.” He mutters, grasping at anything to keep his anger raging and doubts at bay. They were bad people, they had hurt many people he’d called friends and stolen the lives they’d lived. Of course she had her own rose tinted version of it all, she saw herself as the saviour. He couldn’t let himself see her like that, no matter what he was told.

“Don’t bother Joseph.” Jacobs voice pulls him from his thoughts and he turns to see Jacob glaring at The Mother venomously.

“She’s too insane to really hear you,” he grunts. A sound resembling a snarl escapes Nadine and James, both step forward with gazes zeroed in on Jacob.

“What I’ve done?” The Mother begins, hands gently holding onto Nadine and James forearms to keep them from moving forward any further.

“We did not put guns in our children hands, we did not ask our brothers and sisters to fight, you think we are murderers, that we have no morals, that we’re insane.” The Mother gazes at Jacob, lowering her arms once more.

“Maybe I am insane, maybe the voices I hear are just that, voices in my head. But do not try to tell me I have no morals when your whitetails put guns into the hands of children and mercilessly torture my family with no remorse.” She steps forward, raises a hand to motion to the Whitetail Mountains and shakes her head.

“They’re not with us.” John speaks up quietly. He glances up and freezes under Nadine’s intense gaze, regret creeps up his spine and he looks to The Mother who’s attention is now on him.

“Maybe not, but your people do kill my family daily.” She says firmly.

“With no thought of their brothers, sisters. Their mothers and fathers. Their children. They don’t even have names to you, they’re not even people in your eyes. They are just crazy cultists, peggies, that is what you refer to us as isn’t it?” The Mother raises an unimpressed brow and John lowers his head once again. He wished he were anywhere else at that moment.

“May I also remind you that every instance that has lead to the death of one of your resistance members, has been in self defence. We did not instigate the violence you so desperately crawl in but we will finish it,” The Mother continues quickly as Joseph opens his mouth once again to interrupt, “I will do anything to protect my family even if that means getting blood on my hands. You’ve forced our hands and made it impossible to have any sort of peace. You. Not us. Not I.” She holds her head high as Joseph shuts his mouth. Watching her seething form with his growing irritation and denial.

“Self defence? We just want our lives back. We just want our land and our homes back. You instigated it when you came here and took over, when you stole the businesses from my friends and their family from them after that.” Joseph is practically shaking, he can’t believe the audacity the women before him has. The audacity of her siblings that look at him like he’s the villain and not the other way around. He can’t stand that he almost believes what she’s saying to him.

“We forced YOUR hands? What did you expect us to do? Fall to our knees and let you steal everything from us? We’re just trying to survive this hell that YOU created, not us. Peace was never an option here Remiel and you know it.” Joseph snarls, all the fury he’d felt building pouring out of every pore as he stared up at The Mother. He wasn’t sure who he was angry at anymore. Her. Himself. God.

“I could have killed you and your siblings at any point up to now Joseph, I have people everywhere. However I did not and I will not, because that’s not who i am, I am simply a Mother protecting her children. I’m sorry you can’t see that.” The Mother mutters somewhat numbly. She turns to look at Nadine, a small nod and a glance and Nadine was walking away to their helicopter swiftly, only pausing to glare at John bitterly before disappearing into the helicopter.

“I hope one day you can see the light. See the truth. And if the day comes that one of you,” The Mother trails her gaze over them, “or your resistance members sees the light, than I will welcome you with open arms.” She hums gently. A wave of her hand and Michael is next to walk away, marching towards his awaiting men to give them orders.

James walks forward and Jacob watches him with a hawk like stare as he stalks behind them. He speaks lowly to the peggies behind them, no doubt telling them what to do with the brothers.

“But until then,” The Mother steals their attention one last time as she turns back to the burning building, “I cannot save those who don’t wish to be saved and I have to clean up the mess you’ve made.” As she speaks the three are hauled to their feet, as they’re being moved towards the truck The Mother turns her head to the side.

“You might also want to ask your friend Marvin about what he’s been telling you, it seems to me he hasn’t been completely transparent with you. I’d question if i really wanted to leave my sister in his care. Just a thought.” She mutters and Joseph feels a small pit of despair in his stomach.

The three are loaded into the truck without much resistance. John stares numbly at his shoes, Joseph holds his head in his hands and Jacob stares James down with fire in his eyes. James doesn’t say anything, simply sneers at him as he closes the doors to the truck. The brothers are quiet as they feel the truck begin to move.

Joseph takes the time to ponder The Mothers words, his own morals and ideals clashing with the opposing information and crashing down on him until he doesn’t know what to think. He does know that he has to speak to Marvin, there were too many lies and truths not being shared and Joseph desperately needed to know where he stood in all of this. Where his brothers and sister stood. His whole image of the resistance he started was starting to crumble.

The moment the truck stops and the sound of the peggies walking away dances in the air Joseph lifts his head from his hands and meets Jacobs patient stare. It was time to call a small meeting.

#self insert #fc5 #fc5 reverse au #fc5 oc #self insert fic #my writing #nadine writes stuff #Remy and I wanted to flesh out the mother some more so she rambled a speech at me and I wrote this lmao #she's a lot different to the father and we wanted to show that #also Marvin is in place of Dutch and I don't like him enough to flesh him out so asdfghjkl #joseph is losing the reigns on the resistance and is having a lot of doubts #and of course I have to hint at me and john because the drama this causes is gonna be wild #I am biggie angr and have to find a quick way to regain the medicine we lost #and I'm disappointed in him too #angst incoming basically #Michael Sinclaire #James Rook

11 notes · View notes