#no one has ever met cicada

[chasing-faith-and-fate]

Can we get a family tree/ what each StarClan cat was to Soot and Silk?

been meaning to make one, so this was a great excuse

[lunasfics]

You Remind Me of Lilies - Damian Wayne

Summary: "You remind me of lilies.” He paused, eyeing you with curiosity, “And why is that, beloved?”  You smiled, “You just do, all different colors of lilies mean different things, and I can trace each one back to you. Every time.”

pairing: older! Damian Wayne x gn! Reader

word count: 611

warnings: none

a/n: saw a picture of lilies and got the idea to write this <3 my formal apology for the jason angst lol, i hope you like it! - luna <3

reblogs are appreciated!

The moment was a quiet one. The two of you were sitting on the grassy patch, the soft cloth from your earlier picnic providing comfort beneath you. Damian held your hand in his as he looked forward, eyeing the patches of lilies scattered across the meadow. 

You looked at him, his brilliant green eyes glazed over with the soft peachy tint of the sunset ahead. The soft breeze swaying his hair ever so slightly, his smooth olive skin was kissed by the soft pink and orange hues of the fading sun. He turned to you, his gaze catching yours. His lips quirked up into a soft smile.

“Why are you staring at me?”

“You remind me of lilies.” 

He paused, eyeing you with curiosity, “And why is that, beloved?” 

You smiled, “You just do, all different colors of lilies mean different things, and I can trace each one back to you. Everytime.” 

A soft shade of pink spreads over his ears and cheeks, he scoots closer to you, the hand that was holding yours letting go and snaking itself around your waist. You leaned into him, relishing the moment. The soft sounds of the grass rustling in the breeze, a blue hue slowly washing over you as the sun sets further. The temperature cooled slowly, the warmth of the sun dissipating, you brought yourself closer to Damian. 

“Tell me about the lilies.” He spoke softly, you almost didn’t catch it. You smiled. 

“Well, white lilies mean purity, tranquility, and humility. Red ones signify love and affection, pink symbolizes youth and joy, and orange ones represent happiness, love, and warmth.” 

He spoke softly, “I don’t know that I’m any of those things.” 

You turned to look at him, “Nonsense, you’re all those things and more.” 

He met your gaze, smiling softly, the sun was gone by now. However looking into his sparkling green eyes, seeing the small crinkles at the corners from his soft gaze, they could’ve fooled you into thinking the sun was shining on just the two of you. 

He leaned and placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. 

“I don’t think I would be anywhere near where I am today if not for you. I love you.” He spoke softly. His voice is gentle, tender. 

You were so proud of him. Truly. He'd graduated from the Robin title, taking on his own identity, he'd started attending Gotham University with you. He'd opened up, made friends, he'd come so far. And it was all him. As far as he has come, these kinds of soft gazes, tender words, and warm touches were the kind that he saved only for you. It made them all the more special.

“That's all the product of your effort, Dami, not me. I love you too.” You leaned your head back on his chest, his arm wrapped securely around you. 

The two of you stay like that for a moment, a comfortable silence washing over you like a warm blanket of serenity. The bees have stopped buzzing, the sounds now replaced with the distant songs of the cicadas, and the soft sounds of the crickets. 

Damian broke the silence, “I used to think you were too good for me. That I didn’t deserve you. This. Even now when I look at you it’s as though I am seeing the stars for the first time.”

You met his eyes, gazing into the now darkened shade of green, “You deserve everything good in this world.” 

He held you closer, kissing you softly. He pulled away, speaking softly, “The sun is down, we should get going.” 

You shook your head, “Let’s stay just a little bit longer. This is nice.” 

He smiled and nodded, “As you wish, beloved.”

[callsign-venus]

Be Mine | Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Reader

Summary: It’s a February weekend and Jake has a surprise for you — but you don’t know if you’re ready.

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: LOTS of fluff

a/n: My first Jake fic! This was inspired by the fact that I just found out Glen Powell was at my work at the same time as me, and I didn't know (I could have met him 😭). I might have cried a little when my coworker told me lol. Anyways, hope y’all enjoy this x

You loved weekends with Jake. You loved the soft falling sunlight that woke you instead of the alarm clock, the extravagant brunches he cooked instead of spoons clanking hurriedly against cereal bowls, and the prospect of spending the whole day together instead of a quick kiss in the doorway and a promise that he’d see you that evening.

So when you, half asleep, reached for him and your hands skimmed over bed sheets instead of his broad chest, you snapped awake, just as if your alarm had gone off.

“Jake?” You rubbed away the sleep in your eyes.

No answer.

Sometimes he worked weekends, but he would have told you if that was the case. And you couldn’t hear him in the kitchen, much less smell bacon or coffee. With a groan, you realized you would have to get up to investigate. You scooped Jake’s naval academy hoodie off the floor and pulled it over your head. It smelled like him, mixed with just a hint of your perfume.

The house was empty, no weekend warmth to chase out the chill that fell whenever you were home alone. It didn’t help that the sun was heavily curtained by dark gray clouds.

On the kitchen counter, there was a folded note. Your name graced the paper in his boyish handwriting.

Good morning sunshine,

I had to run some errands, be back in a few.

If you want to wear something nice, I was planning on taking you to the beach when I get back. I’ll stop and get us breakfast, so don’t cook yourself anything.

Sorry I left before you woke up, I hope you’ll accept my apology.

Love,

Jake

P.S. I love you beautiful

The P.S. was punctuated with a little doodle of you. It wasn’t exceptionally well done, but it made you giggle.

You tucked the note into your pocket and carried it with you to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

You’d nearly finished when you heard his car pull into the driveway. You set down your brush and tore through the house, nearly tackling him with a hug as he walked through the door.

“Woah, precious cargo,” he said, as he wrapped an arm around you, a paper bag full of breakfast tacos crushing against your back. An iced drink sloshed in his other hand.

You pulled back to see he’d also brought your iced coffee order from your favorite cafe. A cold feeling spread through your core.

“Did I forget something? It’s not our anniversary is it?” You asked.

“No,” he laughed. “You didn’t forget anything. Can’t I just treat my girl?”

“Of course.” You took a sip of coffee and tried to let it wash away your unfounded worries. Jake loved treating you, but something about his demeanor felt different, just a little bit on edge. There was a tick in his jaw as he set the bag of breakfast tacos on the table like they were breakable. The cold feeling spread to your fingertips.

It disappeared when you joined him at the table, and a genuine smile softened his features. You dug in, dousing the breakfast tacos in salsa verde.

“So good,” you said.

“I’m gonna have to bring you home, these breakfast tacos have nothing on the ones in Texas.”

Your heart fluttered at the thought of going home to Texas with Jake. Plunging into cool watering holes in the peak heat of the day, when the sun scorched so brightly you couldn’t walk outside without sweating. Hot summer nights where cicadas sung and you could see more stars than you ever thought possible. A football game under giant stadium lights, and he’d kiss you when his team won.

You’d never been to the state, but to hear Jake describe it, it was true love. Second only to you, of course.

Jake snuck a few sips of your coffee.

“Hey!” You plucked the cup out of his grasp. “That’s mine. Didn’t you get your own?”

“Already drank it,” he said around a bite of breakfast taco.

Try as you might, you couldn’t stay mad at that face, and you pretended not to notice the next time he stole a sip of your drink.

“So,” you dabbed a napkin to the corner of your mouth after you’d finished your second taco. “What errands did you have to run at the ass crack of dawn?”

“That is a surprise,” he said.

“Really?”

“Yep.” He swept the trash into the takeout bag. “Do you want to go find out?”

You wanted nothing more.

The clouds were like gray marble over the world and the wind ushered a chill into the late morning air. Even though you’d picked out the cutest outfit, you grabbed Jake’s hoodie and threw it on before you walked out the door. It was your favorite piece of clothing – it enveloped you like a hug – but you much preferred Jake himself sitting next to you in the driver’s seat, holding onto your hand like it was the most precious thing in the world. With him by your side, everything was better. Even his car smelled sweet, like fresh fruit.

He glared at the cloud cover. “I should have picked a better day.”

“It’s fine. I love this weather.” You rubbed your free hand over his bicep, and his hand relaxed against yours.

Soon, the ocean crested over the horizon. It churned dark gray, like a reflection of the sky, broken only by whitecaps. It wasn’t sunny like the beach days you and Jake had spent with the Daggers the past summer, but the sight was still beautiful.

Jake pulled into a parking lot on the bluffs overlooking the beach. As soon as you got out of the car, a gust of salty wind buffeted you. Jake tried to apologize, but your laugh rang clear over the whipping wind, and he had never known a sweeter sound. If he could hear your laugh for the rest of his life, he would be buried without a single regret.

He grabbed a picnic basket out of the trunk, took your hand, and walked you down to the beach, where the wind was creating chaos out of a picnic blanket and a bundle of pink and red balloons. Jake ran to bring order, but there was nothing he could do against nature itself.

“I’m sorry,” he said. A balloon bounced against his head. “It looked so nice when I set it up. This wind…”

“It’s ok. It’s still beautiful. Thank you.” You pecked him on the cheek. You were thankful, of course, but the surprise picnic loosened something inside of your chest. Why had he planned it? Had you actually forgotten an important day?

You sat criss-cross on the quilted blanket. With your weight holding it down, the blanket stayed in place against the wind. The balloons, however, shed their tether and danced away. Jake sprung up and gave them a quick chase, but they were much faster, and floating up towards the gray sky. He jumped, but he missed the ribbons by a few inches. Still, he ran after them for a few more yards.

When they were well out of reach, Jake jogged back. He was breathing heavily, and sand caked his feet and calves. You stopped him before he could try to apologize.

“I enjoyed them while they were here.” You looked up to see them still floating, heavenbound. “I’m still enjoying them now. Plus, I got to watch you run after them like a dork.”

“Hey!” He protested through strained breath.

“Kidding,” you said.

Jake started unpacking the picnic basket with flair. First, a bouquet of flowers – more than a dozen roses of your favorite color nestled between fluffy baby’s breath and sprigs of soft eucalyptus. Holding it made you feel like a bride.

A pang of anxiety struck you. You loved Jake. You couldn’t imagine your life without him. But you’d been dating less than a year, and you knew the rumors that servicemen moved fast. What would you say if he pulled out a ring?

You didn’t have time to worry; he was already pulling out a bowl of fruit. Strawberries, mangoes, kiwi, some cut into little hearts.

“Did you do this?” You grabbed a slice of kiwi shaped like a heart and popped it in your mouth. When he nodded, you asked, “How? When?”

“In the supermarket parking lot this morning. I brought a cutting board and a knife.”

He was dead serious. The thought of him, cutting board on his dash, carefully carving fruit for you in a parking lot made you laugh. No man had ever done anything that thoughtful for you.

Jake wondered if communion wine was as sweet as your laugh, as capable of salvation. He decided not.

He pulled out a bakery box last, and you noticed how carefully he held it. This must be the surprise. Your chest felt heavy as you imagined what could be inside. 

You didn’t know what you would do if you opened the box to a cake that said Will you marry me? If you looked up and Jake was on one knee, his eyes sparkling like the ring in his hand, launching into a monologue about how he wanted to spend his life with you. Because you couldn’t deny how much you needed him, like cut flowers needed water. This brilliant man whose hard exterior crumbled with one look at you. Who knew you like an extension of himself. Who sat in a parking lot and cut heart-shaped fruit for you because he wanted to see you smile. You would do anything for him to stay yours. Yours to please. Yours to hold. Yours to love.

You couldn’t say no. You couldn’t lose him.

He set the box in front of you and took your hand in his. “Are you ready?”

“I’ve been ready for the past few hours.” You gave his hand a squeeze. This was it. You were on the precipice. The ocean roared down below. If he asked you to jump with him, would you?

Your breath caught in your chest as you lifted the lid. Inside, a frilly pink cake. In white frosting on the top, Will you be my Valentine?

A laugh shook you, and relief unfurled under your skin. You wrapped your arms around him with such force that you both fell onto the picnic blanket.

“Yes,” you said as you attacked his perfect face with kisses. “Yes, yes, yes.”

When he couldn’t take your onslaught any longer, he wrapped his giant arms around you and crushed you against his chest. There was no place safer for you in the entire world. You swore your hearts harmonized, both perfectly in time with the beat of the waves against the sand. You could have stayed like that forever, but eventually, Jake succumbed to the sweet allure of the cake and let you go. As he cut into the soft pink shells of buttercream, your mind drifted somewhere to the future. Your hands melded with his around a knife handle, slicing into another cake – this one at least three tiers tall and white.

Jake shook you from your daydream by offering you the first slice of pink cake.

It was delicious. Your favorite flavor and his, married perfectly between layers of dark and pale pink buttercream. As you ate, the impenetrable cloud cover finally yielded to the wind, and the sun stretched its lazy rays over the two of you. Somehow, Jake ended up with a dab of frosting on the tip of his nose. You swiped it away with the pad of your thumb and licked it clean.

You felt some relief at not getting engaged. But with the taste of cake in your mouth, and the golden sun warming Jake’s skin, you felt a tinge of bittersweetness. Maybe some part of you had wanted him to ask, even though it was so soon.

But you looked at the picnic spread – the heart-shaped fruit, the bursting bouquet, even the balloons, long since claimed by the sky – and you were assured it would not be long before he got down on one knee and asked for your hand.

You knew what your answer would be.

[strawberrystepmom]

umemiya and tv meteorologist f!reader are both in their mid to late twenties. cw food mentions. divider by cafekitsune, wc 2.2k

“And today’s skies are going to be sunny as ever, a little bit warmer than we usually see seasonally…”

Hajime raises his eyebrows at the TV, the sound of your voice gradually fading into nothing more than background static mixing with the sounds of cicadas indicating one hot summer is due to make its arrival sooner rather than later. He sighs and presses the back of his hand against his forehead, droplets of sweat soaked up by his gardening glove.

“A bit warmer?” He mutters to an audience of himself and his carefully cultivated plants he has spent years growing, most of the current crop shoots off of prior plants he painstakingly tended rather than from seeds.

It takes a long, long time and a lot of effort to build a community garden this elaborate but it has been time well spent as far as Umemiya is concerned. Tomatoes that are available for anyone who needs them will be abundant in approximately a month and so will cucumbers.

His official title in Makochi is Community Organizer though almost everyone knows the truth at this point - he’s still the man in charge of Bofurin. The young men who didn’t leave the town as soon as they graduated continued to follow Hajime’s lead to become upstanding members of the community, even if the means they keep themselves upstanding are a little questionable at times.

Your weather forecast ends and he flips the TV off, trimming the last of the small leaves sprouting off of the stem of his largest tomato plant and gently misting them to ward off this heat.

He’s still stuck on how you said it’s only slightly hotter than what tends to be seasonally normal, sweat dampening the collar of his shirt. It clings to his body when he stands, emblazoned with the slogan of some bar he went to years ago in another prefecture, and looks around the garden with a smile. Inspecting each plant with careful precision, he notices the heat already scorching a few of his smaller plants and he simply cannot stand for it.

You say it’s warm when it’s hot, it’s gonna drizzle when it showers. It’s down right deceptive and for someone who takes his role as Community Organizer very seriously, he can’t stand for it.

When he gets home, he’ll send a letter to the local news station declaring his distaste with the inaccurate weather report.

—-

“You got another one.”

Fumi, one of the producers for the morning show, tosses an envelope on the corner of the newsroom that belongs to you. You have various charts and schedules you’re reviewing, glasses propped on your nose. You give the envelope a scant glance out of the corner of your eye until realizing that you recognize the tidy handwriting on the front of the letter.

“This is like the fourth one he’s sent,” you mumble to no one in particular and Fumi hums, pursing her lips.

The weather girl, as they’ve dubbed you despite your official title of a meteorologist, receives enough fan mail no one really fights for the job of delivering it. Sometimes it’s professions of love or letters expressing thankfulness for predicting good weather on an important day in someone’s life, other times the letters are less wholesome but you take it all surprisingly well.

This is just the fourth letter you’ve received from Hajime Umemiya and part of you is concerned it’s somewhere between love confession and threat of violence. You know nothing about the sender, a man you’ve never met before and likely never will, but his letters don’t carry the vaguely threatening aura some of the others you’ve received have. You simply haven’t had a chance to open them yet, the other three stuffed inside of your desk drawer.

“If we need to tell security, let someone know.”

Fumi’s words are half hearted in tone but you know she means them, walking off with a half wave and toward the producers booth. You glance at the letter again, plucking it off of your desk and slapping it against the palm of your opposite hand to make sure nothing is inside of it besides the letter itself.

When you’re satisfied that there is no mysterious, worrying rattle inside the envelope you slide your fingernail beneath the seal, loosening the paper. The letter inside is folded a little haphazardly, the edges lopsided instead of folded neatly and exact which makes you smile to yourself. Unfolding the paper, you scan over the opening.

“Dearest Weather Woman,

I hope that this letter finds you in good health.”

The formality makes you snort to yourself and you glance around the newsroom to make sure no one overheard you, uninterested in drawing a crowd, and you wonder if this guy read a book or searched for an article about writing formal letters before doing this. It’s so formal you’d be concerned where it came from if it weren’t from the slight smudges of ink dotting the paper in various locations.

“I am writing as a concerned member of the Makochi community who does not always find your reporting of the weather conditions to be accurate.”

Sighing, you drop the letter down on your desk and open the drawer beneath it to pull out the other three letters this concerned citizen has sent, following the same steps and smacking them against your palm to ensure nothing is inside of them. You unfold them quickly and far less carefully than the first one and smile when scanning and realizing they all say the same thing.

“My tomatoes are scorching this early in the season. This may gravely affect our output which may prevent our community from enjoying our garden.”

If the letters seemed less earnest, you’d laugh them off and scoff at the fact a stranger wants you to control the weather. That isn’t what he’s asking you to do but if it were, it’d be far from the first time someone has sent you psychobabble about the sun. There’s something distinctly responsible in the wording of these complaints despite their formality and you sigh, digging your own pen and paper out to respond.

What can you even say? “Sorry the planet is heating up” seems snarkier than you’d like to be so you twist back and forth in your chair, tapping the pen against your lower lip. An idea washes over you and you lean forward in your chair, bending over your desk and scribbling as quickly as you can to offer the stranger your solution.

If he wants to know more about how weather works, you’ll be glad to tell him more yourself if he can catch you at Café Pothos next week when you get one of your pre-show coffees. Scribbling down the date and time, you wonder for a moment if you are taking a risk by offering your time and location to a man you’ve never met but your gut tells you it’s okay. You’ve always trusted it and you stuff your response into an envelope, licking the seal and closing it while dashing off toward the mailroom to have it sent today.

——

Wednesday, 5:45 AM.

Hajime sits boredly at one of the small booths in the cafe, idly tearing bits of his straw wrapper into smaller bits and even smaller ones still.

“What if she’s lying to you and you’re going to get caught on camera being weird or something?” Kotoha shouts from behind the bar and the man sucks his teeth in response, blowing out air in a hiss. “I hope not. That wouldn’t be very nice after personally inviting me to meet.”

His words don’t belay his anxiety but he feels it, concerned his well meaning letters crossed a line though your response was kind and similar in tone to his own. Your letter is in his pocket, he likes your handwriting and has to fight the urge to keep from pulling it out to admire it.

“Good morning!”

He recognizes your voice from your broadcasts and his ears perk up, posture straightening as he looks over the back of the booth, surprised by how put together you look despite not being quite TV ready. Your face looks fresh and mostly makeup free, hair pulled off of your face with a clip. Kotoha looks up from the bar and smiles at you, clearly familiar.

“Morning. Your usual?”

Very familiar, obviously. Hajime raises a brow and looks at his own mug, filled to the brim with coffee he knew he wouldn’t drink when it was poured. He watches you and Kotoha exchange pleasantries, your cat shaped coin purse open as you fish out the last few needed to pay for your drink. Maybe he should have offered to do that for you? It’s too early in the morning for him to feel sure of himself so his eyes flit from your back to the table in front of him.

He isn’t much of a black coffee guy but it seemed right preparing for some kind of strange business meeting to have it. At least that's what he thought until you approached him, cup clanging against the plate beneath it and the brim of it overflowing with whipped cream. Shaking his head, Hajime picks up his own cup half heartedly and sips from it to make it seem like he is doing anything besides waiting.

You stop in your tracks just short of the booth and tilt your head, a smile far bigger than the one you wear on TV crossing your face.

“Oh, I didn’t recognize your name but now that I see your face I remember you. My colleague Jin interviewed you last year about the improvements to the school.”

Umemiya completes your sentence for you and smiles easily back at you, sitting back against the booth. You smile nervously all of a sudden, crowding into the side opposite him and bowing your head respectfully, the mountain of whipped cream on top of your coffee drooping when you set the cup down.

“Umemiya, right?”

The man nods, sipping the bitter coffee from the mug in his hand with a slight grimace that you politely do not mention.

“Hajime is my first name and you’re welcome to use it if you’d like.”

Giggling, you nod and reach for your own cup, delicately lifting it to your mouth and humming your approval as the taste officially starts your morning. He chuckles in response, blue eyes glancing across the table at you with a look you can’t quite name but you think it may be good old fashioned curiosity.

Truthfully, he’s just a little taken aback by how pretty you are up close but he sips his coffee again instead of opening his mouth. You finish your sip and clasp your fingers together on the table in front of you with a grin, easy and natural.

“Well, Hajime, before we begin I just want to let you know that while I am sorry about your tomato plants, I am not a witch and cannot control the weather.”

The sweet smile on your face lets him know you’re joking and he raises his brows, sighing and shaking his head. The corners of his mouth are upturned in a clever smile matching his own and he glances up at you through thick and long lashes, one of his brows remaining raised.

“With all due respect, tell that to my tomatoes.”

Snorting before bursting into laughter, you don’t bother to hide your face in your shoulder when he laughs along with you. You didn’t notice it when you first sat down but he’s extraordinarily handsome even for the predawn hour, white hair flopping over his eyes far more boyishly than it should be allowed to. His eyes are blue and lively, not unlike the skies you love to report on so much, smile big and bright.

“Anyway,” you finish laughing and clear your throat, still smiling. “Now that we have that out of the way, it’s really nice to meet you and I’m here for any questions you may have. We have thirty minutes.”

Thirty minutes hardly seems like enough time to ask everything he wants to but he sits back, gently turning his wrist and making the coffee in his mug slosh gently. You giggle again, a very sweet sound that almost throws him off of his coffee twirling flow, lifting your own mug to your mouth.

“Why does it rain?”

Despite yourself, you laugh and rush to swallow your mouthful of coffee, wiping the corners of your lips free of any potentially embarrassing dribbles.

“I’ll need a lot longer than 30 minutes to explain that to you, Hajime.”

He wrinkles his nose, looking around the empty coffee shop.

“Then tell me what you can today and maybe we can meet again tomorrow?”

Mentally, you go over tomorrow’s schedule which coincidentally is the same as today and every day’s, and you nod at him with a loud exhale through your nose.

“Sure. Then maybe you can relay the info to your tomatoes so they can prepare?”

He grins at you, laughing from his chest. The depth of his laughter makes his shoulders gently shake, the long sleeved he wears shirt buckling over his chest.

“Yeah, I think they’d enjoy that.”

[meichenxi]

languages, travel, identity, grief

Maybe some of you have heard of Xu Zhimo's Second Farewell to Cambridge (徐志摩 再別康橋 Translation: Saying Goodbye to Cambridge Again, by Xu Zhimo | East Asia Student). It's an achingly lovely poem about a Chinese scholar who studied in the UK, and how he left so gently, taking nothing with him as he went. It brought me solace over the last year.

I thought for a very long time about how I felt about having to leave China, and what it felt like to mourn for a future that was never going to mine. I cried. How am I supposed to explain why? I'm not Chinese. I've got no family there, or a childhood to look back on. I couldn't explain it even to myself.

That pain was coupled with a type of uncertainty, a discomfort at myself for feeling so strongly. This feeling was not allowed. It meant - what? Something awful, probably. I was a racist, probably. I should hate myself, probably. Fetishization is the word that gets thrown around for white people and their time spent in East Asia at one end of the spectrum - at the other end it's just seen as embarrassing and deeply, you know, cringe. It's a self-interrogation - why do I feel so sad? Why do I feel this pull so strongly anyway, to a country that's not even mine? Why should it matter so much when I leave? I didn't feel like this grief has any sort of legitimacy. But it has taken from September - eight months after leaving - for me to pick up Chinese again.

I felt, for months, hollow and unsettled and drifting from place to place. I opened my textbook, and closed it again. The memories there were too painful. I'm not going to write about why I had to leave, but it wasn't by choice. I had loved the people in the school, even if it was for a short time. When you have no internet and are training eight hours a day, the days are coloured more sharply: bright and hurtful and wonderful all at once. We had no running water. It was in an abandoned hotel. I miss the monk at the temple door opposite the school, always on time at 6am to open it for our classes. I miss the folk at the local shop who invited me to watch films on their projector; once they killed a chicken for us. I miss the woman in the woods who gave me the chestnuts she had picked. I gave the chestnuts to the cook, and we steamed them and ate them by the lake. He wanted me to marry his son; he wanted it so strongly that he brought me pork, and desserts, and gave me paper, and promised me I could have a jade bracelet, that he would buy me a house. I miss the oldest martial arts teacher, who spoke in such strong dialect I could barely understand him. When I was sad and missing home one night, he told me that I should stay after dinner. In the silence and against the cicadas, he started to play the erhu for me. Later, my friend told me that he hadn't know what to say, how to comfort me; I was a foreigner and a young woman, after all. We had very little in common. But nobody has ever played a piece of music for me like that before.

And I miss X, my best friend there and partner in snack-smuggling crime. She is 19 years old, and a janitor's daughter, and one of the wisest people I have ever met. (She also rides an excellent motorbike, and lent me her hanfu, and we sped through the city giddy with our own daring and trying not to be caught.) We got matching haircuts; she had always wanted to cut her hair like a boy, and was too scared to do it alone. When I left, I told her to stay in touch: she shook her head. She said that some people were meant to know each other for some time, and no more. I think the death of friendship by attrition, by - as Elrond said! - the slow decay of time, is one of the saddest things of all. I deleted Wechat. I don't want to read over the old messages. By having this place - her, and the chestnuts, and the cicadas - as a memory, I can tuck it away it. I can keep it close.

I wrote a poem myself on the plane. That was the last I thought about China, the last thought I let myself have, in eight months. I kept myself away from it. It felt like a wound. And against that hollowness, there was constantly the question: Why should I have any right to miss this place? Who I am there? Why does it matter? We are all different people, wherever we go, and whoever we are with; we wear different skins, large or small. In China I was [...]. She was who I was. That name, that I introduced myself to people with - she was bright and friendly and tried to translate things just so. Everybody who goes as the only foreigner to a place - or the only foreigner that speaks the language - is a little bit self-obsessed. It happens. It's unfortunate, and something to guard against. But it also gives you its own kind of identity in a way: your identity is Foreigner. Your identity is a cultural bridge. Everyone you meet, in a country as friendly and curious as China, has questions about you. You stand with your feet in both worlds, and are not really part of either of them. That identity is easy to slip into, like cool water, like trying on new clothes. It's easier that thinking: who am I outside of that? Where am I going? I don't really know. I don't think anyone really does.

And then the second thing happens. I speak Chinese well, by this point. My accent is there, but it's slight. I am short, and have dark hair, and a generally similar build to many East Asians - so the questions I have got in the last few years have changed. Sometimes people think I have been raised here. Sometimes they think I am ethnically Russian, and nationally Chinese. Sometimes I get asked if I am half Chinese. Usually they know I am a Foreigner, 100% white - but not always. There is a peculiar rush that comes from that acceptance; from feeling the relief, just for fifteen minutes, that you belong. It's not about 'passing', or race-bending, or anything twisted - it's nothing so unnerving as that. It's just the human need to belong. Everyone gets tired of being stared at, after a while. And after a while, you start to think - I wish I understood. I wish they understood. I wish this were easy.

But then the conversation keeps going. You don't know a local word, or you misunderstand. You say something in a strange way, or you make a strange gesture, and the glass shatters, and - there you are again, naked again, exhausted again, explaining yourself again. That's the other half of it. There's solace in the Foreigner identity, because that means that's all you are. You don't have to think about your parents, or whether they worry about you so far from home; of course they do. The Foreigner is good and filial and a wonderful daughter. You can craft her into any shape you like. But it also marks you out again and again, endlessly and again, as Other.

There was a paper published a while ago that showed measures of acceptance of non-natives in native-speaking communities. It highlights a strange, but familiar experience to those who have lived abroad - the people who spoke the language to a medium level felt more accepted and less lonely than those that spoke the language to a high degree. It makes sense, and mirrors what I have found with both Chinese and German. When you speak a little Chinese, you are a wonder - a curiousity! Look at the Western girl go! People are kind, and curious, and will slow down to include you in conversations. You are thrilled with what you can access - all this knowledge, that other people don't have! Look how special you are!

And then you get better. And then you realise, cut by cut, that you will never be one of them. You don't want to be Chinese, per se; but you do want to be accepted. You are happy to be British; but you miss China like a wound, an old one, festering, even when it was never yours. How do you tell your family that you are not grieving a lost romance, a beautiful girl, but a language and a life? That there are words of majesty, of playfulness, that will never be yours? You speak well enough that people no longer bother to dumb things down, or explain them; you sit with your discomfort, smile painted on, because - you know. It's not bad. You understand most of it. And on the edge of that circle, smiling uncertainly, following the vast majority of what is being said, you are not clever enough and not witty enough to keep up with the chengyu, the cultural references, the slang, and the raucous laughter around you erupts, and you don't know what you've missed, and everybody says - she's quiet, that one. Maybe all the foreigners are? And all you are doing is sitting and feeling the distance between You and Them as heavy and as stifled in your chest as an ocean of dark.

So you go back. Back to your people. But when you sit with the other foreigners, you are apart. They laugh; what are these nutters doing? The Chinese don't make any sense. The Chinese do this - they do that. You sit there, and then there is a pressure building in your chest too, a discomfort, the desire to stand up and say - well, actually.

You are responsible for everything the Chinese teachers do, and have to explain things in a way that the students understand - Confucian thought, and Buddhist philosophy, translated in pithy bite-size adages for the West. You have no qualifications for this; everything you assert, you feel unsure. Uncertain. Someone else could explain it better, more nuanced, and you need to do more reading anyway - but here you are, and here they are, and you're the only one. And you do know. Not enough, but enough that their jokes, their pains, make you uncomfortable. You feel the need to defend both parties; to be a diplomat, every second of every day. In turn, when the students come to the teachers with problems, you have to translate their grievances in a way that the Chinese teachers will be sympathetic towards. Once I got asked: why do you never join us after class? Why are you always so quiet when you're not working? As a translator, you are always working. Every time you speak, you are working; what you choose to say, and what you choose to not say, and where you choose to intervene. You are building relationships, and disappearing, and you are becoming invisible, and you're a nothing, and you're everyone and you're nobody and nobody realises you are doing anything more than translating at all.

I wanted to stay. I couldn't have stayed. I wanted to be accepted as one of them. I wanted to be accepted for who I was. That means a foreigner. I wanted to be true to myself, which means that I would always be the Foreigner, which means I would always be apart from them. It is that contrast and juxtaposition which causes the grief. And there was never an ending to it, a resolution, a chance to reconcile myself (in China) with myself (in the UK), because all at once I had to leave. The grief comes most from the second arrow - not the pain of leaving, but the bewilderment of not knowing why I was in pain at all.

It's been eight months. Slowly, as spring comes, I feel like I am on surer ground. I can look at my old books, those painstaking notes, and I could look at new ones too and I'm starting to think, because this is what I tell my students, and maybe there's some truth in it - it's okay if you're not perfect. It's okay if you didn't achieve what you wanted to, and that the language - in its wholeness, and who can ever know that? - will never, not quite, be yours. It's the struggle and the process that means that I will know and understand Chinese in a different way, in my own way, in a slanted-to-reality sort of way, that is a treasure in and of itself. There is beauty in its brokenness too.

And there is sorrow, too. The sorrow that comes with easing yourself into a different life, and it holding you gently for a while. I sat there - I spoke to them. It's not only missing a place; it's missing a person you were, a stage of your life, for a time. It's knowing that a place has reached inside your ribs and taken root there - even if you don't return, you can never fully get rid of that again. You are two people now, with feet straddling two oceans. There are parts of you that loved and suffered and hated and grew in Chinese, not English. You can't explain that. You can't even begin. Sometimes - not often - you are a stranger in your own land. The poets spoke of that. In the age of fast travel, of the weekend break, we have forgotten the ways a place can burrow itself inside you, and find its own home.

It's not the same as the grief that someone Chinese will face. But it's still grief. I have put my life into Chinese. Maybe that is all it takes to grow love.

Now, I turn back to Chinese - as a foreigner, as Melissa, as myself. It's a bittersweet thing. I know that I cannot hold all of it. It will spill out, like the sun, and there is no way I can be that without losing myself and my history and my own green woods. But I think I am ready now. I am surer, and a little steadier on my feet.

[limehaspassed]

To Give a Man His Name

(Thomas Hewitt x M!Reader)

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In which you run across four teens along the side of the road.

Part Two

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Prologue

He was born to the world in a crude and grotesque way, one that can only be described as a living nightmare. His birth was a fatality, an innocent brutality for he was just a babe merely being born. To take someone’s life so young, at such an age, was an image unseen in the world, despite its sordid nature.

From the very start of his life, from the time he was born, he was a murderer, someone who took the lives of those around him. As he grew into a man, once fit for killing, he came to terms with his conditions, realizing that there was only one path he could take within this cruel world.

However, when your hands caressed his face and your lips graced his own, his life felt limitless. All restrictions left and for the first time, he felt as if his strength could be used for something else.

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Chapter One

Texas, 1969 …

Texan heat bore down on your body as you swung the knife down repeatedly, a motion you’ve been repeating over and over since the morning’s first light. The smell of salty iron hit your nose, a rough and overwhelming smell, one that encircled your brain in a hazy and intoxicated field of buzzing cicadas.

You were a slave to your practice, a slave to your job. Everyday, you would wake up at the crack of dawn to make your expedition to that slaughterhouse and everyday you would slave away in front of that slab of wood, constantly slamming your knife into its surface over and over, consecutively using muscles most do not know exist. Your body would burn and your shoulders would cry but still, you would attend your job for you had a family to care for.

Your daughter, a young girl within her early teenage years, depended on your job for a life. Of course, your daughter wasn’t really yours, you had merely found her when she was around ten, abandoned on the streets. You had taken her in that day, whether out of pity or quickly growing love, you cared for her and you still cared for her to this day. She was your world now, your reason for continuing the path of slavery, your everything.

You were one in three workers at the meat factory for a while but that changed the day someone new showed up, someone intrusive and observant, someone so excluded yet centered it baffled you. He was a brute of a man, a massive guy who took up a good portion of the doorway. He held strong, sharp eyes, intelligent in a way you haven’t seen within others, not even yourself. He had a strong grip and quiet mouth. He was the ideal worker too, accepting of anything as long as he could work.

He was Thomas Hewitt, a man you would grow to know as the freak of the town, yet, you could never see why. From the day you met him, you’ve never considered him a freak, no matter what the people of that small, sullen town told you. They could express their own misguided hatred to the man all they wanted, but you would never back their statements. After all, on that day, the day you met him, your life was changed forever.

It all started a day before you actually met him, a day before he ever stepped foot into that meat factory. It all started one fateful afternoon when you stumbled upon a group of teenagers who had come from out of state, their car had broken down and they were in need of some help. Being the nice person you were, you aided them the best you could.

“Please, sir, can you help us? Our car has broken down and we don’t know where we are.” They had asked for your help first, reaching out to you like hungry children to a diligent mother.

“Sure, pop the hood why don’t yah.” You spoke casually, having experienced many broken down cars. People didn’t stay in this town but they often passed through and being the curse place it was, problems always occurred.

One of the teenage boys, his name was Carlos, did the honor of popping the hood. You thanked him and walked up to the car, taking a look at the motor. You couldn’t tell what was wrong at first but you eventually found the problem, one of the head gaskets was leaking, a problem that had overheated the engine of the car.

“Ah, I see the problem, your gasket needs replacing. You’re lucky it's an easy fix, all I need are the parts and I can fix it right here.” You explained to which the kids practically cheered. They thanked you and celebrated. You cut them short in their celebratory dances “I hate to be that person but the nearest place that sells gaskets is about three miles up the road.” You explained a guilt slowly trickling into your stomach. You felt bad that you had to ruin their celebrations.

“That’s okay, Carlos and I can go up there and retrieve it and bring it back.” Another kid named Dante spoke up.

You smiled and agreed to watch the girls, Lina and Grace, as they traveled to the nearest store. It didn’t take long for them to leave, waving goodbye to their girlfriends and you.

Once they walked far enough to where you couldn’t see them, you turned to the girls and talked with them. The three of you guys had spoken about a plethora of topics ranging from break up stories, societal morals, and more. They all seemed to be like interesting and nice people on the outside but the more they talked, the more you had begun to realize how different they were from you. You didn’t let this predicament affect you for too long though, always keeping a smile on your face, even when you felt like a complete outsider.

“I just think that the whole Vietnam war is bullshit.” They would say to which you tried your best to control your response. There was a part of you that formed hatred for their laid back words, their carefree attitudes, the way they talked about a war as if it was nothing else but a high school breakup, gossip to go around and around. You hated them and you still do, but you also feel bad for them. After all, they were only kids and they were stuck in the middle of a war.

Hours began to tick by and the boys had yet to return with the gasket. “Where are they? They should be back by now.” Lina had complained, a statement that only added to that trickling guilt. You worried something might have happened to them. A lot of things happened within this small town that no one ever talked about, that everyone was afraid to talk about.

“Do you think we should go find them?” Grace asked, her voice borderline frantic. “What if something happened to them? What if they are hurt or some weirdo snatched them up?” She asked repetitive questions, her mind looping in circles over the boy's case.

You walked over to Grace and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, she immediately jerked away and looked at you with scared eyes. The fear turned to anger and she lashed out at you. “I swear if this weird town of yours hurt my boyfriend, I will behead you. Now, show us where that gas station was, we’re going to find them.” She stated with an authoritative tone that sent shivers down your spine. Her three-sixty in character took you by surprise, She was more than fine merely a minute ago, she was even joking with you, now she’s practically screaming down your throat. Insane.

You backed away from her and pointed down the road. “Fine, but I’ll tell you this. Ain’t no one in this town wants anything to do with you or your little boyfriends. Now stop acting like you own the place and start walking, they ain’t gonna find themselves now are they?” You replied with an annoyed and bitter tone, pissed off that she would even take such a voice with you.

Grace rolled her eyes and mumbled, “whatever” before starting her walk down the road. Lina followed after her with you leading the back.

The three of your walked down the road under the blazing sun, the Texas heat boating down on you like a laser, burning your skin and stinging our eyes. It felt as if the earth was molten lava each time a foot was placed upon that heated asphalt. The heat seeped into the soles of the shoes, reaching up and attacking the foot with a fiery blaze.

It wasn’t until the sun began to set behind the horizon that the three of you made it to the gas station. Grace was the first one to make it inside, barging through the door with haste, not even stopping to say hello to the shop owner. She rampaged through the aisles, calling out the name of the boy’s. When you and Lina made it inside, Grace was already halfway through the store.

“You ain’t gonna find any of them here. Haven’t seen a soul all afternoon I’m afraid.” The lady behind the counter spoke in a calm tone.

Grace turned to face her with an angered look. “What do you mean no one has come in? They were supposed to be here. Are you telling me that they never made it to this shitty gas station?” She asked in a raised voice.

You stepped in front of Grace and held out an apologetic hand to the older lady. “I’m so sorry about that Mrs. Hewitt, her boyfriend is just missing and we’re trying to find him. I’m sorry about her tone, we’ll take her outside, won’t we, Lina.” You shot a pointed look over to the girl who immediately jumped into action and pulled Grace outside.

You didn’t follow them, you stayed behind to talk to Mrs. Hewitt, wanting to further apologize for the attitude Grace had taken up with her. “I apologize about her outburst, Mrs. Hewitt” You started, to which she simply nodded with her eyes closed. “Is there anything I can do to make this up to you, I’m sure it’s given you quite the fright?” You asked with a guilty tone. It was your fault that Grace had come in here, that the boys were now missing, you are the one that sent them down here in the first place.

Mrs. Hewitt opened her eyes and gave a soft smile. “It ain’t your fault, dear. And please, call me Luda Mae. All the formalities make me feel old.”

You nodded and smiled back at her. “Alright. Well, I’ll be back around as always, Luda Mae. See you tomorrow morning.” You took your exit after that.

The second you opened the door of the gas station to exit the building, you instantly noticed that both Grace and Lina were missing. You call out for them and walk around the building multiple times but still, there was no hint of them anywhere. You cursed yourself and kicked a rock on the ground. You had officially lost four teenagers in the span of four hours.

With a defeated sigh, you started walking up the road, heading back to the teenagers car, wondering if they had headed that way, simply leaving you behind. You didn’t get far when the sheriff pulled up, Winston Hoyt, the only officer in his unit here. He had pulled up beside you, driving slow in order to keep pace with you. He rolled down the passenger side window and called out to you.

“Do you need a lift?” He asked, partially yelling to beat the sound of his motor.

You kept walking for a moment before stopping, deciding that it was best that you just get home. Plus, you could hand the case of the missing children off to the sheriff and be free of them for the day.

The car halted to a stop and opened the passenger door, taking a seat inside before closing it. You gave the directions to your house and the Sheriff began driving, heading in the general direction of your house.

“You work at the that butcher place back there, right?” He asks, making small talk.

You nodded and gave a small hum, not in a talkative mood.

“So what are yah doing out here so late? Meeting a boyfriend?” He asked with a tease.

You looked over and visibly rolled your eyes, wanting him to see your expression. He laughed and playfully hit your shoulder.”I’m teasing but seriously, what are you doing out here so late?” He asked again, to which you went in and explained all the details.

You explained everything from the time you got off work to now. You explained how nice they were at first, how willing the boys had been to go get the part, how they never came back, how one of the girls flipped out, how you all went to find the boys, how you lost the girls, and how you ended up walking alongside the road, heading towards the site once more.

“I see. After I drop you off, I’ll go out looking for them. No need to worry about them no more, okay, sweetheart?” He asked, adding on an unnecessary pet name at the end.

You simply nodded and refrained from throwing up at the name he had called you. You always hated being called pet names, they never went well with you. For the rest of the ride, you were silent, not speaking a word, not responding to ending further questions. The only time you talked was to thank the Sheriff when you got out.

You were quick to head inside, your mind spinning and stomach flipped inside out. You felt like you were going to throw up, the guilt of losing those kids eating up at you. You hated leaving the case with the officer but it was the only thing you could do, there isn’t much else you can do, you don’t even have a car.

You went to bed that night with an empty stomach, the contents long since spewed out into the toilet. Your dreams were plagued by their faces and what might have happened to them. You hated it, you hated them, you hated guilt.

The next morning, before heading to work you ran by the site where the car had originally been parked. It was a normal, humid morning, the sky was clear and the earth was dry, despite the wet conditions of the air.

When you arrived at the scene, you were quick to realize that the car was no longer there, not a trace of the kids were left, not even skid marks of them pulling out. It was as if they had passed through the town like ghosts or had come through at all. You could only hope that they were headed out of town safely, that the officer had done his job correctly and handled the case with practiced ease. You could only hope.

After you left the site, you quickly headed over to the factory, not wanting to be late to your shift. Luckily, you arrived a minute before your shift started, just on time. You were quick to throw on an apron and gloves, quickly heading over to your station and preparing for the day.

It was here that you met Thomas, it was here that he walked through the doors with the boss leading him on through, giving him a tour of the place. It was here that he was assigned to share a station with you, and it was here that you would start an odd relationship with the town’s “freak”, as some would like to say.

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Thanks for reading loves 🖤

Part 1/9

[hajiimes]

fine.

pairing: oikawa tooru x gn!reader tags: angst, hurt/no comfort, breaking up warnings: allusions to post timeskip word count: 1.1k author's note: if this looks familiar, that's bcuz it's a repost from another one of my old blogs (httpoiks) from abt a year ago if i remember correctly! i revamped this one because i absolutely love this one so much and i hope you do too!!!

masterlist

“I wish I could love you,” He says absentmindedly, the cruelty of his words and the way they tumble from his mouth easily betraying what he felt in his heart. His hands fidget nervously, fingers tapping against his knee thoughtlessly—as if he needed a distraction to be near you, like he didn’t want to focus on you. He acts like he’s pained to even be in your presence, eyes flicking across the room as he passes right over your form. 

He doesn’t even see you, but your hand reaches out for him. Muscle memory betrays the fact that all you want is to comfort him, but he pulls away just as your fingertips brush his quivering palm.

Shaking hands and brown eyes devoid of tears finally look at you, his lips pulled into a tight line—thin and solitary. You remember pressing your lips against his, kissing that pout off his face during his dramatic outbursts. Where did that display of care get you? Where are you now in relation to him? Standing in your kitchen during an early morning confrontation, begging him to stay as he begs you to leave. 

Oikawa Tooru, you realize, has never been one to stay. Never has he ever sacrificed his urge to run and decided to stay with the ones he loves and those who love him in return. You should’ve known better. His friends had told you stories of before on silent winter nights, cicadas chirping as you sipped a glass-bottled soda in the sweltering Argentine heat. They’d told you of his life back in Japan, his urges to run as far as his legs could take him, his hatred for being held down, and the way he’d fled Miyagi without looking back—leaving behind friends and family that only wanted to lift him in their arms and care for him. 

You were a fool when you met him, thinking he could change. You were still a fool for making yourself think he would stay. 

It’s four in the morning—too early for either of you to be up, but there you stand. Chestnut locks of hair sweep across his forehead, framing his face in that charming way you’d always loved. He looks like an angel in the sparse light that illuminates the stove, impeccable even in the hours when he should be sleeping in your shared bed. There’s a perfection to him you only see when he dons his facade and something in your body aches as you recognize it. 

You wish he would come back to bed, shed his coat, and slip back under the covers with you. He won’t, he can’t, but you just wish he would. 

He’s ready to leave. 

A shaky breath rattles in your chest and you harshly blink away the tears that had began to form behind your eyelashes. You face him head on: “Why are you lying to me?” It’s an unfair question, one that you’d known would catch him off-guard. So many times before, he’d been able to leave without question, without someone explicitly telling him to stay. 

He pulls back as if he’s been shot, staggering backward with a hand pressed gently to his heart. “Please,” You continue, “Stay.” 

Oikawa looks at you sadly, opening his mouth to speak before closing it tightly once again. 

“If you won’t stay, then… just hurry up and go. Don’t tell me if you love me or if you don’t, I can’t take it. If you’re going to leave just go and let me pretend I never knew you.” You cross your arms tightly over your chest, guarding the space where your heart sits. It’s a futile attempt, you’d already given it to him so long ago. Empty space rests in your chest, sternum guarding an open cavity. 

“Y/n, I-” He starts, stopping only as you push yourself away from him, out of arm’s reach. You back yourself into the cold white tile of your too-small kitchen, scampering as if you could escape the sound of his voice. 

The tile is stiff and cold when it hits the small of your back and you lean further into it, basking in the familiarity of that space you shared. Your mind goes back to mornings like this from before, when he’d give into bouts of nostalgia and cook meals his mother used to make, pressing kisses to your shoulder as you watched the rice cooker count down the minutes. You used to bask in his presence, satisfied with the way the early morning sun would catch his hair and eyes, turning chestnut to amber in your steady hands. The nights were even better—propped up against the sink as he rummaged for ice cream in the freezer, joking about already breaking his diet. The shared sodas in the afternoon, the way his hands would brush yours as you washed dishes together, the stolen kisses away from the prying eyes of your friends—the love shared between two people filling a space, vacant and void now. 

“Don’t tell me you love me, please. Tooru, I can’t take it.” You plead with him, pressing your arms further into yourself, guarding that cavernous chest of yours. 

Oikawa falls into a broken silence then, mouth left half-open. He wants to comfort you—you can see it in his body language, but his eyes are as dry as the most scorching desert. You wish he would cry for you, to show you that he at least cared. Instead, he swallows thickly and purses his sandpaper lips. “Fine.” He says, shrugging his shoulders casually as if you’d just asked him about his day. 

“Fine.” He repeats, pretending you hadn’t just asked him to forfeit every memory he had of you, every mouthed confession against the nape of your neck, every second spent together. 

Years and years and years of love shared and exchanged, given up and abandoned in a single moment—a single word. 

With a sense of finality, he turns away. He picks up his suitcase by the handle—already packed for his flight back to Japan. You can’t help but wonder how long he’d been planning this, planning to leave you in the dead of night without a word of explanation. His treacherous hands drop his keys on the counter in front of you and he leaves you there, alone once more. 

It’s only when the door slams shut behind him that you sink down, back sliding against the cabinets as your body crumples into a ball on the floor. Harrowing sobs wreck the quiet stillness of the morning, your sorrowful cries reverberating around the apartment—forever yours, never again his.

[alarmclockthatrings]

Please, Stay. - Johnshi!

Hi there! Sorry for being gone for long but here I am... ANYWAYS! HAVE THIS FLUFFY COMFORT FIC OF JOHNNY AND KENSHI!!

TWS: NONE! SPOILERS, MAYBE (?) Polly a rant but no one can stop me.

GENRE: FLUFF, COMFORT, CANON CHARACTER X CANON CHARACTER

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After a long-lasting night at Madam Boe's, the duo, Kenshi and Johnny fared back to Earth realm, the night long on its way, the cicadas chirping, hidden amongst the leaves of the green and lush trees that gave out the fresh breeze and the moon pale and glowing ever so gracefully that it felt like they were in the moons gaze.

The moment was calm and quiet, unlike the things they'd had to endure not too long ago and it felt soothing to just walk through the dirt steps and turn and – stare at Kenshis face. His chiseled features and his noticeable stubble, his thin lips that glowed a soft pink, his suit, red and beautiful, and Sento, the thing that bonded them in the first place.

He has never been more proud he's bought Sento, knowing that it was the reason they've met in the first place.

He remembers handing it to Kenshi, their calloused fingers noticeably brushing against each other as the light from the gaps of the trees behind them seeped into their hands, as if to enlighten it, their rough skin basking in the ever glow.

Johnny chucks a smile with a snicker. He remembered how his heartbeat was in a messy rhythm when he gave Kenshi the long-anticipated sword after all those months.

He felt the gratitude and appreciation seep through the red cloth and he smiled like his eyes weren't gouged out and this string attached to them, bonded together, maybe even stronger than the loose grip they were once entangled in, and Johnny felt an unkempt feeling brush over his cheeks along with a gurgle that came from his stomach and he swore his eyes almost disappeared into cheeks from how wide he was smiling.

Bump Bump... Bump Bump..

Johnny convinced himself it was just his heart feeling excited from the good deed he had done.

Maybe.

Perky and upbeat - and possibly tipsy- Kenshi and Johnny barely kept a conversation as they slurred their sentences into this confusing bubble and the pair decided to stay quiet, knowing talking would only make them more drunk rather than sober.

But, Johnny notices how close they are, their sides, almost inches away and their shoulders so close to bumping into eachother.

Each time Kenshi takes a small stumble in his drunken steps, he moves a bit to Johnny's side, and his breath hitches. His heart skips a bit as his muscles tense.

Secretly, his hands jolt towards his sides to ensure he doesn't fall toward him but his hands merely ghost over his waist as Kenshi straightens himself, walking back to normal again, Johnny's heart unusually pounding out of his rib cage.

It's the girls that fall, not him.

[THEY FINALLY REACH HIS MANSION]

After what seemed like hours, they finally got up the stairs that -much to the drunk dismay- curl, they reached his bedroom.

The moon was framed perfectly by his massive glass window that showcased his entire pool from above and the moon lit up the almost dark bedroom. It illuminated a large king-sized bed with sapphire sheets that blended perfectly with the pale glow that curled around the bed.

Johnny flopped towards the bed and Kenshi stood there. What was there to do? Leave? Yeah, maybe that was the right choice.

Kenshi turned a heel but Johnny's sharp and drunk ears heard the click of his boots clashing with the marble floor and suddenly Johnny sprung forward and dragged Kenshi into the comfortable sheets and Kenshi was dumbfounded.

He was in bed. With Johhny. And Johnny's. Cuddling with him.

"Cage.." Kenshi tried to start, his voice low from the drinks Kung Lao had bought.

"Takahashi.." Cage answered under his chin, his hair brushing against his stubble. Kenshi flushed as his stomach tied himself into a knot as he felt Johnny's weight on his, half of it on the side of the bed.

Johnny felt warm against the air conditioning, exactly as he imagined. Too close to what he had imagined, how does he know that this isn't what he does when he's drunk?

Playing with someone's feelings, feeling snug against them and possibly flirty - he had been at Madams Boes. -

Kenshi swallowed a lump, his mind a mess, and yet his body was as still as it is. He doesn't want to wake Johnny and yet he mutters.

"I need to go." He said, his sweat dry against his forehead as the cold, artificial air dried them.

"No."

....

"Please, Stay."

"I love you."

That did it. Kenshi jolts and he wants to move but Johnny shifts and eases towards his body. Is he serious? Is this one of his drunken banters that Kenshis never heard of? Or is he telling the truth?

No.

Johnny Cage? THE Johnny Cage, love him? Is he dreaming? He's kidding, right?

He breathes quickly against Johnny Cage, feeling him peacefully sleeping against his broad chest. He loves Johnny, he really does but he didn't know that the feeling was mutual.

And now, he's here to sit and overthink about what Johnny said since the reason itself is sound asleep with no confirmation.

He hates Johnny. 

He loves Johnny.

[silkjade]

basorexia (n.) the overwhelming desire to kiss

Featuring— thoma x noble! reader, mentions of ayato ⤀ warnings: fem!reader, alcohol use, friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, drunken confessions, mentions of kissing ⤀ summary: under the waxing light of the moon, you reveal the secrets that plague your heart | w.c. 2.8k+

The sound of cicadas fill the air as they sing praises to the full moon while a soft breeze cuts through the humid air of another inazuman summer. The fires illuminating the lanterns of the kamisato residence dance in their hearths, flickering in and out of sight, threatening to vanish completely— something you dearly wished you could do as well right now. But alas, duty called.

The moon hung high in the sky, signaling it was at least midnight.  The amount of times your mother has sent you, lacquer box in hand, in the attempts to woo a certain commissioner was humiliating.  Even more so was the amount of times he had stood you up, left you to wait alone until the late hours of the night. You watch as the last light of the lanterns fade into the darkness, leaving you alone with only the moon as your companion.

“The yashiro commissioner values loyalty above all,” your mother scolds, “you will wait all night if it's a means to show the devotion in your heart.”

It was a miserable affair, really. For as long as the yashiro commission has existed, your clan has served as its loyal compatriots; they have and will thus continue to be an important ally for generations to come. As such, it was inevitable that your two clans should one day join. What a shame your elder sisters were already married off by the time young ayato came of age. You should have been honored that this responsibility fell to you because to be the future lady of the esteemed kamisato clan was a feat many noble girls could only ever dream of, but to you, it was nothing more than a burden of your family name. Ayato was never interested in marriage, much less an arranged marriage, so to be continuously strung along by the promise of an advantageous union and title was tiresome to say the least. Nevertheless your family persisted. Still intent on sending you to visit the kamisato estate (much too often in your opinion) as a show of devotion and fortitude, to your (somewhat?) betrothed; to them it wasn’t a matter of if you were to be wed, it was a matter of when.

A friendly voice sounds over the cacophony of singing insects, interrupting your thoughts. Its cheery disposition was a nice contrast against the solemnity of the night.

“Rest assured, I'm the only one here.” 

You immediately knew who it was. It was easy to tell by the familiar, rhythmic beat of his footsteps on the veranda. The floorboards creak at the added weight of a man settling in place beside you, and you breathe a sigh of relief, sparing your surroundings one last glance before fully relaxing your body.  Your relationship with the kamisato housekeeper was…a development. The first time you met thoma, you were told he had washed up on the shores of a foreign land with nothing but the clothes on his back. You found him to be quite the eyesore. Even more annoying was the fact that your dear friend ayaka started spending what little free time she had to dote on him. And as her good friend, you tolerated her new attendant when he’d accompany the two of you through town. You supposed he wasn’t that bad. Because despite your initial apathy towards the foreigner, thoma’s amiable character had grown on you like summer grass. Even to the point that, what were originally lonesome hours waiting on the absent commissioner were instead spent with his loyal retainer who kept you company. Thoma was sociable and comfortable to be around; enough so that as your familiarity grew, neither of you felt the need to keep up formalities. Other than the rigid rules of inazuman etiquette, there was no point. Besides, it wasn’t like you were his lady. At least not yet. Perhaps one day you might actually marry into the kamisato clan, but for now, thoma was a valued friend and confidant.

“I brought you a little something in case you were hungry,” he smiles. He sets down a plate of dango and continues, “I made a batch as a ‘thank you’ to miss ogura for the huge discount on fabrics earlier today and...there were some extras!”

You feign a pout. “Oh? Am I just an afterthought to you as well now?” Thoma’s eyes widened. Flustered, he stammers out,  

“N-no of course not! If you’d like, I could whip something up for you right now! Anything y/n. Anything you’d like.” He’d hate himself if he ever gave you the notion that you were just an afterthought to him. Not when you’re always at the forefront of his mind.  A brief chuckle escapes your lips to let him know you were only joking. Well, half joking, but you found it adorable the way he had jumped to defense. Still, you were touched by the way he volunteered to cater to your hypothetical needs, though he probably would have offered the same to anyone; he was a well known fixer after all. It didn’t make your heart flutter any less though.

You sit together in silence, taking in the tranquility of the night. The blades of wild grass dance in the wind, hypnotic. 

“How long have you been out here?” he asks.

“Since nightfall,” you hum. Again, silence. This wasn’t like the same, comfortable silence the two of you were used to sharing, but something heavier that hung thick in the air. Your answer bothered him. He didn’t understand how you could reply so nonchalantly after waiting hours for someone who most likely wouldn’t show. Furthermore, the thought that you might have become so accustomed to this tore him apart. Tore him apart to think that in spite of all the admiration and respect he had for his lord, he still couldn’t escape the fleeting thought that you deserved more, deserved better and that perhaps he could…

He subconsciously clasped your hand between the two of his. “I could talk to him for you. My lord...I’m sure he’d at least—” He stops, startled by the speed at which you whipped your head around to meet his gaze.

Green eyes bore into yours, surprisingly intense. Oh. He was being serious. You searched further into his eyes, catching a glimpse of worry? frustration? pity? Why was he always so adamant in his offers to talk to ayato for you? Regardless of their difference in station, the two men were close, and you were aware that ayato respected thoma enough to value and consider his opinion. Of course, you rejected this offer every time, though not realizing that perhaps he was tired of being ordered to keep you company. Had he just been humoring you all this time? Everyone knew thoma was one to honor loyalty till the end so you wouldn’t put it past him to do so for his lord.  For just a second, the corner of your mouth twitches downward at the thought but thoma has a keen eye, especially when it comes to you. He releases your hand from his grasp, thinking that maybe it was too forward of him. Too bold of him to just suddenly grab your hand. Because no matter how comfortable he felt around you, you were still a noblewoman after all. A noblewoman from a different clan. A noblewoman meant to marry his lord.

“Let’s…not talk about this anymore,” you say, all the while averting your eyes and turning to reach for the sake set next to you. Thoma lets out a frustrated huff, and from the corner of your eye, you see him run a hand through his golden locks. It was rare to see him this vexed. You pour yourself a cup of, now lukewarm, sake and tip your head back. The mild burn of downing the drink all at once is a welcome distraction. To give credit where credit is due, your mother’s initial plan was quite nice. Sharing chilled sake together on a summer night, under the light of the stars. Engaging in riveting conversation and sharing secrets with only the moon as your witness. And to think you were eagerly hoping for the housekeeper’s arrival more so than the commissioner’s. How foolish of you.

“You know thoma, it’s quite rude to let a lady drink by herself,” you state matter of factly. Not that it was necessarily true, but you were hoping it’d ease any lingering tension leftover from your previous conversation. You slide an empty cup across the gap between you and watch as he gingerly pours his own fill, though not before refilling your cup.

“Just a little okay?” 

Ah right. Despite hailing from the nation of wine itself, thoma the mondstadter was quite the light drinker. How ironic. But in good faith, he nods and raises his cup in a silent toast before downing its contents as well. 

“So…tell me about mondstadt again.”

After your seventh? eighth? cup of sake tonight, you’re hardly registering what your companion is saying. Something about a wind..broom(?) festival..?

“...and the hunters in springvale even catch foxes and then release them with flower wreaths on their heads! How adorable is that! I wonder if the kitsune around narukami shrine would…” he rambles on but your world is just short of spinning and his voice is tuning in and out of your head. Maybe if you concentrated harder. You furrow your brows and lock your eyes onto the mondstadter, using him as your focal point. 

The man was lying on his back, flat against the wooden floorboards of the veranda, his long legs hanging over the edge, heels digging into the soft earth. He had an arm folded behind his head, unaware of the fact that your eyes were carefully tracing the lines of his other arm, from his shoulder, past his exposed forearm, all the way down to his fingers absentmindedly toying with the tassel adorning his hip. You wonder how it would feel to have those same fingers running through your hair. Blame it on your narrowed field of vision, but your eyes drift to his torso; his body was relaxed but you could still make out the vague outline of his muscles underneath the thin black shirt. Your emotions were running high tonight; it left your head and your heart a wild, tangled mess. So much so that you couldn’t even discern whether what you were feeling was real or just a product of the alcohol in your system.

 “...I’d love to take you once the sakoku decree is lifted. Um…of course with my lord and lady as well!” he laughs nervously. “Oh! And you’ve got to try good hunter’s sticky honey roast for yourself!” When you don’t reply, he thinks you might have passed out. You’ve been silent for a while and have had quite a bit to drink. Worried, he sits up. 

It was something about tonight. Something in the air, the atmosphere. Something about the way he’s leaning on his elbows, worry etched across his handsome face. Perhaps it really was all due to liquid confidence but in a random burst of adrenaline, inhibitions gone, rationality thrown to the wind, as if moving only by instinct, you shift your body, closing the distance between you and him. 

As if on reflex, he moves his hands onto your waist. To hold you steady, he justifies. But you’re leaning so close, your arms on either side of him, face hovering only inches from his. Thoma feels his face grow hot at the proximity. As if the usual, gentle warmth of his vision had decided to resonate with the yearning he hid his heart. His eyes shift hesitantly before deciding to settle on your lips, for if he looked into your eyes, he knew he’d drown in their depths.

You smile internally to yourself. The way thoma’s staring, you can already feel the heat on your lips without ever even initiating contact with his.

“Kiss me,” you whisper. His breath hitches, uneven. He forces himself to tear his eyes away from your lips, trailing upwards towards your eyes. Your cheeks are flushed, no doubt from the sake— you had drunk a good three quarters of the carafe yourself. Your brows just slightly furrowed, as if you were focusing on keeping your already half-lidded eyes open. Just one of the many blaring reminders that you were under the influence of alcohol. He swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing with the movement. 

“You’re not sober.” His voice came out hoarse, almost gravelly. Archons, it was taking all his willpower not to kiss you. To satisfy your very whim. To pull you down into his gravity, your body on his, his lips on yours. To satisfy his every whim. But he is ever the gentleman. If he were a worse person, he would have fulfilled your request without a second thought, regardless of who you thought he was. Because in your inebriated mind, you must have imagined him to be ayato: his lord, your intended, the man you must be so in love with to tolerate all those hours of seemingly endless waiting just to be disappointingly met with… the housekeeper. Plus, the mere thought of the scandal it would bring to the very clan he swore to serve…no he couldn’t do this. He wouldn’t betray his dear friends like that no matter how much his heart anguished.

“Sober enough to—” 

“No,” interrupted Thoma. His breathy whisper held an air of authority you weren’t used to hearing from him. “I don’t think…” he pauses. Voice softer, more desperate, as his eyes dart down again, glancing once again at your lips before returning to meet your eyes. “I don’t think I’d be able to take it if you were to wake up tomorrow and hate me. I can’t betray the trust of a friend.” 

You withdraw a little, frowning, because his words did not match his actions. His breaths are just as shallow and uneven as yours. Not to mention the hunger in his green eyes that he was so desperate to hide or the way you could definitely feel his grip tightening on your waist, so much so that his warmth was seeping into you. And oh how nice it felt! Safe, comfortable, familiar. You attempt to blink away the sleep from your eyelids, but they were just so heavy. Whatever you wanted to tell him, you had to do it quickly. 

Which was how thoma had you once again in a position too close. Too close to be considered appropriate for an unmarried noblewoman and an attendant from another clan. Too close to be considered appropriate for two friends. Your face hovered next to his ear. Your voice was laced with sleep, but nonetheless it was your voice still.

“Thoma I…,” you slur, voice barely above a whisper. His heart beat heavily in anticipation, but he never got to hear the rest of your sentence. Instead, he felt the heavy tap of your forehead hitting the crook of his neck followed by the soft sounds of your slumbered breathing. The housekeeper stayed still, not yet daring, nor wanting, to move a muscle. If he were to be honest to his deepest desires, he’d like to stay in this position a bit longer. Only in his wildest dreams had he ever imagined the two of you like this, your bodies so close, so intimate. But alas, dreams should remain in his mind where they belonged. He should get a move on; it was a terribly compromising position.

Thoma readjusts both his and your position, careful as to not move too fast lest he wake you from your slumber, although he doubted anything would wake you right now, considering how incredibly drunk you were. He lets out a melancholy chuckle, recounting the thought of you wanting to kiss him. Yes, this would stay in the back of his mind, haunting him, for a long time. He stands, pushing himself off the veranda, with you cradled in his arms and your head resting on his chest. A light blush once again crawls back onto his cheeks as he glances at your sleeping form and he can’t help the small smile that tugs on the corners of his mouth.

You’re awoken by the soft streams of sunlight shining through the screen of an unfamiliar room. No, not unfamiliar. It wasn’t your room back home at the family estate, but you recognized it as a guest room of the kamisato residence. The repeated emblems of their family crest decorated here and there across the room were a dead giveaway as well. You scan the room, a little nervous as to what you might find since you don’t remember how you ended up here at all. Honestly you hardly remember anything past your brief conversation with thoma since he first joined you on the veranda, but you must have drank quite a bit if your pounding headache was any indication. To your right, is water and a note, but you smile upon seeing the familiar handwriting.

‘Make sure you drink lots of water!’

a/n: wow I have not attempted to write fanfic since I was like 13 lmao. Anyways possibly a Part 1?

© silkjade — do not steal, plagiarize, translate or repost any content onto any other platform

[rose-tinted-vision]

Fic: 悬不合时宜里 | hanging out of time

Fandom: Mysterious Lotus Casebook （莲花楼）

Relationship: Li Lianhua | Li Xiangyi/Zhan Yunfei, Li Lianhua | Li Xiangyi & Zhan Yunfei, (implied) Li Lianhua | Li Xiangyi/Fang Duobing

(read it on ao3)

Summary:

The man before him was no longer the Li Xiangyi that Zhan Yunfei once knew, but Li Lianhua who had been born through grief, disillusioned and moulded by the jianghu that he had roamed for a decade. Zhan Yunfei feels himself fall again all the same.

Zhan Yunfei hears people approaching, recognises the cadence of Sect leader He’s quick and confident footsteps, closely followed by Young Master Fang’s heavier ones keeping stride beside her. There is a third person with them, light and surefooted, which puts him on his guard. He does not recognize this person.

“Guardian Zhan! Come down! My mother needs your help.” Young Master Fang calls, cutting through the symphony of cicada cries that accompanied him on his watch.

He pauses, reluctant to meet another stranger, having to feign pleasantries. But duty eventually wins out, and he leaps off the roof to greet the masters of Tianji Manor, only to freeze when he sees the third person trailing languidly after Young Master Fang.

Li Lianhua, the man introduces himself as.

The man before him no longer holds himself as proudly, nor as confidently, as he had ten years ago. Gone was the hungry, ambitious glint in eyes that had drawn everyone to him, now replaced by a world-weariness that clung to him like a shadow.

He was no longer the Li Xiangyi that Zhan Yunfei once knew, but Li Lianhua who had been born through grief, disillusioned and moulded by the jianghu that he had roamed for a decade.

Zhan Yunfei feels himself fall again all the same.

— ° —

Zhan Yunfei’s life could clearly be defined into two parts.

Before he met Li Xiangyi, the renowned prodigy, rising star of the jianghu, he had been a prideful, overconfident kid who trusted only in himself and his blade. A kid who cared only about making a name for himself in his own right.

He had then caught wind of Li Xiangyi, a rising star, a shining beacon of justice alongside his shaoshi jian, and Zhan Yunfei had wanted nothing more than to challenge this so-called genius.

Meeting Li Xiangyi had changed him– not just appearance wise– but because the boy had properly humbled him, taught him that behind every mountain there would always be a higher peak to conquer.

His younger, starry-eyed self had then pestered Li Xiangyi into agreeing to spar with him every other month, something he threw himself into refining his sword form for.

Then one day Li Xiangyi shows up with his wenjing jian, made of Cloud iron that only the He family possessed.

The same family that had met a tragic end a month ago. (He would know, he had passed by the family estate and had seen the aftermath of the bloodbath. He had been too late to help, and it had been haunting his dreams ever since).

Zhan Yunfei, being barely nineteen, had not known better than to storm off, letting his mind jump to conclusions instead of staying to ask Li Xiangyi where he had gotten the blade from.

— ° —

The person in front of him is not Li Xiangyi.

Certainly, most of his habits and gestures were Li Xiangyi, right down to his painfully obvious lies, but he is not Li Xiangyi.

Li Lianhua drinks like a sailor, lies as easily as breathing, and holds himself entirely differently from the righteous young hero he once was. The person he is now carries his ghosts with him, cares less about proprietary and has little to no regard for his pride anymore.

He watches as Li Lianhua immediately latches onto the suspicious details surrounding Wei Qingchou’s death, watches the way Li Lianhua worked alongside Young Master Fang, the way the two of them moved around each other with practiced ease.

(He ignores the way his heart aches, turns away from the jealousy threatening to eat him up, locks those ugly emotions away in a box and refuses to look at them).

Zhan Yunfei is simply happy that his friend is able to live unrestrained as he had longed to all those years ago, unburdened by the expectations of the jianghu, free to wander as he once had.

Nothing more, nothing less.

— ° —

But because he was a fool, still too easily driven by his emotions and entirely unable to stay away from the light that is Li Xiangyi, he continues meeting the other for their monthly spars.

Li Xiangyi has the courtesy to use shaoshi against him, instead of wenjing, a gesture that does not go unnoticed, and only serves to makes his heart beat faster around the other.

They do not talk about what happened the previous time they met.

He hears of things stirring in the jianghu, mutterings of an impending clash between the leaders of the Sigu Sect and the Jingyuan Alliance. It is something that reflects on Li Xiangyi, who looks increasingly ragged and unfocused the next time they meet. But Li Xiangyi does not bring it up, so he asks no questions, content to simply play his role as Li Xiangyi’s sparring partner.

Zhan Yunfei meets Li Xiangyi for the last time a few nights before the destined Battle of the East Sea. He had managed to find out more about the rumours, knows it will be useless to try and dissuade Li Xiangyi from going– the other boy was too consumed by his need for vengeance, too full of anger to listen to logic– even if the situation surrounding Shan Gudao’s death seemed all too strange, and had the Jingyuan Alliance’s fingerprints all over it.

(He hears things, travelling the jianghu as he does. People talked, and they did not care who heard about the stories that they spread).

But who was he, to comment on the inner workings of the jianghu that he had consistently kept himself on the periphery of all these years? He was simply a wandering swordsman, someone who admired the Xiangyi Swordplay, an outsider who did not know Shan Gudao personally.

So he simply throws his all into this spar– it may be the very last one he has with Li Xiangyi, no matter how much he wishes to deny it– though the other seems distracted, unfocused from the rage coursing through him, and Zhan Yunfei eventually gets his first win against Li Xiangyi.

— ° —

Zhan Yunfei waits in the clearing just outside the west gate of Tianji Manor, anticipation bubbling just beneath his skin. This was a chance he never thought he'd get again– and Li Lianhua does not let him down.

He lunges towards Li Lianhua the moment he hears him step into the clearing, sword drawn with no holds barred, demanding a duel from the other.

It is more of a greeting rather than a spar, a reunion– a wordless exchange between two old friends– feeling out the other and where they now stood.

Li Lianhua would not be able to defeat Zhan Yunfei with his martial skills as weakened as it was now, anyway, and they both knew it. Even so, they continue their deadly dance, weaving their moves together the same way they did ten years ago.

“It would be better if you tied your hair up,” Li Lianhua casually remarks, something akin to regret shining in his eyes, “what if you had someone you loved, and they saw you like this?”

Zhan Yunfei smiles bitterly. He is a stubborn person– once he has set his heart on someone, his feelings would remain unwavering– as with his promise, he would remain the same, unchanging throughout the passing of time around him.

“It's a promise I made to an old friend, and I'll keep my word.”

— ° —

He hears of a Young Master who claims to be Li Xiangyi’s disciple, and resolves to hunt him down–Li Xiangyi had never taken a disciple, and if this upstart was planning to desecrate Li Xiangyi’s name for his own fame, Zhan Yunfei would be the one to take his life.

(It would not be the first time he has done so, throughout the years following Li Xiangyi’s death).

He eventually makes his way to Tianji Manor, narrowly surviving an ambush from mountain bandits who had assumed he was affiliated with the He family.

He Xiaofeng had found him clinging onto his last thread of consciousness, and swiftly escorted him to their family's physician to fix him up.

He had not planned to stay.

(But He Xiaofeng was a force of nature, equally as stubborn as he was, and it was not long before he caved to her requests.

It would not be too bad to rest his wings for a year or two, he supposed. To have a constant shelter over his head that he could go back to).

He had not planned to stay, but he managed to meet the Young Master he had come looking for. Young master Fang was a sickly child, obviously in no shape or form to have been Li Xiangyi’s disciple, and yet he insists so. He claims that his shifu is still alive, declares it with such conviction that Zhan Yunfei finds himself momentarily convinced.

(He wishes that he could have the same unshakable belief as Young Master Fang).

The kid has asked him about his hair on multiple occasions, obviously determined to weasel an answer out of him, but Zhan Yunfei is just as committed to keeping the answer to himself.

It was a promise only Li Xiangyi and himself knew about, the only reminder he had of the bright star that flew too close to the sun.

So what if people thought he was crazy? It was something he learnt to live with, something he did not care about, if it meant keeping the memory of Li Xiangyi alive.

— ° —

Li Lianhua eventually deduces that Wei Qingchou is really the Liangyi Fairy who had been entrusted with a piece of the Rama Heavenly Ice, but he is a step too late. Shan Gudao attacks, exposing Li Lianhua's identity, demands for the other Ice shards, and leaves a trail of destruction in his wake.

Through it all, Li Lianhua remains himself. Upright. Kind. Self-sacrificing.

He sees Li Lianhua to the gate.

“Zhan-xiong,” Li Lianhua turns to him, expression sombre and all too knowing– it's a look that he recognises– he has seen its mirror ten years ago, and his throat tightens.

“I'm sorry,” Li Lianhua says, clearing his throat in discomfort, faltering for half a second before his eyes fill with determination, “I know how you feel towards me, but–”

Zhang Yunfei knows. He knows. He had seen the way Li Lianhua lit up around Young Master Fang, the way he relaxed his guard when the other was near, no matter how imperceptibly, knows that it is something he would not be able to draw out of Li Lianhua.

It is a happiness that Li Lianhua deserves, after everything.

(At least it was Young Master Fang, who he could trust to treat Li Lianhua well, who wears his heart on his sleeve, who had similarly remained unflinchingly loyal for ten years).

“You don't have to apologise, as long as Young Master Fang makes you happy.”

“He does,” Li Lianhua flushes at the mention of their young Master, and Zhan Yunfei’s heart clenches.

They have both changed with the passing of time– neither of them still hunger to be the best– Li Lianhua just wants a peaceful life, and Zhan Yunfei has found something to protect.

(Even so, Zhan Yunfei’s heart still remains the same, still longing for the same person.

He would get over it eventually, he tells himself).

— ° —

Extra:

“Why didn't you confess?” He Xiaofeng elbows him, as they watch the Lotus Tower gradually disappear further into the distance.

“He is happy with Young Master Fang.” Zhan Yunfei states, turning a bemused eye onto He Xiaofeng, “besides, did you want me to snatch your nephew’s lover?”

The ensuing reaction causes the nearby pigeons to take flight in shock, “He- he and our Xiaobao?”

[jamietxrtt]

🌹🌹🌹

ohhhh thank you so much!!! here's a snippet from the wip i'm working on now >:3

.

With his head tilted to the side like this, Ted has a perfect view of the woods outside the window. 

The world outside is almost tauntingly serene. The window is open, and Ted can feel the inviting breeze from outside, the one that rustles the leaves and gets the animals all in a fuss, coming in and soothing his blistered mind. The cicadas are back on their chirp. The sun’s just starting to set, orange and purple and blue all mixed together in the sky, but the wind is warm. It cools Ted’s feverish skin without chilling him to the bone.

As he’s watching, two figures emerge from the woods. Jamie’s voice is as loud as ever, carrying easily on the wind and up to Ted’s window. That’s to be expected. What’s a little more unexpected is the laugh it pulls out of Roy in response-- a sharp bark of a thing, strong and crisp. Roy reaches out toward Jamie, and a brief moment of worry passes through Ted-- but Roy is only winding his arm around Jamie’s neck gently, ruffling his hair until the younger man pulls away, pouting and preening in response.

Of course. Roy reaching towards Jamie has only meant affection, and not violence, for years now. This is nothing like those early days.

Ted finds himself smiling at the thought. If only those two men that he met all those years ago could see where they are now-- Jamie squatting alongside the dirt path, looking at something on the ground, a bug or a rock or whatever’s caught his interest, and Roy standing above him, the fondest smile he’d never let show if he knew anyone was looking stuck smack dab in the middle of his face.

Those two really are the best of friends, now. It’s more balm than the wind, more balm than the sunset.

Ted closes his eyes, and sighs.

send me a rose or a word to get a snippet from my wip!

[armandgender]

I am trans dean content starved, so please gimme a little crumb, a little something something, a measly little headcannon (or 30), a rant, anything, I beg of you 🙏 I am on this hellsite only for trans dean Winchester content and I just know you know what's up fr

okay sorry this took SO long to respond to but nothing was coming to me. anyway here’s 822 words of a trans dean s12 rewrite where Mary comes back and they both have to cope with how much everything has changed

—

When he spots her, shrouded in that nightgown, long hair as golden as he remembers, he assumes that Amara lied—that her gift for him was to die, and to go to heaven.

That wouldn’t be a bad gift, actually. To finally rest.

But this doesn’t feel like paradise. There’s still an ache in his knees and his upper back, and he’s almost choking on the sticky summer heat.

He takes a few steps, hands flexing, cautious. “Mom?”

Mary rises from her seat and fixes him with a look that lands somewhere between fear and confusion.

When she doesn’t say anything, Dean struggles to fill the silence himself. “Are you.. really…” he struggles to find the words, heart hammering in his throat “…real?” One hand extends towards her shoulder, shaky. It might just pass through.

But before he can make contact, she whips both hands across to grab his arm, hooks her foot around his leg, and slams him face down into the grass. She plants a foot against his neck to hold him there, surprisingly strong.

Yeah, she’s real.

“Where am I?” She demands, the smallest waver in her voice giving away her fear. “Who are you?”

This is gonna be a hard one to explain. “Ah—“ he grunts as she presses her heel harder against his neck. “I’m your son.”

“…Sam?” She starts to ease up.

Oops. “The other one.”

The air hums with cicadas. Dean is suddenly grateful for the fact that he’s facedown in the dirt, because he hasn’t had to acknowledge this truth about himself with anyone in a long, long time, and his face feels traitorously red.

“Deanna?” He tries, the name feeling ancient and foreign, like something he’d read out of one of the old lore tomes back in the bunker.

“No… my Deanna is four years old, and…”

Dean shifts beneath her, taking in a shaky breath. “A girl? Yeah. Didn’t stick,” he jokes.

She tightens her grip painfully.

“Ah— mom. I was four years old when you died,” he reminds her, shaky.

In a flash her grip is gone, feet scuffing in the grass as she stumbles back. Dean rises, palms out to catch the next attack—but Mary is bracing herself on the bench, bent over at the waist like she might throw up.

Believe it or not, Dean knows the feeling. The human brain doesn’t really want to remember its own death, and it hurts like a bitch when it all comes racing back in. He keeps his distance, trying to remember how Mary sees him—imposing and unfamiliar. A stranger.

That’s what he sees reflected in her eyes when she finally looks at him again.

“Listen, I know it sounds insane. I know,” he starts, but trails off, losing his pace. That’s his mom. Not a ghost. Not a memory. She’s real.

“How long have I been gone?” She asks, finally getting her balance back.

“Thirty-three years.” Longer than she was ever alive. Long enough that Dean has all but erased any trace of the child she remembers. “And you’re…” she looks him over again, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Dean,” he supplies. He tries to take it as a compliment when she looks skeptical. It would be hard to imagine him as a four year old girl, looking at him now. He’ll give her that.

“Listen, I… I know you, okay? You met John Winchester in 1972. Didn’t like him much at first but he grew on you, and the two of you got married in Reno in 1975. Your idea.” He huffs out a laugh, trying to ignore the anxiety building in his gut. “Your favorite song is Hey Jude. We used to dance to it in the kitchen. I tried to cheer you up by putting it on when dad walked out on us for a few days.”

Mary’s gaze softens. Dean searches her eyes, dying for an ounce of recognition. Love, even. Would she still love him?

She takes a few steps closer, stretching out a hand to rest against his chest, over his heart. Like she’s making sure he’s real. “Dean,” she repeats, trying the name on for size.

“Hi, mom.” Nice to meet you.

They teeter on the edge for a moment. Dean is ready to turn away. To hide his face when she rejects him.

Instead she takes a step forward and wraps her arms around him, warm and tight and god, she even smells the same. It’s a scent that doesn’t quite have a name. Just the scent of home, and of safety. Somewhere under his thickened skin, there’s just a four year old kid hanging onto his mother, burying his face in the soft fabric of her nightgown.

They linger there. It’s Mary who pulls away first. Dean turns to look towards the road, desperately trying to blink away tears. “We should, uh… everyone thinks I’m dead. We should get going.”

[napollya-inspiration]

@farrybarry requested #35 for the Spotify Wrapped Game

#35 on my 2023 Spotify Wrapped is Please by Daisy Jones and the Six (this is like 950 words I cannot seem to be stopped - but at least this one got a little spicy)

(send me a number between 1-100 and I'll write a drabble about the corresponding song on my 2023 Spotify Wrapped)

15 25 46 69

“You should go,’’ Illya says. The sound of cicadas is loud through the open window.

“Why?” Napoleon asks, easy grin on his lips. He’d lost both his jacket and waistcoat at one point. The first couple buttons of his shirt are open, revealing a tantalizing vision of chest hair.

“You know why.” They had this conversation a few weeks ago. Or rather, they hadn’t had it. Napoleon had poked as he tends to do. Illya had grown increasingly more uncomfortable, his lies stretching thin until he’d just told Napoleon that no matter what he might be thinking or feeling or fantasizing about… it doesn’t make a difference. Whatever is brewing between them would stay there until it fizzles and dies.

“I thought it wasn’t an issue?” Napoleon asks, pouring them both another glass of whiskey. Not leaving then, Illya thinks bitterly but accept the glass all the same.

“Is not good… to tempt fate like that,” Illya mumbles.

“You find me tempting? Why, I’m flattered.”

Illya rolls his eyes. It’s exactly this kind of carelessness that drives him insane. How could Napoleon not see the devastation this would bring down on them if they gave in? “I told you to stop.”

“But I can’t help how tempting I am, Peril,” Napoleon teases and Illya wants to wipe the grin off his face. Whether he wants to use a punch or a kiss, he’s not sure.

“I was not joking. You need to leave,” Illya says sternly, grip tightening on his glass. He can feel the tremor come on. He doesn’t trust himself around Napoleon. This has always been the problem.

Napoleon sighs and puts his glass down. “I wasn’t joking either, you know. All you have to do is ask.” He reaches out and his fingers on Illya’s exposed forearms burn like fire.

Illya looks down at them. Napoleon’s pale skin against the bruise that had been blooming there since his fight with a couple of THRUSH goons a few days ago. Fingertips find the scar from his training with the KGB a lifetime ago and Illya squeezes his eyes shut. “Please,” he whispers.

“Please what, Peril?” Napoleon asks sounding more breathless than Illya has ever heard him before.

“Stop. Please stop.” Fingertips on his arm still, then disappear. Illya opens his eyes, sees the resigned expression on Napoleon’s face. The flirtatious smirk from a few moments ago is all but gone. “I just- I can’t-” He tries to explain.

“I know,” Napoleon says bitterly. “I got that.” He throws his drink back and then makes a face. Illya feels helpless at the display of bitterness. It’s not something that Napoleon shows very often and when he does it is mostly directed at the CIA. Illya doesn’t know what to do now that he’s the cause.

“You are never going to let us have this, are you?” Napoleon asks and his eyes seem to pierce into Illya’s soul. He’s not pleading - that would be easier to handle. This is so much worse. The tilt of his head, the sweat Illya can see on his skin, the bruise he can see on his shoulder from a rough blow of a bat. How many times had he dreamed about giving in? How many times had he dreamed of reaching out and just taking?

He remembers the other day when Napoleon’s eyes had met his across the bar, one hand on a gorgeous woman’s waist. How many conquests would he watch disappear behind Napoleon’s door, knowing all it would take is a word?

“Illya?” Napoleon asks, drawing his attention back into the present moment. “Just say it.” Napoleon reaches out, takes his hand and pulls it closer until Illya can feel his muscles through his thin shirt, until he’s reminded the sight of Napoleon at the beach, ocean water running through the crevices between his muscles.

“Please,” Illya pleads, feeling his fingers start to tremble. “I need you to say no. Napoleon, please.”

“No, Illya, I won’t do that.” His hand on Illya’s wrist guides him, up and up until his fingers meet skin, until he can feel Napoleon’s pulse, strong and quick under his skin.

Illya is not a religious man, far from it. But he thinks of the apple all the same. Only a single bite, he thinks, desperately, forsaken already.

“I want this too much to let it go. If there is even a sliver of a chance…” He leans into the touch, the weight against Illya’s hand startling, “I’m going to take it. Even if it’s just a moment,” he whispers and it doesn’t sound like a ploy. It doesn’t sound like the shameless flirting that Napoleon engages in like it’s a sport.

Illya doesn’t make the conscious decision. The next thing he knows, he’s pushed Napoleon’s shirt open further, the revealed skin making him almost dizzy with want. He doesn’t want things, not for himself. Especially not a man. The firm muscles under his fingers, the deep rasp of Napoleon’s voice, it’s everything that Illya should not want to keep. But he’s here all the same, watching his shaking fingers undo the buttons of Napoleon’s shirt. He hears the hitch in his breathing with every inch of skin he reveals and wonders if he himself is still breathing at all.

“Napoleon,” Illya whimpers.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Soft lips touch Illya’s temple and he can feel the way Napoleon has to stretch under his fingers. There is no going back now and he was foolish to think he would ever be able to resist.

[lcthebtswriter]

middle of the night

pairing: sam winchester x reader

summary: a request based off of the song 'middle of the night' by elley duhe

tags: @brianaraydean, @im-that-trash-over-there-blog, @caswinchester20000, @chankuab, @yeahokcas, @fuiabarcelos

warnings: smut, so 18+ only. unprotected sex, alcohol

a/n: with how busy I've been I'm surprised I remember what sex is like. while likes are nice, reblogs and comments are better as they signal boost my work :)

I summoned you, please come to me

Don't bury thoughts that you really want

I fill you up, drink from my cup

Within me lies what you really want

Every few months you get a phone call that you answer without hesitation. It's always in the middle of the night when cicadas sing and fireflies twinkle outside your bedroom window. Sam Winchester rolls into town occasionally, and each time he dials your phone number.

You invite him in no matter how late. Having daydreamed of his return between the lonely nights, you are eager to entertain him. He summons you and is accepted each time. The longer you are apart from each other, the faster each visit culminates into the satisfaction of your desires.

It has been three months since you last heard from Sam, but despite being whatever you were there has never been a time when you felt the need to call him. No matter the circumstances, Sam Winchester never leaves you hanging.

He enters your apartment with a bottle of wine in hand. "I don't think you ever told me your favorite kind," he says. Sam gestures to the bottle in his hands, a nervous smile on his face even though you've done this countless times before. Call it a booty call or friends with benefits. Neither of you has brought up labels, and neither of you wants to ruin it by attempting to decide on one.

"Whatever it is will be gone soon," you say. Sam chuckles at that.

"Well, alright. Let's open this thing," he replies.

You lead Sam into the kitchen. He eyes your new decor and glimpses at the show you paused to let him inside. Not much has changed, and maybe that's why Sam always comes back. Although some of your goals are met and new aspirations arise, there is a sense of home that Sam revels in your presence.

In typical fashion, Sam and you are half a bottle in and he answers your questions with vague responses. You attempt to guess his occupation every time he visits, but you never get a definitive answer. Once, Sam left a badge on your coffee table, but you weren't able to open it because his head was between your thighs.

The memory brings a blush to your cheeks, and you glimpse at the wine glass he swirls in his hand. 'Such a large hand,' you think.

Sam notices the brief silence and sets his glass aside with a smile. He blinks slowly, a bit intoxicated but not naive. In the two years he has known you, Sam has come to learn that you are an open book.

You eye each other, quietly exchanging knowing looks while you screw the lid back on the bottle and push it away. Enough chit-chat, you both silently agree.

In the middle of the night

Just call my name

I'm yours to tame

Sam remembers the way to your bedroom, as is obvious by his backward walk as he drags you behind himself. Sam kisses you, one hand holding your face and the other on your hip. His hands are warm and his lips are soft, although the stubble surrounding them tickles your mouth. You don't care, especially as he sits on your bed and tugs his shirt off.

His muscles are more defined than the last time you saw him. You sit on his thighs, feeling his erection through his jeans stiffen as you open your mouth for him. Sam's tongue brushes yours briefly, and the kiss is broken by his large hands grasping at the hem of your shirt. You part, allowing him to toss your shirt beside him. Sam looks at you, eyes softening briefly as he catches his breath.

"I missed you," Sam exhales.

You manage to respond with a smile, and the moment is cut short by your own need to feel his chest against yours. Pressing your hands against his chest, you feel the beating of his heart as you kiss up his neck. Breath tickling his ear, Sam grabs your hips and directs them into a grinding motion. The feeling of his thighs digging into your panties excites you more, and you let out a soft sigh. Sam can't help but kiss you, silencing such sinful noises in order not to excite himself even further.

He flips you onto your back and presses soft kisses against your chest, hands pinning your wrists above your head. You lay naked before him, and Sam kisses down your navel to the center of your womanhood. He grips your thighs, moving your legs to hook behind him. You look down, seeing Sam's pupils blown with lust as he allows himself a brief lick of your clit. He gauges your reaction and when he's satisfied with how your back arches, he suffocates himself in your folds.

Sam laps at you, flattening his tongue against your clit and then sucking. His fingers dig into your thighs the same way your hands grasp his hair. Your hips buck, but Sam manages to keep you down. His knees are on the floor, bracing against the bed frame in order to keep himself from sliding.

"Sam," you gasp.

His head pops up, hair curled with perspiration and a smile on his face. "What's up, baby?" He asks, moving a finger to slide inside you. He bites his lip, proud of the way you shut your legs when he flexes the digit toward himself.

Your eyes are shut, head lolled to the side in bliss. "More," you say. "I want more."

Sam's thumb circles your clit, his spit and your juices allowing an easy rhythm. "How much more?" He wonders, but you can only manage a whimper. Sam retracts his hand, standing to undo his belt and drop his jeans. Ever eager, you push yourself up further on the bed and grip Sam's bicep as he crawls on top of you.

These burning flames, these crashing waves

Wash over me like a hurricane

I'll captivate, you're hypnotized

Your leg is propped up, opening yourself to him for the first time in months. Sam lines himself with your entrance, and as you grip his shoulders he pushes into you slowly. He fills you, lip caught between his teeth as his forehead presses against yours. Sam finds a rhythm you're comfortable with, and waves build in your stomach as he holds you close and pushes into you.

His soft moan in your ear has the knot in your stomach building, but you want to hold on. You want to savor the feeling of bliss washing through you. Heat envelopes your entire being, and you anchor yourself to the moment by holding Sam's hand. The other pushes hair from your face, and Sam leans down to kiss you as his speed picks up.

"I want to feel you come for me," Sam says. His eyes glance down to watch his cock dip in and out of you with ease. He can feel the spasms of your walls around him, and it's making it difficult for Sam not to finish. He's missed your warmth and soft smiles. He's missed holding you.

Your head leans back atop the pillows, the grip you've got on his hand and shoulder faltering. Your nails dig into his back, and you wrap your legs around his waist as your thighs begin to shake. "Come for me, baby," Sam urges.

Shutting your eyes tightly, black and white spots burn at the back of your eyelids as your orgasm flashes through you. Sam doesn't halt his movements and instead chases after your first release as if begging for another. His arms are on either side of your head, fingers tangled in your hair so he can kiss your panting mouth. Eager to hear him finish, your hips meet his thrusts and Sam groans in response. He's close, and you keep your eyes on his to urge the release.

Sam's abs flex and his cock twitches inside you. Another wave hits your body, enticed by the admiration in Sam's eyes and the feeling of his lips on your neck. He bites tenderly at your shoulder, a groan escaping his throat as he feels you come around him one more time. You're warm and shaking and it makes Sam's orgasm follow.

He pulls out, finishing on your stomach. Warm ropes of cum pool on your abdomen, and Sam peppers your neck with kisses as his body twitches in bliss. Your grip on his hair relaxes, allowing him to fall beside you onto the bed. You both lay there momentarily, your orgasms leaving you in a haze.

Sam gets up and walks into your bathroom. Your eyes shut, head swimming in satisfaction. They only open when you feel Sam cleaning you up with a warm washcloth. He offers you a shy smile and an apology, but you wave a dismissive hand at him.

He tosses the rag into your hamper and crawls back into the bed, pulling a blanket over your body to maintain heat. Sam pulls you against his chest, and you can feel his quick heartbeat begin to slow.

You press a hand against his chest, glad to feel he's there. You're captivated by him.

"Don't leave tonight," you mumble.

Sam glances at the bedroom door, which is wide open and waiting to be shut. He looks at you, smiling at your heavy eyes and steady breathing. You're already drifting into a dream, but Sam already knows he isn't going anywhere. Not this time.

[tiltedsyllogism]

for fic wip meme: 'wayne is not okay actually' because i'm apparently in a torment that little stoner kind of mood as of late.

(from this fic ask meme)

this is only a few days old (and a prime example of how making a you-have-to-finish-something-first rule never works.) It comes from a combination of two things: 1) @cicada-circuitry's Molly/Margo fic (or rather the tags on and comment conversation about that fic) about how it's quite possible and reasonable that some(/all) of Molly's extracurricular relationships might in fact be a point of tension between her and Wayne, and

2) ongoing conversations with @havingbeenbreathedout about how one of the strengths of FAM's characterizations is that we get to see (most of) its major characters engaging in self-deception about what the world is like or their role in it

they cross-pollinated in my head in a way that has me wondering about the kinds of stories Wayne tells himself about himself, about Molly, and about their marriage in order to manage any bad feelings he might have about her relationships with others. And also about how willing he is to own up to having those bad feelings at all! Because Wayne is amazing and all, but none of us are exempt from self-deception.

Anyway, here is everything I have that isn't notes a bit of dialogue. It's Wayne PoV, set around 1986, and the premise is that a) Margo and Molly have a long-term casual arrangement, b) Margo is becoming deeply invested in Sergei, c) Molly has just picked up on that and is feeling jealous and d) she and Wayne are discussing that. Below the cut:

----

Wayne follows her into the darkened kitchen, where she’s staring into the fridge. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Does it sound like it’s going in that direction?”

“Fuck if I know,” Molly says. “Probably not. You know what Margo’s like.”

Wayne doesn’t really know what Margo’s like. Wayne’s met her a handful of times but she’s always distant, always crisp. And there’s no way she’s like that with Molly, at least not all the time. Most of what Wayne knows about Margo are facts he could learn from a newspaper or the things he invented back before he took responsibility for his own fears and stopped letting himself brood about her. So no, he really doesn’t know, and it annoys him that Molly doesn’t seem to understand that. But that’s not a helpful response, so Wayne nods to himself in the dark, dialing down his heartbeat, softening his tone before it comes out of his mouth.

“So then what are you upset about?” he asks. 

“Leave it the fuck alone, Wayne.” Molly doesn’t turn around. “You don’t understand.”

“That’s right, Molly, I don’t understand.” His voice is getting higher, which means he’s probably upset and should probably stop talking, but he doesn’t do that. “Because last I checked your thing with Margo was, was casual and not –” 

“Not what?” Molly asks. She closes the fridge and turns around. “Not what, Wayne? You can’t fuck someone for seven years and not…”

Not what? he wants to ask. But that would be childish, so he waits.

“And not care about what they feel.” Molly has folded her arms and looked away. As if he could even see her face in their dark kitchen anyway. She can’t ever look at him when she says something important.

“Well that’s funny, Molly, because you’ve been fucking me a lot longer than that and in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m having some feelings about this too. Do you care about that?”

[case111]

𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘺 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

yang jeongin - in a soft daze.

jeongin would realize he was in love with you when he feels his eyes soften when he lays his eyes on you. his eyes would be half lidded and unfocused, irises relaxed as it tuned everything else out but you. the coldness in his snow fox gaze would melt away the moment you started talking. the morning light wouldn’t help him either, the soft glow veiling over you as it kissed your skin softly. the way you smiled would forever be imprinted into his memory and burned into his soul, now haunting him every time he would close his eyes. and he wouldn’t wish it to be anything else.

“i want to keep seeing you. in coffee shops, street stalls. even in my dreams and in my nightmares.”

kim seungmin - in the stillness.

seungmin would realize he was in love with you when he no longer craves silence after a long, busy day. the moment his back hit his mattress, the stillness in the air would settle around him. the faint singing of cicadas outside and the silent whirr of the inverter would startle him. his body would melt rigidly into his bed, as if he was home but he wasn’t. something felt off. something was missing.

and as his mind wagered and debated, a sudden ping! would resound in the empty space.

before he knew it, he had grabbed his phone faster than light, instantly looking at the notification. it was text from you. you had asked about his day and if he was home.

he would then finally feel his body relax, the silence no longer suffocating him.

“my days are no longer the same without you.”

lee felix - right from the start.

lee felix knew he was in love with you right from the start. the moment two of you met eyes and brushed hands, he knew something. in that short span of time, he knew he shouldn’t let you go. he knew that if he were to let you slip away, there was no going back.

from then, he knew you were it for him. no one was ever going to compare to you. no one was ever going to be you. as time went on, you only solidified that for him. with every shared inside joke, sentiment, laugh, cry, you were it for him. you are the past he didn’t know he had, the present he was living, and the only future he could see.

he loved you then, and he will love you until the very end.

“you’re all i’ve ever known. i can never let you go.”

han jisung - in loud, boisterous laughter.

han jisung knew he was in love with you the moment both of you burst into childlike laughter. the two of you shared a look and immediately burst your lungs. both of you understood each other perfectly. no words needed to be shared between the both of you. you just knew. you know each other better than anyone else.

with you, jisung no longer felt alone. he had been an alien for so long, conversing with humans in a language he only learned how to speak. but even when you’ve been on earth for so long, it still gets lonely. because an alien mingling amongst humans is still an alien, lost and wandering on a planet with no one like them.

you were one and the same. as if the universe had created two perfectly reflecting souls.

“you are me who has lived another’s life. no one gets me like you.”

hwang hyunjin - from a steady gaze.

hwang hyunjin fell in love with you when he felt your gaze send shivers down his spine. you looked at him with such intensity, he couldn’t dare to look away. your eyes had imprinted themselves onto his mind. the sight was on constant loop on the tiny projector in his head, not once leaving him alone with his thoughts.

he wanted to drown in your attention. he wanted you to only look at him and only him. he wanted your gaze to be his. if life were a stage, he wanted every spotlight on him. he wanted you to look, to stare, to see. to see how stupidly, madly, and deeply enamored he was by you. how he would do absolutely anything for you.

“i want to make you proud. please, only look at me.”

seo changbin - in the heat of the moment.

seo changbin fell in love with you when you grabbed his hand and dragged him through the busy, bustling night market. he couldn’t remember when and why you two started running but the ring of your laughter and pure bliss painted on your face was enough for his rationality to come to a halt. he let you take you to wherever you planned to. in that moment, he didn’t care if you were bringing him home or to a slaughterhouse. all that went through his mind was you. he didn’t care where he was going or what time he had to leave. he didn’t care if people saw him. he didn’t care if he was going to get an earful from his manager the next day.

he would let you take him anywhere. anywhere was fine as long as it had the two of you.

“i’ll follow you even to the depths of hell. wherever you go, that’s where heaven is.”

lee minho - in a sudden embrace.

lee minho knew he was falling in love with you when he didn’t hate your affection. your giddy “hi!”s and casual “have you eaten?”s had felt natural to him. he didn’t hate it when your shoulders would brush against each other on the bus or when your hand would accidentally fall onto his. he didn’t hate to say “thank you” after a day out together. he didn’t hate to be taken care of when he was tired.

and he definitely didn’t hate it when he suddenly pulled you into a tight embrace. he didn’t hate to lay his head on yours on the couch. he didn’t hate to share his earphones with you when you clearly had your own. and he clearly didn’t hate to whisper a quiet “i love you” when he thought you were sleeping either.

“you are love, whole and all encompassing. how could i ever push you away?”

bang chan - he wouldn’t.

bang chan wouldn’t realize he was in love with you until he laid alone in bed wide awake one night, wondering why he felt so shitty. his weight sank heavily on his mattress. he felt the gravity physically pull down on him, as if wanting to open up the ground and swallow him whole. the feeling haunted him the entire day. perhaps, for longer. he doesn’t know.

whatever it was, it didn’t allow him to move, to work, to do anything. to let him distract himself. he couldn’t do anything. in the hour when seoul fell quiet, he felt useless and absolutely awful. he wanted to scream. cry. sob. anything. anything that would define what this ache in his chest was.

the quiet hum of an airplane catches his attention. his eyes land on the glass of his balcony, watching the aircraft make its way across the sky, shrinking as it flew farther and farther away.

it was there that it hit him.

you had been away for a while. you texted and called him still, but it was only then that he realized the impact you had on his life and the massive crater it had gotten the moment you left.

it was as if you had brought his heart along with you, ripping it out of him with a smile and a “don’t miss me too much” and flew it thousands of miles away from him.

“you’re so unfair. come home to me.”