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yeoldontknow · 4 years

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The Edge of Summer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Maybe so.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kyungsoo hums at your response. ‘Why?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Dexter,' is his confident reply.

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

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

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

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

And, it seems, so does he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Try like this.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Can you handle it?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know that he will not.

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

‘Are you joining me?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Listen, the Baroness needs your room.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'It's not that obvious,’ he pouts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Baekhyun -'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sings, often, just to make you smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adjusting his pillow, he hums. 'Exactly.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'And do you like what you see?'

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

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

'On what you see?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What are you doing?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 3 years

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True Forms in the Stars

Now on AO3! “True Forms in the Stars” - A @do-it-with-style-events Reverse Bang fic, written by me, based on art by @larkartwolf !

Months after the Apocalypse, Aziraphale and Crowley are slowly working their way towards their happy ending. But a series of nightmares remind them of pains long buried, which can no longer be ignored. If there is to be any hope for a better future, they must first confront the scars of their past.

Read it now on AO3! (includes full image of artwork)

(The full fic is about 12.5k; the first few scenes are below.)

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hands in his. “Are you ready?”

“No.”

His eyes darted up, trying to meet Crowley’s, but once again the demon had turned away, jaw tight, rocking back on his heels. “I thought—”

“No, just – just...hold on…”

Crowley pulled his hands free and shook them, rubbing at the back of his neck as he walked away, circling the entire bookshop in a few long, quick steps. Aziraphale could almost feel the nervous energy radiating off him.

“Would you be more comfortable sitting down? Or if we returned to your flat? Or—”

“I don’t think I’m going to be comfortable anywhere.” He raked long fingers through bright red hair, briefly piling it all onto his head before letting it tumble loose around his ears again. “What if it all goes wrong?”

The angel pressed his lips together, forcing down his own anxiety. Crowley needed him now, his strength, his support. Fortunately, Aziraphale had a lot of experience burying his doubts, presenting a confidence he didn’t feel.

“Of course it won’t,” Azirpahale chided gently, stepping up to Crowley, reaching for his hand. “I’ll be there, right beside you.” But Crowley just shook his head, turning further away. “Look at me, Crowley. Tell me what you’re afraid of. Tell me what you think might go wrong.”

“Everything!” Crowley stumbled back, pulling away, to stand in the center of the shop again. The panic was back in his eyes, wide and golden, irises expanding as if to devour the sclera. It wasn’t quite fear, nor pain, nor uncertainty that filled them, but some combination of the three, perhaps something greater, too. He’d be reaching for his glasses in a moment.

This time, Aziraphale moved more slowly, closing the distance, resting just a few fingers lightly by Crowley’s elbow. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have...we don’t have to do this tonight.”

Crowley lifted his head to stare through the glass dome of the shop at the stars: miraculously bright, shining like diamonds, like beacons in the black night. He ached, and Aziraphale’s heart ached to see it.

“I don’t…” Crowley cleared his throat. “I don’t think I can wait much longer.”

Aziraphale slid his hand down to meet Crowley’s, lacing their fingers together, and squeezed.

The dreams started shortly after the failed Apocalypse.

Just glimpses of the stars at first, a sense of drifting through them as he once had, so many eons ago that Crowley had all but forgotten.

But each night the dreams grew more vivid.

In his dreams he could see the stars, brilliant lights burning in the aether, inner fires swirling and pulsing like a storm. They sang to each other, they sang to their Starmaker, and Crowley’s heart sang back.

He dreamt of racing through them in his true form, a blazing streak of light lined with wings of fire, long body swirling in his wake like the tail of a comet, like fiery hair caught in the wind. Arcing around planets, setting their atmospheres to swirl and dance. Trailing his fingers through nebulae, creating columns a hundred light years long. Cupping the stars in his hands to breathe life into them, guiding them through their endless dance, their eternal journey.

“So...you’re remembering your time in Heaven.” Aziraphale sat back in his armchair, cup of tea still halfway to his lips. He hadn’t taken a sip in so long that Crowley was sure the angel had forgotten it was there; but the steam still curled past his face, like a veil, a gauzy curtain separating angel and demon.

Crowley looked away, frowning into his own cup of coffee, watching the cream create a bright spiral against the dark background.

He hadn’t wanted to say anything. For months, he’d kept it a secret.

Beautiful months, free of demands and pressure and fear. Days spent on long drives and longer walks, evenings filled with arguments and laughter, sipping wine and speaking of everything and nothing, awash with the simple joy of being together. Sometimes Aziraphale would slide onto the sofa beside him, and more than once Crowley had taken his hand, or rested an arm across his shoulders.

Nearly every night now, Crowley fell asleep on that sofa, drifting off to the sound of angelic humming from amongst the shelves, or the feel of soft fingers brushing through his hair.

Slowly, bit by bit, they broke down walls, building something better in their place.

But as the walls came down, things were revealed. Memories. Emotions. Thoughts perhaps better left unthought.

Crowley woke from his dream every morning distressed, panicked, sometimes crying out, or scrambling to grab at pillows, blankets, anything nearby. And Aziraphale hadn’t failed to notice.

“Not exactly,” Crowley finally conceded. “I’m not...building the stars in my dreams. It’s more like I’m...tending them.” He downed the entire cup of coffee in one gulp, feeling it burn down his throat. Considered miracling up another.

“I’m not sure I follow. Surely it’s the same thing.”

“Nnh. Not really, it’s…” It was something he’d never spoken of, had never even considered explaining to another; and now that he had to, Crowley found he didn’t know what to say. Some things could only be felt, not spoken. “I guess it’s two parts of the same thing, but different. During Creation we…made things, put elements together and…” he waved his arms vaguely. “We created, alright? That’s the job I had. But afterwards… Someone had to watch over the stars. Take care of them. Help them continue to grow.”

“Like a gardener.”

Nodding, Crowley refilled his cup, this time adding something stronger than cream and sugar to the coffee. “That’s what I dream about. The job I was supposed to have. After Creation. If I’d never Rebelled.”

“Tending the stars,” Aziraphale mused, finally setting his cup and saucer onto the desk. He leaned forward – stiffly, as he sometimes did when he’d sat still for too long – and rested his hands on his knees, carefully thinking over his next words.

They’d been circling the topic for weeks now, Aziraphale never quite asking a question, Crowley refusing to give any straight answers. A quiet, polite contest of wills that had ended abruptly when Crowley broke first. Since when was Aziraphale the patient one? When had he learned to keep his eyes so neutral? Every gesture made with such care, as if afraid to scare Crowley off.

Well, he had reason enough. Crowley’s whole body seemed to vibrate with energy, ready to run at any moment. Crowley didn’t know how telling Aziraphale was supposed to help, but if something didn’t change soon…

The angel tapped a finger against his own knee, thinking it all over. “The entire galaxy, you say. That’s...quite a large estate.”

“I guess.” Crowley squirmed in his seat.

“You must have been very important, to be granted such responsibility.”

“Who cares?” Crowley bit off the rest of his angry retort, sprawling back on the sofa, putting more space between them. His head rapped against the bookshelf behind him as he tilted it back, staring at the ceiling. “Didn’t count for shit, once I started asking questions.”

“They punished you.”

“Is that news?” snapped the Fallen. He could almost hear the voices, raised in argument. Feel the hands of Michael’s warriors, dragging him off to—

Fuck. There was a reason he never talked about this.

“They isolated me,” he went on, once his voice was under control. “From the other Starmakers. Pretty early on, long before there was any talk of...Exile or Rebellion. Said they didn’t want me giving the others ideas.” He closed his eyes, trying to remember the thin, clear music of the spheres. “They thought I’d be more obedient if they took away my stars. Just gave me more time to think, really.”

“I…see.” A long pause, silence broken only by the weight of a thousand books slowly settling onto their shelves. “Then...you’ve been alone for a very long time.” Crowley shrugged. In an even softer voice, Aziraphale asked: “Are you still alone in your dreams?”

“No.” His memories turned away from reality, and Crowley’s heart sped up in his chest. “No, I’m not…”

“Oh, my word!” Aziraphale’s voice reverberated across Crowley’s skin, sank deep into muscle, flitted around his mind like a cloud of fireflies. Crowley twisted, weaving his body between the stars of a binary system, letting the wings brush through solar flares, sending flashes of light swirling across the star system.

He smiled down at the Principality cupped in his hand, golden body glowing in a faint reflection of starlight.

The two wings Aziraphale wore down his back were shorter and broader than the ones he wore on Earth, more like feathered butterfly wings than those of a swan. More short wings stretched from wrist to elbow, and a feathery crown circled his brow in place of eyes and ears, marking him as a Principality. Two interlocking halos surrounded Aziraphale’s head, slowly turning, dozens of eyes in every shape and color gazing in wonder across Creation.

“Can you hear the music?” Crowley asked, twisting away through the immense void between one star and the next. “It’s everywhere, even all the way out here.”

The starsong wasn’t just something you heard, it was something you felt and saw, a symphony of heat and microwave radiation and stellar winds, things only the highest choirs of angels were able to perceive. So Crowley sang as he flew, shifting his colors, translating the song for Aziraphale.

“It sounds like something Bach would write,” the angel laughed, hands gripping Crowley’s thumb like the mast of a ship. “Sebastian, I mean, or possibly—”

Crowley bent his long head closer, singing more insistently, breath ruffling Aziraphale’s feathers. The Principality laughed again, resting a hand on Crowley’s cheek and trying to sing along. He could feel Aziraphale’s joy and wonder surging through his veins.

“There!” Crowley’s deep voice reverberated between the stars, even as his chest continued to hum in harmony with them. “It’s another of mine!” He pointed at the nebula, greens and yellows and reds stretching across a quarter of the sky. “Let me show you.”

He turned his wings, arching around the nearest star, dragging his fingers through the corona, gathering just a pinch of brilliant starfire.

“I can’t believe you made all this,” Aziraphale said breathlessly, trying to take in the scope of it all, the forest of clouds that could swallow entire systems.

“Well, I had a little help,” Crowley conceded, offering the starfire. Aziraphale accepted it in a flutter of wings, a miniature sun almost too big for him to carry, and cradled it against his chest.

Crowley pulled the Principality closer, cradling him in much the same way – feeling again the delicate touch of one hand wrapped around his finger – then tucked his many wings and dove, the glowing beauty of the galaxy shooting past on either side. When Aziraphale gasped, it sent a thrill of pleasure straight to Crowley’s heart.

Together they spun through the nebula, columns of gas and stellar nurseries on either side. They raced against comets, skimmed over gas giants, darted from one constellation to the next.

When the black hole at the center of it all loomed close, Crowley snapped open a pair of wings – and another – and another, catching the surge of radiation, riding it up, up, up in slow circles until the entire Milky Way was laid out below them, until the emptiness around them was lit by the glow of a thousand galaxies.

“Oh, Crowley,” sighed the angel, face illuminated by the ball of starfire like frosted glass over a candle. “It’s all so...beautiful.”

“Yeah.” He lifted Aziraphale so that his many eyes could take it all in, but Crowley’s own gaze never left his smile. “It’s all yours, Angel. Anywhere you want to go.”

“That sounds...lovely,” sighed Aziraphale from across the room.

“Shut up.” Crowley glared at a small potted plant next to the register, which sheepishly straightened its stem. “Sounds...cheesy. Stupid. Like something out of a romance movie, and not even one of the good ones with clever writing.”

“Well, yes. It does.” The sofa shifted under a new weight, and two soft hands enveloped Crowley’s right, drawing it to rest on Aziraphale’s knee. “It also sounds lovely.”

Crowley grunted. His eyes had made their way from the ceiling to the floor, and now he studied how the faded carpet contrasted with the rich brown boards.

The past few months, they’d been able to communicate openly, freely, like never before. They’d been able to be honest with each other, gently circling around the things they really wanted to say, finding the words a few at a time. There was no rush. They had eternity.

But being honest with Aziraphale opened Crowley to being honest with himself, in ways he’d never imagined, in ways he’d come to regret.

He was consumed by emotions.

Crowley always presented himself as superficial, a demon who liked things fast and fresh and cool, jumping from one fashion to the next. It was easier to survive if everyone assumed there was nothing below the surface, no hidden plans or desires that might cause trouble for his superiors. It was easier to live with himself if he pretended not to have hidden depths, that his future contained no hopes, that his past was free of scars.

But Crowley had always felt deeply. And he could no longer deny who he was.

He’d lost all control of them, the complex emotions that, finally released from their cages, threatened to swallow him whole. Fears that couldn’t be contained by words. Losses too deep for him to fully grasp. And a millennia-long desire that moved out of the realm of language entirely.

He wondered how much Aziraphale had suspected. He’d honestly expected the angel to say something first, months ago, release a torrent of emotions in a few carefully selected words. Had something held him back? Or had he just been unsure of Crowley’s feelings?

Well, he’d have a pretty good picture of things after hearing the dream. Crowley stared at the floor ahead of him, heat rising in his face, knowing it was coming, waiting for Aziraphale to ask, to question, to demand Crowley cram everything he felt into three little words that would never contain it all…

Instead, Aziraphale squeezed his hand again and gently prodded: “Tell me the rest.”

“What rest? I wake up.” Crowley’s legs had gone tense. He needed to pace, to shake off the feelings bubbling up inside, but he wasn’t willing to relinquish that warm grip just yet. “I snap back to reality. Dream over.” A quick glance to the side, enough to see Aziraphale wasn’t buying it. “That’s all. The end. Nothing to tell.”

“Please.” One hand held Crowley’s steadily while the other gently pressed his shoulder. “I’ve seen how upset you are when you wake.”

“Ngk. I just—” Panic started clawing its way up his throat. “Probably – don’t want to drink your lousy coffee, you think of that?”

“Crowley.”

“S’nothing! You just – that’s how people are when they wake up. Demons, too. It’s, it’s disorienting, is what it is. You should try it sometime instead of – whatever you do all night.”

“Crowley.”

“Mgrf. And especially if I fall off your bloody sofa, happens – all the time, right? Why don’t you get – get something comfortable if you want me here? Crack my head on the floor first thing, that’ll upset someone.”

“Crowley…”

“Stop, just stop!” He leapt to his feet and tried to stalk away, but the back room left nowhere to go. With a huff, Crowley spun around, arms wide. “Fine. You want the truth?”

Aziraphale still sat on the sofa, hands folded on his lap, endlessly patient. “That’s all I want.”

Read the rest on AO3!

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sinagrace · 4 years

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Iceman’s been back on my mind lately. It started with the internet rumor that Shia Labeouf was being considered to play the role of Bobby Drake in a Marvel Cinematic Universe version of the X-Men. My DMs and @Mentions on social media were a mixture of intense reaction and then asking my take on who would make a great Bobby Drake (for the record: in my head I always saw him as a younger Antoni Porowski with a theater background, ‘cuz playing the funny guy with a vulnerable streak requires serious acting shops). My mind went back to the time of BC, when I was doing a lot of touring, and answering this very question because of my work on the Iceman book at Marvel. One thing led to another, and I decided to take a trip further down memory lane to look at my favorite volume of the series: Amazing Friends. Now, I know I’ve spent equal amounts of time publicly stating what a gift working on Iceman was, while also calling out the challenges that came with the experience, but the third volume really was a pure blessing. I was able to take every valuable lesson I learned as a writer, and apply it to telling a story that would be interesting to one person: Me. I’ve been a lifelong X-Men fan, I live and breathe comics, so my own expectations for a return to the series seemed like the only ones to really worry about meeting/ surpassing. The first two volumes had been so bogged down by rotating editors, complex continuity, company-wide events, multiple artists… The third volume was my chance to focus on what an Iceman series was outside of so much context. All that mattered was challenging myself to do an X-Men story that focused on the aspects of the franchise I felt were valuable and relevant, meaning: excuses to have Emma Frost be an asshole and finding an opportunity to make fun of Kitty Pryde’s haircut. Before moving on from Marvel, Axel Alonso made time to call me for a pep talk about the series. I wanted to get the series extended, and he wanted to help me succeed with the ten issues he could commit to. First, he offered an eleventh issue to give me more time on the stands. He took a look at everything I had planned, and basically told me to restructure with an eye for ramping up the pace. My writing background comes from prose and essays/ think pieces… both of which are methodical and provide some allowance from the reader to really take your time and set up the world before diving into the meat. That’s not the case with comics. You gotta work fast. Especially in today’s market, there is less and less room for a retailer to say, “give it two volumes, because shit starts really coming together by the third trade.” That was literally my speech for hooking people on such iconic series as Invincible, Fables, and Strangers in Paradise. Nowadays, every single issue is not a brick to be laid down as foundation so much as a bullet in your gun. Conflicting imagery, but that’s the point. Axel told me to think about the Big Moments in my life and sort out how to inject the mutant metaphor into it and make the most compelling comic book story I could. This was epic advice that I took with me into the new arc, but I struggled a bit with what could be bigger than the “coming out” storyline in volume one. Love was off the table because I wanted to keep Bobby single and ready to mingle. Death was off the table too, because my editor felt like we’d done enough with Bobby’s parents in the first two volumes. Upon looking at my own life, and considering the stuff me and my friends were dealing with, I landed on something a bit more reflective than LIFE or DEATH. I wanted to focus on that moment when a gay guy looks outside of himself and realizes the folks around him may not have it so easy. After everything we’ve been dealing with this summer, Iceman’s “big issue” of the arc feels oddly prescient. Bobby Drake had to reconcile his accidental complicit role in keeping the Morlocks down, and he has to investigate new approaches to being a better ally to those who don’t want to or can’t live under the protection of the X-Men. I used the Morlocks to allegorically speak to the issues that the trans/ NB community face today. Considering that trans folks are facing higher rates of homelessness and murder than other members of the LGBTQIA+ community, all I needed to do was find a perfect villain to treat the Morlocks as “lesser-than.” Cue Mister Sinister, who I wrote as particularly Darwinist with a major flair for interactive theater. While Amazing Friends definitely is the most fun I’ve had working on the book, it was also full of the heaviest shit I’ve written about. I’m so grateful that my editor let me use Emma Frost for a story about the trauma of gay conversion therapy with her brother Christian, but I’m still annoyed he wouldn’t let me put her in a sickening Givenchy outfit for her reveal. Similarly, creating the Madin character required that I chat with several mental healthcare professionals and members of the NB community to respectfully portray them as a resilient and fleshed out hero. I included personal lessons that I learned from years of the therapy (the sandcastle / sea image, a Jay Edidin fave moment). My editor and I weren’t always aligned, but we definitely were on each other’s side. He understood what I was trying to do and asked questions when something flew over his head, and he even had the good instincts to stop me from going too heavy handed with the ending. My original idea for the arc’s finale was to have Bobby become permanently scarred in his fight with Sinister, where he’d have a cool ice gash running across his face or something, a la Squall from Final Fantasy 8. The goal was to show Iceman stripping himself of his ability to pass as non-mutant to save the Morlocks, but the Mutant Pride fight scene being a stand-in for the Stonewall Riots kind of already made enough of a statement. Plus, no one in editorial wanted to deal with remembering to track his scar in other books. At first I tried to balk at his point of view, but when I looked over my original notes for the series, the point was to focus on optimism and hope. Giving Bobby a permanent scar and emphasizing the notion of sacrifice was too bleak a message for a series wherein the hero carbo-loads hoagies while riding an ice scooter and mutant drag queens emcee local festivals. Of course, the crowning achievement of the series… my mutant drag queen :) I’ve witnessed a lot when it comes to the world of pop culture and myth-making, and I 100% believe that you can’t plan the success of something. I’ve seen bands forced into breaking up because labels spend six figures failing at making listeners connect with an album. I witnessed firsthand how The Walking Dead was built from relatively humble beginnings as a buzzy cable drama into a literal international phenomenon over the course of its first three seasons. Everyone hopes for the best, but you never know how something will land with audiences. When the Shade character took off, I was truly astounded. Things I posted on Instagram while half-asleep became official quotes on major news sites. Queens and cosplayers were interpreting her like Margot Robbie had unveiled a new Harley Quinn lewk. The impact was so legit and immediate that we had to jump in and give Shade a proper Marvel hero alias, to truly welcome her into the X-Men canon. Hence the name change to Darkveil. (Funny story: I tried to fight hard for Madame X as an alias, but CB didn’t want another Agent X / “X-Name” character. Three months later, Madonna announced the Madame X album. Phew!) There was a time where I felt uncertain that the folks in charge at Marvel would bring Darkveil into any stories outside of the ones I wrote. My understanding was that Hickman was like the Cylons and had A Plan-- one that didn’t include her character. I made peace with my contribution to the Marvel Universe being contained, but then someone on social media pointed out that Darkveil showed up in an issue of Marvel Voices. After breaking down and reading Hickman’s House of X, I saw that his Plan was one of endless possibilities, and that he was moving EVERY character into new and dynamic places. I have hope now that he sees the possibilities with Darkveil, and takes advantage of her and all of her many body pouches. Amazing Friends really is my favorite thing I’ve done for the Big Two. I made a lifelong friend out of artist Nate Stockman (DC, please hire us for a Plasticman book), and I got to run a victory lap with the most encouraging and supportive readers out there. It was worth every dreadful conversation, every shitty thing a person said to me online, and all of the fun nonsense that goes into being creative for a living. Being stuck at home in quarantine has given me a lot of time to reflect on the gift that my career to date has been, and I feel so grateful to be where I am today. Other people may groan when they have to talk about something they’ve moved on from, but not me. I made people happier, I got to work with my favorite characters at Marvel, and and I'll say it again: it’s a frickin’ gift to make people move from your work. So, I will engage every tweet or message asking me my thoughts about who should play Bobby Drake in the Marvel Cinematic Universe… I’ll just never have a good answer.

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azwriting · 4 years

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Across the Stars (Forget Me Not, Kylo Ren x Reader) - Epilogue

Hi everyone! Here is the last chapter of this fic and my heart is sad. I’m going to see TROS tomorrow and despite whatever happens, I’m still going to be writing for Kylo/Ben. I have another fic I’m planning but I will start taking requests soon too! Thank you to you all for reading this, it has been a journey lol.

Summary: Ben and (Y/N) find their destiny

Warnings: Fluff

Word Count: 2147

Warm sunlight streamed in through the large open balcony door waking the woman with (Y/E/C) eyes from her slumber. She hummed out softly stretching her arms over her head, shifting in the bed to face the sleeping man beside her. His black curls were splayed out across the pale blue pillow as soft spurts of air escaped his parted lips. His face was calm, his aura emitting pure serenity despite the faded scar that trailed down the right side of his face and into his exposed shoulder. His bare chest rose and fell rhythmically, the sun streaking across his soft skin. (Y/N) smiled to herself, endless amounts of love pouring out from within her as a delicate hand ran through his wild hair. She pushed the hair from his eyes unaware that her gentle touch had awoken her husband.

“Good Morning my Love.” Ben’s raspy voice mumbled out, startling her. Of course he was awake, he had always been such a light sleeper.

“Good Morning.” (Y/N) leaned over pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. In return he gave her a lazy smile, his eyes still hooded with sleep.

“How much longer do we have?” He whispered. She smirked a little, eyeing the closed door. They were silent for a minute, listening to the faint sounds coming from outside the bedroom walls. A part of her was surprised to not wake up to a stowaway lodged in between Ben and her.

“I’m afraid only a few minutes, tops.” Ben let out a low groan, shifting further into the comforts of the bed, his long arms hooking around her waist, and pulling her into him. (Y/N) placed her hands against his bare chest, fingers faintly skimming across the skin of his collarbones, and closed her eyes as well, both enjoying their fleeting moments of tranquility.

The sound of the blast door shooting open not long after, had (Y/N)'s eyes flickering open. In front of her, Ben’s eyes remained close but his lips stretched into an undeniably large grin, signaling he was still awake. The piddle paddle of feet echoed across the stone floor, drawing closer to the bed positioned on the far wall. She closed her eyes feigning sleep alongside Ben as small grunts were heard, the sheets being tugged on correspondingly. A sudden dip in the mattress alerted them to the new presence that had joined them in the comfort of their bed. A small hand was placed gently on (Y/N)’s upper arm, the hand attempting to shake her out of her slumber, the same thing happening to Ben.

“Mamma Papa, it’s time to wake up.” Two sweet voices chirped causing (Y/N) and Ben to open their eyes and smile at each other. The two shifted to look up at the grinning children, their sweet loves. A girl with black ringlets and honey brown eyes hovered above Ben, her beauty marks prominent on the apples of her smiling cheeks. A boy with (Y/H/C) hair and sparkling (Y/E/C) eyes hovered above (Y/N), his face adorned in many tiny freckles. Twins, of course, although they looked more like their opposite sex parent than each other.

“Is it daylight already?” (Y/N) pretending to be shocked, pulled her little boy down into her arms. Her sweet Maverick only giggled into her chest as his sister Rowena was hugged tightly by Ben.

Ben secured his whole family in his arms contently. Never in a billion years did he believe he would end up here. Perhaps back in his padawan days he could have envisioned it, but eleven years in the First Order under the icy and angry mantra of Kylo Ren had diminished any belief of it. He had spent those years mourning the loss of the love of his life, who had been alive and under his nose the whole time. The Force protecting her until it was time for Ben Solo to rise. He had always been conflicted but she had been the final piece to unravel him whole. Ben looked over at (Y/N), who lovingly embraced their children, softly humming the sweet melody of an old lullaby, one Leia used to sing to them in their youth.

Everyday for the past six years he was afraid to wake and find it had all been a dream, that none of it was real. Too many times, far more than he liked to admit, (Y/N) would press loving kisses to his face, drawing declarations of love onto his exposed skin, and remind him of everything. They were real, the First Order was gone, the Emperor dead, and they were safe. He knew it was true, but deep down he felt as if he would never lose that irrational fear in himself, but it only made him appreciate every moment more. He had never been happier and everyday his little family helped him grow away from the horrors of his past. He even believed one day he could forget it all. Surely with a sight like this, it was hard to remember what his previous life had entailed beyond these walls.

“My Lights, what would you like to do today?” Ben asked looking down to the three beauties in his arms.

Maverick’s head popped up from (Y/N)’s chest, eyes wide as he pleaded, “Can we go swimming?” (Y/N) nodded, her left hand raking through the boy’s messy locks, the silver band on her ring finger sparkling in the sunlight.

“Yes Mave, we can.” The boy grinned, he loved being in the water, a plus to living in an isolated villa surrounded by water. Rowena groaned propping a little elbow up on Ben’s chest and resting her head in her tiny hand, her pale green nightgown bunched up to her knees.

“I’m hungry, can we eat first?” Ben chuckled, he had met his match in his daughter, the little girl filled to the brim with retorts and mischievousness. It almost made him send his mother a hologram to apologize for how difficult he had been in his youth. Him and (Y/N) had gotten into plenty of trouble over the years before going to the Jedi temple. Although they had gotten into plenty of other trouble there too.

“Of course.”

Rowena gasped an idea sparkling in her big eyes as she turned to look at her father, “Papa can you make Strawberry Strudel?”

Maverick perked up again at that his little fingers fidgeting with the purple kyber crystal around his mother’s neck, “Oh yes! Please Papa can you?” (Y/N) bit back a laugh turning to her husband, feigning innocence. The twins were a lot like their mother, which he was quite thankful for, but there were many parts of his children that reminded Ben of himself… A perfect blend.

“Only if you two help.” He bargained and the two children nodded eagerly.

“I get to break the eggs!” Rowena claimed sliding out of bed, rushing out the door.

“Hey, no fair!” Maverick shouted chasing after his sister.

(Y/N) and Ben laughed, kissing each other before getting out of bed, “Let’s go before they destroy the kitchen.”

Rowena and Maverick raced down the docks, hand in hand, heading towards the glistening blue water of Naboo. “You two be careful!” (Y/N) shouted from underneath the shade of a close by Cherry Blossom tree, her back pressed firmly against Ben’s. A large splash shot up in the air, signifying the children’s descent into the refreshing water. Ben’s hearty laugh vibrated through her back as the two settled in watching their twins. In a thousand years, (Y/N) never thought she would end up here. In her padawan days, she had thought of what her future with Ben would entail, but the idea vanished the moment she woke up on Hosnian with no memory. She had spent eleven years with no real sense of identity, the only thing she had was the Resistance. It was only when she found Ben again, under the most unpleasant circumstances, that she started to feel connected to the missing part of herself again.

Yes there had been immense heartache along the way, but they had won. They had overcome the obstacles tearing them apart and the universe had rewarded them with two of the greatest gifts. And every night when they would lie in bed after an endless day of happiness, (Y/N) would remind her love of how much of an amazing and loving father and husband he was. Ben had lived up to his promise, but the validation would chip away a piece of his harsh past and she would kiss the newly exposed part of him each time. They had finally achieved their destiny and now she could sink into the galaxy with her family, happily.

“My mother sent a hologram.” Ben spoke up, his chin resting on her shoulder, arms secured around her frame, eyes to the lake. (Y/N) hummed in response, urging him to continue as she smoothed out the skirt of her mauve dress. “She plans on visiting soon.” After the war and the official resignation, Leia had returned to politics making sure democracy was done correct this time, the galaxy did not need another Empire or First Order. But the woman made sure to visit her grandchildren as much as possible, she never wanted them to feel abandoned as Ben had.

“That would be nice, Euora has been asking when she would be coming. Is Rey going to accompany her?” Ben simply shrugged, unsure. “Well tell Lele, that Row and Mave would like to see their Aunt.” Rey had become close with the family as well, the kids viewing her as their long lost Aunt, but she was often off world training the new generation of Jedi, with the seemingly odd help of Finn and Poe… The three had become inseparable after the war. She had begged for Ben and (Y/N) to join her, but the two were quite content sitting under the Naboo sun with their children. Besides they had their own Force users to teach.

“Maverick Anakin Solo and Rowena Padme Solo, you two put those poor little frogs down!” (Y/N) scolded eyeing the two frogs levitating above the water. The two children giggled and dropped the frogs, issuing out apologies. She bit her lip watching as the two mischievous Solo’s returned to swimming. She could feel the tense state of Ben behind her and without even seeing his face she knew his brows were knitted together in thought. “What?” (Y/N) asked tearing her gaze away from the water to look up her husband. He sighed, never tearing his gaze away from his salvations.

“Do you think Mave will ever be upset we named him after my grandfather?” His voice was barely above a whisper, but nonetheless (Y/N) heard him. She was not surprised by his concern, in fact she was more surprised this was the first time he had voiced it. She watched as Maverick splashed around with Rowena, big smiles on each of their little round faces, unaware of their lineage. Before they had even been born, Ben and (Y/N) had discussed how they would not hide the truth from their children. They would tell them of their true lineage, born from both sides of the Force. And only if they wanted to be, then they would train them in the ways of the Force, but they had no pressure to do so. For once in a lifetime, the Skywalker family had free reign over their lives. “He may be confused as to why one day, but we will tell him the truth.”

“And that is?” Ben questioned.

“That it is a reminder for him, both of them both, that there is a balance, that Light resides in everyone, and darkness can be redeemed.” Calloused fingertips grabbed ahold of her chin, turning her to look back and up at Ben. He wore a soft smile, she always knew what to say to pull him from his worrisome thoughts. He leaned down and captured her in a passionate kiss, their everlasting love sealed within.

“Ew, they’re kissing again!” Rowena’s voice shouted in disgust. Maverick groaned in unison and (Y/N) and Ben could only laugh, pulling apart. She nuzzled her nose into his, before resting her head on his shoulder, their eyes falling back to their giggling babies.

(Y/N) could feel it, the other presences in the Force. Luke, her Great-Uncle, Ben’s Grandparents, and even Han and her parents. She was positive if she looked to her sides she would see them, their great past, but instead she only focused on her future. Ben’s hand clasped hers tightly as they continued to watch the children until their skin began to prune from the water and the clouds turned into a soft shade of lilac. And as the sun began to set, filling them with peace and love, they drifted into their happily ever after in a galaxy far far away.

Taglist:

@benpeggycartersolo

@2heures

@thephantomwriter

@thefandomzoneisdangerous

@carol-chann

@gambitsqueen

@pancakefancake

@zaneholtzwrites

@moonmama03

@siren-queen03

#kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren fanfiction #ben solo #ben solo x reader #ben solo fanfiction #star wars series #star wars imagine #Adam driver x reader

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flutteringphalanges · 4 years

Photo

Summary: “Am I in Hell?” Agatha’s voice was hoarse, a hint of fear in her tone. “That depends on your definition,” Dracula answered. “Perhaps.” His fingers felt cool against her burning skin, the fever raging through her body. “If you’re going to kill me, then do it,” she mumbled. The count chuckled, gazing into her eyes. “On the contrary,” he smirked. “I’m going to save you.”

((In which Dracula cares for a gravely ill Agatha))

Characters: Agatha Van Helsing/Dracula

Rating: M

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N: Thank you for all of the comments and reblogs! This was a much darker chapter to write! I hope you guys like it! Feedback is greatly loved and appreciated! -Jen

Chapter Nine

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." -William Congreve, 1697

The rain had stopped long ago, but the puddle from the aftermath collected at the bottom of her feet and up to her very edge of her dress. She ignored the numbing feeling it brought on by the cold air, her mind still reeling from before. As the sun finally broke through the clouds, offering with it a little warmth, she finally stood up. Agatha ventured towards the edge of the balcony and looked out. It was a beautiful sight to behold if she was to be honest.

For the briefest of brief moments, a part of her wondered what would happen if she merely flung herself off the edge. Down, down, down to the solid ground below. But the bigger and better part of her waved away that feeling. That same urging need to fulfill her grandfather's dying wishes. Her family's pact. So she turned around and strode with purpose back into the dark castle.

"Emotion is a weakness, Agatha. It kills. Murders. If you allow yourself to feel, you allow yourself to be vulnerable. Look at where it got me. Your father. Be hardened. Don't let yourself become a victim. Love leads only to pain. Save yourself the trouble. There is no happiness at the end of a rainbow."

Abraham watched as Agatha cradled the dead rabbit in her arms. It had been a pet she'd kept hidden from the older man. But he had found it and did what he claimed was best for his granddaughter. The girl looked up at him with a tear streaked face, anger fierce in her blue eyes.

"I hate you!" She snapped. "I hate you! I hate you! I HATE you!"

"You'll understand with time what I did for you was in your best favor." He said quietly, turning his back on the girl. "Now drop it and come inside. It's getting dark and it isn't safe to be out in the opening when it is."

It was quiet. The air still around her. The only sound that broke the silence being her wet feet as she walked across the stone floor leaving damp footprints in her wake. Agatha's eyes scanned the area around her. No sign of Dracula. Good. Maybe he had turned in for the morning. That would make things easier. Not that the idea of a good, solid fight wasn't overly tempting.

Descending the staircase, she made her way over to the table where the stake still lay untouched. She picked it up, examining it closely. The wood was carefully carved, free of splintered. Agatha couldn't ask for a more perfect weapon. Had the Count really been that reckless as to leave something like this out? Perhaps he no longer worried that she was a threat. The idea of such a thing only made her blood boil even more.

"Don't you have any family Anyone who cares for you?"

Agatha stood outside of the infirmary as they lay a blanket over Abraham Van Helsing's corpse. The only other person in the world she knew was gone. Perhaps she had an extended family, but she knew not where they were or had any means of contact. Her grandfather had made sure of that. Separation was safe. Something he'd taught her.

"No." She answered quietly, finally addressing the young woman who spoke to her. A nun of all people. "I don't."

"Oh," the nun said softly. "That must be very lonely. Surely you need someone."

"I don't mind it." Agatha said with a half smile. "Sometimes it's better that way. You don't get hurt. Or broken. Perhaps being by myself was what life always had in store for me." That and her mission to end Count Dracula. "I'll manage."

"But you don't need to." And the woman rested a hand on Agatha's arm. "Come with me to my convent. You'll be welcomed there. You don't have to be alone. God always has room for another."

Religion. Christianity. The young Van Helsing gazed down at the nun's hand. To be somewhere. Maybe able to find herself. Maybe able to study more in the process. Had she much of a choice? What money had Abraham left anyway? Barely a cent to his name. Agatha thought long and hard before inhaling deeply.

"Okay," she finally decided. "Okay."

What exactly would happen when she struck him deep within his chest? Would he immediately turn into dust? Burst into a flaming pillar? The possibilities seemed endless as Agatha traveled down the all too familiar path towards Dracula's coffin. She'd be quick. No hesitation. If she should show the slightest amount of pause, he'd be able to take advantage of the situation quickly.

Her still mending hand began to sting from how hard she was gripping her weapon. But she ignored the pain. Ignored how chilled her wet feet were against the stone. She was hellbent. Ambitious. Abraham would be proud. But the further she walked, the closer she got to the cellar, the more she began to wonder if she was really doing his bidding. Doing it in his honor. No. No, it was something else. Something Agatha was forcing herself not to think about.

"A nun's heart belongs to God and God alone. We embrace those around us, but our true love is to the Lord and his teachings."

Agatha sat on the opposite side of Mother Superior's desk, hands folded tightly in her lap. She hadn't been at St. Mary's Convent for very long, but already she was being assimilated in. The head nun wasn't as old as she had anticipated. A round face with a firm voice that still held some friendliness to it.

"I hold no intentions of romance," Agatha assured her. "I never have. You needn't worry about that."

Mother Superior smiled. "I'm not worried about you, Sister Agatha. There's something different about you. I'm not sure what, but I think you'll do well as a nun." She straightened up in her chair and held out her hand. Agatha took it without hesitation. "Welcome home, Sister. Welcome to your new family."

Slaughtered. Just like her rabbit. He'd slaughtered them all. Her family. Mother Superior. Each and every nun. Why had she allowed herself to forget that? Ignore what he had done. The horrors. The hatred. He hadn't batted an eye. So many lives lost and she forgave it. Or rather, from her actions, acted as such. She swallowed thickly. What was wrong with her? Agatha Van Helsing. Protector. Altruistic. Supposed to guard all those around her. A failure. Laughing stock. A singe on the Van Helsing ancestral lineage. Not anymore.

Her name was Mina. Frail. Blonde. Tiny little thing that had stumbled upon their convent in desperation. Agatha knew why. Jonathan Harker now in their care. Or what was left of him that was. The girl knew nothing of what vampires were. Sheltered from such tales. And yet, here she stood before the nun of all people. The woman who knew Count Dracula like that back of her hand. At least that is what she had convinced herself.

"I...I don't understand." The young woman stammered. "Johnny was attacked by a...vampire? But how could someone be so...cruel?"

"Not someone, something. A beast so vile has no heart, Mina. He's poison. Venomous. Count Dracula literally drains you dry. Takes away your life as if it were a mere scrap of spoiled meat." Agatha felt a little guilty for her words. For how timid the girl looked. But she needed to know the truth. "You are Christian, yes? Despite my status, I do not hold the same beliefs as you. But I swear to you, what attacked your Jonathan is the literal Satan."

"I cannot lie to you, Agatha." Mina murmured, nervously playing with her hair. "I'm frightened."

Her eyes were wide. So round. For a moment, Agatha thought she was gazing into her own reflection as a little girl. But immediately, she snapped back to her senses.

"You should fear him. Be terrified. Because the emptiness within him, any prospect of empathy or sympathy has been smothered." She finally answered.

"What must I do?" The girl asked, staring at Agatha as if she knew the answer to every question in the world. "What do I do?"

In that moment, Agatha really hadn't an answer. But she said what had been spoken to her so many times as a nun. "Pray, Mina. Pray for Jonathan. Pray for us all. And maybe, maybe someone above will listen." She paused before exhaling slowly. "Though, I can't say He's heard me yet."

Agatha approached the coffin that sat in the center of the room. No longer did boxes occupy it. Just the single casket. Fist still clenched around her weapon, the former nun managed to heave the lid open. There he lay. Still. Pale. Count Dracula in a deep slumber one might mistaken him for being dead. He was technically.

"End him."

The words rang in her head as if Abraham was speaking to her from beyond the grave.

"Do it!"

She raised the stake, positioning it over his chest. Over his heart. Her hands were trembling. Why was she shaking? Agatha sucked in a breath, trying to collect herself. This was it. Her life's work. Just one fluid motion and everything would be finished.

"Now!"

But before she had a chance to bring it down, Dracula's eyes flew open. In a matter of seconds, Agatha found herself thrust backwards. She collided with the stone, the wind knocked out of her by the motion. She panted, now face to face with the Count.

He had her pinned against the wall by the wrist, her hand still gripping the stake. Dracula's fingers tightened around her with such force he could have easily snapped the bones in two. But he didn't. Instead, he stared into her eyes. Expression still. Mouth pressed into a thin line. There was no malice. No resentment. Humor. He just stood there, holding her back.

"Abraham taught you well." The vampire stated. "Well. But not well enough."

"I sure as Hell plan to get farther than he ever did." Agatha spat back causing a small smile to cross the Count's features. "I don't plan on letting you live."

"Oh?" Dracula said, cocking an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

Much to Agatha's confusion and alarm, he brought the fist that held the spike to his chest. Applying pressure, she could almost begin to feel it give way into his skin. Her eyes flickered from her hand, to the spike, and then his gaze. But instead of any reaction she'd expect, he merely gazed back at her emotionless.

"So do it," Dracula challenged. "End me, Agatha Van Helsing. If that's what you truly desire." He smiled and began to push harder. "End me."

#Dracula #Dracula 2020 #Dragatha #Agatha Van Helsing #Dracula x Agatha #Bad Moon Rising

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vesuviannights · 5 years

Text

Julian/You. AFAB reader (no pronouns, just genitals). Lemon.

“He came for you in the witching hour, a shadow that lingered and watched when the darkness was already suffocating you in every way you knew. Tilting your head up to meet his blackened gaze, he had promised you safety, love, affection, to never want for anything again, eternity.”

When Julian's eternal punishment is to preside over the Devil’s realm, you - in every sense of the word - are all he desires.

Featuring: Devil Julian, super public sex/exhibitionism, Big Dick Devorak

AMAB version can be found here | Banner edit by me!

I normally don’t put any commentary before my fics, and I won’t put too much here, but I just wanted to say that I had so, so much fun writing this. I have been playing with the idea of Devil Julian for so long, and I wanted this to have a specific vibe. Most of all, I wanted to make sure that it was accessible to people of all genders - and not just in the way where I changed pussy/cunt to dick/cock and called it a day, but one where I really described the individual experience of each body. I hope I captured that, and if you’re reading one version, go ahead and read the other just for some extra thirst! Love you all, and I hope you love this 🖤

He came for you in the witching hour, a shadow that lingered and watched when the darkness was already suffocating you in every way you knew. Tilting your head up to meet his blackened gaze, he had promised you safety, love, affection, to never want for anything again, eternity.

“I will give you everything you so desire, my love,” he had crooned into your neck, his lips to your pulse, his taloned fingertips raking at your stomach with an edge that made you shiver. “Every morsel of food you crave, rooms of splendid books, musicians who will play any symphony for your wanting ears, any trinket you could imagine with your dizzy mind.”

Still locked into the abyss of his gaze, you felt his hand slide further down your stomach, talons retracting until he found you between your thighs, wet and aching and trembling. His fingers had made such fast work of you as he spoke, seeming to know every inch of your being, as though he were born for the sole purpose of making you whimper his name.

“I will make you scream,” he had murmured against your lips, though never with a kiss, he would not have allowed you such a gift without a bargain. “And sigh and cry out and arch against me, so happy and loved and filled. Oh, you will never want in this vile world ever again. All you must do, my love, my sweetest poison, is agree to be mine. Won’t you be mine, for an eternity and a day?”

You had accepted his offer without thought, before he had even had a chance to make you gasp and tremble, letting him steal you away in the night and away to his domain, never to be seen again.

You had learned quickly that he could not lie, and that every word he had whispered to you that night in his delicate croon had not merely been to woo and weaken your will.

The gifts he presented you with were boundless, and every thought or whim was seemingly read by him the moment it entered your consciousness, ending in you being presented with the solution a mere moment after.

Exotic foods, crackling woodfires, endless rows of tombs and trinkets, the finest of silks, musicians who would play until their fingers bled just to hear you sigh in the delight of their sounds—anything you so desired, and every part of it was for you.

But his gifts to you weren’t merely objects, or people to puppet and taunt at his will. His appetite as this being knew no bounds. This demonic beast with curved horns and blackened eyes and a soul that faded piece by piece with each passing day delighted in making you shiver and keen, in tasting every inch of your aching cunt whenever he pleased. Enjoyed fucking you for hours on end under the stars that stretched out above his black silk sheets while you writhed and cried out beneath him.

His stamina was preternatural, an inhuman and almost feral feature to his new body. He came as often or as little as he liked, as much as he needed to, filling you with his seed, listening to you whimper at the warmth of it. Nothing seemed to turn him on more than the flush of your cheeks as he watched it drip out of you, as he patted the swell of your stomach after filling you for hours, or as he ran the sharp points of his talons over the streaks of it that were still dried along your inner thighs hours later.

But in his eternity of torment and punishment as the ruler of this new monstrous realm and its demonic dwellers, he wanted nothing more than you, to please and hold and have you whenever he so desired. And in giving yourself to him – in agreeing to come here, to be his, for an eternity and a day – you had never once wanted for anything in return.

He calls for you one evening with a soft croon, a low voice that seems to carry on the whispers of magic that linger throughout his palace and between the bodies of his chattering court, out to where you are standing on the balcony overlooking the city.

My dearest love, won’t you come join me on my throne?

You would have answered him, in any version of your world even without the pull at the base of your throat, the magical tether that kept you his.

Your fingertips curl around the frame as you step into the room, his glorious throne looming in the center, casting shadows along every wall and edge and face in the room.

And perched upon it is your love, your devil, your eternity, shadows spilling from his eyes, curling around his body, seeping out into the room and holding every member of his court prisoner, forced to watch as the object of his affections—the only true thing he cares for—steps into view.

As you wait for your orders, feet held by an unseen force that is part you, part him, your eyes drag up the dais to where he is perched. His chin is propped up on his arm, his knees spread, and he is looking every bit a man—a devil, a beast—that has always wanted to be where he is.

“Will you crawl for me, my pet?” He speaks in a lazy murmur, as though your entrance has woken him from a slumber, slowly rousing his interest in the world around him. “Will you let me see how those delicate chains swing and pull on your breasts as you move, how you whimper and sigh and make every eye in this room turn green?”

There was once a time where you might have flushed at his words. Where you might have tried to stutter out an apology to people listening. Or turned away so as to avoid their attentions when they heard what he wanted from you. Where you would have looked down to avoid his gaze so that it couldn’t wrap itself around your throat, your heart, your soul.

But the reality of it was that he was already in all of those places, his lingering shadows woven so intricately throughout every heartbeat and breath that if you ever tried to turn away, ever tried to deny him, something might break that you would never be able to fix again.

And so you—dressed in nothing but heels, nipple clamps, a collar—get down on your knees to crawl. It’s a slow but practised movement, one you know how to do so perfectly, so exact, to ensure his attentions and pleasure.

He seems to grow ten times in size as he eyes you in your approach, the air thrumming and crackling with the tendrils of his power as it reaches out to every corner and being in the room, seizing control of them.

You feel your lips curve in a smirk at the envious looks his court throws you as you climb your way up the stairs to settle at his feet. Each movement you make—the stretch of your arms, the content little heave of your chest—pulls at your nipples, the tiny string that leads down your stomach and connects itself to the hoop pierced through your clit. You whine and falter, elbows bowing as a bolt of electricity runs through your entire body.

A matching shiver runs through Julian’s body, his gaze keeping yours locked as you finally arrive at his feet, where he tilts your head back with a long, pointed talon.

You know this dance well. Can read each look in his blackened eyes, each twist of shadow that seeps out of him.

He wants a show.

He wants to be enthralled.

He wants to be reminded of his place in your life, that you do want to be here, that his existence here isn’t a punishment but a reward, a chance to have you all to himself.

And so you sit up onto your knees, shift your hips forward, and begin to grind your cunt on his leg.

The thing about this world, about Julian’s tendrils of power that slink throughout the realm and follow you wherever you go, protecting you, letting him know where you are…it all keeps you bound to him in more ways than one, including those in which he feeds your arousal whenever he needs you, always keeps you on edge and wet and yearning for him. As though it were one last attempt at keeping you with him, even though you’ve told him so many times he doesn’t need those measures.

And so within moments, you are dripping with arousal, wet and aching and shuddering and whining against his leg, using the roughness of his hair, his skin, the hard length of bone to get yourself off.

Your noises carry out into the chamber, a symphony for all to hear and a soothing song for Julian’s racing heart. It caresses the tiny part of him that is still human, that doubts whether you truly do want to be here, even though he asked, even though you said yes, even though for however many days or weeks or years since, you have never once denied him.

When his hand curls into your hair, you cease your movements, turning your head to nip the skin at his wrist. Your eyes are wide, begging, lips parted and waiting for him.

He tuts, he laughs, he croons, and when he speaks, it carries out into every corner of the room for all to hear.

“Would you like me to finish you with my mouth, pet?” He asks. He traces your bottom lip with a single finger, and you greedily wrap your tongue around it, suckling it into your mouth to the second knuckle, moaning softly. “I’ll place you on my throne and part your pretty little thighs for all to see…to show them I will only ever be on my knees for you.”

You shake your head, suckling a second finger into your mouth. You begin to grind once more against his leg, up and down motions that make the chains connected to your nipples and clit shake and pull, making it perfectly clear exactly what you want.

A wicked grin curves Julian’s lips, his obsidian eyes shifting down your body. They watch the movement of your lips on his fingers, the heaving movements of your chest, the desperate little movements of your hips as you try so hard to get yourself off.

“You want my cock? Is that what you need, my pet?” You nod. “Will you take it in front of my entire court, will you writhe and scream and beg while they watch?” You nod again, and Julian growls, pulling his fingers from your mouth and taking hold of your neck, tilting your gaze up to his. “Use your words, pet.”

“Yes!” You gasp out, clawing at his hand, your hips still grinding shamelessly against his leg. “Yes—I want your cock, I want—I want to show everyone who I belong to—”

Belong. Yours. Own. Any combination of those words, murmured from your shaking lips or screamed out for the entire realm to hear, were always enough to set him off.

In a blur of movement he has you off the ground and pinned to his body, your back against his burning chest, his cock standing proud before you nestled in a thatch of dark curls.

You don’t bother to hide your desperate little whine as your gaze falls to it. Of all the things you love about him in this form, his cock is perhaps your favourite. It is…huge, there is no other sweet or kind or wordy way to put it. It is impossible huge, and wide, and long, and can last for as long as you are able to—which, with the magic of the realm and the magic Julian feeds you for your energy and arousal, is seemingly forever.

As his teeth sink into your shoulder, you feel a shudder erupt through your body, a fresh wave of arousal dripping down your thighs, joining the pearls of pre-come gathered at the head of his cock as he gently ruts against you.

“Part your pretty thighs, pet,” Julian murmurs into your ear. His voice is so quiet, barely-there, and just for you, and if you hold your breath, you can just barely hear him in there, the man he was before, and the sound makes your eyes sting.

Exhaling softly, you move as asked and he moves your hips, holding you above the weeping, swollen head of his cock. The arousal from your greedy little cunt is dripping down your thighs, more than enough to allow him to begin to stretch you, but you still feel his magic settle over you once more, easing any last tense muscles, making you just that little bit slicker and ready to take him, and you murmur your appreciation to his waiting ears.

And as he begins to lower you down onto his cock, the movement an exquisitely slow torture to would not wish on any being, you taste blood in your mouth, tongue caught between your teeth to stop you from babbling and begging and crying out for him to move faster, go deeper, tear you apart.

His face is buried in your neck as he murmurs to you, soft words and soft kisses and soft groans, letting your whines and keens be the only music to your joining movement. His grip on your hips tightens with every inch he sinks into you, until you are resting against his thighs. His cock is completely seated inside of you, and his talons have sunk into your skin, causing little beads of blood to form, shudders of pleasure replacing the pain that should be there.

You begin to move, not needing his words to know when your performance should start. You shift, a low groan erupting from your body as you squeeze around him. You hear the clinking of metal, followed a moment later by the pull of the collar around your neck, the chain wrapped securely around Julian’s fist as he settles back into his throne.

You can see the smirk so clearly in your mind, the languid rake of his gaze as it moves along you. Your shoulders, your back, your ass, every inch of you that shifts and bounces as you ride him with sweet sighs and strangled moans.

He cannot take his eyes from you; this court, this throne, this place, it bores him, you are what he wants. He could watch you ride his cock for hours, and sometimes he does, holding off your orgasm and feeding you magic so that you never tire, just listening to your delicious little whimpers and pleas as you bounce on his cock, skin slapping against skin.

Sometimes, when court has ended and the throne room is empty and shrouded in darkness, he’ll have you curled into his chest and neck while you cockwarm him. He’ll rake his talons up and down your back in an almost gentle touch as you shudder around him. It’s always so silent, so still, so quiet. It’s the most human you ever see him.

This won’t be one of those times, though. You can feel his magic weaving its way through your body, fuelling your energy, ensuring no movement is too much or too painful for you to handle, only pleasure, every loss of his cock as you lift off it painful, and every stretch as you sink back down euphoric.

You come apart when his teeth sink into your neck, bruising and bleeding you with his sharp little teeth for all to see. You scream, throat hoarse from the sound, crackling in your chest as you claw at him, hands in his hair, nails sinking into his thigh, each action causing him to shudder and twitch along with you, filling you with his seed, marking you in every way he can.

Once you have come back down—once your breathing has settled, and your greedy little cunt has stopped twitching around him—you lean back with a quiet murmur. The world is a muted grey, a little foggy, his magic and your arousal still scratching at your veins, warning you they won’t stay silent for long.

And so until they do, you lounge in his lap, head resting back against his shoulder while your hand is back in his hair, scratching and soothing while he purrs into your neck.

His shadows have receded. He is almost pliant after he has fucked you, especially after doing so in front of his court, marking you, staking his claim. He draws his own power from showing them all that he hates them, that they are nothing, that you are everything.

With your Devil sated, and your body aching, and your stomach full of his cock and his seed, there is nothing more for you to do than cast your gaze down at the wide-eyes and curious stares, the parted lips that have been forced to watch so many performances, who have seen the horrors that befall those who dare comment, who dare look away.

You smirk, and then you quirk an eyebrow at the court below you, silent and unmoving as you address them, Julian purring quietly behind you.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” You call out, an icy lilt to your voice. “This is a court, and your Master grows bored. Please him. Or he’ll leave you to me.”

And with a flurry of motion, the court comes to life.

🍑 Requesting | Masterlist | My Ao3

#The Arcana #Julian #Julian Devorak #Julian/Reader #Lemon #Writing #AFAB reader

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chyrstis · 4 years

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I won’t ask for much (but just this once, I’d like you) 1/10

I’ve held out for a while now, thinking it’d be silly to post this here after finishing edits to this on AO3 back in February (and having an older version of this already up at the FC5 Holiday Exchange), but I think the only thing that was being silly was me. Because extra edits were badly needed, I’d love to add this to my FC5 masterlist, and to anyone that read the original and powered through the whole thing in one go back in December? Kudos to you, because it was always meant to be posted chapter by chapter here instead.

So, without further adieu, here’s Ch. 1 of 10 of the romantic comedy I didn’t plan on writing for them, but am very glad I did. ...Just with 100% more accidental arson and singing fish involved.

And also, many, many thanks to @finefeatheredgamer for being the lovely person to prompt this over at the Exchange to begin with. <3

Pairing: Sharky Boshaw x John Seed Rating: E (but only for Ch. 10, the rest are a solid T) Word Count: 4.1K

Link to AO3!

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch. 4 / Ch. 5 / Ch. 6 / Ch. 7 / Ch. 8 / Ch. 9 / Ch. 10

---

Sharky steals a boat. It just happens to be John’s boat, and when it’s damaged along with his boathouse, John proceeds to lay out a means of having Sharky pay him back. [No Cult AU]

-----------

Hurk was his bro. His blood. One hell of a stand up guy, and the person Sharky knew would have his back no matter what.

The one he could depend on no matter what for damn near anything, and the only one right now that he could say to, with his whole heart, “I love you, man, but you can piss up a fucking rope” for getting him into his mess to begin with.

And okay, maybe he was being a bit harsh about it. And maybe he’d wanted the excuse to do it to begin with, but Hurk had dangled the opportunity so perfectly in front of him. Framed it so beautifully, there was no way he was going to say no to it, no matter what.

Especially not with both drinks and two smoking hot women involved. He’d hit a real dry spell, and the temptation to get lucky hit hard.

So, when beers at the Spread Eagle turned into beers down by the river, Sharky had agreed immediately. And when beers at the river turned into the possibility of beers on the river, he’d agreed to that too.

But he didn’t have a boat. Hurk didn’t either.

Maybe they could’ve winged it by borrowing one from the Marina. They would’ve been skinned alive the next morning after his aunt found out about it, but after mulling it over for a few, Hurk had a better idea.

In his words, a better, sexier idea. 'Cause nothing said sexy like a little speedboat ride and some roguish repatriation. Also Hurk’s words, though Sharky was sure on some level that wasn’t supposed to be pronounced like that either.

John had a boat.

John Seed had both a boat and a boathouse. Rich assholes like that always wanted to flash their cash in the most high-profile ways possible, and for whatever reason having his own personal goddamn plane wasn’t enough. He had to have a boat too.

Surely he wouldn’t miss it for a night. And Hurk’s promise to slip him two-hundred bucks on top of that? Really just made the idea all the sweeter.

Things sped up after that. Blurred and blended into the kinds of things he’d see in an action movie, what with him being the sexy hero going behind enemy lines as a means of infiltrating it – and he’d even streaked some mud across his face to seal it.

But somewhere between snagging the fancy speedboat, riding it out, and getting not one but two kisses of gratitude, he’d let himself get sloppy. And on the way back afterwards, with more beers under his belt, and a decent hard on from some over the clothes action, he’d misjudged a few things.

Not the least of which involved just how close of a fit it was to park and settle the boat. It was a square peg meant for a square hole, but he couldn’t see it that way. Not right now, especially not while belting out words to what he’d think a collab between ABBA and the Bee Gees would sound like.

That’s where things blurred again. Grew unclear and muddied as he tried to keep the boat steady. His head pounded as he misjudged the distance - or was it speed? Both were likely - of his approach, as he leapt into action again, this time wondering if his call to Willis his way out was the right one.

Cold water rushed up to meet him, knocking sense into him just long enough to start paddling, but he bobbed down low. Felt things go black, as like an idiot he gulped down a lung and a half full of water as he fought against it.

That’s when he felt hands grab him. A force dragging him up and out of the cold only for the ground to rush up and smack him in the face.

Hacking it out, he blinked down at the pebbles underneath his hands, his face all but numb at this point as water continued to dribble out of his mouth. That had been close. All too close, he’d realized, still sloshed, but aware enough of the person crouching next to him.

So, he babbled out what he hoped was thanks. Followed it up with more thanks after that, and when he flipped over to maybe even throw a hug or a hearty handshake their way, he froze.

Because he wasn’t ready for the kind of cold fury waiting for him. He also wasn’t ready for John Seed to be the one wearing it either; the kind that he was sure meant he was about to be murdered on the spot.

In that moment, not even two-hundred dollars richer for it, he knew he’d fucked up, but as to how much? He couldn’t say. That was for the morning to tell him, provided he’d make it there.

And right now his odds weren’t looking all that great.

---

Pounding. Endless pounding went off, shaking him out of the comfortable space he’d settled into.

The sound echoed again, making him shift around to muffle it. Pulling the blanket around him, he sighed at the silence only to tense when it was broken again.

“Motherfucking balls, man,” Sharky groaned.

So, he wasn’t dead, just felt like it. That he wasn’t, was a relief as he pried his eyes open. The pulsing, pounding pressure building in his head, not so much. Crawling over to the bed’s edge, he pushed himself up and nearly tumbled to the floor.

Knocking. That’s what the sound was.

Leaving his room, he dragged his feet as he walked over to the door, and jumped when his foot came into contact with something ice cold. Not bothering to check, he shook it off, swearing loudly only to notice it was a pair of jeans. Damp, and just as wet as the hoodie draped over the kitchen table.

When had he- Pointing at it, then at the jeans, he scratched at his head as he stood in the kitchen. Skinny dipping gone wrong, maybe? Gone right? He’d have company if that were the case, but it didn’t stop him from hoping.

He raised an eyebrow, only to start when the knocking began again. “Hold your fucking horses! Seriously, I’m coming.”

Dragging on a nearby pair of pants, he popped his head up in front of the peephole and took a look.

It was John.

John Seed.

That couldn’t have been right. He rubbed at his eyes and peered through again. “The fuck?”

Nope, John was still there, arms crossed as he waited, and he checked his watch before going for the door. Knocking with a heavy hand, the door was almost rattling, and Sharky stepped back.

Something was up. Something that he couldn’t remember right off the bat, and if it put John of all people on his doorstep, it had to be serious.

But he hadn’t pissed off anyone bad enough to put a lawyer on his porch. Or had he? Maybe the F.A.N.G. Center was finally sick of taking his calls and decided to slap him for it. Or hell, his Moonflower disco party never had that many admirers. That could’ve gone south too.

Not remembering sucked, but it was a Tuesday. Probably found a way to piss off somebody in the county without even trying that much.

Yanking the door open, he regarded the man waiting on the other side with a bleary look. It was bright outside, the clear blue of the sky hurting his eyes as he blinked against it, and felt his headache start to pulse as he narrowed his eyes into a squint.

“Charlemagne Victor Boshaw.” The smile John wore was cold as he stared him down. “I’m sure you know why I’m here.”

He scratched his head, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he waited for John to continue. When he didn’t, and was actually seeming to want some kind of feedback from him, he grunted out a short, “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Well, I was afraid of that. Considering how impaired you were late last night, and considering the great lengths I had to go to keep you from drowning on my property, it seems it’s up to me to enlighten you on what exactly happened.”

Drowning?

He did remember water. Coughing out enough to make him feel a little sick on recalling it. The part before that, when he was whooping it up, and kissing the hell out of his date, was a lot nicer to focus on, and he let his eyes slip shut as he leaned against the doorframe.

Yeah, that was much better. Better than the light searing into his eyes, and better than the asshole camped out on his doorstep.

“Boshaw.”

He cracked open an eye. Squinted right at John’s pinched, irritated face, and considered closing the door on him. “What?”

“You don’t understand the true extent of any of this, do you?”

“Nah, that’s what the whole enlightening thing’s for. Shit, Johnson, where the hell have you been?” he threw out, hating how the pounding in his head was only intensifying. “So if you could get the hell on with it, I could go back to spending my day how I want to. In bed, curled up and doing nothing, not out here listening to you tell me how I…” Sharky let the words trail off. “How I what now?”

“How you owe me,” John hissed, baring his teeth as the temperature in his tone dropped ten degrees and counting. “You. Owe. Me. For a boat. For a boathouse, and for an assortment of damages all tying back to your little alcohol-soaked ride through my property.”

Saying each word through clenched teeth, John paused, drew in a breath through his nose as he closed his eyes, then settled back into the same smile he’d initially greeted him with.

“Then when caught, you panicked, confessed, and forged an agreement with me to fix it. Is that ringing any bells now?”

“Look, look, look, I get it. This looks bad, right?” Sharky held up his hands, still coughing out leftover traces of water, and tried backing away from him. “Just let me say my piece, okay? Let me say it, and get it out there, and we can go back to-“

“Back to what?” John asked, his voice smooth as he stayed on him. “Back to the smoke? The fire? The wreck I bothered to drag you out of?”

“Yeah, yeah, all of that.”

“Oh, good. Because I’m still waiting. Still wondering why of all things, you haven’t given me a single reason at all not to do what anyone else would’ve already done in my position. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? Tell me.”

“I, uh, I don’t know about-“

He snarled as he crossed the distance between them. “Tell me!”

Sharky paled.

Some of it was coming back in batches, none of it painting a good picture at all. And the longer he focused in on that period of time, the more he felt inclined to drop everything and book it towards the woods. At least then he’d have some kind of a fighting chance. John didn’t look like a runner, but if he did head after him he’d make sure to wing him with a branch or two along the way.

He wet his lips, and let out a long breath. “Okay, so say I did.”

“You did.”

“Okay, so…say I did all of it.”

“You did!” John repeated, his voice rising. “How can I make this any clearer to you? We are here to talk recompense. What you rightfully owe me for, and more importantly, what you’ve promised given the alternative. Or should I repeat myself, yet again, but this time using language that you’re guaranteed to understand?”

Now, Sharky had tried to ignore it before. Maybe even give him the benefit of the doubt, but he’d put up with his fair share of people talking down to him like an idiot, and like hell was John going to get in a shot as well.

“Yo, I was trying to be civil here. Civil and about as respectful as I can get seeing as I’m here, wearing actual pants, and listening to you spouting nothing but shit at me. And I get it! Something was broken that shouldn’t have been taken to begin with, but you’re talking deals that I don’t remember agreeing to, and I don’t like being told I’m a fucking moron on top of that!”

“Fine.” John pursed his lips, losing some of his anger, but not all of it. “You’ve made your point, and…maybe I did speak out of line.”

”You did. No maybes there, dude.”

“But that still doesn’t settle any of the business between us. So, here’s my offer. What I outlined to you last night, and to which you enthusiastically agreed to.”

Sharky bit back the knee-jerk response that he wanted to give, and crossed his arms. “So? Spit it out.”

“You will repair it. Rebuild the damaged boathouse with materials I will supply you with, and under my supervision. This will ensure that the work will be completed, done to my standards and specifications, and to also ensure no further damage will be done.”

“Your standards?”

“That’s correct,” John said, with a glint in his eye. “If it’s not to the quality I ask for, you will tear it down and start over. From scratch.”

“Hey, now. You back it the fuck up, 'cause last time I checked you’re not the fucking boss of me.”

“On the contrary. Yes, I am,” John replied, holding up his cell phone. “And If you don’t want any of this getting back to the local authorities, you will take this deal. Now listen closely, because there will be no second offer, and I’m already being generous.”

Keeping as calm as he possibly could, the voice on the phone outlined this in painstaking detail. Too much detail for a drunk man to take in and consider, but just enough for it to be played back to him while sober.

Including the last detail. One that had John’s expression settle into that of pure satisfaction.

“And you agree to do this? To-“

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, I’ll do it. Whatever you want, building this shit up, building another big-ass boat to cart both you and your bullshit to fucking Aruba, I’ll do it. Just don’t send me to jail, man. Me and the po-po just don’t mix, and…shit, I’ll do anything.”

“Anything,” John repeated, ending the recording. “And looking at the damages done, the cost to avoid a sentence can be upwards of fifty-thousand dollars. That’s no small fee to have to shoulder, and unless you have that to give me, I think you’re better off taking this.”

He was fucked. Fucked beyond question, all because he’d had the piss-poor sense to believe Hurk’s boast that Sharky could commit Grand Theft Boat while sloshed just past his maximum.

Leading to the current dilemma.

Not wanting to go to jail was always at the top of his list. So was having the ability to light shit on fire. Going to jail interfered with both of those things directly, and as much as he could fight or run from it, John had two big things going for him.

One, he was a lawyer.

Two, he had money.

If he wanted to sink him, he’d send him straight down to the bottom of the ocean’s largest, deepest trench without any hesitation.

Clenching his teeth, then unclenching them, the smile he gave him was more of a grimace. “Uh, so…about that whole helping shit.”

“Let’s establish some ground rules, shall we?”

John raised his chin as he gestured towards the door, and Sharky groaned. Stepping to the side to let him in, John stalked on past, and he nearly fell off the front step.

He was going to need a cigarette.

Lots of them.

---

“This should be simple. Straightforward,” John told him as Sharky sat across from him with a cigarette and a roaring headache.

He was to be on the property two times a week.

Each time he would text him in advance making sure that John was available first, then once the time was agreed on, would expect him there promptly.

No work would be done alone. He would pick John up, then take him down to the boathouse to supervise. From there, he would work – some bare minimum that John rattled off, and he half-tuned out – and would drive John back up before heading out for the day.

And then would repeat it again, and again, and again until John was satisfied.

“So, as I said, simple. Easy enough for anyone to follow,” John stated, folding his hands in front of him on the table.

Already on cigarette number two, Sharky let his head sink into his hand. Passed on enough of a response to satisfy John for now, and had to agree to an actual starting date to even get him out of the door.

He was on cigarette number five when he called up Hurk. Spent a good ten minutes trying to get some kind of answers out of him about the rest of the night while also yelling about the shit he’d royally stepped in by messing with John to begin with.

But Hurk talked him down. Helped him to see this for what it was.

One, not a jail sentence. He could still get out of this, even if it looked like John had all but boxed him into doing a shit-ton of labor for free.

Two, he’d done enough odd jobs to be able to swing this. Had built and burnt down a million sheds in his lifetime, so what was building another one going to hurt?

And three, if all else failed, Hurk was set and ready to see about lighting up another part of John’s place just to give him a means of escape. What was a bro if not the kind ready to throw himself into the line of danger so his cousin could exit stage left?

He could give him that. Even if more fire wasn’t the solution to the problem for once. Much as he needed it, and loved it, it wasn’t going to get him out of this.

Sighing heavily, he let Hurk go and went back to bed.

The next day, however, he pulled his shit together and readied himself for what was going to be the beginning of a very long and painful process.

John’s specific list of guidelines chafed bad, like a pair of jeans that were just the wrong side of too tight, but he couldn’t take them off or return them. He just had to deal, and hope that sitting down or bending over wouldn’t lead to the kind of blowout he’d get run out or yelled at over.

So, he played by the rules. Hated every second of it as he jabbed at his phone and gave John the shortest messages he could manage. Then picked him up and tried to grin and bear it as John tapped at his watch while giving his ride the hairy eyeball, and Sharky proceeded to take them both down to the boathouse.

Seeing it during the day painted the whole thing in a different light. From what he’d relayed to Hurk in a delirious call the night of the accident there had been a whole hell of a lot of smoke and fire. Boatloads - pun intended - as he took in the charred shell of the building.

Guess that extra fuel Hurk told him he’d jacked but didn’t toss did more harm than good. Who knew what he’d planned on using it for, but he was lucky he hadn’t been toast himself.

That did mean his work was cut out for him, however. Tearing the whole thing down and rebuilding it was going to be a pain, and John guided him over to the picnic table nearby to go over the blueprints he’d brought from his house.

Spread out, he followed the dimensions outlined, and where he would need to start once the foundation was set. Saw it broken down into smaller pieces, smaller sections, and having it all stripped down like this helped him see it for what it was. Doable, and not even half as complicated as he thought it’d be. Yeah, it was going to be intense, but wouldn’t be impossible.

Now, his version of things allowed for some leeway. That would help to speed things up along the way, but that was where John came in. He said that there would be no ‘cutting corners’ and ‘eyeballing it’ like he was sure Sharky might do.

“This requires care. Precision. Delicacy.”

John kept on going, rattling off a few more things he was in need of here, and Sharky barely held off from pretending to jerk off in the middle of it. But John eventually cut him loose, telling him to get a feel for the area, and pointed him towards the boathouse.

It had been calling to him, in a way, and he let curiosity finally guide him there.

Walking inside, Sharky let out a low whistle.

He’d done a real number on it. Sidestepping the remains of the support beam overhead, he peeked up at the blue sky above him, and took in the blackened wood and ruined equipment. Trying to play guess who with the burned odds and ends was looking to be a game for another day, but while some parts of the building were well past trashed, other items were surprisingly okay.

Like the photographs hanging on the walls.

Both focused on nature – and he liked nature shit; skulls, antlers, pictures, the whole nine yards – but the fish on display didn’t look like they’d been caught. Not by John, or by any of his family, and they felt more out of place than anything else.

At least that’s what he thought until he turned, and saw it. Saw the big, beautiful, borderline majestic fish hanging on the wall, and burst out laughing.

He was still laughing when John finally joined him. “What could be so-“ John’s voice trailed off, and the resigned groan that followed only made him laugh harder.

Swiping at his eyes to wipe the tears away, Sharky framed the singing fish with his hands. “Big Mouth Billy is hanging right on your wall. Here. On your wall.”

“And?”

“And? Dude, that’s like the best shit ever! I haven’t seen one of these since I was like, this tall,” Sharky said, holding his hand to his knee. “Like, I thought they’d stopped selling them.”

“They should’ve.”

“But they didn’t, and that’s pretty damn great if I may say so myself. You’ve gotta tell me who gave you this to begin with. Broseph?”

John sighed, his mouth twisting as he remained silent.

“Ol’ Jake-n-bake then? Dude’s pretty serious, but maybe he gave you this to be nice. Or funny. Shit, maybe both.”

“You had it right the first time,” he admitted, eyeing first him, then it with distaste.

Joseph Seed’s doing? The thought of that made a wide grin break out on his face. “Well, shit. Guess I need to thank him then. Otherwise, I think it’d get pretty lonely out here.”

“What?”

“Well, you’re not gonna sit there and talk my ear off the whole time, so I was thinking I’d need to start talking to myself just to make shit interesting, but Bill here’ll be a fucking hoot once you get him started.”

The offended look that crossed John’s face shifted straight to horror when Sharky waved his hand in front of the fish’s sensor. To his delight, it sprang to life, singing enthusiastically, and when Sharky joined in, John visibly clenched his teeth.

“Still works too! Come on, it’s catchy.”

Picking up on the tune only to mangle it further, John kept on staring at him the entire time. Through one full cycle of it as Sharky snapped his fingers, through a few of his claps, and through at least one hop.

Still, nothing. “Seriously? Feeling none of the magic of that little guy?” Sharky shook his head, giving him a disappointed glance. “Shit, better go one more round to be sure. Maybe that’ll help, and you can join in whenever you like.”

John turned on his heel and promptly left.

Eyeing the bass, he gave one of its fins a small fistbump, only to nearly knock it off of the wall.

Maybe he’d be able to get through this after all.

#far cry 5 #sharky boshaw #john seed #john seed/sharky boshaw #with the snippet I posted yesterday referring back to this it's only fair to post the actual story #just in easier to read chunks at a time #and if I can finish up the other fic soon after posting Ch. 5 even better #FC5 fanfiction #fanfiction #fic: I won't ask for much #fic series: we could make a home out of this

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airadam · 3 years

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Episode 142 : ...If You Hear Me

"We all need...some fresh air."

- Tobe

This month has been pretty exhausting, but I did have some good ideas for this episode, and once I hit stride with the recording I decided to try and keep the pace up and get it released on a weekend day! The selection has turned out to be heavy on artists who are no longer with us, but left us some great music to remember them by. Get yourself comfortable and press "play"...

Twitter : @airadam13

Twitch : @airadam13

Playlist/Notes

Evidence ft. Raekwon and Ras Kass : The Red Carpet

How is this track ten years old already? Time has flown since the 2011 release of "Cats & Dogs", the second solo Evidence album after four LPs as part of Dilated Peoples. While Evidence is an excellent producer in his own right, the reins here are taken by his future partner in The Step Brothers, The Alchemist. He further shows his confidence by bringing in California's Ras Kass and Raekwon from the Wu to guest, both legendary MCs, and holds his own next to both. A great collection of talent to kick off the show!

[DJ Premier] Gang Starr : What's Real? (Instrumental)

I just had to go back to "One Of The Best Yet" for another Preemo beat! Definitely get the instrumental release if you can, especially as you get the previously-unreleased "Glowing Mic" as a bonus cut.

The Notorious B.I.G ft. DMC : My Downfall

As I say on the voiceover, it feels weird playing a good chunk of Biggie's catalogue given how he ultimately died. This track from "Life After Death" is a perfect example, and feels like a mix of the creative writing he was famed for and maybe a realisation of exactly how much negativity swirled around him even after he had made the transition from the streets to the music industry. The legendary DMC of RUN DMC guests, only on the hook - but he does it well.

Agallah : Slaughter

Just a few bars, just a taste, as I needed something to bridge a track with no instrumental outro and the other with no open bars on the intro! Big respect to Agallah though, who has been putting in work since the mid-90s and will probably have yet another new project out by the time I finish typing this sentence. Find this beat on "Propain Campain Presents Agalllah - The Instrumental Vol. 1".

Sean Price and Small Professor (ft. Rock and DJ Revolution) : Refrigerator P

Heavy business! Ruck (Sean Price) and Rock, formerly the duo Heltah Skeltah, reunite on this killer from the "86 Witness" LP. Small Professor makes the beat dramatic, and DJ Revolution seasons the mix with his trademark super-sharp cuts.

Fred The Godson : Presidents

The Bronx-born-and-bred MC Fred The Godson sadly passed away last April at just 35 - one of the relatively early US casualties of COVID-19. During his lifetime, his catalogue consisted of some highly-rated mixtapes, but only after his death do we finally hear his debut album, "Ascension". This track of course is built (by Hesami) around the same sample as Jay-Z's "Dead Presidents" as Fred expounds on the drug game.

Broke 'n' English : Tryin' (Calibre Mix)

"Tryin'" was one of the standouts on the 2007 debut LP "Subject 2 Status" from this respected Manchester crew. Both Strategy and DRS have a long-standing history in the drum & bass scene, and so it made sense that the remix of this track would be handled by someone like Calibre. Sharp, crisp drum action and a smooth bassline drive this one along, with DRS' vocals being woven in as a refrain. You can hear in this one track how DRS then went on to make several excellent D&B albums - his vocal versatility allows him to shine on any production.

Marco Polo : Cindy

The "MP On The MP" (see what he did there?) beat tape is inspired by a Youtube series he was doing, and features a host of new and unreleased beats. Marco Polo is one keeping this style of production alive, which I'm thankful for. I still think of him as a "new" producer, but he's a veteran with over fifteen years in the industry!

Le$ : Out To Cali

Le$ is a great MC to go to if you want lyrics about just living life and having fun - almost like a Curren$y, but without the extreme high-end references. Right here, he's going to Cali, buying some weed, riding around, and enjoying the view - sometimes it doesn't need to be more lofty than that. Mr.Rogers goes to a familiar sample as a basis for the beat, and if you want more, the whole "Summer Madness" will give you these vibes - and exercise your speakers in the process.

O.C. : What I Need (Keelay Remix)

The "Smoke & Mirrors" LP is a bit of a forgotten one for many, but I really enjoyed it, and when acapellas became available, it was expertly remixed by the Sole Vibe crew out of San Francisco. The classic soul sample (which you may recognise from tracks like "Deeper" by Bo$$) is the foundation, with a heavy kick and skipping hi-hats providing the rhythm. O.C. never lost a step from his first LP, and he's never afraid to put his feelings out there on wax.

Sadat X : Stages & Lights

This is one of those tracks I was stunned to realised I hadn't already played on the podcast, so here it is at last! This Showbiz-produced cut from the 1996 "Wild Cowboys" LP, Sadat's solo debut, was also a B-side on the "Hang 'Em High" single - but definitely stole the show. If you ever find the original sample, you'll be amazed at how Show plucked that one small piece for this beat!

Phife Dawg : Thought U Wuz Nice

Killer B-side action from Phife Dawg, on the flip of the Superrappin "Bend Ova" 12", with J Dilla on the bouncy production. Still can't quite believe that both of these icons are no longer with us.

Saib : Beyond Clouds

The Chillhop label seems to put out endless amounts of beats from producers specialising in sounds inspired by greats like J Dilla and Nujabes, but with their own spin. This one comes from the "Chillhop Essentials Fall 2020" compilation, one of any number that are perfect for soundtracking study, work, or just a lazy day!

213 : Run On Up

That beat by Tha Chill and the delivery of "Shut the f********ck up and ruuuu-uuu-uuuun" by the late great Nate Dogg is enough to make this an absolute classic in my ears, but the full picture is even better. Way before "Doggystyle", "The Chronic", or even "Deep Cover", 213 was the group formed in Long Beach by Nate Dogg, Warren G, and Snoop, before any of them had got their big breaks. Years later, after all of them had become stars in their own rights, it was heart-warming to see them reform for the "The Hard Way" LP, from which this is taken.

Sporty Thievz : Angel

The Sporty Thievz deserve to be remembered for more than "No Pigeons", as much as we enjoyed the whole thing at the time. The "Street Cinema" album may not have quite lived up to the name, but there were some solid cuts on there, and this was one. Produced by King Kirk of the group alongside Ski, this track has all the foreboding, and while the singing on the hook may not be Marvin Gaye level, it absolutely works here.

Jean Grae : My Crew

One of the great underrated MCs - not because her skills are in question, but simply because not enough people know her! She's in fine early 2000s form on this cut from the "Bootleg of the Bootleg EP", produced by China Black. Straight boom-bap, and she cuts through with clarity and dexterity. Jean Grae raps, sings, produces, acts...one of the true talent of the culture.

Bronx Slang : Just Say No

New single from Jerry Beeks and Ollie Miggs, who have really been on a hot streak the last couple of years. It's nice to hear some protest music in an era that really calls for it, and if this is a marker of how good the upcoming second album is going to be, then you need to reserve a space in your crates right now! Jadell on production brings an appropriate heaviness to the track, no lightness on the beat!

[Ron Browz] Big L : The Heist (Instrumental)

All these years and I'd never looked to see who produced this beat from Big L's posthumously-released LP "The Big Picture" - come to find out it's one of Ron Browz' first credits. He's much better known for "Ether" by Nas, which came in 2001. The vocal version of this track is what the name suggests, a robbery tale, and you can hear the sound effects that punctuate the narrative still here in the instrumental.

Tobe Nwigwe : Fresh Air

Tobe Nwigwe and his collective (including his wife Fat and his producer Nell) have been quietly on the rise for a while, but in very recent times their profile has elevated noticeably. "The Pandemic Project" is a short six-track album from last year, and another quality addition to the catalogue. This man is an amazing MC, and Nell's often-unconventional beats are the perfect canvas. Don't sleep!

Please remember to support the artists you like! The purpose of putting the podcast out and providing the full tracklist is to try and give some light, so do use the songs on each episode as a starting point to search out more material. If you have Spotify in your country it's a great way to explore, but otherwise there's always Youtube and the like. Seeing your favourite artists live is the best way to put money in their pockets, and buy the vinyl/CDs/downloads of the stuff you like the most!

Check out this episode!

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puffwriter1998 · 3 years

Text

The Things We Let Go Ch.3

Summary: Addison’s experience at the 422nd Quidditch World cup.

Character Pairings: Fred Weasley X OC (not really in this chapter)

Word Count: 2.2K

A/N: This is a shorter chapter, but I really enjoyed writing it. If you’ve been following along: thank you so much! I can’t wait to let the rest of this story unfold. I have so much written. Some dialog in this chapter comes from the original works.

As the day wore on, the excitement amongst the ever-growing crowd of wizards around me multiplied. When the sun began to go down, it boiled over and all pretense of a muggle façade was dropped. Merchants for both teams were Apparating here and there, carrying armloads of hats with dancing shamrocks and red scarves with lions that really roared. Children flew through the rows on toy brooms that only rose a few feet off the ground. Surely the ministry would be modifying a few memories before it was all said and done.

The Weasley bunch left us a little early with Harry and Hermione in tow, to be able to make their way up to the Top Box to sit with the Minister of Magic and a few other top officials who organized the Cup. Harry looked about as excited as I felt, gazing around at the scene in wonder as they walked away through the crowd.

It soon came time for us to head into the woods towards what I assumed would be a pretty large stadium. Mr. Abbott led Hannah, Charlie and me onto a trail that was magnificently lit with floating lanterns. The excitement of the thousands of people, all walking through the trees, was contagious. A smile had spread across my face from ear to ear and there was no chance of losing it. There were chants supporting both teams, laughter, and from a little further off, a lighthearted song in favor of the Irish.

We walked like this for a few minutes before I began to be able to pick out glimpses of a gargantuan stadium through the trees ahead. As we grew closer, I got a sense of just how big it was.

“Mr. Abbot,” I called to him, a few feet ahead of me, “Just how many people does this stadium hold?”

“A hundred thousand!” he replied gleefully.

A hundred thousand. I hadn’t even considered the possibility that there were a hundred thousand magical people on the globe, let alone at one event. Magical communities were so few and far between in Britain, and there were so few students at Hogwarts, that I had assumed we had relatively small numbers.

The golden walls surrounding the field rose higher and higher in front of me as we approached. A stream of wizards narrowed into one of the nearest entrances in front of us. A ministry witch at the gate peered down at the tickets Mr. Abbott handed her.

“Not too bad, not too bad. Straight up the stairs, about halfway up, there’ll be someone there to show you to your seats,” she said and waved us through.

We began our climb upwards on the carpeted stairs amongst the tight crowd of people. People exited through doors at various levels and filed into the stands. About half way up the height of the stadium, Mr. Abbott said “Ah, here we are,” and led us through a doorway. He handed another Ministry worker our tickets, and we were pointed into a long row of folding seats.

As we sat, I looked out over the field and marveled at the sight of a hundred thousand wizards all taking their seats around me. The entire stadium seemed to be bathed in a marvelous golden light. The field was a smooth green lake below us, and the stands rose like a fortress above us. We were seated about halfway up, and halfway between the towering golden goalposts. Beautiful gold script danced across a huge blackboard at the top of the stadium on the side across from us that flashed various advertisements for magical goods and services.

I was in absolute awe. I tried to remember why I ever felt guilty for loving this life, and I couldn’t. The scene in front of me was almost too good to be true. The excitement radiating through the stands was tangible. My cheeks were aching from smiling so widely, but I knew they’d be getting no relief anytime soon.

Before I knew it, the voice of Ludo Bagman was audible over the roaring of the crowd, “Ladies and gentlemen… welcome!” The crowd exploded in response and Bagman waited for the noise level to go back down before continuing. “Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!”

Flags of green and scarlet waved all around the stadium as fans clapped and cheered. The blackboard across the stadium was wiped clean of the golden advertisements and they were replaced with BULGARIA: 0, IRELAND: 0.

“And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce…” Mr.Bagman’s voice shouted, “the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!”

The Bulgaria side, an endless sea of scarlet, erupted in excitement. At that moment, a least a hundred beautiful women strutted out onto the field.

“Their mascots are women?” I leaned in and asked Charlie.

“They’re Veela! Look closer!” She shouted back over the deafening crowd.

I started to ask her what Veela were, but I was immediately distracted by the perfection of the creatures on the field. Charlie, was right, they definitely weren’t regular women. Their skin looked like porcelain that was reflected in a most beautiful moonlight. The platinum, white-gold hair that hung down their backs splayed out behind them like they were walking in front of a wind-machine. I had never seen such dazzling creatures.

And then they started to dance. They twisted their bodies and moved across the field as if their feet weren’t touching the ground. It was such a wonderful display of beauty that I couldn’t tear my eyes away. That was, until Charlie’s voice cut into the blissful emptiness that had overcome my mind.

“Dad? Dad, what’re you doing?” she asked.

“Huh?” Mr. Abbott had risen from his seat and looked like he was about to swan dive off the edge of the wall in front of him. He blinked like he had just woken up from an incredibly confusing dream. He cleared his throat, “Goodness, forgive me. Those Veela, they’re really something aren’t they?”

His face flushed red with embarrassment, but as I gazed around the stadium, it seems that he had no reason to. About every man in the stadium had risen from their seats and were in varying states of trying to climb down the rows in front of them to get to the field. The Veela dance came to an end, and all around me, people began to wake up the way Mr. Abbott did.

“And now,” Ludo roared over the crowd, “kindly put your wands in the air… for the Irish National Team Mascots!”

As the words left his mouth, a great ball of gold and green light burst into the stadium. It did one full lap around the perimeter and then broke off into two smaller orbs and shot towards the goalposts on the ends. Then, just as suddenly as the balls of light had appeared, a magnificent rainbow arced down and connected the two. Hannah, Charlie, and I gazed in amazement, along with the rest of the crowd.

The rainbow faded and was replaced by a giant shimmering shamrock, that rose high into the sky and began doing laps over the stands. A beautiful golden rain seemed to be falling from beneath it as it flew. When it soared over us, I realized they were Galleons, the biggest and most valuable of the wizard currency.

“Goodness!” I exclaimed as I ducked out of the way of the heavy gold coins.

“You won’t want to pick any of that up,” yelled Mr. Abbott to me over the girls’ heads. “That’s fools gold!”

“Fools gold?” I hollered back and squinted up at the shamrock.

“They’re leprechauns!” As soon as he said it, I realized that the entire shape was made up of hundreds and hundreds of tiny bearded men, all holding a small lamp of gold or green. Many people around the stadium were scrambling around, and it looked like a few fights had even broken out over the gold.

“It’ll disappear before the night is out,” said Charlie, “That’s why it’s fool’s gold, only a fool would think they’d rain down millions of real Galleons at the World Cup.”

The giant shamrock finished its parade, and the leprechauns put out their lanterns to drift down onto the opposite side of the field as the Veela.

Ludo Bagman then welcomed the Bulgarian and Irish players to the field, but my eyes never left Krum. His thick black hair shone in the golden light that I still hadn’t found the source of. He looked much too big to be able to control his broom with such precision. He didn’t even look nervous, he looked like the whole thing was beneath him.

The match began as flashes of scarlet and green raced around the field. Bagman tried to keep up with quaffle, but they played at such speed that he only had time to say the player’s names. “It’s Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!”

I had never seen such a display of skill and athleticism. The speed of the players was so great that my eyes were having trouble following them. Ireland scored three times within the first ten minutes of the match, and I could see why. They worked flawlessly as a unit, rather than individual players. It was simply amazing.

A while later, Ireland was pummeling Bulgaria. They were up 170 to 10, with no intention of going easy on the players in red. Krum had just had his nose smashed by taking a bludger square in the face. The official had been distracted by a Veela who had thrown a handful of fire and set his broom ablaze. Blood sprayed out from behind Krum has he flew through the air.

Suddenly, Lynch, the Irish seeker had gone into a dive. It mimicked the Wronski Feint that Krum had used earlier in the game to get Lynch to crash into the field, but this dive had much more purpose to it.

“Look, Lynch is after the snitch!” I cried and pointed towards the streak of green rushing down at the field. Irish supporters, including the Abbotts screamed in support of their seeker. However, Krum was right behind him. Blood covered his face, and I wondered how he had any earthly idea what direction the snitch was in. He was catching up to Lynch though, every milisecond that passed gaining another few feet. As they drew level, they were hurtling towards the ground at an impossible speed, and I sensed a second crash coming.

I was at least partly right, as Lynch collided with the ground with a thud that I swore I could hear over the roaring crowd. A mob of vicious Veela, so different from the beautiful creatures they were when they took the field, surrounded Lynch and blocked him from view.

Krum rose slowly into the air, blood still pouring from his nose like a faucet someone forgot to turn off. The tiny golden snitch was clasped between his fingers in a raised fist. My eyes flashed up to the scoreboard and my heart dropped; BULGARIA: 160, IRELAND: 170.

The Ireland supporters slowly began to realize what had happened and a deafening roar came from the green in the crowd.

“IRELAND WINS!” Exclaimed the voice of Ludo Bagman, obviously surprised by the sudden end to such an exciting match. “KRUM GETS THE SNITCH – BUT IRELAND WINS – good lord, I don’t think any of us were expecting that!”

The Abbotts next to me began jumping up and down and cheering with the rest of the people dressed in green.

“Blimey!” yelled Charlie. “Wonder what he did that for?”

I knew exactly why Krum caught the snitch when the Bulgarians were 160 points behind. He saw that they were being destroyed by the Irish, and he wanted to end it himself, before it got any more messy.

“What a match, eh Addison?” called Mr. Abbott from over Charlie’s head, “bet you didn’t expect that one. That Krum is a wonder though, I’ll admit.”

I felt slightly deflated, a feeling that usually came to me after we lost our own quidditch match at school. I had really been hoping for Bulgaria to win, but seeing Krum beat Lynch to the snitch almost made up for it.

Suddenly it dawned on me that Fred and George had won their bet. Against all odds, Ireland had won, but Krum caught the snitch. They’d probably be rich after they got done with Bagman. A small grin spread across my face as I realized this is the outcome I should have preferred.

The Irish supporters were already beginning to celebrate as we made our way back down the purple carpeted stairs. I’d have to congratulate Fred and George on their win. I’m sure the high they were riding right then was on a whole different level than the rest of the fans. The joyous energy pouring from the sea of green in front of me was infectious. The night was still young, and I couldn’t help but have the feeling that the most exciting part of my world cup experience was yet to come.

#harry potter fanfiction #fred weasley fic #fred weasley #harry potter #fanfic #fred #hp fanfic #hp #harry potter and the goblet of fire #goblet of fire #fuck jkr tho #fanfiction

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star-captain · 4 years

Text

Illuminate

Another part of what I’ve started to call ‘Wandering Stars’, stories of self-inserts interacting with hermits. I dunno if the name is gonna stick, that’s just what the Google Doc is called.

But here’s another piece! This time with the incredible, kind, and talented @theguardiansofredland ‘s character Red. This was a challenging story, but I very much enjoyed writing it and playing with a character I never could have come up with on my own.

The sun settles on the horizon, dipping into the ocean and leaving behind a trail of orange streaking across the surface. It looks like it’s melting, orange fire spilling out. As sunset turns to twilight, the coral and sea pickles below begin to illuminate. The ocean comes alive with color, unbothered by the loss of the sun. Fish swim through pillars that glow softly, shadows playing out like puppets controlled by kelp.

The last hint of the sun drowns into the sea, leaving behind a sharp flash of green across the air. Glass catches the light, refracting the emerald flash over the blue floor and twin towers, across the open cavern. And as the light fades from the sky, a glow begins to materialize on her skin. Blue specks, flecks of light swirl across her skin, fighting off the darkness and growing brighter. Like stars, they grow in intensity as the world settles into the night. Waves of light flow around patches of larger blue, the brightest resting on her shoulders and inner forearms. Symmetric stripes are barely visible through the fabric of her pants, wakes of bright blue against the swirling flecks.

They push their glasses up the bridge of their nose, squinting to get a better look at what they’ve been staking out. Red knew that a monument has been missing for some time now, but they haven’t been able to check out the report until now. There’s someone down at the bottom, below the seafloor. From sea level, all they can see is guardians rise up bubble columns of the twin spires, before falling down into a hole.

She needs a closer look. Red looks over the edge of the glass, at the sharp drop down into the backwards aquarium. There’s no water, and she obviously can’t fly. A flying fish is just ridiculous. She chuckles at the idea, before turning to the other side of the glass, which is holding the ocean at bay from the unusual structure. Peering in, Red can see her reflection in the glassy water. It’s a calm night.

Streaks of bioluminescence mark her face, symmetrical against her cheeks after rising up her neck from her back. They look a bit like shark’s teeth at her chin from this angle, which looks pretty cool in her mind. Red’s hair is still wet from clambering out of the sea, orange and blue tones plastered against her head. Her reflection is broken as she dives in. Down, down down, into the depths of the sea. Where most people would be scared of such deep waters, she calls it home. She can feel the water rush past her face, over her fins as she speeds towards the bottom, and breathes in the cool water.

At the bottom of the structure, Red pauses to look at the strange building. It’s all made of glass, and she’d hate to break something that someone worked hard to build. Maybe she can just push a pane or two out, and sneak in without actually breaking the glass. Red reaches out, placing her palms on the smooth, cool window. She gives a push, but it doesn’t budge. She pushes again, harder. And harder, and harder, until suddenly the glass gives way under her strength.

Red and water sweep into the structure, pooling on the floor and depositing the surprised Kipling on the prismarine tile. Red only chuckles to themself. “Whoops. Maybe pushed a little bit too hard.”

Red stands, slopping through the water back onto dry stone. They made it to the bottom, but wandering around on the floor yields no information as to what is happening here. Red wanders up to the towers of water. Stepping up, they watch as guardians shoot up the column like some elevator on the fritz. The guardians flail about as flowing water sweeps them out and down a mysterious tunnel. Even when Red cranes their neck to look down the middle pillar, they can’t see the bottom.

But on the other side of the glass, around the pillar, he can see a ladder leading down. Abandoning the drop tower, Red quickly clambers down the wood ladder. Deep into the depths of the earth, the ladder spits him out in a cramped room. He looks around. The space is filled with metal hoppers and wood chests, in design that he can’t make out but knows is some sort of collection system. Down the short hall, Red sees the owner of all this.

He’s in a well dressed green suit, asleep in a chair rocked on it’s back two legs against the stone wall. Red jumps at the sound of a crash, but it’s only another hopper filling itself with goods. She turns her attention back to the human. Curiosity draws her closer. The most unusual part of the man is one of his eyes. It looks like it’s metal, with some sort of crystal or something acting as the iris. Can he see her, even though he’s asleep?

She turns away from the human, focusing back on the reason she’s here. And that reason is to understand why this is here, and what is happening to the guardians that enter the tunnel. Just beyond the sleeping man, she can see the guardians. Humans can’t notice it, but each guardian is different. Different scale patterns, different tints in the orange and blue, all making each ocular fish unique. And she can see there must be dozens of guardians crammed into a small place at the bottom of the pit. They’re wounded, but alive.

“There must be a way to get you all out of here. You guys see anything?” She jokes, winking her eye at the cycloptic guardians. She turns around in the small room, seeing lots of different buttons and levers. But none of them look to be hooked up to the fences that hold back the guardians. Red doesn’t want to mess with redstone, as much as she likes flipping switches and pushing buttons- that stuff is too much for her. It doesn’t work well in water anyways. Though sometimes she wonders what it tastes like.

But one stone button, hardly visible against the stone wall, seems like a good chance to free her fishy friends. Red hardly wastes more than a second stumbling to the button and crashing into it. At first she’s smiling, waiting for the fences to open up and for the guardians to be freed from whatever cruel trick this is.

The smile fades into horror as pistons tug stone blocks out from under the guardians, and the pit deepens just enough. Just enough that those already sitting at the bottom fall just a little further. A chorus of shrill cries escapes the stone, echoing around the hall and haunting Red’s mind. How many just died? Hoppers rumble around her, and she starts to put this all together.

She watches the farm run, even though it’s owner is fast asleep in his chair. Wind whistles across the squirming, flailing guardians. Red watches in horror through her glasses as the helpless fish fall all the way to the bottom of the pit. One after another, they screech and die with a sickening crunch against the deep, dry stone. Every time they fall, she feels her heart fall as well, breaking with their bones. The prismarine is quickly scooped up by the hopper system, rumbling and sorting out the goods that dropped upon death.

It’s horrifying, monstrous. Humans tear down an ocean monument, stripping a home for the resources it holds. And then humans build a contraption only for death and their insatiable greed. They have to stop it. Red grabs at the button, pulling it from the wall. It doesn’t stop the endless cycle of death. They haul the heavy double chests out from under the hopper, but the items just sort into a different chest. Behind the chest, Red can see the thin trails of redstone snaking between hoppers. Lit up, making sure the system is running. They crouch down, shoving a scaly arm through the tight space between two hoppers.

She reaches her hand across the redstone, and cuts the connection. The activated redstone gives her a jolt, like holding a channeling trident during a storm. The entire system shuts down, including the water that flushes the guardians to their doom. The sorting machine falls silent, though the dying screams of guardians still echo in the cave and in Red’s mind.

Behind her, chair legs scrape against the smooth stone. “Grian I swear if you plan to shove something into my inventory again!”

Red and the human freeze, staring at each other. The suited man blinks, gazing at the unusual visitor. She’s not sure if he’s ever seen a Kipling before, much less one covered in redstone dust. She hasn’t even noticed that tears were falling until now, and her bioluminescent markings glow brighter than a sea lantern. “What are you doing to my guardian farm?”

“These aren’t for you to take!” Red states, standing up for her home and family, and standing up to her feet. “This isn’t a farm, this is massacre!” She returns to ripping the death machine apart, piece by piece, without a tool. Tossing filled hoppers across the room and risking being electrocuted.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on, wait!” He approaches Red, before backing off. “Let...let’s talk about this. I’m Iskall. Why are you destroying my...my building?”

“Because you’re killing them.” Red whimpers, looking at where scales and blood splatter the wall of the pit. “Those are...that’s my family, my home you’ve destroyed.”

“The ocean monument?” Iskall questions. He looks up, as if observing the world beyond the stone cave. “I never thought anyone except these laser fish lived there.”

“It’s their home too. Would you like for someone to come and rip it all up and kill your family?” Red tries to wipe away the tears. He hates being so sensitive, forcing himself to be open to a person he doesn’t trust. It’s hard to trust humans when they do this. “All for what?”

“Sahara needs the prismarine to sell to other hermits, taking down the monuments and killing guardians is the only way.”

“If you just looked for help, looked for a different way then you wouldn’t have to! I have more prismarine than I know what to do with, all without ever hurting another guardian.” To prove her point, Red pulls out a handful of prismarine crystals. She lets it fall to the ground, Iskall’s metal eye watching her toss it away like it’s dirt.

The bearded man rubs his chin. “I never thought that anyone lived in ocean monuments, that could talk with us. This does change things.” Red looks up, meeting his gaze. “Let’s make a deal then, shall we? A real Sahara contract. You can supply Sahara with that prismarine, get it all out of your way. In return, you can...ahem, decommission my farm here. And maybe I can talk with the others and see if they can find other ways.”

Red looks around, not quite sure if this is some sort of trap or something. Not until Iskall pulls out a diamond pickaxe, offering it as a sign of good faith to the young Kipling. “You look tired, I’m sure you’re hungry. Let’s see.” He digs around in his pockets, finding a bag of sweet berries. The two munch on the fruit, until Red is satisfied and ready to get back to destroying this place. Using the pickaxe is so much better than using his hands, and he can’t help but smile as each hopper and chest is removed. Iskall even joins in, climbing up to the empty ocean. While Red frees his oceanic brethren from the twin towers, Iskall begins to refill the water he had removed. He can’t rebuild the monument, but at least he can make this place habitable again. Maybe they can make something new here, for everyone.

Destruction has never been so fun, so relieving to Red. Tearing down all her frustrations, and filling it back with the cool ocean water. It’s sunrise by the time the two finish, and Red’s markings are fading in the peeking sunlight. The two stand on the last remaining concrete block, the water below teeming with life. The pit has been waterlogged, and hopefully the tides will eventually wash away the stains of such a death-covered place.

“I think that went pretty swimmingly.” Red chuckles, looking over the ocean. In the morning light, they can see the bright colors of the coral, and thousands of tiny fish go on with their lives among the stony creatures.

Iskall laughs at the pun. “You remind me of a friend of mine, at least when you’re happy. Speaking of, I should probably get back to the other hermits. Call a meeting with the Architechs and tell them our job just got a lot easier.” He holds up a couple of prismarine shards. “And we’ve got a monopoly on the prismarine trade! Please, come visit if you ever have the chance.”

The green-suited man takes out his elytra wings, and soars off towards the mainland. Red looks out at the sunrise, the quiet ocean. Her home. She pushes up her glasses, rolls the sleeves of her shirt, and dives into the water.

#minecraft #minecraft ocean #ocean monument #hermitcraft #hermitblr #hermitcraft iskall #iskall85 #oc #writing #red #persona #minesona #self insert #wandering star

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eureka-its-zico · 5 years

Text

Wedding Partners

Request: for the drabble game, no. 76 please jungkook ahhdsjdjk (”Please, put your penis away.”

A/N: I’m not gonna lie. This was supposed to be a drabble. Actually, the few drabble requests were meant to be drabbles but...I’m terrible. I can’t drabble to save my life. I had this idea while watching old 90’s rom com’s of weddings: The Wedding Planner, My Best Friend’s Wedding, etc., and had this idea of Jungkook and weddings. I considered writing more if you guys like it. If not, I hope you all at least these not so drabbly drabbles. Much Love, Jenn

Jungkook x Reader

Words: 3088

Weddings were awkward.

And that was saying a lot. Especially, for a day that was capitalized to be all about joy and coming together to be connected, forever, to your supposed soulmate. From what you’d witnessed countless times, it felt more cut throat than riding off into the sunset. A day that should be about happiness was instead heavily coated in anxiety. A majority of this quiet chaos centered solely around table placement.

“What’s the big deal about table placement?”you may ask.

Whelp, you were a pro at this sort of explanation. Not that it was because you yourself dealt with the coming trepidation of arranging your own family or your significant others. It was centered around the fact you’d been to enough of them to read the table signs a mile away.

The extended family tables that held the aunts and uncles that were a little...colorful. Sometimes holding the, “We’re only family by marriage,” bunch. The ones with close relatives that weren’t technically labeled the “favorites,” of the family. The grandma who might seem like she was going a wee bit senile, but really she’s just extremely opinionated and good at making you feel like you shouldn’t be having a second helping of cake. Or even the tables made on the fly to keep a recently divorced mother-of-the-bride from the father and his newly, perkier, counterpart.

And then there was the singles table. The lucrative spot you’d find yourself in as if you’d acquired a special reservation to them. You would be sure to keep the free champagne as your plus one. Telling all the other painfully awkward (there’s that word again) single gentleman at the table you were taken by an inanimate object. Oh, how sad your life felt when you RSVP’d to these things and always wrote one.

It felt worse knowing your friend, Jungkook would be attending. Even more so when he took his high school sweetheart to every damn event. It didn’t matter if she was bubbly and obnoxiously sweet to the point your teeth ached from the sound of her voice. She was likeable. She truly was. Unfortunately, you also had a crush on Jungkook. Or, okay, more like you were hopelessly in love with him, but it was technically the same thing.

You’d hope after four years your foolish heart would’ve given up on him. It would’ve gotten the memo Jungkook belonged to someone else. That you would probably end up at his stupid wedding before he ever attended yours. Instead, here you were: sitting at the singles table knocking back mimosa’s and glowering to yourself.

Your up-do already came apart at the seams with pieces of it hanging like a mini curtain in front of your pouting face. The rim of your glass sat claiming your bottom lip. Just a casual reminder it was still there if you needed it.

The wedding of mutual friends had gone on without a hitch. The ceremony lovely and opulent (someone’s parents had good money) with the reception seeming to have a shortage of weird family or guests that attended. Besides, you. Of course.

The oddest part coming as a shock when your eyes landed on a lone Jungkook nursing a glass of wine. You weren’t ashamed to take notice of the way his fingers enveloped the glass. How dark strands of lightly waved hair cascaded to his cheeks, but left his handsome face exposed to the room. Usually, Jungkook wore suits of color. Nothing outlandish, but he didn’t look like he was attending a funeral either. Today, he was covered in the monotone black that seemed to make him more striking. It dulled out everything around him, except the hard outline of his jaw and the exotic shape of almond eyes.

If you weren’t so transfixed by him you’d probably would’ve noticed he was missing a certain someone at his table. That maybe that’s why he looked so damn miserable. You were getting up from your seat, drink clutched in hand, to go talk to him when Jungkook suddenly got up.

The way his legs took a moment to right themselves told you he’d drank his fair share of cocktails this evening. His head tilted back quickly to down the rest of his glass, before moving towards the signs that read , “Restrooms.”

You weren’t about to down your whole drink and decided to take it on a little field trip. Your first step landing on the hem of your dress causing you to mutter out a bunch of swears. Your hands moving to bundle it up in unladylike fashion to move around the table. No one regarded Jungkook as he stumbled past walking like a newborn gazelle. Apparently, no one shared your sense of surprise at his current state.

“Oh, Y/N!” Amy, the beautiful bride, shouted as she stepped in your way. Or did you step in hers? When did you step onto the dance floor? “Thank you so much for coming! You look amazing.”

You wanted to snort at her terrible attempt at a lie. It was her big day, though. She could lie all she wanted. You put on your biggest fake smile you could muster, as your eyes peered over her shoulder hunting to catch a line of sight in Jungkook’s direction.

“You look far better than I ever would. You make a beautiful bride, Amy.”

Your compliment sent her smile soaring. Her arms quickly enveloping around you in a tight hug. When she pulled away her hand snaked around your wrist, and gave it a firm tug towards the dance floor.

“Come dance.”

“No. No. I don’t dance,” you shouted over the music. Your head giving a swift refusal along with your words.

“Come on, Y/N! Just a little dance!”

“I gotta go pee.”

Amy shot you a look but didn’t press you any further. You couldn’t have been more grateful. However, the brief intermission with the bride cost you valuable ground and now you had no clue where Jungkook went.

You decided to follow his last known location towards the restrooms. Luckily, no one appeared to want to stop and talk the rest of the way there. The only actual issue was once you got to the labeled his and hers doors, you weren’t really allowed to just go in. Also, why would you? In the end, you decided to casually sip on your mimosa as you waited for Jungkook to exit the restroom.

Unfortunately, he never did.

After five minutes of constant waiting you were willing to consider either a stop was made for a number two moment, or he was throwing up whatever drinks he’d downed. Another five minutes rolled around and now men were coming frequently in and out of the bathroom. None of them being the one you’d been waiting for. Your presence at the bathrooms, however, gained you a lot of awkward glances. You were a devoted girl on a very devoted mission.

You considered waiting just a bit longer when your eyes caught sight of the glass door at the end of the hallway. It’s bright green neon letters informing you it was a way out; perhaps the same one Jungkook had taken.

Using the momentum from your shoulder pushing off the wall, you made your way towards the back door. Blurry vision struggling to make out whatever was outside of it. It looked like a whole lot of grass. It also could’ve been a well designed forest enclosure by a pool. Who really knew until you went outside.

Your earlier drunken assumptions were both wrong, and correct. It did have grass...that was lovingly taken care of behind an intricate iron fence. What you actually walked out to was a cobblestone patio that led directly to the pool and inside that pool was the man you’d been searching for.

You stumbled your way towards the gate and ended up struggling to try and get the latch open. All the noise you were making, metal jingling and flippant curses, didn’t seem to faze Jungkook at all, who currently resided inside the pool. His body sharing a resemblance of a starfish with his suit clinging to his skin like seaweed. The only part of him that wasn’t submerged in the water was his face and fingers. The rest of him facing up towards the midnight sky and it’s endless streak of stars.

There seemed to be one more thing floating in the water. Your eyes unable to successfully see it even after you attempted to squint. Your fumbling fingers to undo the latch came to a quick halt as realization began to color your face.

“Oh my god!” You gasped. “Please put your penis away.”

By the sudden way he went under; his mouth wide open in a shocked ‘O’, you could tell Jungkook didn’t expect to have any uninvited guests. His arms came flailing around at his sides, his bottom half (and penis) now submerged, and his head was bobbing up and down for air. The only conclusive thought your buzzing brain could comprehend from all of this was that Jungkook was drowning.

Instantaneously, as the thought coursed through your brain your hand released your half emptied flute of mimosa, and your feet launched one after the other in a clumsy mess over the gate. It was a waist high gate. Nothing crazy high and something your legs could’ve easily moved over if you’d been sober. However, your knees found the ground first and you did a poor impression of a tuck and roll towards the pool.

You probably looked like a fool. Fortunate for you, you weren’t all that worried about appearances at the moment. No. You were more worried about the love of your life re-enacting a bobbing apple inside the pool.

“Jungkook!” You yelled. “I’m coming to save you!”

Without a thought to reason you found your feet launching you into the deep end. The water moving around to engulf you quickly the moment your feet broke through its barrier. What did come to mind when water worked its way inside your nose was this was a terrible idea. Easily made your top five list of drunken things to never repeat.

Your dress ballooned around you like a wilting flower with your hands helplessly getting caught in its fabric. It ended up being Jungkook’s steady grab on your waist that helped you find your way back to the surface for air. The moment your face broke water you gulped in greedily for as much of it as you could get.

“What the hell were you doing?”

“Saving you from drowning.”

“You did a terrible job,” he chuckled.

You worked a few pieces of wet clumps of hair out of your face. It cleared your vision enough for you to realize if anyone saved somebody in this mess, it was Jungkook. He held you close to him, an arm securely wrapped around your waist. Your own legs wrapped around his core with his sweeping out underneath the both of you to keep you afloat. Nervous giggling escaped you while you continued to look around before self-consciously landing on his face.

“I really did mess it up, huh.”

Jungkook was known to make your heart stop. This close he was the perfect description of what fairy tale princes’ were meant to be. His hair somehow kept itself stylized and perfectly shaping the cut lines of his jaw. The small fleck of his mole that hovered below his lower lip teasing you to steal a kiss. A flare of jealousy struck deep inside your gut as you noticed how the drops of water seemed to cling to his lips in greedy clumps. He was still eyeing you now; waiting to see if you would continue your half-hearted admission.But all words were lost being wrapped around him and being this close.

All you could do was stare.

He was slowly moving you both to the safety of the pool’s side.

“You would make an awful knight in shining armor, Y/N.”

You feigned hurt as you finally got to the first step towards the entrance to the pool. Your arms and legs reluctantly letting him go to sit beside him on the second step. Both of your bodies partly submerged just to keep the cool night air from making you shiver.

“At least I attempted a rescue. I could’ve just let you drown, you know.”

“First of all, I wasn’t drowning. I was floating.”

“And a marvelous floater you are, darling,” you replied.

Your voice heavy with playfulness that caused you both to smile at each other. His own bright like the sun and you helplessly orbited around it. As soon as it came, however, it quickly vanished and was replaced by a sadness that sent a dull ache through your chest.

“Kook? What’s wrong?”

You placed a comforting hand on his back that he didn’t quite seem to acknowledge. His mind taking him somewhere where you weren’t beside him. Where he wasn’t in this pool sitting next to you or at this wedding. Wherever it was his thoughts took him, it was easy to see by his crumbling features that it wasn’t a good place to be. You hated seeing him appear so grief-stricken, and with no idea as to what could’ve caused it. You wanted to probe him again. Just to see if you could get something out of him when he finally turned that sadness back to you.

“She left me.”

Jungkook spoke soft enough you weren’t sure you quite heard him the first time. You leaned in involuntarily closer to make sure when he spoke again you heard.

“What?”

“Ji-eun!” He said more sharply this time. “She left me, Y/N. She told me she’d been seeing someone else at work. That she didn’t intend for it to happen, but it did. She said - said they were more compatible. Whatever that means.”

Your hand was back to comfort him as you struggled to find the right words to comfort him. Chastising yourself for having a small piece of you that seemed overjoyed by the news. It sucked to see him hurting. You knew he loved her; cared deeply for her. They’d been together since High School for goodness sake. However…

“I’m really sorry to hear that, Jungkook.”

Sorry didn’t seem right. It felt hollow and clumsy. It was, unfortunately, the best you could say. Jungkook didn’t seem to mind it. Any form of words to help ease the pain he felt would’ve been enough.

“I hate weddings. I hate them even more now that I have to come alone.”

“I come alone all the time. You don’t see me complaining.”

“Yeah, well you should cause it sucks.”

His statement sent a bark of laughter from you and sent a fresh wave of water around you both as he gave a start. It only made your laugh more. You weren’t sure, but you could’ve sworn you saw a tilt of a smile.

“I guess you’ll be joining me at the single tables for a while.”

You were aiming to tease, but instead received a heavy groan of despair.

“I have two more weddings to go to this year, Y/N. Two more! I cannot go to these alone. I just can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Won’t.”

His answer was curt and let you know there was no way in changing his mind. Not that you honestly were going to try. Jungkook started to run his hands through the water and you wondered if he was trying to make anything out of it.

“Well, that explains why you’ve been drinking and trying to drown in the pool.”

“I did not try and drown in the pool! You jumped on me and made me sink to the bottom,” he shot back.

Your mouth dropped open with a gasp and your hand moved out to swat at his shoulder. This time his own rich chuckle filled the space around you.

“That’s it!”

The hand that was playing in the water suddenly shot up to come together with the other. A loud clap to join his ‘A-ha!’ moment. He turned completely to face you and sent the water sloshing around in tiny waves. You didn’t pay it any mind, however, as his hands clumsily took yours and pleading eyes grabbed a hold of your face.

“Y/N: be my plus one.”

For a split second you waited for the punchline to follow. You knew it had too. No way in his right mind would he have ever requested for you to be his partner at weddings when he could surely find someone else.

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m serious!”

“Why can’t you go alone like a normal human!”

“Okay, one human beings aren’t meant to be alone. Two, I would much rather go with one of my closest friends to these things and know I’m gonna have a good time than be miserable and alone. Come on, Y/N. Please.”

It might’ve been the puppy dog eyes. The puffy pout of lips with a mixture of how he used them that made you cave instantly. Realistically, you knew it wasn’t going to take much to get you to agree to begin with. You just needed to play hard to get.

“Fine. I’ll be your plus one.”

His response came in him pulling you tight against his chest. Your arms now trapped at your sides as he swung you back and forth in the water. When he pressed his lips to your temple you were pretty sure you’re heart faltered for a second.

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you, Y/N! You’re the best.”

“Yea, yea, I’m the greatest.”

“I said best not the greatest. Let's not get too carried away here.”

You cupped your hands under the water and splashed what you could in his direction. The effect only gaining another deep chuckle that was matched by his smile.

“By the way, did you ever put your penis back in your pants?”

Jungkook’s eyes flushed open like saucers as his hands darted down inside the water. His body turning to the side away from you, just in case you tried to look. Too bad for him, you’d already seen him out and about in all his glory.

“Now I did.”

“You’re so gross,” you laughed, as Jungkook pulled you back out into the water. The two of you spending the rest of the night floating like starfishes in the center of the pool.

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