#code name: violet skies | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thedistrictsleepsalonetonight · 4 years ago

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A goddamn blaze in the dark

The first time Emily sees Sue, the first thing she does is drop a cup of steaming hot coffee onto the floor, slip on it and land flat on her back behind the counter. And then she thinks — Oh. Found you.

To be fair, even without the pesky niggling at the back of her head, very helpfully pointing out that this was the girl, her soulmate, the love of her life, her forever and beyond, the sight of Sue would have knocked her down anyways. What else are you supposed to do when a pretty girl, dressed in tweed, with her hair tied up in a braid, walks into the coffee shop where you work with that smile on her face? That damned smile that doesn’t ask you so as much as inform you that you’re going to be haunted by it in your dreams tonight? With 10 am sunlight filtering in through the sides, casting half of her features in sharp, glorious light, Emily might as well have just signed away her breath for eternity.

Lavinia bends, looks her right in her eye from above her. “You’re in love, aren’t you?”

She wants to open her mouth to say something along the lines of – It's her! It’s her! What comes out, however is a garbled groan.

“Emily, buddy,” Austin rollerblades over to her, bends over her from the other side. “You gotta get up before there are complaints of unprofessionalism in the workplace.”

“Oh, because you’re the pinnacle of workplace niceties, I assume,” Lavinia shoots him a contemptuous look. “Only last week, wasn’t it? Those two young ladies in here fighting over who you were going to take to the mixer—”

“Guys,” she manages, before Austin can respond with something equally snarky, or god forbid, lascivious. “Is anyone minding the counter?”

And for exactly thirty seconds, the amount of time it takes Austin to slide over and ask for the orders of the disgruntled customers, and before she stretches out her arm and lets herself get pulled up to her feet, she hears a sweet voice enquire if everything’s quite alright back there. Emily closes her eyes, breathes it in, and wishes, not for the first time that hour, that she had her notepad near her to scribble a snippet of a poem that is now rapidly forming in her head.

*****

It is only sometimes that Sue looks at Emily and thinks that if Emily were to say the word, she would get down on her knees and hand over the entire world to her. Most of the time what she is thinking is goddamn it, Emily.

That’s what is going through her head as they’re kicked out of the lecture of the old man droning on about volcanoes. She can hear Emily giggling from behind her, and though her heart’s beating loud — the result of embarrassment and pure adrenaline — the sound makes her want to turn around and regard the idiot making it. So she does.

They’re alone in the deserted staircase; all the students, she guesses, are probably in that abysmally monotonous lecture. Emily leans against the banister, bent over at the waist from the sheer force of her mirth, and Sue takes it all in — her laugh, her gentle hands clutching at the wooden surface, and those intense, sparkling eyes looking right into hers. The next Goddamn it, Emily isn’t exasperated. It stays right there in her throat, accompanied by other, tender platitudes she’s never been brave enough to let herself say.

You’re beautiful. You make me ache inside.

(At night, Emily would talk to her about pressure, an acute force that demands to be released within her, and unable to help herself, the words — I think I know what a volcano feels like — would bubble up from her lips. And when Emily moves against her, a writhing mass of soft, bundled up wanting, Sue thinks she understands Pompeii a lot better as well; understands being frozen in time, brought to your knees by the sheer majesty of beauty and violence.)

*****

Listen, Emily has never claimed to be an expert on love.

(Austin has, on several occasions. Sauntered into the café, placed his elbow on the counter, and grinned roguishly. “Emily,” he’d started, once. “You know what the”—

“Is it that time of the month again?” Lavinia, who had been mopping up the floor, drawled. “Too much time since your last breakup but not quite enough that you can start going out with another girl and still maintain that image of the soft, sensitive manchild you’ve carefully cultivated. So you’re stuck in that weird limbo of no dates to go on, and subsequently are here to bore us.”

He’d chucked a tissue in her direction, continued smoothly. “As I was saying, do you, my dear Emily know what girls like best?”

“My sunny disposition?” she’d asked.

“No,” he replied flatly. “What girls want is someone who is cool. Indifferent. Somebody who displays absolutely zero interest in them. In fact—”

“That is horseshit,” Lavinia cut in.

Emily faux-gasped, continued leaning the espresso machine.

“Don’t you listen to him, Em. Girls like sweet, sensitive people who express an interest in wanting to get to know them.”

“I am an expert on women.”

“I am a woman!”

Emily half-listened to the sound of their bickering, and wished that she were a cat)

She considers both approaches briefly as she faces the girl, wondering why time hasn’t at least done them the decency of slowing down. It’s only polite, isn’t it, for the universe to cooperate when two eternal lovers meet. Emily has no justification as to why the universe should be so invested in the meeting of her and this woman who she’d decided was her intended, except it just makes sense.

(Intended. The word feels like it bears the weight of a hundred years. Like a woman back in the 19th century was whispering it to another woman she was in love with, as they lay in bed playing with each other’s hands.)

(It fits. She doesn’t care to find out why)

The girl opens her mouth. Emily holds her breath.

“You’ve got foam in your hair.”

The words — “It makes them bounce” — are out of her mouth before she can think. And then she wishes she’d picked up another cup of coffee in her hand so she could drop it on her head again.

Thankfully, the girl laughs. Rests both her elbows on the counter and assesses the menu above Emily’s head. Emily doesn’t mind the reprieve from eye-contact. There’s something about looking right at this.... angel, for lack of a better word, that makes breathing cumbersome. And yet there’s another part of her that wants to raise her arms above her head and bounce like a little child, all “Hey! Look at me! It’s me!”.

(It’s a very strange day)

“What would you recommend?”

“Me?” Emily startles a little. Turns back to the menu, then back to the girl. Blinks. “That depends on your name.”

“How does my coffee order depend on my name?” the girl sounds amused.

Emily shrugs. “Eh. It’s a process. Can’t give away all my secrets.”

There’s prolonged eye contact, again, before the answer comes. “Sue.”

It rings in her head. Sue. Sue. Sue. There’s no prettier word in the English language. Saying it over and over in her head feels like a prayer. She tells Sue to wait a moment, and then turns to make her a caramel freakshow, all the while acutely aware of eyes on her. Her clothes are drenched in coffee, and she’d picked out the most faded of her t-shirts to wear today. God only knows what she looks like from behind.

The drink is her very best effort, though. Topped with the best slices of fresh fruit, and she’s made the swirls on the cream topping extra carefully. “Coffee for,” she pauses, pushes at the glass gently till it’s on Sue’s side, “Sue.”

“Can I ask what’s in this.... concoction?”

“My hear—” Emily knows she’s turning red, and desperately look away. “Um, coffee?”

Sue fumbles in her bag, and she wrestles with the urge to say — “Nevermind, it’s on me!” — which would not be the wisest. Emily hates the idea of taking money from Sue, that too, for something as measly as a coffee. Probably because she knows that if Sue were only to ask once, she would make her coffee every day, unprompted.

(She cannot reiterate enough – It's a very strange day)

When Sue steps away, Emily feels loss. It’s an unusual nudge to her sternum, a tingle in her hands that wants her to call Sue back. Before she has the time to dwell on it too much, Sue does.

“Do I,” she starts, frowning a little “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Yes.

I can’t explain it but we know each other somehow, the same way artists know their muses, and flowers know their bees, and my hands know how to write poems — and maybe a hundred years ago you and I were neighboring trees in the woods, or two seeds in the same tangerine; I’m pretty sure my knowledge of your existence was probably coded in my blood.

“Do you?”

Sue seems to consider that for a while before shaking her head, and then walking over to take a seat by the window.

(And if she catches Emily stealing a glance every five minutes, she’s nice enough to not mention it)

*****

The day of her wedding is the happiest day of her life so far, and yet, the wedding has very little to do with it.

It’s a tiny, foolish fact that this is the first smile she sees on Emily after Ben’s tragic death, and yet, it makes her feel unreasonably pleased with herself. If her life were split into days she could see and touch Emily, and dreary days — the former were made significantly better if Emily smiled in them. Not to be dramatic, but the sun shines better, the skies glow prettier, and the ground is a little easier to run on.

Emily points out somewhere in the middle of their frolicking, for back of a better word, in the woods, that her dress is getting ruined. And then flings a flower onto her face. Goddamn it, Emily, she says, and then is struck dumb by the sound of her loud, exuberant laugh.

(And even quieter still when she holds the magnifying glass over the tiny piece of paper Emily had handed her earlier, the words washing over her like some tidal wave, drowning her in emotions too terrifying to admit. I held her hand the tighter, she reads and she smiles; Still in her Eye, the Violets lie, she reads and punctuates with a deep breath and when she reaches the end, the Sue – Forevermore, she’s aware of an awful keening in her throat, of the sob waiting to make its way out. Emily, Emily, her heart sings, and she is sure it will never shut up again)

She thinks of Emily the whole time, through the vows and the subsequent cheers, as they make their way into the house; thinks of her when Austin holds her tight and tells her that he loves her. A quiet voice, the sound of her guilt crawls up from inside her to tell him that she loves him too. She may be his in name, but her heart isn’t hers to give away anymore.

*****

Seven. That’s how many days she steals glances at Sue in the library before they talk again.

Monday, 9 am: The librarian’s just gotten started with her morning coffee, which means that Emily can sneak her own breakfast past her bleary eyes without being detected. She gets the books that she wants off the shelf, makes her way to her usual chair at the very back of the room and settles in. Her bag gets hooked to her chair by the straps, the tiny diary, her faithful companion, finds a place beside the humongous book, and the coffee sits next to her breakfast burrito. After the entire process is done, she stretches her legs, leans back, looks up and freezes.

Sue is seated on a nearby desk, staring at her.

Emily looks away, on reflex. Her heartrate’s up, and her palms suddenly feel clammy. She takes a deep breath, takes in the floor, and tells herself she’s seeing things. Surely, there’s no way the girl of her dreams also goes to her college and it absolutely isn’t possible that she’s sitting in front of her, in the flesh. She readies herself, looks again.

Sue’s still looking at her, now amused as well.

Well. There go her studies.

Tuesday, 8:50 am: Her plan is foolproof. There is no way she will be caught off guard again. She will be first to the library this time, and she will be prepared when Sue walks in, ready to impress her with her overall charm and chill-ness. There will — not — be a repeat of yesterday when she’d spent the better part of two hours hyperventilating, stealing secret looks or straight up going red every time Sue caught her eye and smiled at her.

The librarian hasn’t even started eating yet. Her head’s resting on the desk, and her eyes are tiny slits, when Emily runs in, makes her way to her own seat. Sue’s seat is empty, thankfully.

(Emily totally does not punch the air in celebration, startling a few other sleepy students)

She stretches out her arms, places them behind her head and waits.

And then jumps about a feet in the air when a hand brushes her shoulder.

There are multiple things happening all at once — the gentle hand resting on her shoulder for a moment, a hand whose warmth she instinctively recognizes as being a familiar one, despite never having felt it before (she knows it’s her. There’s no other option. Nothing else could make the skin at the back of her neck prickle in anticipation), a faint, teasing whisper of “I thought we weren’t allowed to eat in here”, and the realization that her plan has woefully failed.

(Why, then, does she feel so happy about it?)

Sue passes by, turning back once to shoot her a quick grin, and then settles into her usual chair, opening the book already present on the desk in front of her.

Emily’s jaw stays on the floor. The state of her heart stays up in the air.

Wednesday, 9:00 am: Sue opens the note Emily’s just chucked her, reads it, and smirks.

Emily waits. It had been an impetuous decision to scribble “Waffle?” onto a scrap of paper she’d torn out of her notebook, when Sue had looked at her earlier, but it’s alright. These are matters of the heart, and matters of the heart require at least 25 percent an attitude of ‘Ah, fuck it’, another 25 percent of run-of-the-mill stupidity, and 45 percent the ability to laugh at your own shenanigans.

Oh, and about 6 percent bad math.

She catches the crumpled-up note that comes sailing through the air in return and opens it up. “I was taught not to accept food from strangers”, is written in beautiful cursive, along with a smiley face.

(A smiley face. A smiley face!)

Thursday, 9:10 am: She writes — “You know, I am named after one of the best American poets, and your name coincides with the name of her ultimate love and muse. Some would say we’ve known each other a long time” — and slides it over to Sue, heart in her throat.

Twenty seconds later, the sound of Sue’s clear laughter rings out in the otherwise quiet place, and Emily is so enchanted she nearly falls off her chair.

(She hands off half of the breakfast burrito to Sue when she passes by to grab another book, and Sue’s grateful smile just about makes her day)

Friday, 9:00 am: The book she usually grabs to pore over is already sitting on the desk in front of her usual chair. After Emily’s done waving hi to Sue, and has settled down, she notices the tiny flap of paper poking out of the first page. Tucked in the corner is a tiny note.

“As an English major, this is your game, isn’t it? Using words to impress people? :P”

It doesn’t take her long to compose a reply.

“First of all, how dare you? Second, is it working?”

Sue covers her face with her hands when she opens it. Emily counts it as a win.

Saturday, 8:50 am: The poor boy who has been sitting in the next row all week finally loses it after they’ve exchanged their fifteenth et of notes for the day.

“Can you people, like, just text like the rest of us, for fuck’s sake?”

When the rest of the people surrounding them nod in agreement, Emily sinks into her chair, catches Sue’s equally embarrassed gaze from across the room, and resists the urge to laugh like an idiot.

Sunday, 10 am: The morning’s been hell.

Austin had been panicking about some test he had on Monday, and so she’d come in to help out at the café, early morning. Between quizzing him on his flashcards and making sure every customer had a full cup in front of them, Emily completely lost track of time until Lavinia dragged her apron off her.

“What?” she’d asked, bewildered.

The clock was pointed out to her.

(No, she does not leave an outline of her body behind when she dashes out of the café. There is, however, a mad moment when she’s pretty sure her legs are scrambling with her body still at rest. It is pretty comical nonetheless)

From the entrance she sees a couple of things on her desk, and is a little miffed. Clearly, somebody else has claimed this prime spot with a vantage point from where she could stare at the most interesting woman in the world all day. And yet, she approaches it, because the chair is empty.

The book catches her eye first. It’s a copy of Hope is the thing with feathers by her namesake, and it’s got a note with a familiar handwriting peeking out of the top. She reads, delighted, a haiku about fruit and tenderness that’s been scribbled on it. And then she gets to what’s lying next to the book — what seems to be a sandwich, wrapped carefully in foil. She touches it. It’s cold, as though it’s been waiting there a while.

The smile on her face is definitely a permanent fixture now, she decides, as she walks over to where Sue is sitting and pretending to not look over. Her heart’s tripping over with delight, with gratitude with something tender that she’s absolutely sure she hasn’t felt before. Hope is the thing with feathers, indeed and it is perched in her soul. She pulls out the chair next to hers, and sits down.

“Thank you,” she says, quietly, and swears to god she can hear the entire table go Fucking finally — before Sue shoots her a small smile.

*****

“Only you would show up at a party looking like a raccoon,” she tells Emily, exasperated.

(And enamored. And besotted. Emily makes an adorable raccoon)

“I’m not here for the party — I’m here for you,” Emily shoots back, defiant. “As long as I can still see, I wanna look at you.”

And oh, there it is. There’s the Emily she knows, saying words that slide into her chest as easily as their hands go together. Words are Emily’s deadliest weapons, and she wields them to inflict sheer havoc.

Isn’t that just it, though? Emily has no idea. No idea what it does to her to have her this close — with their foreheads pressed to each other’s, their noses a whisper away, with Emily surrounding her, taking every one of her senses and carving her name on them. Sue feels a hand on her hair, then on her cheek, and knows she’s this close to losing any bit of self-control she might have had.

She steps away, composes herself, and thinks, Shakespeare was right. Parting is such sweet sorrow.

*****

“You might as well have ditched us,” Lavinia grumps.

“What?” Emily blinks, momentarily distracted from whatever text she was in the middle of shooting off to Sue. “Oh.”

“Not cool, dude,” Austin chimes in from the other side. They’re smushed into the couch together, planted in front of the screen where some 80s movie is on. It’s a weekend, which means movie nights filled with chicken wings and some dreadful drink that Austin’s invented that he calls the Faustinator, because.... reasons, apparently. And Emily’s just now realizing that she has no idea what the movie even is because she’s spent most of her time texting Sue. “You’re texting your sweetheart lameass cringy shit.”

“How do you know what I’m texti— Austin, stop reading over my shoulder!”

(She conveniently ignores the sweetheart thing. It’s easier than the alternative, which would be to dwell too much on the possibility of Sue being her sweetheart, and Emily being Sue’s and oh — she can feel herself smiling again.)

“Believe me, it isn’t easy on me,” he snarks. “Two months of talking our heads off about Sue, Sue, Sue and free drinks for Sue, Sue, Sue and pining over—”

“It has not been that long!”

“Lavinia?” he asks.

“Two months, two weeks and four days,” Lavinia tells her, flatly. “That’s how long we’ve had to hear about how you know her and that you’re convinced she is the love of your life.”

“I do.... know her,” she trails off, uncertain. It’s one matter to think it and feel it, like she’s felt the absurd familiarity in her bones every time she hears Sue’s voice, or Sue touches her skin, and sets it on fire. Another matter entirely to set about explaining it. Plus, other, unrelated things, like how reading Emily Dickinson’s poems feel like a friendly little nudge someone’s giving her, an inside joke, or why sometimes she feels so, so much that she would burst if she didn’t write that very moment.

“She walks you to class most days from the library.”

“And she’s been coming to the café every other day, and listening to you rant about random things,” Austin chimes in.

“Didn’t she write Emily a couple of poems as well?”

“Hey, that’s,” she starts, pauses, smiles. “Yeah. I, uh, told her nobody had ever written me anything before, and she — she’s really sweet.”

“Honey,” Lavinia says, gently, “the woman’s in love with you.”

“Oh-kay!” Emily jumps up from the couch and announces her intention to get more popcorn. And the pokes her head out from around the corner, and asks, in the tiniest voice.

“Really?”

Two chips come flying in her direction, and then they can’t stop laughing.

*****

There’s a kind of truth in the life she lives when she’s alone; no one to defer to, no one to explain to why she doesn’t want children or why, even after a couple of months of a blissful wedlock with Amherst’s most eligible ex-bachelor, the smile slides off her face as easily as the fruit punch in her parties off the plates. And then there’s the second kind that has to be dragged out of her — with heaving breath and shaking hands and salt dripped out of her eyes. Honesty that scalds and tears up her inside as it makes its way out of her.

(It’s a particular bit of irony in the fact that Emily is both the cause, and the only one who ever gets to witness the fallout, of the second one)

“Emily, I love you.” she says, like Emily’s put her arms down her throat and is ripping the words out of her. “I love you, and, and I felt you in the library — because you’re always with me.”

There’s a moment of complete, utter silence, when she stares at Emily and Emily stares back at her and the space between them is filled with the distance of lies and fury — and then they crash together. It’s an impossible push and pull, and Sue feels, for the first time in weeks, this complete surrender, abandon of all inhibition. Love tastes like Emily, and it feels like drowning and sounds like the tiny noise Emily makes when they part, like she can’t stand to be away even a second longer. All of what she knows about love is Emily.

If Sue could write, this is what she’d put down on paper: the feel of Emily’s neck beneath her hand, the way she melts when Sue wraps an arm around her. This yearning to be closer, the hunger to consume and the reluctance towards stopping. She wants, so badly to do Emily the same honor of immortalizing her in the form of words — she deserves it. The world deserves to know how she felt about this.... miracle, this angel in her arms. More than anything else, Emily deserves to know how Sue feels about her.

She turns to her side, kisses Emily’s hand once, twice. “I will never let go of you again.”

*****

Life is an endless sea of pain.

“Emily, she’s just a girl,” Austin tells her, then immediately flinches as Lavinia whacks him on the head.

Emily wipes away the moisture from her face with the sleeve of her favorite oversized hoodie, sniffles, and sticks her spoon in the tub of ice-cream again.

“Not to pry,” Lavinia starts, hesitantly, “but we still have no idea what happened. You came running into my room a week ago and haven’t stopped crying since. I guess — I guess we just want to know what’s up.”

Emily sighs. “It’s Sue.”

Austin blinks at her. “Yeah I — I mean, we know that.”

She thinks back to Sunday morning when she’d come upon her favorite restaurant while out on a run. The sight of Sue, sitting there with some.... dude. It was a cozy booth, and the way the guy seemed to be smiling in Sue’s direction couldn’t be construed as anything but romantic.

“A date?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re telling us this is because you thought Sue was on a date?”

What wasn’t clicking? “Sue was on a date. There were flowers on the table and everything.”

“And that’s why you haven’t been returning her calls or texts? And have expressly forbidden us to tell her where you are when she comes into the café, like, everyday?”

Emily shifts. “Yes?”

Lavinia whacks her on the head.

“Ow,” Emily groans. “What’s with all the violence?”

“Oh, stop it, you big baby. Now,” she took a deep breath, and Emily knew instinctively a huge lecture was incoming, “let’s examine the facts, shall we?”

“Is there any point in refus—”

“No. So, you like this girl, and it seems like she likes you too. But you refuse to do anything about it, like, you know, maybe admitting it to her. Then, you come upon her having lunch with some random dude and you assume it’s a date, and then freak out about it and cut her off.”

“But I’m pretty sure it was a date!”

“Fine! Okay! It was a date! So what? You expect her to hang around waiting for you to get your shit together, what, forever? And what if she doesn’t like you, god, Emily! I—”

“Okay, okay, wait!” she cuts in, holds up a hand to gather her thoughts. “I — I get what you’re saying, okay? I really do.”

“I know I have no right to be angry. She doesn’t owe me anything — I just. I dunno. I thought we had something. But even if that wasn’t the case,” she scrambles to add, “I guess I’m just taking pre-emptive action. To not get hurt. I can’t stick around and watch her fall in love with someone else, okay? I just. I can’t.”

Austin pats her on the back, and she sinks into his arm. This, of all things, is true. There are a multitude of things in life she has had to bear, and that she has borne, but this — watching Sue slowly fall in love with someone else, would be unbearable.

She has another spoonful of ice cream. “I’m being an asshole, aren’t I?”

“A little bit, yeah,” Lavinia agrees. “But give yourself a break — you’re in love. It turns everyone a little bonkers.”

“It’s fucked.”

“No!” Austin and Lavinia tell her, together, before Lavinia continues, “Listen, I think you should talk to Sue.”

“Pretty sure she hates me now.”

“If she does, then go and face it. Honestly, though, I think you owe it to her, and also to yourself, to explain your side of things.”

“I’d literally rather die.”

“Then go do your dying in the fucking library. It’s almost ten, anyways.”

*****

She can still feel Emily’s teeth on her collarbone, can still wrap an arm around herself and trace the marks Emily’s fingers have left on her, when Sue announces that she’s trying to write a poem.

Emily throws off the sheets from her body, and turns so their heads are close. Sue’s sitting at the end of the bed, wrapped in sheets herself, eyes closed. She opens them when Emily’s nose nudges against her cheek.

“You are?” she asks, hand already playing with Sue’s hair, and Sue nods. “What’s it about?”

Sue cannot stop herself rolling her eyes. “Guess.”

“Is it,” Emily asks, teasingly, “about me?”

“Maybe.”

There’s a delighted gasp from her paramour, and she can feel a small kiss pressed to her temple. “I want to read it.”

“Only when it’s done.”

“And when will it be done?”

She turns to look right at Emily now. “I’m not sure it ever will.”

When Emily kisses her — every time Emily kisses her, Sue adds a line to the poem in her head. She’s running out of words to express joy, passion and beauty, at this point.

“The romance of it all,” Emily remarks, pretending to swoon. “This way I will live on through your words as well, after I die.”

Sue frowns, feels her lips automatically pull down at the corners. “No talking about death.”

“But we will die, darling,” Emily explains, patiently. “I can only hope that I die first.”

“How — how dare you?” she asks, indignant. “I’m going to try my very best to be the one to go.”

(That one spurs an argument that goes on four rounds before either of the participants admit defeat)

“How about,” Emily starts, ponderously. “Whoever dies first comes back around the next time and finds the other?”

Sue can’t stop the smile. The thought is so whimsical, it drives their previous non-argument right out of her head.

“You think we’ll come back someday, years after our deaths?”

“Try and stop me,” Emily declares, fondly. “Susan Gilbert, I will always — always find you.”

Sue closes her eyes, feels Emily’s lips ghost over her cheek and tries to imagine the thought of the two of them, years from now, sitting side by side, hand in hand. Breathes deeply to stop the sudden onslaught of tears the image evokes.

“My foolish sweetheart,” she says, after she’s composed herself. “I love you.”

This is what she’ll put in words — Emily next to her, head tilted downwards, turned towards her. In about a minute, she’ll start complaining of the blood rushing to her brain, and Sue, exasperated, will tell her to sit straight. She’ll write about the light that falls on the edge of Emily’s nose, the one crooked tooth all the way in the corner, the tiny scar on her brow. About the way their hands lock into each other’s, how there’s a space on her neck made perfectly in the mould of Emily’s head — two girls, sitting next to each other, together into an eternity, and beyond.

*****

The first time Emily sees Sue after a week-long absence, she’s just run into the library and crashed into a nearby bench, thus bringing down a student, two books, and herself. She gets up almost immediately, sees Sue staring at the sight of her, wide-eyed, and thinks — Oh. Found you.

There’s an empty seat next to Sue, and on the desk lies an apple. Emily approaches her, and touches the back of her shoulder lightly.

“Can I sit here?” she asks.

“I don’t know.” Sue answers, not looking at her. “Can you?”

Emily has to bite at her lip to keep in the wild laughter that threatens to erupt. It’s not just the quip, either. It’s Sue — seeing her after these many days of zero contact feels like a drug, and she breathes it in, greedily. She pulls the chair out, and sits down on it.

“So,” she starts, then trails off.

“So,” Sue mimics, not unkindly.

“It may have been brought to my attention that I’ve been a bit of an idiot.”

“Only a bit?” Sue raises an eyebrow, leans back where she’s sitting.

Well. “More than a bit,” she amends. “I’ve been an idiot. A dumbass. An utter fool. A rake. A rogue of the highest order.”

Sue tells her she agrees. Then — “You wanna tell me why?”

“I saw you and, um, some guy. On your date that day over at the Plantain Leaf?”

Sue stares. For the longest time. “You ghosted me for a week because you saw me out to lunch with a guy? Emily that is so—”

“I know!” she says, then gets shushed by the people sitting around them. She consciously lowers her voice when she speaks next. “I know, Sue. I was being an asshole, I just — felt complicated about.... things.”

“Things?”

“Yeah. Like — feelings. And stuff.”

She sees Sue stifle a smile, and feels a little bit of life come back into her hands.

“What about your feelings?”

“Well,” Emily says, pauses, then comes out with a masterpiece of an explanation, “I have them.”

Then covers her face with her hands, because why? It hasn’t even been ten minutes, and she’s already started messing things up.

“I mean — I have feelings. For you.”

She chances a look up at Sue, after a minute of that incredibly earth-shattering revelation, and stays held in place by the intensity of her gaze. Sue’s eyes are soft, large, and Emily wants to do something stupid, like bury her face in her hands again.

“You do?” Sue asks her, in the tiniest voice possible. Like she can’t believe it. Like Emily has done an awful job of wearing her whole heart out on her sleeve the past couple of months.

“Yeah,” she replies, and finds her voice is equally tiny. “Good ones.” The kind that have me convinced we knew each other a couple decades ago, that I have heard your voice in my dreams all my life, that I’ve been waiting for you for turn a corner and walk into my life this whole while. And if not this time, I’ll wait a couple decades more for you to love me back. “And it’s okay if you’re dating that guy, I just — I thought you should know. That’s all.”

Sue lets out a shuddering breath. “I’m not dating Sam.”

Oh.

So turns out Emily had been holding her breath.

Ants are crawling all over her body. To combat them, Emily picks up the object nearest to her, which happens to be the apple.

“Is that for me?”

Sue nods. “You owe me the six sandwiches I got you this entire week,” she adds, teasingly.

Elation fills Emily until she imagines she’s probably floating a few inches above the ground, buoyed by this tiny admission of caring on Sue’s part. Whoever had said all those things about love had been right. It really was.... something different altogether.

“You’re telling me you sat here and read Emily Dickinson all week, waiting for a girl to show up?”

A light blush lights up Sue, and she leans forward a little bit. “Not just a girl,” she tells her, seriously. “I waited for Emily, who was named after this poet whose work I’ve really come to like. Emily, who I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love with.”

Oh dear God.

They’re closer together now, their heads almost touching; Emily imagines them in a world of their own, separate from the rest of this library. She pretends to scoff.

“What? You don’t think a lot of Emily?”

“I think I can write better,” she declares.

“You think you can—” Sue starts, then lets out a laugh. “Emily, shut up.”

And then they’re suddenly kissing, and each and every cell in Emily gathers somewhere near her chest to rejoice together, every beat of her heart falls and arranges in the shape of a song, and time just kind of. Slows down. Pauses. Stops.

Emily thinks she knows what a volcano feels like, now. When she’ll go home, later, she’ll sit at her writing desk, pen down a poem about lovers and hands and two women sitting with their heads close together; maybe put in a fruit or two. And tiny pieces will come together in her head, just like the ones in her chest that crumble every time Sue looks at her.

But right now, she closes her eyes, feels poetry on her lips, and it is good enough.

#dickinson #emily dickinson #emisue #fanfiction #dickinson fanfic #i'm done! finished it!#now - do i feel weird about writing about two real people wo existed albeit a long time ago? yes #but i'm justifying it in my head somehow because the show is just so whack #either way - here's 6k words of dickinson brainrot that i had promised myself i would finish before my birthday #and i did it with a few days to spare #so yeah #happy reading?????#also - i have a dickinson playlist that i listened to while writing this #so if youre somehow reading the tags and wanna check that out lemme know :)

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allmightyscroll-swag · 1 year ago

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warning for eyestrain / weird swirl patterns that honestly made my eyes hurt a bit while making this

Decided Recruits eyes are gonna be mostly red, actually. For lore reasons I can't yet disclose

Doodles of him. my son. I'm gonna wreak his life

#rottmnt #scrolls art #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt art #rottmnt fanart #code name: violet skies #code name: violet skies au #cn:vs #cn:vs au #rise donnie #donnie rottmnt #rottmnt donnie #rise donatello #tmnt 2018 #his eyes weren't always red #we love foot clan mystic shenanigans #eyestrain #cw eyestrain #tw eyestrain

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mantrabay · 4 years ago

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Ballroom In The Sky.

Gazing with his mouth wide open towards a sullen evening sky dotted with jet black clouds

Geoff Wild weeps.

He was on his knees on this grass-strewn, unkempt graveyard.

Two years later and her memory still lingers.

The sudden passing of his loved one had left this middle-aged man gaunt, ashen faced and skeletal. Wild’s troubled expression had become a haunted house of uncanny notions and strange secrets waiting to flow from his water-logged eyes. Those circumstances surrounding Violet’s death were never clear.

Velvet Heart was Geoff’s courtship name for Violet.

Was it a death wish or an accidental fall from their elegant townhouse?

Death through misadventure was the colourful term used.

“Cherish all those wonderful experiences we had. Whichever one of us dies first.”

Violet actually said.

Almost as if she had some premonition.

This was six months before she passed away. .An endless see-saw of creepy dawning’s convulsed him.

Yet Wild fondly recalled when they first met at the Skyline Ballroom.

The Skyline was a battered tumbledown barn whose allure was its availability.

The chipped hardwood floor and the dusty pale cream walls with paint flakes that peeled off only confirmed its tenement status. It was known locally as the “Creaking Beam”” due to its ghostly acoustics and flickering lights. Here in this spooky venue Geoff and Violet had their earliest encounter. Wild remembered her radiant smiles.

The ripples of long dark hair, her apple blossom cheeks and of course her angelic aura..

On that night she wore a polka dot ruche dress, amethyst ear pendants, whilst sporting satin moccasins.

“Have I the gumption? The courage.

A faint heart etc.” Geoff could hear his heart flutter as he did his tightrope walk toward her.

“May I dance with you?” Geoff asked.

Velvet heart’s hands formed a lazy arch and her dainty fingers curled inwards.

“Of course. I would be delighted.” Violet spoke in that pear drop tone which beguiled everybody.

Geoff, the local journalist and writer was in seventh heaven.

They never forgot that enchanting song they first danced to, “Ballroom In The Sky.”

The song was performed by Valerie And The Blue Skies.

They weren’t very big but had a cult following..

Geoff could see how similar Violet and Valerie were.

They were mirror images of each other.

Even in speech and humour.

Valerie was based in a remote enigmatic area.

She used to refer to songs as role plays.

“You feel as though you are a member of the audience.” Valerie remarked.

Violet did admit to meeting Valerie casually and for autograph purposes but not otherwise or so it seemed.

It was amazing how “ Ballroom In The Sky” with its airy ascending rock chords and jaunty jazz lines could draw Violet, Valerie and Geoff into a peculiar triangle.

The sudden moody breaks, abrupt silences built a momentary cocoon.

Valerie’s top sideman....well, he was known as Silent Sam.

He had a track record of sorts.

Sam’s blue attire was appropriate.

He wore a large trilby hat tipped over his forehead sheltering his pointed face and pencil slim physique.

He, Sam, was short-sighted when it suited and eccentric.

Practical jokes were his forte and the impish grin.

“Yep ..Yup....or Sure.“

These were the only asides from this oddball sidemen for the most part.

He was accident prone.

Valerie had to indicate where things were. Theirs was a sign language of its own complete with slanted facial squirms.

One wondered if there was a deeper relationship between them.

Those Blue Skies airs were fillers without Sam.

Every time “Ballroom In The Sky” was played Valerie, Violet and Geoff were sharing unwittingly a secret.

The startled looks were part of this outlandish ritual.

Wild recalled now.

“Valerie could croon in a real hypnotic fashion. Everyone in the dancehall was enthralled. People would sway like ice skaters one moment, waltz in a swan-like manner the next and just as often rave in the isles like end of term teenagers.”

Geoff whispers in the graveyard.

“JUST A PASSING DREAM...........STILL SO VIVID.......DANCING IN HEAVEN...... KISSES ALL AROUND....MAGIC HAND........A LITTLE BIT BLIND, and of course “BALLROOM IN THE SKY.”

Geoff and Violet would swing religiously to those fantasy songs every Sunday as their courtship blossomed.

“Ballroom In The Sky “ was always the highpoint.

This constellation of events occurred in a scenic nineteen seventies spot.

Despite its haunting vistas and backdrop of panoramic hills it resembled a ghost town. Openings were few against an infinite spiral of closing factories, bookstores with half-empty shelves and shopkeepers peering out of doors.

Ten years earlier it was a beacon. “I shudder to think…...A jigsaw puzzle.”

Geoff surveying the cemetery.

Such memories could have been taken directly from some movie script. “Yes .. it was a hub that Skyline. Like homeless drifters, the folk who attended.”

Geoff again.

They were fugitives.

Escapees from that heavy-handed dole queue void.

Suddenly something happened.

“What the heavens is? Snap….a branch.” Momentary jitters engulfing Wild.

He shook in concert with the overarching colonnade of brown edge green leaf trees.

An eerie rustling dewdrop tiptoe now caressing Geoff’s ears.

”Up there somewhere Velvet Heart?

Dancing in the heavens?”

Nervous laughter now relief road to that traffic jam of sentiment about to speed off.

Glued to the spot that macabre sixth sense of Violet hovering above evaporates due to an illusory late evening sun shaft.

Wild could no longer hide from Valerie and Velvet Heart’s identities.

“Oh those comic jibes and piercing glances. Some ethereal intrigues were passing through the air.”

Geoff recalls with forensic clarity.

Poor Silent Sam would do his usual u-turn into the shadow.

Two months before Geoff's and Violet’s parting, an incident occurred.

Memory is a lodger which steadfastly refuses to surrender its keys.

Valerie and the Blue Skies were in flying form as the tunes morphed into each other.

Valerie and Velvet Heart were magnets for men.

Violet caught Geoff off guard.

“Guilty conscience, there Geoff?”

Having fantasies about Valerie.

Focus on me.

As for that eternity ring remember?”

Those penetrating peepers of Violet knew how to vet a body in a flash.

“Oh no .....not at all.” Geoff with a looping

smirk.

“Just those mystical melodies working their spell.” He said.

“You came into my life like.... a new dawn.” Wild poetically.

“You honey tongue you. Geoff our song. Ballroom.” Violet mutters.

Valerie nodded towards Sam.

Her expression was a hard to decipher veil and deep code command.

“Get those fingers flying, Sam.”

In a tone almost identical to Velvet Heart.

Sam didn’t always act immediately.

“Yep.. Yup ...Sure.” Sam’s stock retort.

“Ballroom In The Sky” now strong as ever cast its bewitching spell throughout the venue.

A medley was included tonight.

“SOMEONE FOR EVERYONE” ( Sam looked at Valerie), “A LITTLE BIT BLIND” ( Sam staring vacantly at both Valerie and Violet), “MIND YOUR STEP( Sam winking at Geoff while scrunching the mouth at Violet).

Violet edged toward the stage.

A dim-lit silence ensued.

Ballroom started again. Valerie and Violet now singing this tune. An eerie vacuum filled this dancehall.

A triangular crush of people occurred near the stage with Geoff in toe.

Valerie handed Violet a letter.

Sam was now talking tersely to Valerie.

A misted over photo gallery memory blur in place.

“Pst...Pst. Your Velvet Heart is back to haunt you.“ Violet’s lofty twang.

“What in the name….I can't phantom…..fathom.” Geoff shudders.

Violet’s voice a wet whisper stretching over twigs that simultaneously tap against windows.

She pulled back an orchard pattern duvet covering Geoff.

“Fell asleep at your favourite film, The Passing Of A Velvet Heart. All those graveyard scenes shot in our small town remember?

We know Silent Sam wrote the soundtrack for the film along with Ballroom. He sings on that one.” Violet recounts.

“Incredibly you chose Velvet Heart as your courtship name for me based on the film.

The film was never a huge success but did get our area limited publicity.

Sam earned extra royalties from the soundtrack.

Valerie and Sam tying the knot next Sunday of all days.

As for that love letter you mumbled about.

It’s an invite to their secret wedding.

Very private. As Sam is.

What a time and place he chose for the invitation.

During that ethereal love song which brought us together.” Violet observes.

“Poor Sam’s a little bit blind a

on occasions or is he?

I was upstairs on the flat roof today.

Six months ago I fell off it.

You’ve never liked me being up there since.”

Violet continuing.

“Guilty secret must confess. I used to be onstage instead of Valerie.

Well, sometimes.

She was dating you pretending to be me.

We never knew each other that well but it was a dare worked out between us.“

Geoff shouted. “Hoodwinked.”

An incredulous look ripples over Wild’s pale face.

Violet’s eyes now ablaze.

“You never noticed did you? Deep down.”

The tease in Violet surfacing..

Geoff was thunderstruck.

Violet strolled towards their CD player on the mahogany table.

“Think you’ll like this one. Our song.”

Violet stated.

“May I dance with you?”

Geoff smiled. “Of course. I would be delighted.

And relieved!”

Silent Sam’s voice weaves in his own inimitable shy way a song usually sung by Valerie, his wife to be.

And sometimes Violet, or Velvet Heart.

A number that united three people in the most curious and otherworldly manner!

“Yep….Yup ….Sure.”

As Sam was in the habit of saying!

Photograph and short story by mantrabay copyright protected

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kirishwima · 5 years ago

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14 and the Choi twins for the soulmate hc game? 🥺👉🏽👈🏽 thank you!! 🥰

14. You see in black and white until you meet your soulmate - then you can see colors.

SAEYOUNG/LUCIEL/707:

* No matter what anyone told him, Saeyoung never believed in soulmates. How could he? His life has been nothing but bleak, the shades of gray befitting the way his future maliciously unfolded in front of him, nothing to look forward to but a solitary grave.

* He heard the stories, sure he did, read them in sappy online forums, heard it firsthand in university when one of his friends had went and found a soulmate-the dude wouldn’t shut up, trying to describe each colour he saw to everyone around him and failing.

* “You’ll know when you see it”, he’d say with a smile, and Saeyoung would scoff, seeing his friend try and fail to describe what their professors hair colour was like.

* The years passed, and Saeyoung had all but forgotten about the thought of soulmates and colours (no he didn’t. Late at night, when even Vanderwood would fall asleep when they should be watching him, Saeyoung would look around, open a new incognito window with a frown. ‘what do colours look like?’ he’d type in, then close the tab before the results even had a chance to load). Soulmates were bullshit. Colours were bullshit.

* When MC came into their RFA chatroom, he didn’t think much of it-an interesting twist of events, for sure, but nothing to write home about-other than doing a background check for them, it was back to work as per usual for him

* That is, until MC managed to tie themselves around his heart, a little red string of fate that tugged at all the feelings he’d refused to acknowledge until now-they had him glancing at his phone every other second, giggling down at the screen, his chest a knot whenever he couldn’t see them on the security screens

* And then came the fated day, the one wherein Saeyoung ignored any thought of rationality or self-preservation and went running to MC, to Rika’s apartment, praying, the first time he’s thought of someone other than the one he lost so long ago-please, he prayed, let them be safe-you can do what you want to me, just let them be safe, please, please-

* He ran up the stairs, smashed in the apartment’s door, codes be damned, glancing around until he located an unknown man, his arms around another person-and as he looked down to MC, his golden eyes met theirs. And Saeyoung saw colour for the first time.

* He didn’t have time to think of it, not when MC was currently in a chokehold of some random man who was threatening to blow up the apartment-and with all that happened later on, he didn’t want to discuss it with MC, didn’t want to look at them and get lost in the newfound colour of their eyes, and the gentle tint of their skin in the sunlight, didn’t want to consider any of that-he buried himself in work, ignoring the vibrant green of the numbers on his black screen. This he was used to, this he could do.

* But when he’d finally admit his feelings-it’s like he saw colour all over again, a second awakening. MC said ‘I love you’ and the words echoed a fiery red, got sucked into Saeyoung’s lungs and turned a sticky pink, glued itself onto the cavities of his chest.

* “I love you”, he said back, and this time, he said it freely, happily-his words light, coloured, his eyes sparkling, and the world around him shone, the black and white he was so used to now a thing of the past.

* GiveSaeyoungLove2KForever

SAERAN/RAY/UNKNOWN:

* Though Saeran had grown up in the exact same conditions as Saeyoung, lived in the same bleak black and white, saw black, thick and dark fall over his lips, once a broken nose, another time a black eye.

* Yet through the pain and the darkness he always dreamed, would sneak in stories of fated pairs meeting, seeing colours-he’d read the way authors tried to describe the world, how they’d talk about ‘green grass’ and ‘blue skies’ and he’d lay in bed, a book held close to his chest, his eyes shut as he tried imagining such a world, how everything could change, would change once he met his beloved, his soulmate-how they’d grow a garden together, a flurry of colours, a ‘rainbow’, how they’d enjoy running across coloured fields together hand in hand-and suddenly the pain would ease.

* He didn’t stop chasing this dream even after he was left alone, even after Rika took him in-he’d grown colder, tried to act tougher, but deep down he yearned for the time he’d meet the eyes of the one he loved, wondered when he’d finally be able to look at the flowers he kept growing in the garden and enjoy them in a different way. He’d already commited their scents and textures to memory, knew their names and characterestics by heart. He knew roses could be red or yellow or white, knew violets were purple, orchids were white or pink, knew the colours-but he couldn’t feel them, couldn’t understand them, and that hurt him on a level deeper than he could ever comprehend.

* When choosing a victim, someone to lure in to Mint Eye, to fool the RFA, something about MC’s name lured him in-a hunch feeling, if you will. The whole time he waited for them to come to their paradise he walked anxiously around the halls, the bouquets of flowers he’d collected and decorated their room with forming awkward shades of gray in his vision.

* But then the doors opened, and MC stepped in-and the world flashed, a blink and suddenly there were no more whites and black and grays, no, instead there were MC’s bright eyes, their warm skin, their vibrant sweater; the bouquet he held in his hands as a greeting gift was vibrant, a colourful mess of violets and blues and pinks-

* Saeran couldn’t help but buckle to his knees, surprising both the cultists and MC who came running to him, putting their hands on his shoulders. He felt himself smile wide, his eyes tearing up.

* “So-so is this it?” he asked, huffing a laugh as he wiped furiously at his eyes, “is this what colour’s like?” he asked, looking up to MC’s confused expression, seeking for something he couldn’t find, the instantaneous bond, the love he waited for, something, a sign, anything-

* “This is what colour’s like”, MC confirmed.

* Saeran nodded, bringing himself shakily back to his feet, handing off the bouquet to MC.

* “If this is what it’s like then why...why does this still feel so empty?”

* He held a hand over his chest, over his thudding heart. Yet it was still beating slow, rhythmically, as if refusing to falter.

* Is this as good as it gets? He wondered.

* Looking over to MC who seemed damn near terrified, looking to the surrounding Mint Eye believers who were equal parts confused and shocked-yes, he figured, this is all a sinner like him could get.

* It’s not like he ever deserved much else.

I’m sorry I love Sae but some angst was necessary :’)

-sent me a soulmate AU and mystic messenger character(s) for some headcanons!-

#asks #mystic messenger #mysme #mysme headcanons #mysme prompts #mystic messenger imagines #mysme imagines #saeran choi #saeyoung choi #luciel choi #707 #luciel x mc #ray #mysme ray #mysme unknown #choi twins #saeran x mc #soulmates au #Anonymous

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adulttrio-imagines · 5 years ago

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“My hand was made to fit into yours. That’s all there is to it.” - for Hisoka;-)

“Label it however you want, I truly do not care.”

Hisoka replies without even looking up from his phone. He’s propped comfortably across your new couch, snuggled under a pile of blankets he stole from your bedroom, head lolling off the armrest as he snacked on your sweets. He spares you no second thought, giggling to himself as he scrolls through the web, thoroughly unaffected as the world around him shuffles in repetitive motions.

You huff, and set your laptop aside. It’s not for the first time he has brushed off your efforts to put a name to your… relationship. To call it difficult would be an understatement, if you could even use such a term to describe whatever it is you had with him.

He chuckles again, and your phone lights up with a beep. It’s a filtered photo of him in a fake mustache with an eggplant in hand. You turn to see him looking up at you, cheeky grin spread ear to ear across his face. He waves and tosses you a familiar piece of candy. Bungee gum, it expired two weeks ago.

You chuck it back at him, he lets it nail him in the head, ear splitting grin never leaving his face.

It was never meant to be like this. Your lives were never meant to intersect, they were tangent lines that ran close but never met. But somehow, you met him in the eye of the storm, a beautiful mess of red and gold who saved you from your assailant one rainy night, followed you home and for reasons unknown, upended your entire life and has stuck with you since. His visits were sporadic but interesting, mind constantly skipping two steps ahead of yours, and you found yourself swept into the deep undercurrents of his torrential downpour with no way of escape.

He was a whirlwind of color, dancing continuously before your eyes, from the tips of his fiery hair to the manicured ends of his painted toes, a flying mustang that stormed through the skies, running faster and faster alongside unseen monsters, soaring through perilous thunderclouds, reaching out to something beyond your existence.

And it scared you.

“Isn’t this enough?” You remembered asking one day as twilight fell, when he barged into your home, thick with bloodlust and doused in blood, staining the walls a dark red as he dragged a clawed hand through them, leaving angry scratch marks in its wake. You should have left him then, you suppose, when he push you against that very same wall and started fucking you hard. You should have cried and screamed for help (it wouldn’t have helped, you both knew that) when he whispered unimaginable threats into you ear, the smell of death lingering in his breath as he ravaged you, leaving bruises that made you limp for weeks on end after that; your knight in shinning armor. He shattered your idealistic notions of him that very night.

But it wasn’t as if he hid who he was. He made that very clear from the start, when he crushed a man’s skull with a single bare hand like rotten fruit on your second date, or when he easily snapped a man’s neck in half just because he was in a weird mood and could do it. You were a fool to believe he could be satisfied that easily, even stupider to believe he could ever be content with what he had in front of him. He was a voracious man with an insatiable appetite for thrill and excitement. There was always something he was chasing after, too far and too bright for you to see, you had to turn away and shield your eyes from its glare, or risk going blind and losing it all.

That was just the type of person he was, standing above the rest on top of the mountain he carved out himself, towering miles overhead, removed from everyone and everything, where nothing but the sun and the howl of the wind could ever touch him.

“Is it lonely up there, all by yourself in your castle of pride.” You said once, it wasn’t a question. He laughs derisively, but his nails dig unnecessarily deep into your arm when he pins you and forces his tongue down your throat, teeth clinking loudly against yours.

It wouldn’t be fair to call him a complicated man, but it wouldn’t be fair to call him an honest man either. He was always clear with his motives, but never his intentions, his actions laid bare before you as he clouded his goal with a shroud of deceit; a walking contradiction who spewed sweetened lies intermingled with bitter truths, showered in layers of secrets and lies,

as if to protect himself.

He didn’t trust you, but he didn’t need to. What could you do against him?

“What are you afraid of?” You’re both drunk of copious amounts of alcohol, faces flushed bright red as you lean against the back alley wall, ignoring the stench of filth rising all around you as his hand creeps up your skirt. Instead, he sings you a story of broken men and angry gods between voracious acts, sweet lies crooning in your ear.

He never speaks of his past, and neither do you offer to divulge into yours.

It was ridiculous to try and get a straight answer from him, a lost cause trying to gain his attention, and a futile effort for trying to maintain it. Yet, even coated with a layer of death is he beautiful for reasons you cannot explain, and you can only stand and wait for the tide to pull you in, dragging you into an endless hurricane.

Somehow amongst all the madness, fate continued to weave it’s interconnecting strands of circumstances, and you both fall into a routine.

He doesn’t officially move in with you, because god forbid he gets tied down, but you were never one to make things official anyway. It’s easy to say he’s more like a stray cat, coming and going as he pleased, snacking on your food or lounging in the living room as if he owns the place.

You don’t know where he actually lives, but the expensive colognes that line your dressing table make known that he’s no traveling pauper.

You get into the habit of leaving sticky notes around the house. Just simple things, like shutting the patio door whenever he left or to take off his shoes before he even thought of entering your house. He responds by sticking his own notes on your various houseplants, naming them obscene words and the occasional crude drawing.

You don’t know who he is, but you do know this. He’s painfully meticulous in his appearance and can spend hours highlighting the slope of his cheeks and the curve of his lips, he has freckles climbing all through his shoulders, his left ear is slightly smaller than his right, he sings in the morning but never at night, and sometimes when he smiles, his eyes are more caramel than amber.

He always finds a way to bother you when it’s least convenient, and disappears whenever you need him most, as if he has a built in tracker of sorts installed deep in that brilliant mind of his.

He calls it magic; you call it being a pest.

Sometimes he leaves for days on end, but he always returns, sometimes with murder in his eyes and bile in his hands, his nen a torrent of poison when he creeps into bed, staining your sheets and shaking you awake, demanding for more (there’s nothing for you to give) wild and unhinged as he tears into you (he gets what he wants anyway).

It’s the quiet moments you like best.

It’s the blissful mornings that smell like coffee and honeyed French toast, it’s the rainy afternoons where you’re both sitting across the other with a deck of cards at hand and the television blares white noise in the background, it’s the late evenings where you sit outside to read and the smell of honeysuckle lingers as you sit and enjoy each other’s company, it’s when you both start laughing so hard at the same time that your sides ache, it’s when he smiles at you when he thinks you aren’t looking; without fuss, without fanfare, without secret codes and hidden meanings, you both just exist, just as everything is meant to be.

It’s so normal, and so pleasant you can almost forget what he is.

When the morning sun barely peaks over the fairway mountains, painting the whole room soft shades of violet and velvet blue, you like watching the way his chest moves up and down like calm seas with each intake of breath, the way he stretches out across the bed, you likes the way his face naturally looks without the usual layer of makeup hiding it all.

You both hide yourselves from the outside world in different ways.

It becomes a fun game to see how long you can get away with tracing the features of his face before he awakens, the curve of his lips, the sharp peak of his nose. Your fingers dance all over his face, planting feather light kisses wherever they linger. The urge is uncontrollable, he looks so human when he is asleep that you finds it difficult to believe that he is more man than beast.

Sometimes your roles are reversed and he’s staring at you instead. He’s difficult to read on the best of days, and by the time his stare stirs you from your slumber, his smirk is the first thing to greet you. Most of the time his lips are twisted into a smug satisfaction, taunting as he smiles patronizingly at you, eyes crinkled into amused crescents. He’ll tap your nose and laugh at whatever expression your grumpy morning self makes, before rushing right in to plant his lips against yours and initiating round two to finish whatever you both started last night.

But there are time when he just stares, unreadable and distant, his eyes taking on a lifeless glazed quality. He doesn’t say anything, or do anything, as if the whole process of breathing is too laborious for him to do anything but. Silence echoes, an unfamiliar drumming sound beating right below your ear as the unnatural quiet stretches infinitely. His stare buries holes deep into your soul, eyes glinting and burning yellow, like cosmic lights, fiery and all encompassing, swallowing you whole and leaving you struggling to breathe, but he doesn’t move. You don’t understand those moments no matter how hard you try, they scramble your head and tear through whatever thoughts you can scavenge, but you understand that he is thinking and rearranging everything in his jumbled up head. He never speaks of these days, but you’ve seen the way he jerks during his dreams, the way his back arches and the odd angles he contorts himself into, silent screams and gasping hands that search for others lost and never found; you recognizes them well. At those times, you go in, resting your forehead into his chest, counting each beat of his heart, reminding him that he is still alive and not six feet below and rotting compost for worms. The constant thumps of his heart are a surprising comfort, the feeling of the warmth generated from his body spread all around you like a soft blanket. Sometimes you remain like that, unmoving until the sun reaches its peak in the everblue sky, glaring into your eyes and you moves away to get breakfast ready, but never does he push away.

There are days where he pulls you in and holds you close, gripping you so tightly your bones crack and ache for weeks after it. Those days his heart races like shooting stars careening off the universe, lost and directionless, fizzling endlessly until they get extinguished from exhaustion. Cotton candy and spiced liquor mingle with the earliest rays of dawn, and you both fall right back asleep, curling into each other like quotation marks, fingers filling the gaps between hands perfectly, a rare moment of tranquility created in your small universe.

I’m here.

You never fail to remind him that during those times. His memory is sharp, and his trust is hard to come, but you do so anyway, for there isn’t much else you can otherwise. He needs to know that, you tell yourself between breathless kisses, hands desperately clutching at each other, even if he cannot find it in himself to believe it.

I’ll always be here.

You close your eyes, darkness flashing momentarily as heat radiating from him in scorching waves burn unseen marks throughout your skin. One day, he will leave; it could be today, tomorrow, the following week, the next year. Through choked sobs you learn that try as you might, you can never tell when would the time he walked out of your door be the last, and you knew better than to try. But you will wait for him, for you were too young, too dumb, too headstrong to stop yourself for falling so, so deeply into him, and he’ll always have a home with you.

You brush his hair aside, the fiery shades of red and pink were soft to the touch, and felt like sheets of velvet in your hand as you fill in the gaps of his fingers with yours.

“My hand was made to fit into yours.” You squeeze your hands tightly together, “that’s all there is to it.”

#hunter x hunter #hisoka #slight angst #hurt/comfort #fluff #writing prompts #more of a 'what's it like dating hisoka'#eh oh well #asks #my writings #izabo-san

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neocity-sarai · 5 years ago

Text

Fight for You

❂ concept: cyberpunk/futuristic au!

❂ pairing: mark lee x reader

❂ alerts: angst, fluff, mentions of blood, violence, death

3 years and 2 months that you’ve lived alone. 3 years and 2 months that you’ve survived without the help of your parents or any friends. Sometime ago, the world felt like it was truly ending. Disease and famine plagued the earth, it seemed as all hope was lost. Megacities were ruined from an onslaught of tsunamis, wildfires, and hurricanes. Your parents shielded you with the comfort of your small apartment, the warmth of their embraces to ease the anxiety. Yet, it wasn’t enough. You remember how your 15 year-old-self watched your mother slowly wither away, the disease could have infected her from anywhere: the grocery store, work, or from your own family. It felt unfair, the way people had to die when they had no choice to make money for the roof over their heads or to put food on the table. Your father held you close, his sobs shaking his entire body at the sight of your mother’s dying heart. Your whole world fell as silent as your mother’s heartline when your father whispered in your ear. He told you he was sorry, how he wished that he could tell you everything was going to be alright. He told you, “I don’t have much time left either.”

You could barely blink. You froze in place, your hands shaking at an uncontrollable rate. You eyed him incredulously, “What are you talking about?”

That night, you came home alone. You knew that the disease made adults more vulnerable yet you couldn’t believe that you had lost both of your parents in one day. All you could do was sit in your living room and cry until you couldn’t breathe. You screamed until your lungs heart, the weight of grief crushing your chest- it suffocated you. All that swirled in your head was memories of your mother cooking dinner while your father chased you around the dining table or the way you’d go to the city to explore, laughing in your family’s van as you drove. It was all too much. What were you going to do? Who would you call for help? Your family didn’t have many relatives in the area after your father decided to take a PR job in New York City. You felt all alone, the gloomy, steely skies looked especially lonely outside of your window. You couldn’t even see the sun.

You fell asleep on your living room couch, your muscles sore from the unmoving position of your legs and arms. Deciding to switch on the TV, you were sure that the government would send a social worker to come fetch you- that’s what they always said on the news. Surprisingly, headlines read, “New vaccine formulated by pharmaceutical team at New York Institute of Medicine.” Despite the fact being good news, you felt numb. It didn’t matter because you had lost your family. It was too late. Over the next two years, the government issued a world-wide administration of the vaccine, the diseases had almost disappeared entirely. People were able to go back to work, walk their dogs, and dine out with their friends. The UN had stated each nation would work together to rebuild the damage of what was lost, whole cities were torn down to restart again. Technology advanced just as quickly: the old, ruined world becoming a man-made virtual paradise. Engineers and infrastructure developers reached new heights by building jets that flew at 1,840 miles per hour to skyscrapers that seemed to pierce through heaven. Somehow, by mercy, you managed to see the world change. You survived.

Current time

Of course, there wasn’t a real opportunity to go back to school after the plague, it led you to look for other ways to contribute to the work force instead. In the old world, work consisted of becoming a doctor, a lawyer, even a neighborhood bee-keeper ; as a young kid, you never had a clear idea of who or what you wanted to be. When you started to stabilize yourself by taking small part-time jobs that didn’t require a degree or some form of formal education, you slowly started to accumulate savings. After a while, you had been eyeing a virtual game constructed by the Kynigos company that swept the world by storm. It was everywhere on social media, all of the sign boards that lined 2nd avenue to 7th. Almost every family on your block purchased these visionary headsets that allowed you to see life in a kaleidoscopic lense. When you tried yours on for the first time, it was utterly breathtaking. New York city mimicked that of rainbow road in your old mario kart game, the streets glowed hues of bubblegum pinks and electric blues. The skyscrapers were dripping with panels of evergreens and xanthous yellows as the sky sparkled as a net covered it, the tiny strands glittering with violet crystals. You continued to walk down the block, circles glowing over your eyes and floating signboards that advertised expensive desserts bobbed up and down. As you scanned your surroundings, every person on the street or drivers cruising down the road had their headset on. Cars projected virtual screens that were lined with data codes and numbers. Even the foliage on the trees changed a new color every morning and night, the clouds moved by glitching slightly. It was like you could sweep your fingertips across every color you could think of, the streetlamps dripping gold above your head.

Each time Kynigos uploaded a new software update, people would go ballistic over the installation of game mode. In place of a regular day job, you’d be able to make money by taking investors’ requests and errands. It ran on in-game currency that could be exchanged for real money in which you desperately needed to eat, to live. That’s where you were: you took requests for the smaller investors like fetching their meals or buying their groceries. Moving up, you honed your skills on clearing the game levels, earning access to a database of more promising, richer moguls. They were getting hungry, some of them crossing the law to conduct illegal activities in-game: Kynigos never really enforced the restrictions. No matter how much the government tried to take over the game, it would only gain more and more powerful. They always found their way around it. You had just cleared level 50, your reward was to establish a link with an anonymous client who offered 5 grand in exchange for a person’s identity. Not that you knew who the client or request was, you had become a bounty-hunter chasing for your next bankroll. You didn’t have time to pick and choose. At the corner of your headset screen, a pop-chat window appeared: “Hello. Please refer to me as Mr. C.”

You replied, “Hi. How may I help you?”

“I’m looking for someone who can track down a person that I’ve been trying to find. The request is to confirm their identity and bring them to me. I will raise the reward if need be.”

You continue, “I need that in writing. May I have this person’s file?”

“I will send it over shortly.”

The chat window expands into a link, a typed document of the request along with a signature. You had been cheated out once, you were sure to not let it happen again. When you enlarge the file, it’s a picture of a boy who was much younger than you. He wore a navy blue sweatshirt, his black hair curled on one side of his forehead. His eyes seemed incredibly innocent, his doe irises complimenting the smile that graced his lips ; the sharpness of his cheekbones accentuating his prepubescent face. His name read, “Mark/ Minhyung Lee.” and was last spotted not far from where you lived. You asked, “Mr. C, why are you looking for a kid?”

“I have no obligation to answer that question. Regardless, are you able to do it? If you can’t succeed, I will have to take measures into my own hands.”

With the amount of money that was being offered, you would be set for a while. Taking the request seemed extremely worth it.

“It’s a deal, Mr. C.”

You pulled up your virtual map with a click of a button, the map expanding into the space of your living room. It showed every alleyway, every nook and cranny in the city. You enlarged the floating map with your fingers, zooming in on a couple blocks away from your apartment. From your room, you grabbed your back-pack and changed into a black body-tight outfit (a skin you won as a reward on level 15), and your hair tied in a loose knot. Dashing out the door, you headed for where this Mark was last seen. You walked around the city, scanning the crowds of people as you walked. The street lamps illuminated the moving sidewalk as people talked into their headset by the cafe windows. Colorful lights blossomed on the tiny windows of the tall buildings. How were you supposed to find such a young kid wandering around by himself? Was Mr. C. his father? Maybe a disgruntled relative? You were unsure. You stopped inside a convenience store, the view of a black-haired boy turned around in one of the aisles. You couldn’t see his face, could that be Mark? The cashier sleepily greeted you, his headset sat crookedly on the rim of his forehead. Making your way to the small boy, you walked in front of him to get a better look- it was not him. He looked up at you confusedly, “hey lady, should I get a chocolate bar or a lollipop?”

Pointing at the chocolate bar you winked, “Chocolate for sure.”

The child walked away from you as he perused through the candy aisle more. You felt a hand grab your wrist from behind to be met with a scruffy man who wore tattered clothes and scratched at his dirtied beard. His eyes bulged with hysteria, “Pretty girl, give me that!”

He pointed at your polished headset, his grimy fingers reaching for it. You stumbled back as your heart beat furiously in your chest, “Sir, I don’t want trouble. Please step back from me.”

The man takes another step towards you instead, his rough hands flying to grip your waist, “Say, what’s your name? Want to come with me?”

You try wrenching out of his grip, you shouted for the cashier’s attention- he’s too busy paying attention to the game to even hear you. The man’s fingers make contact with the skin on your hip which causes you to jolt, you struggle to reach for the knife at the bottom of your backpack.

“Sir, kindly back off!”

The homeless man swivels around, facing a boy about the same age as you. Looking at him, you had not ever witnessed a more attractive boy in a while. His hair was a chestnut color, the crest of it gelled over, his face was slim and defined. Even his lips were the prettiest shade of sakura blossoms, his obsidian eyes stern with fury. He pushed up a pair of version 3 cyber-glasses on the bridge of his nose, “Sir, I said to back off!”

Just like that, the homeless man raised his hands in mock surrender as he scampered out of the convenience store- leaving you staring at the handsome boy in front of you.

You nervously adjust yourself, “Um-I- thank you for that.”

The boy gives you a warm smile, one of his hairs falling onto his forehead, “No need to thank me. That guy was being a total creep. Plus, that cashier should be fired for being distracted.”

You laugh, you catch yourself staring at the abundance of watermelon pops in the boy’s hands. He eyes you and then back to his pops, “Oh, would you like one?”

Stammering over your words you shake your head a bit too wildly, “N-no t-thanks! I-I prefer mango?”

Why did you say mango? You hate mango-flavored things. He gives you a hearty chuckle, “Fair enough, mango’s good too.”

It goes without saying anything, you both pay for the treats as you walk on to the sidewalk, a cold breeze making you shiver. The boy cards his fingers through his hair, the streetlamps casting a golden flow on his highlights, “I guess this is where we part. I hope you don’t run into any more creeps.”

You nod at him, “I sure hope not. By the way, what’s your name?”

There, you feel like you’ve messed up. This stranger saves you from some homeless guy and you ask him for his name, his eyes are widened with surprise. You silently sigh in relief when he breaks into a toothy smile, “Yeah, um, My name’s Jonathan.”

His voice comes out a little hesitant, as if he’s not sure. You eye him, “You sure about that, bud?”

“Of course. I was just deciding whether or not to tell you Jon or Jonathan is all.”

You say, “Well, goodbye Jonathan. Thank you for helping me out today.”

You swerve to walk back down the street in which you came, your headset blinking with the weather forecast in the corner of it. You feel a hand catch your shoulder gently, “Wait-t, d-do y-you think we can exchange handles?”

Turning back to the boy, you certainly weren’t expecting him to say that, “Yeah, sure!”

Together, you calibrate your headsets as a glowing icon appears above his head, “Accept Jonathan as a friend?”

You say, “Accept!”

Jonathan’s name adds to your friends list, not that you had any previous names added anyway. He finishes adding to you as well, your name hot on his tongue as he repeats it daintily. Giving you a final wave, you both go your separate ways. You decide to look for Mark in the morning.

Later that night, you find yourself staring at a message notification from Jonathan. Tapping in the air, you press on it- you bite your lip in anticipation. A bubble appears over his message, “You still up?”

You type on your virtual floating keyboard, “I am, wanna chat?”

Another bubble appears: “proceed with projection communication?”

You look yourself up and down, your outfit only consists of a pair of striped pajamas unlike your black suit earlier. You can’t imagine that Jonathan’s dressed up at this hour. Accepting the bubble, a scan of Jonathan’s virtual body appears in front of you as if he’s sitting in your desk chair. He looks different from earlier, he wears a thin t-shirt that reads ‘Vancouver’, his hair glimmers with wet drops from his shower and he holds an acoustic guitar in his hands. At first he doesn’t realize that you’ve accepted the projection call until he drops his guitar to the ground, fumbling in his chair, “Oh! hi-i, I didn’t see you there for a second..”

You laugh at his silliness, “you were the one who initiated the call in the first place!”

��Still! One second, I need to get something.”

When he finally returns, he holds a bowl of cereal in his hands, spooning sugary flakes into his mouth before toasting the bowl, “Cereal baby!”

“Who eats cereal at this hour?”

“Me- I do!”

You smile at him, leaning back into your pillows, it’s almost too surreal that it feels like Jonathan is staring right back at you from your room. It’s like he’s right there with you.

You continue, “So, what do you like to do in your free-time?”

He looks up from his bowl, “Hm, I uh- I guess I just listen to music or watching Netflix? Something like that?”

“I see you have a guitar by you, do you play well?”

He rubs the back of his neck nervously, “I wouldn’t say too good but I do enjoy playing? I write a bit too.”

“Can you play something for me?”

He gives you a playful smirk before breaking into a high-pitched laugh, “Put me on the spot now aren’t we?”

You reply, “You kind of set yourself up by bringing out a guitar. Of course I was going to ask.”

With a heavy sigh, he mumbles, “This is a song that I wrote when I started living on my own.”

You feel your heart swell at the sight of this stranger whispering soft words of song, the strums of his guitar filling the emptiness of your room. When he’s finished, you give him a standing ovation, “What do you mean not too good? You’ve got talent.”

He rubs his eyes tiredly, “Gotta stay humble, you know?”

Your memory plays back to Jonathan’s words: “I started living on my own.”

You tread into unknown waters, “Listen, let me know if this is too personal but when did you start living alone?”

Visibly, his frame becomes stiffened, his lips press into a thin line, “About three years ago? I think?”

He’s the same as you. You continue, “Do you still keep in touch with your parents?”

A flash of pain coats Jonathan’s face, his teeth sink into his lower lip anxiously, “You know-w, I-I think we should call it a night-t?”

You’ve pushed too far. “Oh, yes- sure. Right, good night.”

Like that, Jonathan’s projection disappears from your desk chair, the call ending with a beep. You throw your headset to your nightstand with a clang, throwing your head into your pillow. You doubt that Jonathan wants to talk to you after pressing into his private matters.

When morning comes, your heart jumps at the notification at the top of your messages bar. You click on it, Jonathan’s audio file plays, “Hey-y, I-I’m reallly sorry for uh- I-I kind of left you hanging last night? Can we meet up and talk? Possibly? Let me know when you get this.”

You respond back to him, “Hey, don’t apologize. It was my fault for pushing you where you weren’t comfortable. I’ll forward my address.”

Within the next hour or so, you find Jonathan standing in your doorway as he raises a bag of mango and watermelon pops from the convenience store in his hand. You usher him in, “You got here quite fast..”

He smiles at you, setting the bag on your table, “I’m pretty speedy. Also, you’ve got a nice pad.”

“Oh- yeah, technically it used to be my parents but they well- they passed away.”

His face turns somber, his features darkening with hurt, “I’m sorry for your loss y/n.”

Trying your best, you muster a small smile at him, “It’s okay. Can I get you anything? Water?”

“I-uh- no, I’m good.”

With a heavy sigh, Jonathan plops himself on your couch, his eyes shifting to the vibrant city view outside, “Anyway, I-I just wanted to apologize for leaving so abruptly last night.”

Shaking your head, you answer regretfully, “No, it was completely my fault, I should be sorry.” The features on his face turn sharper. He stiffens again, his fists curl beside him on the couch, “I also haven’t been too honest about myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“My name isn’t Jonathan. That’s just an alias- my real name is Mark. Mark Lee.”

You feel your breath hitch in your throat. The boy that your client is after is sitting on your living room couch. How could you not recognize him? Your headset tab has his file bookmarked- he was a child then. Of course, he’s matured.

“Why would you lie about your name?”

Jonathan- now, Mark sighs, “Because, I have to. You asked me about my parents? They were murdered by some gang leaders because they owed them money so we could survive the plague. They did what they had to so we could live. They’re still after me.”

You hand flies to your mouth in shock, “Mark, I- I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I-”

Mark places a warm hand on yours, “It’s okay- don’t be sorry y/n. Just don’t tell anyone.”

“Not a word, I swear on it.”

Mark picks himself up to move closer to you, your knees almost touching, “When did you start living alone?”

The memories of you watching the doctors send your parents’ bodies to the morgue surface in your mind. You can’t stop the flood that breaks the dam. Digging your nails into your palm, you sniffle, “My parents passed away from the plague on the same day. Like yours, they had to work and go outside for us to survive. I was on the streets a bit before I could make money myself.”

It’s impossible. You can’t stop the tears that stream on your cheeks. You squeeze your eyes shut, “I miss them so much.”You feel a thumb swipe your tears away. You open your eyes to see a blurry vision of Mark’s concerned face, his fringe swept on one side of his forehead, “I’m here, it’s okay. I miss mine too.”

In a split second, you fall into the crook of Mark’s chest, snuggling into his arms. You hear the slow thrum of his heartbeat, the music that beats with his soul. It’s beautiful, the way his doe eyes gaze down at you and the way it feels when you reach up to sweep the hair out of his eyes, “Thank you, Mark.”

He doesn’t say anything, he continues to rub circles on your back comfortingly as he thumbs your hand in his lap. Afterwards, you and Mark decide to eat dinner with Mark in the city. With Mark beside you, everything seems ten times more vibrant. Musicians play on the streets, their instruments laced with colorful threads (bonus items that tune your instrument automatically). Robotic helpers roll around in the restaurants as they pick up tabs, refill waters, and do little things that could be cumbersome for humans. You and Mark sit on the second floor of your favorite ramen restaurant, one that your parents frequented often. Laughing at the way Mark slurped his noodles made you happier. For some odd reason, Mark reminded you of the comfort that your parents had- a warm glow that always brightened the room. He placed his chicken into your bowl, forcing you to eat his no matter how much you protested. When you were done, Mark led you to the third story of the restaurant, a rooftop garden that overlooked the city. The view was breathtaking: the skyline reflected an ocean of colors onto the water as the Brooklyn bridge allowed flying vehicles to soar across the sky. You both sat on the edge of the building, Mark pulling your body closer to his. He rested his head on your shoulder as he hummed some unrecognizable song, the honking of cars is the only thing that disrupts him. Steadily, you brought a hand to the scar on his cheekbone- causing him to raise his head at you. Mark leaned further into your touch, his hair fluttering in the wind slightly, “Can I um, kiss you?”

Smiling, you crash your lips onto yours, his lips feeling plush and soft at first. You move one hand to entwine Mark’s hairs in between your fingers, causing him to let out a moan. Your kiss grows more passionate as you part your mouth for him to move his tongue, your body temperatures rise- an alert pops on to your headsets. Ignoring it, Mark leans further into your lips while you arch your back on the roof. He pushes you flat against the concrete, his lips detach from yours with a sound. When you look at him, Mark’s half lidded eyes and swollen lips pop from the colorful netted sky that hangs above him, you say, “Wow, you’re good Mark Lee.”

He laughs into your shoulder, his giggle full of mirth. You don’t resist when he presses a kiss to your lips for the second time, you take harder control than he does. You roll onto your side so you can climb on top of him instead. Mark reaches up to place a hair behind your ear before you lean in to press a kiss to his nose. His eyes glimmer with adoration, “y/n, the things you’re doing to me right now-”

Mark starts to press a burning kiss to the hollow of your neck, you pause when a notification flashes on your messages bar. You open it, it’s from Mr. C. It reads, “Y/n. I’m afraid you’re out of time.” You scramble off of Mark, causing him to yelp, “Oh god, y/n, I-I’m so sorry, I- did- I go too far? I shouldn’t have done that- oh my-”

You press your hand to Mark’s lips, “It’s not you. I have to tell you something, it’s-”

“What? What’s wrong?”

You both sit up, “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you earlier I just forgot about it because we were talking and I-I just don’t-”

Mark’s expression turns firm, “What is it?”

“I just passed level 50 in-game. I got a request from a client and he told me he was after you and I took it because I thought I needed the money and now that I know you’re the person he wants, I don’t know what to do-he says we’re out of time!”

Mark looks down, his face morphing into slow pain, “Did you have that request since we met?”

You shout at him, “Yes! But, I was never going to sell you out, I swear! I started to like you and I wouldn’t have done that!”

Marks still casts his eyes down, “Y/n, I have to go right now- I can’t be outside-”

“You’re too late!”

You and Mark swivel your heads to see a skinny man dressed in a plaid suit hop off his emerald hoverboard, a pistol sits in the grip of his hand, “I’ve got you now Mark Lee! And y/n has led me straight to you!”

Mark practically leaps across you, forcing you to move behind him, “Just stay behind me.”

You place your hands on Mark’s shoulders, gripping him tightly. The man- Mr. C. looks hysterical when he flashes Mark a sinister grin, “Your parents still haven’t paid their debt. You’ll serve as compensation.”

He aims his gold-lined pistol at Mark, cackling before he sends a smoking bullet flying to Mark’s chest without a warning. You scream, Mark falling on his side as he clutches his wound. Mr. C. spits in your direction before zipping off on his hoverboard, leaving you to press your hands to Mark’s body. Already, your hands are covered in crimson blood, you smell the iron scent of it and it makes you sick. You don’t even realize that you’re screaming now, “Hold on! I’m going to get you to a hospital okay? Hold on!”

Mark lets out a weak cough, his eyes failing to stay open. You cradle his head, “Mark? Mark, stay awake! Stay with me, please!”

Once more, he reaches up a bloodied palm to your cheek, your tears falling onto his shirt, “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

You whimper, “It’s not okay! Don’t leave me! I’ll be alone again!”

The hot tears blur your vision, it’s getting harder to not collapse. You see Mark smile at you, “you know, you’re the only person that’s made me feel less lonely since my parents died.”

Clutching his hand, you feel the calloused skin along his palm, wanting to savor every bit of him, “Mark, I’ve fallen for you.”

Nodding, “And I, you.”

With the last bit of strength he has, Mark kisses you with scarlet fire before letting out a bone-chilling groan. His lips fall away from yours, his body landing on the roof with a thump. You hold your breath, your head pounds with harsh pain. You can’t believe the sight of Mark’s once musical spirit so bereft of life. Finally, your breath hitches at a notification that appears in your message inbox at the top of your virtual screen, “hello, y/n.”

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allmightyscroll-swag · 1 year ago

Text

OH SHIT OH FUCK,,,,

Anyway vote violet skies?

And I might reveal some content?

Code Name: Violet Skies - @allmightyscroll-swag

Scrap Metal - @moontail13

#code name: violet skies #code name: violet skies au #cn:vs #cn:vs au #rottmnt #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt fanart #donnie rottmnt #rise of the tmnt

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clownsgobeepbeep · 5 years ago

Note

🎎older Atlas and Ula X3

Our muses sit close enough to brush knees/lean against yours

So this turned out a little longer than planned, ‘cause I was trying to write tiny dork and her two big dorks ^^’ Hope it’s good-ish

It was a breezy, autumn evening: a perfect day to spend at the carnival.

With skies that ever so slowly turned into a violet hue after remaining orange for a while, the ground was quite the contrary. There were lights all throughout, whether they be tiny bulbs on booths and food stands, or large signs reading the names of rides placed all around.

All around, upbeat music was heard as people made their way through whatever to get to their favorite rides as fast as possible. Every now and then, there was the sound of a scream piercing through the air and sometimes the sobbing of a child scared out of their mind, but everybody was far too focused on their own enjoyment to take notice.

Below on the ground, was a group of eyes that all stared into the bright, multicolored lights on the moving monument before them. Every little bulb glistened in their eyes that were wide with astonishment if not fear.

“That’s fucking insane.”

“I don’t think I could go on that.”

“I don’t think Princess could go on that.”

“Oh, fuck you Dante.”

Despite the conversation, the group soon tilted their heads upwards to follow the huge object that now swung over the crowd before swinging back continuously.

“I think I’m gonna go with Ama and Henry.”

“I specifically made them go to the other side for a reason Robyn, and you sure as heck are not going to ruin it.”

So many screams now rang through the group’s ears as they continued watching, the giant pendulum before them finally swinging high enough to remain upside down for a moment to then make a full circle.

Two of the group members soon felt their hands be held by smaller ones that gripped onto them tightly, no doubt somewhat nervous.

On the left was the only member with green eyes, these now looking down at his girlfriend who nervously looked up at the ride titled “Freak Out”. On her right was her other boyfriend, this one also looking down at her short figure.

“Uh...how about we go on another ride instead?”

“Are you wussing out Atlas?”

“Rayden, leave him alone. If anyone’s wussing out it’s you.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“I actually agree with Atlas.” the girl of the group spoke up, hands still gripping onto her partners’. “Maybe we should go eat something.”

“Any ideas?” Atlas asked to the group who remained quiet, seeing as the pendulum slowed down, eventually coming to a complete stop. “Schrader? You know this place more than we do.”

“Um.” Schrader looked away from the ride, returning Ula’s squeeze before turning to Atlas. “There should be a cool potato stand nearby, as well as a funnel cake one.”

“Oooh! I want potatoes!”

“Me too!” Robyn and Rayden exclaimed in unison after Dante licked his lips, the other trio slightly shrugging.

“Well, I really want some funnel cake.” Atlas chuckled, his eye now following a pair who walked in front of the group with a large funnel cake. “Oh yeah, I definitely want some.”

“Same.” Ula nodded before looking over at Schrader. “What about you?”

“I’ll go with the funnel cake as well.” he replied with a smile. “They top them with your choice of ice cream or whip cream, and even berries if you want.”

“That sounds so freaking good.” Ula bit her lip before turning to Dante and the twins. “You guys go get your potato chips or whatever, and then we’ll meet back here in twenty.”

“Got it!” the twins soon grabbed Dante’s arms, dragging him away to then leave Ula alone with Atlas and Schrader, an awkward atmosphere surrounding them like previous times throughout the day.

“Alright.” Ula nodded with a sigh, smiling at each of the boys. “Funnel cake time.”

“Yup.” Atlas gave a small nod, then hearing as Schrader cleared his throat.

“Uh, come on.” he motioned to the side. “Stand’s this way.”

After having walked away from the pendulum ride, the trio soon arrived to a seating area already quite filled with other guests that enjoyed their own carnival snacks.

“Since you guys are bigger than me,”Ula started with a bit of a laugh. “How about you find us a place to sit at while I order?”

“Sounds…”

“Good…” Schrader finished for Atlas.

“Alright. Anything you guys want? Individual cakes?”

“I’m okay with sharing.” Schrader stated before slightly nudging Atlas. “The cakes are pretty huge, especially if they’re on an elephant ear.”

“Oh, okay.” Atlas nodded before Ula smiled at them, soon enough making her way to the stand itself as Schrader and Atlas stood in an even more awkward atmosphere. “There’s a table over there.”

“Great.” Schrader followed after Atlas, both now sitting on a single side of the table for the other had been occupied by a family who thankfully had their backs turned to them. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask.”

“Yeah?”

“How’s your day been?” Schrader asked as he fiddled with one of his piercings. “Been having fun?”

“Oh, yeah, totally.” Atlas nodded as he now adjusted his glasses, looking around the area to find Ula who he saw was still in line. “The roller coaster was especially fun.”

“The wooden one?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.” Schrader nodded, then giving a chuckle. “We always thought Ula was the screamer, but as it turns out, it’s Robyn.”

“That was pretty funny.’ Atlas quietly laughed, remembering that even with such high speed and music blaring into everyone’s ears, Robyn could clearly be heard shrieking throughout the ride. “The picture was a lot funnier though.”

“Totally. You know, I saved the code, so maybe I could buy it later.” Schrader shrugged. “As a memory and all, but also something to laugh at.”

“Hm, yeah.” Atlas hummed, now looking down at his hands that he had folded in front of him.

“If we don’t go on the pendulum, where would you wanna go?”

“Uuuh, maybe...the bumper cars? Tilt-a-whirl? If there even is one.”

“Oh there’s one. Three in fact.”

“Three?”

“Three what?” Ula’s voice was now heard, the pair looking behind to see her holding a large board containing quite a large snack that made Atlas’ eyes widen.

“What is that monstrosity?” he scanned the treat that Ula had now placed on the table, the latter soon sitting between Atlas and Schrader who realized how tight the space was, knees all brushing against each other.

“This is the one Schrader mentioned.” Ula giggled as she handed them each a fork. “Elephant Ear topped with funnel cake, topped with ice cream, topped with strawberries and chocolate drizzle.”

“Jeff and Bubbles could eat this entire thing in a single bite.” Atlas poked the cake with his fork, seeing as Ula and Schrader began to dig in. “No, they would each eat one in a single bite.”

“Thankfully, there’s one of this thing and three of us.” Schrader popped a strawberry into his mouth before shutting his eyes, no doubt pleased.

Atlas then took his own piece of the funnel cake, smiling as the flavor hit his tongue before spreading through his mouth.

“So what were you guys talking about?” Ula spoke once again as she took a strawberry and dipped it in ice cream. “How many prizes you guys were gonna win for me at the booths?~”

“I saw some axolotl plushies on the way here.” Atlas mentioned, Ula’s attention fully on him now. “I think it was a throwing game, where you hit milk bottles.”

“Those are always so rigged.” Ula blew a raspberry before taking a piece of the funnel cake. “However, we have a secret weapon named Schrader. You should see all the prizes he’s gotten for Cordie.”

“I can just imagine.” Atlas continued to eat as did Ula and Schrader, the former then turning around when he heard an especially loud scream. “Is that…?”

“Robyn.” Schrader nodded as he and Ula also turned. “Those assholes went on the pendulum without us.”

“Honestly, I wouldn’t really complain.” Ula watched with wide eyes at the attraction that swung high enough to somehow make that one specific scream sound even louder. “I kinda prefer to go to a haunted house.”

“You know,” Atlas looked down at his phone. “We technically still have about ten minutes before we’re supposed to ‘meet up’.”

_____________

“It looks pretty silly.” Atlas commented as he and Ula were lead towards the haunted house attraction, everybody staring up at the dark building that had all sorts of animatronics no doubt purchased at Halloween stores.

“Which in the end gives you a good laugh.” Schrader chuckled as he paid the employee in front of the house the required ticket amount, all three then being allowed inside where they were met up with a four-seat car. “And the breeze is fantastic, in addition to the break from walking.”

“Exactly what I need, because these heels are actually killing me.” Ula stepped into the car, sitting in the front before Atlas and Schrader looked at each other. “Right.”

“You go.” Schrader motioned to Atlas. “I’ll go in the back.”

“You sure? I sat with her on the roller coaster.”

“It’s fine.” Schrader nodded, then sitting in the back as Atlas seated himself beside Ula. “I can sit with her on the next ride. Unless we go to the haunted maze.~”

“Thanks.” Atlas smiled, all three of them feeling the lap bars be lowered which further tightened the spaces. “Well then.”

“I’m short and I’m still smooshed.” Ula laughed as the ride began, shifting around as her knees continuously brushed against Atlas’. “But that only gives me an excuse.”

“Excuse for what?” Atlas looked down at her, then feeling as she leaned against his chest with her arms wrapped around his much bigger frame. “Ah.”

Atlas felt Ula snuggle right into his body, even as Atlas jumped due to an animatronic popping out with a loud sound on his side.

“And that’s why you get to sit with her this time.” Schrader leaned in to tell Atlas, chuckling to himself as he leaned back in his seat.

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