#this one left me feeling bitter at least until sands of time | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

haadeswrites · 3 years

Text

Elysium

god this fic took forever i’m so sorry!! but hey, first fic on the new blog! <33 also y’all should really thank @iwaasfairy who listened to me complain about this fic for a solid month, she’s the reason it got finished

Cult leader Oikawa Tooru x female reader

tw: indoctrination, extremely dubious consent, blood, yandere themes, religious themes, minor character death, implied abuse & drug use, mild smut, nsfw

The island itself is breathtaking

Pristine beaches with gleaming white sand, vast swathes of lush, green rainforest and waterfalls that cascade into shimmering pools of crystal clear water. Untouched, undisturbed; a paradise. At least, that’s how Ryuji had described it.

Paradise, but only in the sense that a gingerbread cottage in the middle of the woods is paradise to a lost and hungry child.

He hadn’t been wrong. Bare feet sink into soft, white sand as you climb from the boat - the warmth just toeing the line between pleasant and burning. Gentle waves ebb and flow behind you, and there’s a light breeze that kisses your skin, the taste of seasalt carrying in the wind. Home, it seems to sing.

A laugh sounds somewhere in the distance, yet the only other figure on the beach is a man walking steadily towards you. He smiles when he sees you’ve noticed him; friendly, non-threatening. It’s a far cry from the swarming welcoming committee you’d been dreading, and you wonder if that’s somehow intentional as well.

As the boat pushes back out to sea he comes to a stop before you, “I’m Makki,” he says, pushing the fringe of his hair back and giving you a not-so-subtle once over. Whatever he sees must meet approval, because his grin only widens, “Welcome to the Commune.”

Ryuji wasn’t wrong; the island is a beautiful, deadly thing.

—

You’d never heard of the Commune before the phone call.

And maybe that shouldn’t be so surprising. You’ll be the first to admit you’re hardly an expert, but from what you do know, groups like the Commune – cults – don’t spring up out of thin air and start broadcasting their mistreatment and systematic abuse.

They’re not the kind of people that have sweet old ladies clutching their pearls and mothers shepherding their children away – at least, not in the beginning. Not entirely. They’re not out to recruit extremists to further their cause, they choose to prey on the vulnerable, the lost and the disillusioned. Those easily manipulated. You suspect that’s why when you google the Commune, all you find is a website for what essentially looks like a long term luxury wellness retreat.

‘The Commune is about healing and harmony, about returning to nature, supporting one another to forge a brighter, more holistic future together… a self-sufficient community living apart from technology and other evils of modern society.’

You fight the urge to roll your eyes as you scroll through. There’s a whisper of philosophical teachings woven throughout, a page dedicated to their founder, Oikawa Tooru – smiling handsomely in every single picture, because what would a burgeoning cult be without a charismatic leader – but there’s not enough.

So here you are, on an island hundreds of miles away from home living amongst strangers; because Ryuji wouldn’t have sounded so terrified if this was just some alternate, free-loving bunch of hippies.

And even with all that he’d told you, everything you thought you’d be prepared for, the Commune is like nothing you could’ve imagined.

Makki introduces you to Asuka, a woman only a few years older than yourself, dark haired and stunningly beautiful, and winks as he tells her to take you under her wing. She smiles brightly, eyes twinkling, and pulls you into a heartfelt hug – as if you’ve known each other your whole lives.

“We’re so glad you’re here!” she beams.

You’d like to hate her.

It feels like you're supposed to, sometimes; when she gets that dreamy look in her eyes and starts talking about Oikawa and the Commune and how lucky everyone here on the island is. Yet there’s something about her – the genuine warmth she emanates maybe, or the kindness in her eyes – that makes it difficult for you not to like her.

“You should come to the gathering tomorrow,” she hums idly one afternoon, maybe a week or so after your arrival. The two of you are sitting on the edge of the pier, legs dangling down into the water, tangled fishing nets to be repaired strewn between you.

“I always go,” you reply.

She laughs, fixing you with a knowing look, “And sit right at the very back, all but running off the moment we finish?”

And your traitorous heart skips a beat.

“It’s okay to take things slowly,” she says. “We understand that being a part of the Commune is a big change from the life you knew, and that not everybody is able to see what we see and embrace those changes.”

Asuka sets down the knot she’s working through and reaches for your hand, a gentle smile on her face, “But you shouldn’t be afraid. You’re meant to be here, I can feel it. You just need to stop fighting against it; surrender yourself to us, to the island, and everything’ll make sense, I promise.”

It’s dangerous territory. One wrong word could set off alarm bells, yet you can’t help pressing just a little.

“Do you ever miss it, then? Life outside the Commune?”

Your family. Friends. The life you left behind before you came here to be brainwashed like all of the others.

“Why would I?” she answers without missing a beat, and it’s hard to ignore the bitter flicker of disappointment you feel at her answer. “The island provides for us, we don’t have to spend our days selling off tiny pieces of ourselves just to make ends meet. It’s paradise here, and we have Oikawa to thank for that. Why would I ever want to go back?”

Silence falls between you as you struggle to think of something to say to salvage the situation. Yet Asuka isn’t even looking at you, instead staring out at the water with a strangely pensive expression.

“Did you know I was married once?” The words seemingly out of the blue, you can only shake your head. For a moment, she doesn’t reply, watching as the waves rise and crash offshore. And then;

“I was young, eighteen or so, fresh out of high school and he was a small town cop.” Her eyes flicker to yours, and your heart clenches at the sadness and pain echoing there. “I thought he was a good man, once upon a time.”

A chord strikes deep, your chest tightening involuntarily at her words. It’s not the same, of course it’s not the same, and yet…

No. You stop the errant thought in its tracks. Groups like the Commune prey on the vulnerable, you know this. People like Ryuji, like Asuka, like–

Her fingers squeeze around yours, pulling you back to the present. “Come to the gathering tomorrow. Listen to Oikawa, it’ll help.”

—

She doesn’t give you a choice in the matter – dragging you by the hand to sit right at the front of the gathered crowd that very night.

Oikawa’s handsomer up close; tall and dark haired with pretty eyes and long, sweeping lashes that frame delicate cheekbones, it’s not hard for you to see how a man like him has amassed such an impassioned following.

Once he starts actually speaking, however, you realise that his good looks and charming smile are just the tip of the iceberg. Oikawa’s utterly captivating as he preaches about the cycle of life and death and the paradise that awaits his faithful. Passionate and engaging, he speaks like he truly believes every word of the lies he’s spreading.

And Asuka, her friends, the others gathered, they eat up every word like it’s gospel truth, resounding cheers and thunderous applause deafening around you. In the midst of the rapturous din, Oikawa’s eyes flit to yours.

Slowly, he smiles – a dazzling grin that makes your stomach flip – and everything; Asuka, the noise, the others swarming around you, it all fades away.

For one electrifying heartbeat, you’re frozen in place. Just you and Oikawa, trapped in the pull of each other’s gaze.

—

You can’t forget the reason you came.

But it’s… difficult, in a way you struggle to understand. You only have one purpose for being here, one goal; find Ryuji and bring him home.

And yet, some days it’s like there’s a fog in your mind, and you have to focus to remember why you’re here at all. You catch yourself laughing with Asuka and her friends, the days passing by in a blur of endless, easy distractions.

It barely feels like work when you’re sitting under the shade of the trees, eating the fruits you’ve picked by hand – ripe and sweet, unlike anything you’ve ever tasted – diving off waterfalls into the crystalline water and meandering down the shore collecting seashells. Even when you are working, mending clothes or cooking with the others, it fills you with a sense of contentment you can’t quite explain.

Like you’re a part of something bigger. Like you’re doing something that matters.

Ryuji becomes a distant thought. A whisper in the back of your head, a niggling in your gut, easily brushed aside and ignored until there’s a moment of quiet. In the dead of night, the balmy summer night’s breeze kissing your bare skin, you lie awake, lost in memories of the last time you’d seen him.

Fists angrily pounding at your door, the yelling that gave way to sobs and the hoarse, desperate pleas that followed. Ryuji’s face; pupils blown wide and eyes rimmed in red, darting restlessly around as he held you too tight and begged–

Rolling over in bed, you gaze out your window at the star flecked sky, the shadows of the forest that lie at your doorstep, and wonder what it is that scares you more; that you’ve lost track of the days you’ve been here, and saving Ryuji is starting to feel like an afterthought, or that you could so easily forget all of it, find a place here in the Commune and be happy.

‘The island, it–it fucks with your head.’

Ryuji’d told you that, and you’d brushed it off as paranoia. You need to find him. Find him and get the hell outta dodge.

You can deal with the fallout later.

—

Kiyoshi.

He’d mentioned the name a few times amidst his rambling – a friend of his on the island. You’re annoyed with yourself for not thinking of it sooner, however much like Ryuji himself, trying to focus and remember the name is like wading through thick mud.

Once you do, though, finding him amongst the hundred and fifty or so inhabitants is the easy part.

There’s no strict division between genders within the Commune, however Kyoshi, despite his somewhat lean stature, is among the builders of the island and his path doesn’t often cross with yours.

From Asuka you find out that he’s been a part of the Commune for years now, before even she joined, and that he mostly sticks to himself, though you’ve seen him chatting quietly to a few of the other men, a perpetually angry looking blonde in particular.

It’s the last part that piques her interest, “Why’re you so curious, anyway?” she asks, her face lighting up as a sudden thought occurs. “Do you want me to introduce you two? To be honest, I didn’t think he’d be your type, if you’re interested, though…”

Cheeks aflame, you’re quick to shut her down. “No, no, nothing like that. I’ve just… seen him around and we’ve never really spoken, I guess.”

A lame excuse, though mercifully she lets the subject drop without too much prodding.

Therein, of course, lies the problem. Walking up to Kyoshi and casually trying to drop Ryuji into the conversation without raising red flags is risky, but what other options do you have? You’ve already spent too much time on this island.

Although, maybe Asuka has the right idea.

While you hadn’t been lying when you said you weren’t interested in Kyoshi in that way, nobody else knew that. Who would really look twice at the shy newbie striking up a conversation with the quiet, easygoing man? He wasn’t unattractive per se, and from the brief interactions you’d seen of him, he seemed kind enough.

You have enough patience (barely) to wait for dusk the following night. There’s a celebration, something about the full moon and a blessing on the island and the Commune– you hadn’t really been paying attention when Oikawa had spoken about it. Still, it’s too good an opportunity to pass up. With the fire pits crackling, and the dancing and music and the sweet honey wine flowing freely, nobody will be paying too much attention to what you’ll be doing. Hopefully, the alcohol will also serve to lower Kiyoshi’s guard, and perhaps if you’re really, really lucky, loosen his tongue as well.

Of course, you’re not banking on him telling you exactly where Ryu is or what happened to him– and that’s assuming he actually knows – but at this point you’ll take anything over the nothing you currently have. A tiny slip up, that’s all you’re asking for.

As the sun descends beyond the horizon, you play your role well, laughing and chatting amongst friends, sipping carefully at the cup of wine in your hand as you wait for an opening. And perhaps it’s your nerves working against you, but you find that it’s not just Kiyoshi your attention is drawn to.

Up on the shore, away from the rabble, Oikawa lounges back with a cup of the same honeyed wine you’re pretending to drink. For the most part he seems deep in conversation with Iwaizumi, his right hand, but every once in a while he glances up, letting his gaze roam over the crowd of his followers.

Every inch a king and his general.

And it would seem benevolent, if not for the strange smile he wears – the one that widens when his eyes catch yours.

Swallowing tightly, you force yourself not to dwell on it, to ignore the odd sensation curling in your gut and the way your skin prickles under his attention. Now is not the time to lose focus.

Pushing all thoughts of Oikawa aside, you subtly scan the beach once more, only to find that Kiyoshi’s moved, sitting now on a piece of old driftwood near the bonfire. Alone for the first time tonight.

Your legs are moving before the thought even fully registers.

“Do you mind if I sit?” you ask, gesturing to the empty space on the log beside him.

Kiyoshi smiles, the laugh lines at corners of his eyes crinkling pleasantly, and shakes his head, “Not at all.”

“Thanks.”

Taking another sip of your wine, you will your shoulders to relax, your racing pulse to slow. This has to seem natural, and so you force yourself to hold your tongue, let your head loll back and breathe deep, soaking it all in. You can hear the others in the distance, the music and the dancing, the happy laughter and shouts that beckon – you want to go join them. Even your blood seems to hum, a call of something other pulsing through your veins.

But you pay it no mind. There are more important things to worry about tonight.

Indeed, steel blue eyes have been appraising you curiously for a while now. “This is your first Lunar blessing, isn’t it?” Kiyoshi asks after a moment.

You nod, humming in agreement. Less than a month; you’ve been here less than a month. Is that a good thing?

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

A harmless enough question, and again you nod your head. “Yeah, it’s…” you pause, searching for words that won’t sound hollow. “It’s paradise. I feel like I need to pinch myself just to make sure it’s real.”

He smiles gently. “But?” he probes.

Grimly, you wonder whether Kiyoshi’s usually this perceptive, or if you’re just a really terrible actor. In a way, you suppose it really doesn’t make a difference; you’ve come too far to turn back now – at least not without raising suspicion.

So you lie with a truth, and pray that it works.

“I had a friend I was supposed to meet here,” you confess quietly, gazing not at him but the crackling flames of the bonfire, the burning embers carried off into the night. “He was the one who said I should come, but now I’m here and he’s not and every time I catch myself enjoying this–”

“You feel guilty,” he surmises, cutting you off. “Because he’s not here to enjoy it with you.”

Wordlessly, you nod – and maybe it isn’t so much of an act when your eyes begin to glisten, your smile wavering.

Kiyoshi’s silent for a moment, and you take another sip of the honey wine to hide your nerves. “You shouldn’t, you know,” he says eventually. “Feel guilty, I mean. You belong here, with the Commune. You’re happy here. Paradise… isn’t for everybody.”

He doesn’t say it to be cruel, more like he’s simply stating a fact, and somehow that makes it all the more unnerving. And it’s nothing you haven’t listened to Oikawa preach about time and time again. The Commune is for the devoted, the faithful – the lucky few – and you’ve never thought too hard about what he’d meant by that.

The Commune’s small, maybe a hundred and fifty or so people on the island. There’d been no initiation, no test of faith or trial period you’d had to pass when you arrived – at least, none that you’d been aware of. You simply stepped off the boat and they’d welcomed you with open arms.

An uneasy sensation settles into your gut, goosebumps prickling at your skin despite the heat of the midsummer night.

That… doesn’t make sense. It can’t. Absolute control’s too important in groups like this, they couldn’t just let anyone–

Kiyoshi speaks again, his calm voice pulling you from your thoughts. “What was his name?”

You blink at him slowly – stupidly. “Sorry?”

“Your friend,” he clarifies. “What was his name?”

“Oh, um- Ryuji.”

Kiyoshi’s brow furrows in thought for a moment, but he merely shakes his head, “Doesn’t ring a bell, but like I said, not everyone who arrives stays with us for long.”

He looks you right in the eye as he says it.

You don’t understand the cold, foreboding that seeps through your veins, because he’s lying. He has to be.

Ryuji was here. They were friends, Ryu’d told you that–

Why did you think this stupid plan would work anyway? That he’d tell you anything, much less the truth when this whole fucked up island is full of liars and those too indoctrinated to know the difference?

“You alright?” he asks when abruptly, you shoot to your feet beside him.

And it takes every ounce of willpower you have left to force an easy smile to your lips, raising your cup just a fraction, “Yeah, just gonna go get a refill. Thanks for the talk, Kiyoshi.”

Whether he notices that your wine’s barely touched or not, you don’t care – not as you turn on your heel without another word and head back up the beach.

Your head is pounding, your body trembling – you don’t hear the call of your name until a hand reaches out and grasps at your wrist, spinning you around.

Asuka greets you with a wide grin, Makki and a tall, broad shouldered man you think is called Mattsun standing either side of her – the former’s arm slung casually over her shoulder. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you,” she says. “Come on, we’re gonna go swimming, it’s so pretty out there!”

You glance out towards the ocean. Moonlight bathes the inky blue water, light shimmering off the rippling tide; some of the others are already out there, splashing amongst the waves.

“Clothing optional, of course,” Makki laughs, and Asuka tugs on your wrist once more.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

But you shake your head, slowly pulling your hand from her grip, “I’m not feeling great, I think I’m gonna head back.”

Asuka frowns, concern marring her pretty features. “Are you okay? Do you need us to call Mizo–”

“No,” you say, cutting her off. Healer Mizoguchi is the last person you need to see right now. “I just– I just need to go lie down for a bit. You guys go have fun – enjoy the blessing, I’ll be fine.”

Makki and Asuka share a fleeting look, but it’s Mattsun who interjects before either one of them can speak, “I’ll walk you back, then.”

Your stomach churns. It doesn’t sound like a suggestion.

And the smart thing to do would be to accept his help; the walk from the beach to your villa isn’t far, and while you’re not as familiar with Mattsun as you are with Makki or Asuka, it’s not like he’s going to hurt you or anything, but–

“Really– you don’t need to, it’s fine,” you smile weakly, shuffling back as he reaches to offer you his arm. “Go swim, I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

Mattsun shrugs easily enough, falling back into line with the other two – yet there’s something in the way he grins and holds your gaze for a beat longer. A glimmer of amusement, as if there’s some joke you're not a part of. “I’ll hold you to it, sweetheart.”

The heat that floods your cheeks clashes uncomfortably with the cloying heaviness in your stomach, but somehow you manage to stutter out one last goodbye before turning back to scamper off in the direction of your room.

–But not to lie down.

There’s not a cloud in the sky, and the full moon’s bright. No need for a torch, not unless you decide to venture into the heart of the forest.

You’ve been a fool. Kiyoshi, Asuka, Makki, Mattsun; you can’t trust any of them to help you, even unwittingly. Ryuji’s here on the island – somewhere – and every second that slips away, every second that you allow yourself to forget puts him in further danger.

And so you cling to your discomfort, ground yourself in it. The prickling sensation at the back of your neck, the tightness in your chest as you slip past your villa, keeping low and quiet – they’re a reminder that there is something insidious here on the island, that you have to get out.

You and Ryuji.

He’s here. Away from the others, kept under lock and key as punishment, or maybe being forced to undergo whatever kind of glorified brainwashing they’ve got going on, but here. You need to be smart about this, because while you don’t intend to stop until you find him, tonight will be your best shot – while everyone’s distracted down on the beach.

For the first time in a long time, it feels like you have a clear head.

Creeping through the underbrush, you steer clear of the well trod pathways that lead towards habitation. You’ve been there, and to the docks, and the river.

If they’re still keeping him here (and they are, you refuse to entertain the possibility that it could be otherwise) then it’s not somewhere out in the open. A bird cries out in the distance shattering the calm of the night, and you flinch – but it only serves as another reminder that your time tonight is limited; you cannot afford to delay. You wrack your brain, trying to dredge up memories of the last few weeks, surely you must have seen something–

“Lost?”

The single word, spoken in a deep, gruff voice has your blood running cold.

Slowly, you turn.

Iwa stands behind you in the thicket, his face utterly impassive. Briefly, you contemplate whether it’s worth trying to bluff your way out of this, but Iwa’s eyes narrow, flashing in the dim light and you think better of it.

A sigh escapes you, your shoulders deflating. “Where is he– Ryuji?” you ask; a whisper rather than a demand.

Iwa’s expression gives nothing away. Did he know, or have you handed him the smoking gun of a crime that’d fallen through the cracks? Does it even matter anymore? You’re just–

You’re tired.

Exhausted. In the space of a few moments all of that shining determination and resolve; it fled, leaving a gaping hole in its wake. This has to end, you can’t keep fighting against them forever. You can’t keep drowning in this guilt, feeling torn every second that you spend here on this stupid island. You just want to find Ryuji and go home.

… Right?

A tense beat passes as Iwa appraises you, and then; “Come with me.”

The hand he places on your shoulder doesn’t give you much choice. His grip isn’t what you’d describe as gentle, yet he’s careful enough to make sure you don’t trip or stumble as he marches you north.

In the thick of the forest away from the beach, it’s eerily quiet. Every twig that snaps underfoot, every ragged breath you draw; it feels too loud. Out of place amongst the stillness of the midsummer night.

And isn’t it ironic, that for the first time since you set foot in this paradise, you feel like you’re trespassing?

A bead of sweat trickles down from your temple and your mind unwittingly drifts back to Mattsun and Makki. Are they still swimming with Asuka? Probably, you reason. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly how long it’s been since you left them on the beach, but surely no more than an hour.

And strangely, like water drawn from the depths of a well, an image comes to mind; the four of you standing in the waves, you perched atop Mattsun’s shoulders, screaming and giggling in delight as Asuka tries to knock you down again, two sets of eyes watching from the shore…

You should have stayed on the beach.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask,” he replies drily – humouring you, you suppose.

Your lips quirk upwards for the briefest of moments. “What happens on the Lunar blessing? Asuka, the others– no one told me what it was.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t answer you immediately, but you feel his fingers reflexively tighten on your shoulder. Likely it wasn’t the question he was expecting; surely there were others that you could have asked – but you don’t really want the answers to those.

If you’re being led like a lamb to proverbial slaughter, what good would it do you to know it?

And yet as the seconds pass and no answer seems forthcoming from your captor, you resign yourself to the fact that your curiosity will remain unsated. You don’t even know what prompted you to ask in the first place; knowing Oikawa it’s probably some grand, meaningless spectacle. Pretty, hollow words spoken only to–

A heavy sigh draws you from your thoughts, and you falter in your step, almost tripping over your own feet in the process. Iwa’s quick to right you, urging you forward with a less than gentle nudge. “Walk straight,” he grunts, yet it lacks any true heat. Anticipation flutters through your veins, and he mutters a soft curse behind you. “Fine. It… it’s an exchange.”

An exchange? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Your eyebrows draw together, mouth opening to press the matter, but Iwa beats you to the punch.

“You’ll find out for yourself soon enough, now shut up.”

You have no response to that, so you do.

—

The two of you walk in silence for what feels like hours. Eventually, the terrain becomes steeper, the worn path you’re treading twisting and winding, and you realise you must be close to the mountains at the heart of the island.

As your breath comes in heavy pants, your legs beginning to ache, you can’t help but be lost in the beauty of it all.

The flora’s different here, unlike any you’ve seen before. Flowers bursting from the bark of towering trees, blooms of vibrant hues; reds and purples and soft, baby pinks. Even the vines at your feet curl amongst pretty white buds that gleam invitingly under the moonlight. Your jaw falls open as you gaze around in wonderment.

You forget why you’re walking, where it is that you’re heading. Iwa’s grip relaxes as a quiet gasp escapes you, and he doesn’t stop you when you stray from the path to take a closer look. You can’t resist reaching out to touch the silken petals, leaning in to smell their perfume. Soft and light and sweet, your eyes flutter shut, a smile creeping across your visage.

It reminds you of home. Not your actual home – the rundown, tiny shoebox apartment you gave up before you came here – but something deeper.

Home, like the long summer days spent playing in your parents’ backyard. Home, like afternoons curled up by the window, watching the rain come down in sheets outside.

Home, like the comfort of arms wrapped around you; two hearts beating in sync.

“C’mon,” Iwa interrupts after a minute or so, his voice a touch less gruff. “We’re almost there.”

Dazed, you find yourself nodding, allowing him to guide you back to the path. This time, he doesn’t grab you by the shoulder, seemingly content enough to walk by your side.

True to his word, it’s only another few minutes before you see it; a wooden villa, four times the size of your own and far, far grander, set amongst a clearing of trees on the mountainside. Confused, your eyes flicker from the villa to Iwa and back again. Gossamer curtains billow lightly in the breeze, a warm, inviting glow spilling from the open windows. Surely this cannot be where he meant to lead you… and yet he merely stands at your side, arms folded across his broad chest, watching you expectantly.

“You gonna make me carry you up there?” he asks, not unkindly.

Swallowing tightly, you shake your head.

Another glance, and you catch a shadow lingering by the window. Your heart skips a beat, apprehension curling in your gut as you begin to walk, every step feels less steady than the last. You’re almost glad when Iwa takes you by the arm; if only so that you have something to focus on other than the growing tightness in your chest. The villa, with its pretty flowers and airy, elegant grandeur is far from the isolated cell you’d been afraid of, yet the uncertainty of what you’re walking into eats at you all the same.

Is this where they’ve been keeping Ryu, or has he brought you here for another reason?

Nothing, however, can prepare you for what you find inside. Warm light emanates from lanterns that bathe the room, and your eyes widen as you stare around you.

Strange, gold carvings inlaid with mother of pearl decorate the thick, woodens support beams, a pot of incense burns on a table overflowing with fresh fruit. There’s a jug of the same honeyed wine you’d drank earlier in the night and two cups set on an ornate stand nearby – just within arms reach of one of the chaise lounges.

Iwa affords you little time to gape, drawing you further in. Silken tapestries hang from the walls – you’re pulled along too quickly to truly take note, but the brief glimpses you get hint at a story; a divine being cast from his home, lost and wandering.

It tugs at something buried within you, and uncomfortable, you tear your eyes away.

The two of you reach a closed door at the end of the hall, and Iwa pulls you to a stop, knocking once.

“Come,” a familiar voice calls.

You stiffen, though perhaps you should have foreseen this outcome. Who else would Iwa bring you to but to him? Distantly, you register his grip relaxing, the sound of the door sweeping open and his voice at your ear.

“Go on.”

And it’s funny, you think, how two halves of yourself can be so at odds with each other. Because while your stomach twists itself into knots, goosebumps prickling at your skin, your legs stumble forward of their own accord.

Two steps forward, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s a bedroom, that much you can deduce from the decor, but that’s not what captures your attention. Nor is it Oikawa, leaning against the bureau with a genial smile – at least not at first.

No. In place of a back wall, there’s open space, not so much as a panel of glass obstructing the view before you. And what a view it is; from this height you can see the sprawling forest below, the coastline dotted with bonfires and the moonlit ocean shimmering beyond. Where the floorboards end, there are steps, you realise as you unwittingly inch closer, leading to a cascading spring – likely fed from the waterfall you can hear rushing nearby.

How easy it would be to brush aside your worries, you think, to shed your clothes, slip into the cool, calm water and lose yourself entirely. Even amongst all you’ve seen and experienced on the island so far, this is incomparable.

“Stunning, isn’t it?” Oikawa murmurs, coming up behind you.

His voice startles you, yet when you turn, you find him not gazing out at the scenery but rather at you, that same strange, knowing smile curling at his lips.

“Some days, I admit, it’s hard to tear myself away,” he continues, unbothered by your stunned silence. “But even I can’t neglect my duties for too long.”

You swallow, tongue darting out to wet your lips. Confusion twists through you at the conversational tone, surely he hasn’t brought you here just to chat about the impressive views, yet there’s no hint of disapproval on his face, no indication that he’s anything less than pleased with you.

It’s unnerving to say the least, but you’ll play along with his game if that’s what Oikawa wants.

“Beautiful,” you say, though the words feel woefully inadequate even as you speak them.

He hums in agreement, something akin to pride flickers in his eyes at your assessment, “A labour of love, I suppose. But… everything you see here, everything I’ve built, it comes with a price. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I-I’m sorry?” you stutter.

“Paradise,” he elaborates, his smile widening. “There’s no give without take. Those people down there,” he nods down at the beach, the tiny, ant-like figures still milling about, “the lost, the beaten, the abused – I gave them what they so desperately sought; a sanctuary. A life without struggle, without suffering.” He pauses for a moment, reaching forward to take your hand. You almost flinch, almost skitter across the room to put as much distance between you as you can, but you don’t–

His palm is warm as it envelops yours, a pleasant heat that seems to spread through your veins, easing your tense muscles. There’s nothing to fear from him, you’re safe with Oikawa.

“Aren’t you happy here?”

Yes.

“What about the price?” you ask instead, though it takes more concentration than it should to force the words out.

Oikawa’s thumb sweeps along the back of your hand. “I never said it was your price to pay,” he soothes.

There’s something wrong with that sentence, but another sharp knock at the door draws your attention before you can think too hard about it. You turn out of instinct, barely aware of the way his hand tightens fractionally around your own.

A single finger at your jaw coaxes your attention back to him. “If you built a paradise, wouldn’t you give whatever necessary to ensure it flourished?”

Oikawa stares at you expectantly, deep brown eyes searching your face as he waits for an answer. Agreement would be the logical choice – the one he seems to want from you – but even as your lips part, the only sound that escapes is a breathless, confused noise.

When you were a kid, maybe six or seven, your parents took you to the beach one day and you waded too far out into the water. The waves were bigger than you expected; all it took was one mistimed jump and you were dragged under.

It wasn’t for long, probably only seconds, and ultimately you were fine – but you remember those few seconds so vividly. The feeling of helplessly tumbling through the water, fighting to break the surface but not knowing which way was up. Your lungs crying out for oxygen, the disorientation and dizziness, the panic.

It feels like that now – like the floor’s dropped out from beneath you and you’re just hurtling through empty air, desperately trying to slow yourself down with nothing to grab onto.

None of this makes any sense. Your emotions are shot to pieces, too many parts of yourself being pulled in different directions and you’re not sure which ones you can trust anymore. How can you be? Oikawa’s still holding your hand, smiling at you, and you just want everything to stop for a second so you can right yourself and breathe–

The door opens.

Iwaizumi appears in your field of vision, dragging a bound, hooded figure behind him. And because this is all some big, cosmic joke, you get your wish. Both of them, actually.

Time slows.

Even with a burlap sack pulled over his head, you recognise the man Iwa shoves to the floor and sneers at.

Hundreds of miles, weeks of uselessly traipsing around this fucking island, and finally–

Finally, you’ve found Ryu.

There should be relief. Fear, considering his current state, yes, but Ryuji’s here and he’s alive and as the hood is ripped off his head Oikawa squeezes your hand and the only thing you feel is… anger.

Not a heated flash that surges through your blood. It’s slow and seething, insipid. You look at him, locked in place as empty, pleading eyes meet yours and all you can think is that all of this – everything – is his fault.

“Asuka told you why she came to me, didn’t she?” Oikawa asks.

Your brow furrows, why–why is he asking you that now, how did he even–

He slips closer behind you, letting your hand go in favour of your shoulder, his spare dragging lightly along the bare skin of your arm. “She was lost, in so much pain. The physical wounds, they heal after a while,” his voice is right in your ear, a low murmur that sends a shiver rippling down your spine.

It isn’t an unpleasant feeling.

“But the scars inside, well… sometimes those fester.”

Gagged and bound, kneeling at your feet, Ryu doesn’t even try to make a sound.

He’s thinner than you remember. Face gaunt and bruised; there’s a half healed, mottled yellow one painted across the left side of his jaw, one eye purple and swollen. You glance at Iwa, standing stoically behind him, muscular arms folded across his chest. His work, you wonder, or others as well? You notice the tear tracks running down his face, catching the light of the lanterns, but it’s as if you’re seeing it all through a thick pane of glass. None of it reaches you, there’s nothing but that simmering, ugly feeling in your gut.

Oikawa hums, “I told you that Paradise wasn’t for everyone. It’s a haven, yes, but there are those who simply… don’t belong.”

His body’s so warm, pressed up against yours. Fingertips graze along your side, and this time you don’t bother biting back that tiny, breathless moan. Iwa briefly smirks at it, but there’s no embarrassment. Why should there be? Your eyes flit back to Ryu, bowed on the wooden floor.

Another memory resurfaces; A sharp crack and a ringing in your ears, Ryuji, eyes bloodshot and glazed, falling to his knees, clutching frantically at the leg of your pants as endless apologies spill from his lips.

It wasn’t him. It was never him.

“He hurt you,” Oikawa purrs. “He kept hurting you, I saw it.”

The words wash over you like waves breaking on the shore, but you find yourself nodding anyway. It was the truth, wasn’t it? A thousand tiny hurts, piled up on one another until you finally broke.

And you’d still come when he’d called.

Listened to him when he’d begged you not to hang up the phone.

“Iwa.”

The brunet moves towards a grand chest of drawers pushed up against the western wall. An ornate dagger sits atop, strange and beautiful; the blade isn’t steel or any metal you’ve seen before, but some kind of black stone, the handle intricately carved ivory. You hadn’t even noticed it before, Oikawa’s room filled to the brim with odd trinkets and treasures, but now that you have, it’s hard to tear your eyes away.

Iwa takes it and carries it over towards the two of you, holding it with the utmost care.

“Obsidian,” Oikawa informs you as he accepts the blade from his friend, bringing it in front of you both to show it off. “Pretty, isn’t it?” And while you can’t see his face, you can hear the smile in his tone.

He isn’t wrong though.

Ever so carefully you reach out, the soft pads of your fingertips running along the obsidian surface, surprisingly cool to the touch. The razor sharp edges – wavy and asymmetrical, leading to a tapered point – you’re careful to avoid, almost positive you’d draw blood with the slightest touch.

“Take it,” he urges, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear.

Obediently, you turn your hand over, your fingers wrapping around the hilt when he presses it against your palm. And as long fingers curl around yours, you idly wonder how old the dagger is – there’s not so much as a scratch on it, yet there’s something about the weapon in your hand that feels ancient. It thrums under your combined touch.

Oikawa jerks his chin at Iwa, and with a short nod and one last, lingering glance cast your way, the latter exits once again.

Leaving you and Oikawa alone with Ryuji.

“It’s almost time,” he remarks – though time for what, you’re not entirely sure. His lips press against your hair, his arm dropping from your shoulder to your waist, drawing you flush against him. “I know why you came to me, the lies that led you here.”

Both of you turn your attention back to Ryuji at that, the bound man now shaking with the force of his muffled sobs, snot dripping from his nose. That bitter resentment rears its ugly head again, soothed only by Oikawa’s pacifying hum, his thumb now rubbing slow circles at your side. “Shh, I’m not angry – none of that matters now. You’ve found a home here, no? You want to stay on the island with me.”

You swallow, nodding your head rapidly. The thought of having to leave now, of being forced out after everything you’ve seen and felt and experienced here, you– you can’t fathom it. You don’t want to.

Ryuji’d wrought so much damage, but even before he’d swept through your life… had you ever been happy? Were you ever truly accepted – or loved, for that matter?

You can’t go back to that life. You won’t; he’ll have to drag you kicking and screaming from the shore. The Commune is your home, this is where you belong. Here, with Oikawa.

“Good girl,” he croons, another kiss pressed to the crown of your head. You beam at the praise and Ryuji crumples a little further. “Death begets life, you understand now, don’t you?”

You glance at the obsidian dagger in your hand and then at Ryu, beaten and bruised, bowed in forced supplication before you, and nod.

His fingers tighten around yours, “Then do it.”

Leaning forward, you reach for Ryu, fingers lightly trailing down his ruined cheek, curling at his chin to coax his head upwards. He squeezes his eyes shut, pain and regret etched over every inch of his face, but he doesn’t fight you.

Baring his throat to your dagger, Ryuji’s pleas take the shape of your name.

Muffled, thanks to the gag, but unmistakable. And for one single moment, you falter.

This… this is wrong; for all his faults, and god knows there were plenty, Ryu didn’t des–

A wave of calm washes over you, allaying your fears, your doubts. Your breath leaves you in a heavy gust, taking with it the tension in your shoulders, and Oikawa’s voice, smooth and honeyed, reaches your ears once more, “Nothing comes without a price, doesn’t he deserve to be the one to pay it?”

With your hand still tucked inside of his, your arm moves with a will of its own; slashing with inhuman grace.

The dagger cuts deep, Ryuji’s eyes snapping open in shock as a spray of warm blood hits you both. He chokes – a horrid, wet, gurgling sound – wide, pleading eyes frantically shifting between you and Oikawa. Every beat of his failing heart sends fresh blood spurting from the gaping wound. It drenches his front, splatters across your dress, your face, crimson pooling at the wooden floorboards at his knees. His mouth falls open and shut, trying and failing to form coherent sounds and you just stand there and watch, the dagger hanging limply at your side.

It doesn’t take long; seconds at the most.

Ryuji’s slumps to the floor, his body finally growing still as the light fades from his eyes. There’s a beat of absolute silence, and then–

Oikawa shudders behind you, a strangled, drawn out moan leaving his lips. You try to turn, but his arms lock around you, every muscle tensing, his back arching. The dagger in your hand grows hot, burning the soft skin of your palm, but with his fingers still tightly entwined with yours you can only whimper and endure it.

With a hoarse, guttural roar, a pulse of pure energy surges through the room like a shockwave. Every cell in your body lights up, electrified, buzzing; a dizzying euphoria unlike any you’ve felt before coursing through your blood.

Across the island, voices cry out in delight, a symphony of life. The trees tremble and shake, invigorated and renewed, fresh buds bursting from the forest floor, blooming under the light of the full moon.

The harvests flourish, even the river swells in response to the call.

Death begets life, just as he promised.

And with every inch of your body alight and singing with pleasure, you can barely think much less protest (and why would you want to?) as Oikawa roughly yanks you around, hungry lips crashing against your own as his fingers pull and tear at your bloodstained dress. He wastes no time with foreplay, and you suspect only begrudgingly takes a moment to hoist you up against him and carry you to his bed.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he hauls your hips to his, sheathing his cock inside of your warm, tight cunt with one savage thrust, but you don’t care.

Not as you cling to him, fingernails raking along his shoulders as he presses your thighs further apart so he can fuck you deeper. It’s hard and rough and brutal, yet you moan for him all the same, his name a prayer swallowed up by feverish, claiming kisses.

Tonight, bathed in blood and the soft glow of moonlight, you offer your god everything.

—

“Look, look!”

A small hand tugs at your skirt, and you glance down to find a little girl with pretty, dark curls holding up a crown of woven flowers.

“Do you like it?” she asks.

Carefully, you take it from her, bringing it closer to examine. She watches you intently as you study it, lifting it this way and that to appraise her work, humming thoughtfully for good measure. “I think it’s beautiful work,” you tell her after a long enough pause, and you can’t help but smile at the way she lights up, preening under your praise. “Why don’t you go show your mama? I’m sure she’ll be very impressed.”

The girl nods rapidly, thanking you before skipping off in the direction of her parents. The sun’s hanging low in the sky, the fires already being readied for the night ahead. You’re not unaware of the watchful gaze that carefully monitors your every move, and the moves of anyone who ventures too close by. Soon enough, you’ll return home to the heart of the island – anticipation fluttering in your belly at the thought of what awaits you – but for now, you let your feet sink further into the sand, closing your eyes as you bask in the lingering warmth of the setting sun.

At least until the sound of your name being called draws you back to the present. Yet it’s not Iwaizumi approaching, but rather Makki, two strangers trailing along behind him.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he grins, throwing a casual arm over your shoulders. “This is Kaneo,” he gestures to the man, “and his wife Manaka. They arrived this morning, I’ve been showing ‘em round.”

You turn to the couple, smiling sweetly as you extend a hand, “Welcome to the Commune.”

#yandere haikyuu #yandere oikawa x reader #yandere oikawa tooru #yandere oikawa #yandere oikawa tooru x reader #cult au #tw: religious themes #tw: dubcon #tw: blood #tw: minor character death #tw: abuse #hades.dark #oikawa x reader #oikawa tooru x reader

443 notes · View notes

stellartales · 3 years

Text

zhongli ▪︎ glazed moon

pairing: zhongli x traveler!reader

genre(s): comfort + mild angst + fluff

summary: liyue harbor is once again preparing for another festival — the mid-autumn festival. but somehow she simply couldn't bring herself to join the others in the celebration. definitely not when her heart is aching in melancholy for her missing twin. — | m.list

background: this scenario takes place during the mid-autumn festival - as quoted from wikipedia - it is the second-most important holiday after Chinese New Year with a history dating back 3,000 years, when China's emperors worshipped the moon for bountiful harvests.[2] The celebration is called Chuseok (autumn eve) in Korea, Tsukimi (moon-viewing) in Japan and Tết Trung Thu (Mid-Autumn Festival) in Vietnam

this event celebrated by the chinese is usually spent eating mooncakes and drinking teas. lanterns are also an important aspect of this festival. unlike the yuanxiao fesitval or mingxiao festival (which is the fictional festival featuring best boy Xiao in GI) where lanterns are released into the sky, lanterns are hand-held. this is a festival i celebrate every year hence i'm familiar with it — feel free to read up about this on wiki!

a/n: don't mind me, this is just a random idea that popped in my head. i'm in the mood for some angsty stuff these days so just had to get it out. Flute version of 无羁 (Wu Ji) from the drama 'Untamed' was the song which inspired my angsty mood while typing this. pardon my errors (I may have missed them and i kinda wrote this on a spur sooooo yea)

Please do me a favor and reblog this. Thank youuuu ❤

the vitality of liyue harbor has always been astounding; an envy of the seven nations.

bright, bustling streets even in the darkness of nights was enough to show the nature of the city.

though, today it was a different kind of bustle. stores were already closed; even the nocturnal businesses that one would only see at night.

the moon had been bright and round the past few nights while the people busied themselves for another festival to come.

— the mid-autumn festival, an annual festival celebrated by the people of liyue or at least that was what zhongli explained yesterday when he extended an invitation to her to join him and others in moon-gazing today.

tonight, the moon shone bright and full in the clear dark sky, seemingly more so than the previous nights.

strategically rooted to the ground of a spacious balcony overlooking the gentle waves below, the stone tables were in a perfect spot beneath the brilliant moon.

colorful mooncakes of various flavors and teacups filled with steaming tea laid before her.

she sat at one of the round stone tables with some funeral parlor staff and of course, zhongli himself who has been rather busy ever since she arrived—

the cheerful chatters and laughter drew her eyes away from the empty seat beside her and to the tables across theirs.

his archon days were over, he said.

he was simply trying to experience a mundane life as 'zhongli' now, as the geo archon had put it when she expressed her surprise at his involvement with a festival fabricated by the mortals' minds.

and indeed—

her gaze idled on him.

— he was doing it too well.

illuminated by the golden glow the table lanterns emanated, the cordial and relaxed atmosphere was warmed by attentive eyes and smiling lips.

all on him.

apparently, some things never changed. whether he was rex lapis or zhongli, he carried an alluring elegance and charisma. clinging to every word and his occasional hand gestures, they were like moths drawn to a flame.

she could understand why; she liked hearing him talk. she would have gone over too, if not...if not for this weight on her heart.

it has been nearly a year since she was in teyvat looking for her twin. these few days in the harbor, the full moon was a constant reminder of how time has passed, and yet...

a heavy sigh escaped her. a longing gleam waned in her eyes as she lifted her gaze to the sky.

they used to talk and eat under a full moon just like this, a bitter ache clenched her heart.

her teeth sank into her lower lip as it trembled.

please...not now. her hands curled into shaking fists as she tried to hold back the tears threatening to leave her eyes.

not now. not at this party. she silently pleaded with herself, her squared shoulders shaking. it took all her willpower to not let the dam break.

but one managed to escape her anyway.

—shit.

she was up on her feet fast and slipped away from the party as subtly as she could.

stumbling out of the party half-blind with tears wasn't exactly the best situation to remember about the cloak meant to keep her warm on an autumn night.

luckily, she didn't end up falling off the stairs she currently sat on.

autumn in liyue was typically not cold, but tonight seemed especially so.

she shivered to the chilly breeze brushing against her back. goosebumps crawled across her skin, particularly on the areas her dress failed to protect against the cold.

she couldn't quite bring herself to go back for the cloak. not with the mess she was now.

the sight of the round moon above wavered in her vision as tears quietly trailed down her cheeks.

under the vast, seemingly endless night sky, she felt small...

— her knees were drawn closer to her chest, curled fingers digging into her dress.

...and extremely powerless.

where is he? why can't she find him? is he even in teyvat? Is he even...still alive? does he even exist anymore?

—a dreading sense of hopelessness echoed in her heart and summoned another wave of tears wavering her vision.

under this wide, endless sky and its luminous moon, she felt alone, truly alone in the presence of the joyous cacophony of laughter and playful yells coming from the festival she left behind.

a nasty voice prompted by the noise taunted her — of how no one would notice, even if she were to walk right out of liyue harbor right now.

drowning in harsh, relentless thoughts, she failed to notice the gaze of a pair of wise, golden eyes on her back, soft with concern.

long legs covered the distance between them in a quiet, graceful stride; the gentle clacks of his loafers whenever their heels hit the ground slipped past her notice too.

not even when he climbed down the steps to settle himself next to her, a step above hers.

not even the inevitable proximity between their bodies caused by the short stairs spacious for one but narrow for two.

only until his coat was off his shoulders and wrapped around hers—

"why the tears on the mid-autumn festival?"

—she jolted with a sharp gasp, her widening eyes snapping over to him.

the calm and prodding gaze that met hers was accompanied by the tender brush of his thumb across her left cheek, right under her tearing eye before switching over to her other.

"zh-zhongli?"

she stayed stunned, unsure she was feeling so because someone noticed she had left or was it because of this simple gesture.

zhongli has always been a mentor-like figure to her. his words, his wise gazes, the comforting pets he occasionally gave on her head and back had always reminded her of how she was a mere child in his eyes.

but tonight...this, nothing about the gentleness his hand or his eyes emanate felt normal. or was she just delirious?

the strange stutter of her heart caused by the hand on her face, the blush heating up her cheeks made her tear her gaze away from his, flustered.

zhongli let his hand drop back onto his knee, but his eyes stayed.

crossing her arms to hold onto his coat sitting on her shoulders, she thought hard to recall his question.

"i can't help thinking about my brother, that's all." she looked back at him, smiling.

a smile he thought reminded him of the moon when it was not yet full — a quiet light melancholic with vague sadness.

"don't worry about me, i'll be fine." she slipped a glance over her shoulder in the direction of the festival. "you should go back there, zhongli, they need you. what's mid-autumn festival for liyue without you?"

she moved to remove the coat from her shoulders, but a hand wrapped around her wrist stopped her.

"but what's mid-autumn festival without you, my dear friend?"

zhongli regarded her intently, his eyes boring into hers for a second before shifting to focus on his coat.

there was something else in his eyes when they return to hers; it came and went in a flicker. "...keep this on, it's chilly today."

"thanks..." she murmured, her shoulders sinking as she yet again returned her thoughts to her brother.

"aether..." the pain she guarded showed on her face. "will i ever be able to see him again?"

tears started to well up in her eyes once again.

"i'm sorry, zhongli, i'm so sorry..." a quiet sob broke through, "today is supposed to be about the mid-autumn festival, and yet...here you are, listening to me."

zhongli's mouth opened then snapped close.

he always knew what to say whenever she was in a pinch. however, it was tears this time, and he wasn't exactly sure about what he should do about his body's urge to extend his arms out to her.

he was already more than a thousand years old.

as the former geo archon, he was the immovable rock. emotions and impulses he used to hold within himself in his younger days were buried deep under the sands of time...or at least they should be.

so where did this come from? was this strange stir an inevitable part of being a mortal?

"you know what?"

her movement to rise from the spot beside him turned his head back to her.

resolute hardened the glint in her tearing eyes, "i don't want to hold you back any longer,"

her fingers curled into a shaky fist, nails digging into her palm.

"....the people need you. i-i think i should just go bac—"

his hand flew out before he could think any further; his body was faster than his thoughts this time.

her next breath puffed out of her, in surprise and bewilderment as her body was tugged and cocooned by a breathing warmth before she could understand what happened.

and when she did, her eyes flew wide.

cheek pressed against his neck, she found herself held to his chest. she could feel his chin atop her head and his arms around her.

he was beside her a moment ago, and now he was behind sharing the same step as her, broad enough to accommodate them. was she the one who moved? or did he?

she didn't know how but she couldn't find the energy to care —the scent of musk and lingering tea engulfing her was an alluring comfort that made her want to stop trying.

so warm. really, really warm.

and so was his voice. "...but you need me." a hand caressed the back of her head.

there was a pause before a feigned cough ensued. "i meant, this."

#genshin impact #zhongli x reader #zhongli imagines #genshin impact x reader #zhongli x you #zhongli x traveler #zhongli x lumine #zhonglumi

402 notes · View notes

extremelyblackandwhite · 3 years

Text

falling.

pairing: carter baizen x reader

warnings: angst, cheating (sorta?)

part 1 / part 2

and it kills me 'cause i know we've run out of things we can say. what am i now? what am i now? what if i'm someone i don't want around? i'm falling again, i'm falling again, i'm falling. what if i'm down? what if i’m out? what if i'm someone you won't talk about? i'm falling again, i'm falling again, i'm falling and i get the feeling that you'll never need me again ...

Stay away from me. I don’t want to see your face.

Those words were burned and scarred onto his mind and no matter how much he drank, how much he smoked, how much he slept, he could still hear her voice echoing those same words which hit him like daggers. She’d meant those words, he knew her well enough to know when she meant something and she had meant every single letter of every single word she had muttered. He couldn’t escape them and the worse thing was, he couldn’t escape her face. He hadn’t seen her in the last three months but he couldn’t forget the look on her face, the look of disappointment and hurt. He was used to disappointing his family, that’s all he could do but he’d never disappointed her before. She’d been upset at him, he’d been upset at her but they’d never been disappointed at each other. They’d always been there for each other but now she was just gone and he daren’t even try approaching her. He knew her threats weren’t empty and he knew way too well not to mess with Y/N. She was sweet but at the end of the day she was a Vanderbilt heiress and if you got on her bad side, you could easily see it. Yet, that didn’t mean he didn’t miss her.

How could he not when she had been around since the very moment they were introduced for each other? He couldn’t really explain what they were and he didn’t want to dwell on it, he’d rather think to himself that she was gone rather than admit he was the one responsible for it. After all, wasn’t that what he always did? Run away from his problems and avoiding them, instead creating even more issues. It was easier after all. However, what he did not expect was to find her doing the exact same and he couldn’t help but admit how angry he was to see her with someone else. At Cotillion, with Chuck, it was easy to know it was nothing; after all, everyone with a pair of eyes knew all Chuck Bass was interested in was Blair and once Nate was off the picture, the two immediately became a thing. But now? Now he couldn’t convince himself of it, he couldn’t tell himself that she was trying to make him jealous as she stepped into a MET exhibition accompanied by someone whom he didn’t know. A Kennedy, he had heard, and how could Carter compete with a Kennedy? He could not but seeing his Y/N with someone else made his blood boil and his grip tight around the champagne glass. Clearly he had forgotten he was here with someone else as well, yet, that didn’t mattered. What mattered was that his Y/N was with someone else.

He hadn’t even want to come to this exhibition in the first place, he’d even tried to argue it out with Serena yet it was no use, he was here now and he could see it; he could see them. He could see the man pointing to his Y/N introducing her to everyone in the room as if she didn’t already know them. And that smile, that smile that always got him to do anything she wanted. A smile that was for him no longer yet looked his way and faltered. He downed the cold champagne in his glass, staring back at her before she moved her gaze away, hand wrapped around her date’s arm. Carter shoved the champagne glass on one of the floating silver trays before making his way through the crowd like a wolf hunting its sheep until she reached her. Whomever she was with had left her alone, probably to get some drinks but he didn’t care.

- We need to talk.

- No, we do not. - she grabbed a canape from a passing tray, a habit she had whenever she was uncomfortable at parties.

- Can you at least give me that? You ruined my family’s appearances at social events, you made your point. You owe me a talk.

- That’s rich. - she looked over her shoulder, hoping her date would come and interrupt their interaction.

- Please. - his eyes scanned hers for any softness which still laid for him, yet he couldn’t read her eyes. They were hooded and hidden by thick black shadow and dark eyeliner which took away from how watery and bright they usually were, from how happy he remembered them. It’d been a long, long three months and part of him hopped all the care she had once held from him hadn’t died. He still held her in high regard and while he didn’t expect her for even care for him anymore, part of him still hoped she wouldn’t let him bleed out if she found him wounded. However, Y/N was much too smart to let her own emotions take over her in public situations and so she walked away.

Her gown dragged away all her insecurities and all the faltering which still seemed to dance around her whenever he was around, yards and yards of fabric dragged all that was bubbling all the way to her throat and she found herself walking faster and faster to the bathroom. Her hands flew to the porcelain sink, holding herself up as if the weight of all she had ignored for the past three months was pushing her down into the centre of the Earth. Her head snapped up, watching her reflection in the golden mirror; she thought maybe if she could see how pathetic she looked, she would snap out of it.

- Y/N. - her grip on the porcelain tightened up as she turned her head to see him against the closed door.

- I hate you. - she almost barked those words at him, voice filled with poison as if she had wanted to say them a long time ago. His eyes softened, corners looking down, a far cry from how unreadable he always was. - With every fibre of my being, I hate you.

- Fine. - he made his way towards her, standing by her side. - I just wanted to say that I’m sorry I hurt you. I never meant to hurt you.

- You humiliated me in front of everyone. - her eyes looked into his for the first time that night, old wounds still not completely wounded. - You kissed me in Santorini when you were with Serena. You are a bad person, Carter.

- I know but I wasn’t with her like I was with you.

- Details of your relationship do not interest me, Carter. If you wanna talk about your relationship, I’d suggest couples therapy.

- We weren’t a couple in Santorini, Y/N. Did you seriously think I would’ve done that to you?

- I don’t know you. - she spewed those words, letting go of the sink and walking backwards, away from him. - I don’t even trust you, Carter.

- I hope you know I’m not asking for forgiveness from you. I’m just apologising.

- I don’t need your apology, I need you away from me. I want you away from me.

- You’re spoiled, you know that? - he pointed his finger at her. - Just because the whole world revolves around your family does not mean I’ll stop going places just because you don’t want to see me. You don’t get to decide what I do!

- For someone who hates this lifestyle, you seem so bothered. - she stood there, not completely happy with the adjective he’d just placed upon her. Y/N Archibald was many things, but spoiled was not one of them. No matter how many riches she had, she did not expect the world to bend to her will. - Why are you here if you’re just going to criticise me anyway?

The two of them remained in that match, almost to see which one of them could hurt the one the most, as if hurting each other would somehow make the fact they weren’t together hurt any less. The truth was, both of them were stubborn individuals and while Y/N had been the most forgiving of the two, seeing the man she had always hoped would someday be hers with someone else had almost erased all of that. Maybe she was spoiled for expecting him to someday magically want her by his side but he was spoiled too. They were two flawed human beings staring each other, waiting to see which one would break apart first until he realised one thing; he did not want to see her break apart. He was bitter, angry at her even but deep down he knew there was no one to be angry at but himself. He had caused this and he was lashing out at her, hoping that by hurting her, he’d feel better about her hating him so much. However, he did not want to hurt her. At least no more than he’d already done, either willingly or unwillingly.

- You win. - he lowered down his hands in defeat. Y/N, however remained still yet if one were to touch her arm, they could feel she was trembling. - I can’t fight with you any longer.

He almost left her there standing, not sure of what to say. He really was going to leave, he was going to disappear for a while yet his decision faltered as his eyes almost too quickly scanned her, noticing the thin gold bracelet around her wrist. He had given her that bracelet, something he’d got from one of his first travels to Europe. It was nothing too special, in all honesty, compared to what she was wearing, it was probably the cheapest thing she had on her person but he remembered that bracelet way too well. He remembered giving her the small little bag, her little argument about how he shouldn’t have gotten something for her, how she promised she’d never take it off. She still had it, she still wore it.

- You’re wearing the bracelet I gave you. - he pointed towards her wrist and she immediately covered it, looking at it for a bit before looking up at him.

- Fine. - her voice almost broke as she tried to undo the clasp.

- Don’t. - his voice however broke down as she found the clasp. - You promised.

Her aura softened, shoulders lowering to a neutral position as her hand unwrapped from her wrist, her eyes gazing the shiny gold metal before she looked up and at him. Whatever fire her anger had ignited within her went down, washed away like the waves onto the sand and for the first time she moved forward until she was close enough to feel his breathe on her face. Her eyes heightened up to his, lips half parted as her hands cupped his face, the same face she had seen grow older over these years yet remain the same blue eyes which were so typically his. Her finger grazed his cheekbone, the mere action making him nuzzle his face against her warm. She always had warm hands and the both of them no longer wanted to fight. She was tired and Carter was deadly afraid of not ever talking to her again, he could not lose her. He did not want to lose her.

There was no sound, not even the soft music outside seemed to break the silence, all that was around was their breathing, soft and slow. Her eyes moved from his to his lips, pink tinted, tainted with the taste of champagne which she could smell from his breathe. Soft emotion filled eyes looked his for a second before she moved closer, closing the distance between them. Her hands moved from his chest to rest against his chest as she tasted the champagne on his lips. His hands held her waist flush to him, before he two broke off the kiss, foreheads leaned against each other.

- Don’t leave.

162 notes · View notes

ladyreapermc · 3 years

Text

Fic: Stress Relief (Donaka x fem!reader)

Summary: Donaka is stressed and it’s your job to help him relax.

Pairing: Donaka x Fem!Reader

Author’s notes: is this me posting filth again? Why, yes, it is! Enjoy because I have no idea how long this will last. LOL

Wordcount: 2688

Warnings: smut (oral m!receiving; fingering). Powerplay; degradation kink; edging, overstimulation; choking.

Most of your days you spent doing whatever you wanted because you had no worries, not financially or of any type. You were free to hang out with friends, travel, party, and do whatever you wanted.

There were only two rules: you needed to be available to him whenever he called, be it in person or through the camera. And you were exclusively his. No one was allowed to touch you unless he said so. Those two rules were easy enough to follow when it meant having everything you ever dreamt of and more.

That day, you had been in your apartment reading when the message came in, making the smartwatch around your wrist vibrate:

Zen space. Lilac. NOW.

You had no idea what had happened and you preferred to remain blissfully ignorant of Donaka’s business, but you recognize that tone, even through text. He was stressed and furious and it was your job to help him relax.

Wasting no time, you set your book aside and headed to your bedroom, considering for a second if you should take a quick shower first, make sure your skin was silky soft and scented just like he preferred, but decided against it. Making Donaka wait was never an option so you just changed into the requested lingerie.

It was a pale lavender babydoll, with a lace front that revealed almost every inch of your body and tiny panties that barely covered your sex. You also put on the diamond choker he had gifted you even though he hadn’t explicitly asked for it, before taking the private lift that took you straight to his loft on the floor above.

The elevator opened in his home office and you noticed the room was dimly lit, the wall of screens was on standby offering a soft blue glow. The black leather couch was empty as you expected so you turned your attention to the left corner of the room, his Zen space, where he went to meditate or cool off.

Donaka was sitting on the glass bench, back turned to the rest of the room and facing the wall of concentric circles, his bare feet resting on the platform that separated the smooth and polished dark floor from the finely grated white sand. His hands rested on his spread knees and there was a slight hunch on his shoulders, the weight of his stress.

By his feet, in front of him, laid a thin pillow to protect your skin from the unforgiving sand and you were glad for it. You would, of course, kneel on it and endure the grains digging into your skin if that was what Donaka wanted but he didn’t get off on pain. Not yours at least.

You moved towards him in silence, resisting the urge to brush your fingers over his broad shoulders and back, before kneeling in front of him, sitting on your heels and looking up at the man that gave you everything and owned your heart.

His eyes pinned you in place and made your breath hitch. Cold fury clouded the brown orbs and his lips were pressed together tightly, jaw clenched tight. The sight made your body shudder with want and you pressed your thighs together.

There was something so arousing about seeing Donaka this enraged. Seeing the violence in his eyes and knowing that it would take him barely any effort to snap you in half or choke the life out of you. The knowledge that he was the kind of man that killed without even blinking but for some reason, he chose never to harm you. Most of the time, Donaka chose tender caresses and measured touches designed to bring you the kind of ecstasy that you had never experienced before.

Today his fingers trailed against your cheek in a featherlike touch, his thumb brushing over your lips, and at the faintest pressure, you parted them, letting the thick digit enter your mouth. You swirled your tongue around it before sucking greedily just as you wanted to do to another part of his body.

You watched his eyes darkening as you hollowed your cheeks and pulled more of his thumb into your mouth and moaned under your breath at the knot building between your legs, making your core pulse and dampening your panties.

Donaka’s other hand reached for the button and zipper of his trousers, releasing his half-hard cock from its confinements. He pulled his thumb free from your mouth, palm cradling your nape before he nudged your forward.

You licked your lips and inched closer, mouth salivating at the treat in front of you. You want his long, thick cock in your mouth. You wanted to feel it fully hardening between your lips, under your talented tongue. You needed to taste his bitter precum, a flavor you were slowly becoming addicted to… but all that could only happen after Donaka’s permission.

Sometimes it would come almost immediately. He would push you down his hard shaft, making you gag on it, fucking your mouth with abandon and using you like you were worth little more than your holes. In those days, he would come all over your face, zip himself up, and leave you to take care of yourself.

However, on days like today, when he was tense and furious with whatever had bothered him at work, he preferred to drag it out. To make you work for it, sometimes even beg to have his cock in your mouth. When he finally allowed it, Donaka would fuck your mouth oh so slowly, pushing deeper and deeper, until tears started to spring in your eyes, spit ran down your chin and your juices soaked your panties in such a way that all you and he could smell was the scent of your desperate arousal.

“What do you want?” He asked and his low and throaty voice sent shivers down your spine.

“Your cock, sir.” You whispered, peering at him from under your lashes. “Will you fuck my mouth, please? Make me choke on it?”

There was a barely-there twist in the corners of his mouth and your heart leaped in your chest. How you loved to make him feel good. It was like a drug.

“Such a good girl,” Donaka said, his thumb caressing your jaw. “My little cockslut.”

“Yes, sir,” you all but whimpered, pressing your thighs together once again because your cunt throbbed and you had never in your life thought you would get this turned on by being used like this, but by God, his words made you shudder with desire, body hot and ready for anything that Donaka was willing to give you.

With his hand still on your nape, controlling your pace, he nudged you forward once more, holding his cock with his free hand and letting the tip rub against your wanting lips. Donaka wasn’t one for much noise, but there was a slight hitch on his breath that told you he was enjoying the soft, almost ghost-like touch on the sensitive and swollen head of his member.

Your lips parted a little, letting your tongue brush against the velvety head and Donaka sucked in a deep breath, especially when the tip of your tongue probed against his slit, bringing forth a pearly white drop of his precum and making him harden fully.

God, your cunt ached in need to be filled but you knew you couldn’t touch yourself. Not until he allowed and that wouldn’t happen anytime soon. Not until he had his release and part of you wanted to just suck him fully into your mouth, end this torturous teasing. Even if it meant a serious punishment later (or maybe especially because it would lead to a punishment).

However, the bittersweet pleasure of the edging and denial was like a drug too, making your orgasm be nearly blinding so you hanged on, gathering every little bit of patience you could find so you could continue to just lick the tip like a lollipop that you wanted to last forever.

After a few more moments of that painfully slow game, Donaka’s grip on your nape tightened, his blunt nails digging lightly against your skin, and you knew he was ready for more. You met his dark gaze, eyes hooded with pleasure lips parted in a soft pant as he watched you and he didn’t even need to tell you what to do.

“Sir, may I suck you now, please?” you pouted and kissed the head of cock for good measure, batting your lashes like a needy child and Donaka smirked.

“Yes, angel, you may.”

You didn’t need to be told twice and engulfed the thick and hard shaft into your mouth, whimpering at the burst of flavor on your tongue as he let out a small grunt of pleasure, his shoulders finally relaxing as he tilted his head back and just enjoyed your work.

You pushed him deeper into your mouth until your nose was almost pressing against the thick dark curls surrounding his member. The open fly of his dress pants scratching your chin as you hollowed your cheeks and hummed. Donaka cursed low and grunted, his hips raising lightly, driving even deeper, and you gagged, tears burning your eyes. Your clit was almost painfully swollen and each rub of the lace of your panties was torture. You needed just a little bit of…

“Take your hand off that cunt, angel.”

You had no idea how he knew. His head was still tilted back, eyes nearly closed but you didn’t dare to disobey a direct command. With a pitiful whimper and one last flick on your needy clit, you pulled your hand away, crossing them behind your back and Donaka’s smirked.

“That’s better.” He looked back at you, tugging you away until his cock slipped from your lips with a pop, and you gulped a breath. “No one ever taught you that you shouldn’t touch what doesn’t belong to you without permission?”

You said nothing because you didn’t have an answer to that.

“And to whom that little pussy belongs, angel?”

“You, sir.” Your voice was small and raspy from the abuse on your throat.

“Exactly.”

He petted your cheek once, before pushing you back toward his cock, and dutifully, you took him into your mouth again, letting your jaw slack so his shaft could slip in and out as he guided you to bob your head at a faster pace. His cock pulsed against your lips, and you could tell he was close. Soon enough, Donaka’s hot cum would be coating your tongue and you couldn’t wait. You were desperate for it.

Before him, you had never allowed a guy to cum in your mouth. Then again, before Donaka, the was plenty you didn’t let men do to you. He changed your life, and you knew you would never be able to go back.

His grip on you tightened again as he pulled you closer until your nose was buried against his pubes and you forced yourself to relax as best as you could as he let out a final grunt and pumped his cum down your throat.

The hot and sticky ribbons making you gag again and tears run down your cheeks as you blubbered and squeezed your wrists to hold them still. Only when he was completely spent, Donaka let you pull back, his cock slipping from your mouth, glistening with your spit and his cum as you coughed and gasped for much-needed air.

He only allowed you a moment, before he was forcing to sit on his thigh, your trembling legs spread as he pushed your panties aside and glided his long fingers over your soaked hairs and sensitive lips.

“My dirty little cockslut is this wet from sucking me,” he mocked with a biting tone, and you whimpered. “Do you want to cum, angel?”

“Yes, please, sir.”

His fingers rubbed over your clit, making you gasp and whine, the pleasure overwhelming to the point of hurting but you still thrust your hips up, seeking more.

“Please…” you were almost crying now, desperate for it. Exactly like Donaka like it. “Please, please, please. Oh God, please…”

Thick and fat tears ran down your cheeks and the same hand that had been around your nape, came to your throat, surrounding the choker and forcing you to tilt your face enough so he could lick away your tears and his two fingers finally entered you.

Your cries were high-pitched and needy as Donaka fingered you hard and fast, the heel of his large palm slapping your clit as he curled his digits and the hand on your throat tightened in just the right way.

Your climax hit you like a storm, lighting up every single one of your nerve-ends. Your vision darkened, your body tensed, your back arched and a wild moan tore from your throat as your cunt pulsed and throbbed and you squirted all over his hand and knee.

For a while you were nothing more than a conglomerate of nerves busting with pleasure that seemed to last forever as Donaka continued to thrust his fingers, pressing the rugged wall of your cunt and rubbing your clit, dragging out your bliss until another lightning struck and you came again in what it felt like was just seconds later, but you knew it had to be longer. Time seemed to shorten and stretch at once as you rode his hand, gasping, wheezing, and crying?

You couldn’t tell if that pitiful sound was really coming from your mouth, not when your body was electrified like that, your muscles spasming and feeling like jelly and you had to reach behind yourself for Donaka’s shoulders to hold yourself because surely you would slide to the ground if you didn’t.

And just as the blinding light of your pleasure was starting to dimmish and you thought you would be able to see and feel and talk and breath again, his hand restarted his motions and you cried because it was almost painful now. That sweet, incessant ache that made you seek it, and you could faintly hear sobs and pleas of stop and no more. You couldn’t take another.

“Safeword?” Donaka’s voice sounded clear in your ear, and it was on the tip of your tongue. You knew if it crossed your lips, he would stop, but your vocal cords refused to utter it. “Safeword, angel.”

You pressed your lips together tightly, like a kid with a secret, and shook your head. His lips drew into a pleased smile against your cheek.

“That’s my girl.”

His kiss on your jaw was almost soft and loving before his fingers restarted their dance inside you. Even faster than before and your hips were rocking against it, actively seeking out your third orgasm despite the aching of your abused clit.

Once again, as the climax overtook you, your body went rigid and seized, your vision whited-out and for several blissful moments, that intense pleasure made time fall away, leaving only the most perfect peace and comfort, like slipping into a hot bath after a long day, letting the scented water wash away any hint of tension in your body before you laid in your bed, the duvet and pillows soft like a lover’s caress, welcoming you to an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

When you finally opened your eyes again, after what it felt like just a couple of seconds, you were in your bed, cleaned and tucked tight, the only evidence of your previous activities was the sweet ache between your legs whenever you moved and a deep, sad sigh escaped your lips.

It was always like this: Donaka fucked your brains out, then he would take care of you, clean you up and tuck you in and no matter how much your blissed-out self, begged for it – and you knew you always did – he would never stay. But this was the deal you made. You took whatever he gave you. You didn’t complain and you didn’t demand more.

You couldn’t. Too afraid of losing what little you already had.

xxx

If you enjoyed this work, please consider reblogging and/or commenting please. Feedback gives life to us writers!

#donaka mark x reader #donaka mark x you #keanu reeves fanfic #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves x you #man of tai chi fanfic

108 notes · View notes

keingleichgewicht · 3 years

Note

WERE YOU KIDDING ABOUT THE ASK GAME if not i dont have any specific lyrics in mind but i always thought the lyrics to the mill were so cool and maybe you could get some thoughts out of them? :0

YEAH GOD OKAY LET’S TALK ABOUT THE MILL. LET’S TALK ABOUT UHHHHHHHHH [THROWS DARTBOARD]

this line. this MIGHT go on for a while so i will............ readmore

so the mill feels kind of notably different to the rest of the pafl songs, which tend to be unusually literal for lyric, either straightforward retellings of events (punch it, punk!) or character piece monologues set to plot visuals (strike 3) or both (all of them, but for instance particularly comfort zone, which is just dmitry’s horrible manifesto until it gets hijacked by a death sentence in the second verse.) the mill is a lot more like what we expect from poetry these days, which is to say it’s heavy on imagery, low on clarity, and fucking confusing!

I’ll draw a circle in the sand, drive myself around the bend in a desperate attempt to hold on to your battered hand Rocked to sleep beneath the snow, she is bathed in youthful glow ‘Strong enough to let it go,’ he says, but darling, I don’t know

a lot of the mill is about circles. this is in the name: a mill is something which turns. a waterwheel is a circle, a grindstone is a circle. it’s even in the melody: the chorus is a cyclic, pentatonic four-note riff that keeps going up and down and up its own ladder, chasing its own tail, not really reaching resolution. and then it’s also in, you know, the story:

the meat grinder!!!! everyone’s favorite fucking hellhole!!!! it is only semi-explicitly identified in the song but that’s because it’s a concept from the source material - both tarkovsky’s stalker and roadside picnic feature the meat-grinder, as a location nicknamed thus by stalkers because it is even more fucking deadly than the rest of the zone, all of which is already ridiculously fucking deadly, and if you’ve seen the movie:

it is more or less instantly recognizable in the mill as well. so here we have a circle! here we have a mill (the title has about seventy double meanings but this is certainly one of them,) and as it turns out, this mill at least will absolutely kill you. and horribly too. interestingly though, in roadside picnic (the book) the meat-grinder is not a tunnel, and it’s not round - it’s just a nondescript patch of ground which will wring you out like a dishcloth and kill you extremely dead if you walk into it. on the other hand what we have in the book in terms of circles is the golden ball, which is the equivalent of the movie’s the room, which is, well,

in short both stories ultimately hinge upon the idea that there is a something in the zone which can give you your heart’s desire. anything you want. everything you want. whatever you want. it is infinitely powerful; it is infinitely capable. the catch is that it will only give you what you want. the catch is that giving you what you want is not the same as giving you what you are asking for. the other catch is that in both cases you have to get through the meat-grinder first.

(so, by the way, what the fuck, right? does pafl’s zone have a wish-granting factory? is it also behind the grinder? where were the original trio going when they got themselves fucked up? and did they get there?)

but the point is: the golden ball, the wish-granting factory, is also a circle. it’s just sort of a sphere. it’s a big round fuckin yellow thing. you know, sorta like:

which is THE ONLY TIME yellow is used in occam’s razor not counting the full-colour shots, and it drives me CRAZY, but it is also me going full conspiracy board so let’s not even worry about it. THE POINT IS.

the circle is the death-machine and the wish-machine. neither of these things are really.... very good. the circle, or at least the arc, is also very closely associated with death:

(розовая дуга предрассветного, ‘rose arc of pre-dawn’. if i’ve fucked up that nominative please feel free to stone me to death!)

in the gdoc notes to message lost ferry briefly refers to the dawn as if it were a good thing, the dawn of hope, which is a usage that sort of agrees with the desolate and deathless hope of strike 3′s ‘everything will pass / a day will come,’ but on the other hand it really is very closely associated with dying. nikolai bites it; nikita bites it; sergei and olga left significant chunks of themselves behind. and the thing about ‘this too shall pass’ is that it’s always true, as is ‘everything ends’, but of course that’s ‘cause the thing that ends might be you. and as we know

dawn is an ending. so that seems concerning!

i think the circle, the arc, the bolt falling back to the ground, is not a good thing. i am getting a little conspiracy board here in general but forgive me, i cannot make you a wholesome answer, my wit’s diseased. i think the circle is an enclosed space. it’s an unbroken cycle. it’s the grindstone. it’s the mill. it’s about what pafl’s always been about: about being trapped, about having no chances, about being bordered upon. the circle’s the geometric figure of equidistance from a given point, and you can walk on it forever, and nothing will ever change; you will never get closer, you will never get further away, you will never get out! the sun rises, the sun sets, and you are no closer to anything you wanted. it’s worth noting that anya’s borderline city, the zone-edge port town she complains is trying to crush all her dreams, her mill

is a circle. (a cog in a machine! a grind-wheel! a cage!)

and yura, whose dreams have already been burned out of him, who starts the series already resigned to never getting out of here, calls it ‘this dire deja-vu’, i am specifically resisting putting the accent marks back onto that, which is to say, it’s a repetition that haunts him. it’s going round and round and getting nowhere.

so if we bring it back around: drawing a line in the sand, as the phrase is generally used, means setting a border, means saying this far and no further. often it’s yourself you’re setting the border for. you hit some divide you can’t abide crossing so you say this stops here, it may be too early or too late, but i say it stops here. so logically: drawing a circle in the sand means you’ve locked yourself in completely.

I’ll draw a circle in the sand, drive myself around the bend in a desperate attempt to hold your battered hand

the whole first half of this song, i think, is olga promising to grind herself down in a hundred ways if it means she won’t be left alone. how hard can it be to never let it overflow? she may feel lower than the low, she may wish she could just disappear out here, into the postindustrial rust, but though it gets harder all the time she will keep pretending. she isn’t going to burden sergei, or indeed anyone, with her problems, her fears, her scars. she is hurt, but she’s used to it, she’s gotten used to being haunted long ago. she keeps her bad eye covered. she stays within her circle she has drawn. she keeps going round and round. she will take the smallest sliver of human connection and be happy, she promises she will be happy, she promises she won’t ask for more, she will take just the ‘hello.’

but you knooooow it’s not true. you know it’s grinding her down, that she’ll be milled to nothing pretty soon, and really she knows it too.

i am perhaps seventy percent sure that this line is a reference to the windmills of your mind by michel legrande, which features such lines as

Like a tunnel that you follow to a tunnel of its own Down a hollow to a cavern where the sun has never shone Like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind

which on one hand seems sort of obscure to be a purposeful reference but on the other hand would be a hell of a coincidence if it wasn’t, wouldn’t it. either way it characterizes circles ambiguously, but definitely unsettlingly. going around in circles is chasing infinity, but what in god’s name would you do with it if you caught it? what are you even hoping to accomplish? and:

the second half of this song is bitterer, sharper - staring down the mouth of the meat-grinder she’s a little more willing to admit to herself that this is going nowhere. she is running out of cages to keep herself in. she is very tired. it’s easy to say why don’t you leave it all behind, it’s easy to say, she’s strong enough to let it go, it’s easy to say, too strong to die. it is a lot harder to actually live.

this is also where the flashbacks admit to us how badly hurt they really were - sergei with his whole side in shreds, she still hides her eye but at least we get to see it’s bleeding. this moral compass is forever misaligned, she says, so there is damage, and it is lasting. and she can’t settle for hello, she can’t live like this, she needs someone by her side. the trouble is whether she can believe she has any hope of getting that

as for who ‘her’ is, or the ‘she’ of ‘she is bathed in youthful glow’, i figure there’s two possibilities: either it’s nadya, who haunts olga too, because nikita’s abandonment of nadya represents exactly what she most fears for herself, or it’s olga’s younger, unbroken, binocular self - both of whom were so young, and so easily hurt, and are now unfindable.

and then there’s this conclusion: ‘the sun will rise, until then / i’ll be waiting for you on the other side.’ which maybe is a sort of hope after all? she’s reached no real conclusions in the zone - she knows there must be hope but she can only barely believe in it - she thinks she is destined to self-destruct. but on the other hand she still has that, a version of sergei’s own ‘a day will come’

you may be hurt, but if you can hold yourself together, you can hope for a dawn someday. an ending. a change. but the trouble’s that there’s more than one kind of ending. and there’s more than one meaning for other side. there are cages, and then there are cages. and you know what else looks like a tunnel, a circle?

staring down the barrel of the gun.

#pafl #parties are for losers #it speaks #ask #in all fairness and in my defence when i made the joke i said i would write not less than one thousand words and by fuck #this has not been less than one thousand words!#jorgyjuice #THANK YOU FOR THE ASK ALSO THIS WAS REALLY FUN #and thank you VERY dearly to anyone who takes the time to read all this; you own my soul now; feel free to collect at any time #metatext

66 notes · View notes

hlizr50 · 3 years

Text

Gwynriel Week Day 4 - Music

I'm back, my lovelies. Appreciate the patience.

Let's talk MUSIC, because I have established (with OVERWHELMING support) that Gwyneth Berdara would absolutely LOVE Taylor Swift and would 100% convert Azriel. He would play all begrudging and 'you have questionable tastes, Berdara' but behind closed doors and when they're alone together he's all in. And T. Swift has EVERYTHING. They can be lovey, they can be playful, they can be bitter. There are SO many options.

And, of course, I wouldn't be me if writing weren't involved.

I've started the series called 'Gwynriel and Her Highness Taylor Swift' on AO3, which will follow our favorite couple in AU fics with a sprinkling of T. Swift. You can read the first one, 'You Belong with Me', here.

And now I present the next installment:

Safe and Sound

Read on AO3

TW: Brief mention of past sexual assault and violence - no details, just that it happened

Gwyn's nightmares rear their ugly heads and Azriel is there to comfort her. She tells him about what happened the night her sister died and he finally understands the shadows he sees behind her happy eyes. She's afraid it might ruin their relationship only hours after it's begun, but he's there to prove her wrong - with the help of a little T. Swift lullaby.

The night was shattered by a blood-curdling scream.

Azriel’s eyes flew open and he sat up, frantically searching in the dark. It took a few moments for the fog of sleep to burn away from his brain. He was at the cabin. For vacation. He’d come a day early to make sure everything was on the up-and-up. With Gwyn. They were a couple. Officially. The first few hours had been absolutely ordinary and wonderful.

“Stop! Please stop!”

Gwyn. Fuck, it was Gwyn!

He was out of bed and out the door in a second, sprinting down the hall. “Gwyn!” he called as he reached the closed door, but the screaming, the crying – it didn’t stop. Not giving himself time to overthink he turned the knob and pushed the door open wide. The room was bathed in the faintest glow of moonlight, allowing him to see the flailing form on the bed, tangled in sheets and begging the demons that were in her dreams.

When he reached the side of the bed his heart may have cracked open. Her forehead glistened with a thin sheen of sweat, her eyes were screwed tight, and her cheeks shimmered with tears.

“No. No, no, no,” she cried through clenched teeth, and Azriel decided he couldn’t take it anymore. He didn’t know what to do, but he needed to help her, to draw her away from whatever was tormenting her. He reached through her flying arms and cupped her cheeks between his hands.

“Gwyn. Wake up!” he called to her, willing her to wake. “Gwyn, please, it’s a nightmare. You’re safe, sweetheart.” Her eyes shot open, teal pools swimming with fear and confusion. Her limbs had stopped writhing, but God he could feel her shaking.

“Azriel?” she whispered weakly.

“Yes, Gwyn. It’s me. Don’t be scared.” He let his thumbs brush over her cheeks, wiping away tears that still fell freely over her freckled cheeks. “Talk to me, sweetheart. What can I do?”

She stared at him, chest heaving with deep ragged breaths, as if contemplating what to do. Azriel could understand. This was a vulnerable moment, and even though they’d been close friends for a couple years this was new territory. He had never heard her have a nightmare, and it wrenched into his gut like a knife. The feeling of uncertainty, of not knowing how to help her, only served to prove how deeply he cared about her. Their relationship was only hours old, but that was only because he’d been a coward and not because he hadn’t wanted to be with her - hadn't been falling for her already.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She sighed and closed her eyes. “Not really. But we probably should.”

When new tears started leaking out from under her thick lashes he released her cheeks and stepped a knee onto the mattress. Scooping her up he leaned against the headboard and folded his legs in front of him, tucking the fiery crown of copper hair beneath his chin. He gave her time, content to trace fingers lightly over the thin t-shirt covering her back.

“Az, I… there’s something you should know. Something you should’ve known before you decided you wanted to be in a relationship with me.”

His brows furrowed. “You think it would change my mind?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, voice barely even a whisper. The silence stretched again. He couldn’t imagine what bombshell she thought might doom this before it even began. “How much do you know about the night my sister died?”

Azriel’s hand stilled on her back. This was not the direction he’d expected the conversation to go. But he shouldn’t be too surprised – it was indeed a nightmare-inducing event.

“Not too much. Just that she was killed in your apartment,” he answered, resuming the soothing stroke of his hands up and down her spine. “Nesta said there was more, but that it was your story to tell.”

“I guess it’s your lucky night,” she shrugged in his arms and let out a bitter wet laugh. Azriel just gave her an encouraging squeeze and leaned his cheek into her silky hair.

“Catrin was murdered by her ex-boyfriend. He was abusive, possessive, controlling. He couldn’t handle it when she broke it off with him. And he hated me. He thought that their breakup was my fault. That night he broke into the apartment with a gun and shot Catrin in the head. Killed her instantly. But… he waited there.” Gwyn took a shaky breath. “He waited in the apartment. For me.”

Azriel drew back from her, dread coiling his muscles in grim anticipation. She looked up at him, eyes dull with resignation. He had never seen her wear that expression before – it made his insides feel oily and wrong. His hand remained at her back, and he was determined to keep that calming presence there for her. Trailing his gaze down from her face, over her shoulders, and down her arms, he found her fingers fidgeting in her lap. He took his free hand and covered her delicate fingers, his palm large enough to envelop both of her speckled hands. He lifted his eyes to meet her teal pools again, lifting the corners of his mouth in a soft smile and squeezing gently with his fingers.

He was there for her. Whatever she needed he would give it.

Gwyn’s lashes lowered, breaking her hold on him. He blinked and tried to control his breathing, remaining dedicated to being fully invested in the woman in his arms. The woman who was baring her soul to him.

“He…” she gulped a breath and moved her fingers so they were grasping his hand instead of the other way around. She clung to it, grip like a vice as she mustered her courage. “He raped me. He told me I took her away from him, so he took her away from me. And that I would never, ever forget him.”

There was no air left in the room, Azriel was certain. His lungs wouldn’t work, his mouth was full of sand, his fingers tingling with vengeful need. All he could hear was Gwyn’s tearful, labored panting and echoes of the terror-filled screams that had ripped him from sleep.

“Christ, Gwyn,” he gritted out. The hand on her back lifted to cup her head and pull her to him. “I’m so sorry.” Jesus fucking Christ, no wonder she got nervous in large crowds and around people she didn’t know. No wonder she didn’t feel safe out in the world. The cruelty she had experienced, the evil she had been forced to endure – it was unimaginable. And somehow she still found the strength to smile and laugh and be a pure ray of sunshine to the people around her.

“Obviously the nightmares are one thing, but… but you should know I haven’t done anything with anyone since that night. Not until you kissed me.”

Azriel hissed a curse, grasping her shoulders and pushing her back so he could see her face. “Did I frighten you when I did that?” he asked desperately. If he’d only known, he would have approached that differently. He felt cool hands on his cheeks, breaking him from his panicked reverie.

“No, Az. Not at all.” His heart calmed, and then nearly stopped as she smiled sweetly. “I should have found it terrifying. Honestly, had it been anyone else I probably would have. But, with you it was… amazing. Like magic.”

He couldn’t contain the toothy grin that blossomed when she said that. Like magic. He had felt it, too, but he just figured the magic part was her. He slid his hands from her shoulders to cup her jaw and leaned in to brush his lips across her brow.

“So we need to talk about what makes you feel uncomfortable. So I can make sure you feel safe with me.” Azriel let a thumb slide over the freckles painting her cheek. “Thank you for trusting me with this, Gwyn. I couldn’t forgive myself if I triggered something – if I hurt you.”

Gwyn tilted her head and looked at him curiously, blue-green pools shining with something he couldn’t quite identify. “So…” she began, then trailed off and lowered her gaze. He felt her throat work under his fingers as she looked back to him. “So it doesn’t bother you?”

He regarded her carefully. “What do you mean?” Of course it bothered him. She’d been hurt, and she was still reliving that pain. He wanted to take it away, to make sure she never felt that way again. And he wanted to kill the bastard that had dared to lay a hand on her.

“That you have to be so careful with me,” she answered quietly before lowering those thick lashes and turning her chin away from him. He still had his hands on her jaw, but he let her move as she wished. “And that… that I don’t know what I’ll be able to do, in terms of intimacy. At least at this point- “

“Gwyneth Berdara.” Azriel gently turned her chin back to him. “I wouldn’t give a flying fuck if you wouldn’t do more than hold my hand. I care about you, not sex. Now, what do you like? What should I avoid?” Gwyn wrapped her hands around his neck and pulled herself back into his chest.

“I like this,” she sighed. He wrapped his arms back around her and went back to rubbing his hands over her back. “I think I’m probably okay with most things along the lines of hugs and kisses. As long as it’s not a surprise.”

He chuckled at that. “So no sneaking up and grabbing you from behind?” He pressed a kiss into her hair.

“I like that, too. The kisses.” Her voice was muffled against his chest, and she giggled when he kissed her crown again. “And absolutely no grabbing me from behind,” she confirmed.

“And for anything more, we go at your pace. Whatever you want to try, whenever you want more, you need only ask.” Silence lengthened between them, the night filled with only calm breathing and the gentle scratch of fingers over cotton.

“Do you have nightmares often? I…” Azriel paused, the heaviness of shame creeping into his chest. They were good friends, spent a lot of time together. How did he not know that this was a struggle she faced? “I don’t remember ever hearing anything before.”

“It’s not that bad anymore. But when I’m somewhere unfamiliar sometimes the anxiety triggers them,” Gwyn answered, her fingers fidgeting into the hair at his nape. “I… part of the reason I said I would come early with you was to see what would happen. And if it was a problem, I could go home without anyone being the wiser. I had already checked with Nesta to make sure you could ride back with her and Cassian.”

The softness of her voice – laced with embarrassment – cut into him. “Berdara,” he practically growled. He grasped her shoulders and pushed back so he could look her in the eye. “You were going to leave? Why?” He knew the reason. She’d said it only hours earlier. I don’t want to take away from anyone’s fun.

“Az,” she started, averting her gaze. “The prospect of waking up all of my friends in the middle of the night, screaming and begging, is legitimately mortifying.” He moved his hand to cup her cheek, even though she still wouldn’t look up at him.

“Gwyn, do you think any of us would have a problem with it? That we would judge you?” Even if they all didn’t know the depth of her trauma, she was not the only one with demons that attacked in the night. The answering murmur was almost too quiet to hear, but the words rang loud in his ears.

“I don’t want to cause a scene.”

Azriel thought over the last day. The road trip, the realizations. The determination that had filled him after he watched her dance behind the steering wheel, eyes glittering with mischief. The relief that coursed through his veins, the sunshine that had warmed his soul when she said she’d wanted him to kiss her for awhile, too. The soft smiles, her giggles, the comfort they seemed to share. All the while, beneath the surface, demons and nightmares and fear and pain. How was it that she could be so strong, so resilient? The smiles Gwyn gave to their friends, to him, were genuine and bright. Her laughter was always musical and lively, without even an echo of sorrow.

The shadows behind her eyes had come for her tonight. And she had planned to go home, with whatever weak excuse, and fight them alone.

Not fucking happening.

He cupped her other cheek and pulled her jaw up, that same determination from the previous day emboldening him. “Look at me, Gwyn.” He could feel the heat in her cheeks on his palms, and when her eyelashes lifted he was met with shallow pools darkened with uncertainty, shining with wetness. “You’re not going anywhere, okay? You’re going to stay here and enjoy your vacation because, like I said before, it’s not as much fun without you around.” He bore his gaze into her with an intensity he was unaccustomed to possessing. She sniffled in response, which only melted his heart further, and blinked a few times – clearly trying to keep tears in check as she managed a nod.

“You’re a part of this family, Gwyn. We support each other. We love each other. If anyone else were here tonight instead of me, they would have run here just as quickly as I did. And if it happens again tomorrow night, you’ll probably have the whole gaggle trying to squeeze through the door all at once.” A few stray tears fell from her eyes as a giggle escaped her. Azriel leaned in, capturing each tear between his lips and her cheeks. “You don’t have to deal with this alone. Let us be here for you. Let me.”

At that, the dam broke. Gwyn reached for him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and burying her face in his neck. He could feel the warm wetness of her tears on his skin, feel her body shake violently against him. Winding his arms around her back, he rocked them back and forth and whispered into her hair.

It’s okay.

I’m here.

You’re not alone.

He started to hum as her sobs began to quiet, still rocking with her in his embrace. He smiled softly to himself. He wouldn’t know this song if it weren’t for her. He didn’t share his voice with many people, but Gwyn had heard it many times. He broke into soft lyrics as the redhead continued to calm in his arms.

Just close your eyes, the sun is going down

You’ll be alright, no one can hurt you now

Come morning light you and I’ll be safe and sound

“Are you…” Gwyn’s thick voice was muffled in his neck. “Are you singing me Taylor Swift?”

Azriel chuckled. “I’ll deny it to everyone we know.” Her head tilted back, and the laugh that lifted into the air was one of the loveliest things he’d ever heard. A pealing bell of joy. She brought her gaze back to him and pulled on his neck to lean his forehead against hers. “I may or may not have come to appreciate the creative works of Taylor Swift. You’ve worn me down, Berdara.” He kept his arms around her back, even as her had moved over his cheek. Her teal stare was alight with emotion, the brightness reflected in a small – but radiant – smile.

“Thank you, Az,” she whispered before pressing her lips so softly to his. When she pulled back, he mirrored her grin.

“I don’t know much about being a good boyfriend,” he offered with a shrug, “but I feel like supporting your girlfriend’s potentially dubious music tastes and comforting her after nightmares are minimum standards. Standards that I hope to far exceed.”

“Well, I know it’s been less than a day – and I don’t really have much to compare you to – but I think you’re doing great.” Gwyn tapped a finger to his nose, and his eyes crinkled. Azriel lifted his chin and brushed his lips over her brow.

“That’s good. I have a number for you to call if you have any complaints.” He shifted slightly when his girlfriend yawned. “You think you can go back to sleep?”

“I dunno,” she murmured.

“Is there anything that has helped? In the past? Helped you get back to sleep?” Azriel absentmindedly rubbed a few strands of copper hair between his fingers. Gwyn gave a wry smile, but it faded quickly. “What?”

“Nesta would cuddle with me, when we lived together. She would hold onto me… it was like she would anchor me back to reality. To safety,” her voice was wistful, eyes distant. “But I couldn’t ask you to –“

“Do you want me to stay with you, Gwyn?” He traced a thumb in circles over her back. “If you’re comfortable with that, I will. Gladly. If you think it will help.” Azriel could only imagine that his own demons might also be subdued with her by his side.

Gwyn pushed away from him gently and he helped her move out of his lap. He watched her settle back onto the mattress, laying on her side facing him and pulling the blanked up toward her. She kept it lifted and lifted her eyes to him. His mouth curled up and he shimmied easily under the blanket to settle beside her.

“You tell me, Gwyn,” he whispered. Azriel didn’t want to presume how she would want him, instead seeking her guidance.

“Ummm… maybe stay on your back?” she replied. He put his hands behind his head and leaned back into the pillow, letting her move to where she wanted to be.

Gwyn sidled over to him and tentatively leaned up to place her head on his chest, tucking her hand under her chin. She wiggled a little bit, burrowing into her position.

“Comfy?” Azriel chuckled, receiving a contented ‘hmmm’ in return. He kept the arm closest to her tucked under his head, but he brought his other hand across him and grabbed the hand at her chin, weaving their fingers together. He brought their hands to his lips, pressing her knuckles against them. “No more fears, Berdara. I’m here. You’re safe.” He settled their joined hands over his abdomen, already feeling her heavy against him. Azriel stared into the dark, a warm blanket of contentment and strength settling over him. He had nightmares, too, things he also kept from nearly everyone. He would share those things with Gwyn, show her that she was not the only one with demons that attacked in dreams and that neither of them were alone. He had never felt so confident in the potential of a relationship, in the potential that he would be understood and accepted and loved. He already knew he would give those things to her - and more. With that newfound confidence he closed his eyes, her steady breathing lulling him to join her in peaceful, painless sleep.

#gwynriel fanfiction #gwynrielweek #gwynriel supremacy #gwynriel fanfic #gwynriel

92 notes · View notes

sylvie-writes · 3 years

Text

Beautiful Just the Way You Are

word count: 1982

request:

warnings: talks of negative self-image. please don’t read if this will upset you!

a/n: this is part 5 of (undetermined) of me trying to finish requests that have been sent in ages ago. IM SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT. it’s been hard to write but hopefully these will do. please ignore any mistakes, I typed this a bit fast and didn’t really check.

Chris

You and Chris were getting ready to go to one of his closest friend’s wedding.

This would be the first time you would meet each other so making a good first impression was a must.

Chris had gone to pick up his suit from the dry cleaners and you were currently scouring through the four dresses your sister-in-laws had lended you.

The wedding was a summer wedding and it was gonna be held on the beach.

As of recently, the heat had gotten worse each day meaning you didn’t want to be stuck in a dress that caused you to sweat like a runner after 12 miles.

Both of Chris’s sisters had noted this and unfortunately all four dresses before you were above the knee, something that made you uneasy.

It seemed that when you were going to meet people or attend public events, your insecurities crept up even more than usual and your mind would shove negative thoughts down your throat.

You were gorgeous, no doubt, but with such poisonous thoughts of yourself, you couldn't see any beauty as your reflection stared back from the mirror.

The first dress was a lacy yellow v-neck dress. It slightly flared out to the sides and it complimented your figure beautifully.

The second dress was a black bodycon, which made you want to scream. While to the average eye, your curves flourished under this dress, all you could see was a belly and hips that you wanted gone.

The third and fourth dresses were similar with thin spaghetti straps and flowy bottoms which reminded you of a bell.

Unbeknownst to you, Chris had come back sometimes in between trying on the second and third dress.

He peeked through the door, admiring how amazing you looked.

Chris kept thinking how lucky he was to have such a woman until he heard yells of anger that shook him from his daydream.

That was when you tried on the last dress and the final straw was gone.

Your anger turned into tears as you collapsed onto the food feeling nothing but pain and worthlessness.

In seconds, Chris was on the floor with you, wrapping his arms around your front where your arms were held up to your eyes.

He rocked you back and forth, shushing you gently.

“(y/n), honey, speak to me. Tell me what I can do to help you?”

Words were worthless at this point and all Chris could make out was “dress.”

He put two and two together and realized that you were upset with the way you looked.

For some time now, Chris knew this had been a problem, but he didn’t realize it would bubble up this badly.

He knew words of his compliments wouldn’t help at all because you’d just say that he was lying.

All he wanted was for you to see yourself through his point of view because you were like an angel.

“Hey, love, listen to me.”

Chris removed your hands from your eyes and looked at you in the mirror.

“You are stunning, always and forever. Your body does amazing things for you and for me.” He chuckled at the end causing you to laugh a bit, a sad smile on your face.

“I know you don’t believe me, but I would never lie to you. I made you that promise all those years ago and I will keep it forever, you understand me?”

You nodded just wanting to shrug this whole embarrassing experience off. You were never one to want people to see you like this because it felt like you were vying for attention when you weren’t.

“No, (y/n), I want you to say.”

Rolling your eyes, you replied, “Yes, I know, Chris.”

He smiled and kissed your temple, “There’s my girl. Now c’mon, let's keep this dress on and I’ll help you with your makeup.

Ransom

You and Ransom were at one of Harlan’s publishing parties.

The family was up to their usual shenanigans leaving you and Ransom to sip on one too many drinks to stay interested.

One Joni walked away after trying to sell you some of her face moisturizer that cost more than the largest bag of dog food, Ransom snuck up behind you and led you to the garden, away from the sight of any house guests.

“How about we sneak away and take a dip in the pool?” His eyebrows raised teasingly and it was hard to resist such an offer.

“But Ransom, I don’t have a swimsuit!” You motioned to your maxi dress that was too pretty to damage with chlorine.

You set your drink down on the cement bench and went to sit beside it before Ransom grabbed your hand and smirked.

“Fine by me, here, simple fix!”

In seconds, Ransom slipped off your dress, not even with a tear which was shocking from his usual animalistic movements.

This left you standing in your simple undergarments, yet feeling more naked than actually being so.

Ransom placed a kiss on your head before jumping into the pool in his boxers and nothing more.

He seemed ever so happy, waving his arms for you to jump in as he shook his now mop-like hair, now looking like a wet dog.

Instead, you were sitting quietly on the ledge of the pool, arms wrapped around your waist trying to cover every inch of your exposed body.

You felt so terrible like the sight Ransom would see would be so repulsive because that was exactly what you were thinking.

When Ransom noticed that you were frozen in your spot and zoned out on some dragonfly floating in the pool, he swam closer.

Ransom placed his hands on your thighs and looked up to see tears running down your nose and cheeks, dropping onto your lap.

At his touch, you involuntarily pushed him away and Ransom respected your space, floating back a bit.

“Angel, what’s wrong?”

“Ransom, I don’t want to be out here like this!”

You were on the verge of yelling, but instead kept your voice at a harsh whisper.

“Are you afraid someone will see us because (y/n) I can assure you they won’t. Plus, they’ve seen worse happen in this pool, trust me.” Ransom laughed, but you didn’t and he picked up on this, deciding to remain serious for the rest of the conversation.

“No it’s not that. I don’t want YOU to see me like this!”

The man swimming in front of you was in shock at such negative words coming from your mouth.

He looked at you as an absolute goddess and he often wondered why a beauty like you would stay with a mess like him.

Sure he was gorgeous on the outside, but you were both inside and out.

“You’re just saying that because you feel like you have to, Ransom.”

You huffed and looked the other way, not wanting to even glare at him.

Ransom laid his head on your lap in defeat.

“What do you want me to do? Worship you? Because I will! Oh (y/n), have mercy on me with your beauty! You are just so-”

At this point, Ransom was speaking as loud as possible and he knew he was getting on your nerves.

You playfully rolled your eyes, “OKAY OKAY. I BELIEVE YOU. Will you just hush now!?”

Ransom looked up with a devious glimmer in his eyes, before he pulled you into the pool and you squealed loudly.

“I think you are the one who should hush now, missy!”

Andy

Andy had just gotten off from work and you had just finished making a surprise dinner.

He was delighted at the sight of homemade chicken pot pie along with two bottles of old fashioned soda, a small tradition between the two of you.

You both settled down to watch a movie with your plates of chicken pot pie.

Andy had picked a movie that you’d never seen before and within five minutes your happy mood had morphed into insecurity.

Turning, you saw Andy intently watching the movie as the most perfect woman appeared on screen and the negativity sprawled from your mind, turning nothing into something.

While Andy just innocently enjoyed the movie, your inner saboteur told you that he was more so enjoying the sight of the gorgeous woman on screen.

After all he had been stuck with you, so you didn’t blame him.

Well he wasn’t actually stuck with you, but that's what you told yourself.

You told yourself that he just felt bad for you and that is why he stayed.

Andy noticed that halfway through the movie, you were uncharacteristically quiet and a sour pout on your face.

“Gosh, imagine looking like that! That would be a dream.” A bitter laugh ended your snide comment and Andy immediately shut off the tv.

“Why did you do that?!”

Andy just shook his head, “Because of what you said! (y/n), is there something you’d like to tell me?”

“All I said was that I wish I looked like her. What’s wrong with that?” You nonchalant shrugged and turned away from his hard stare.

“Honey, I can read you very well and I can tell that wasn’t just a joke.”

You were quiet and Andy continued to pry. He pulled you tight to his chest, murmuring whispers of praise causing you to break and cry quietly.

“See, even when you cry, you are pretty.”

Steve

The funny thing about insecurities is that it can turn someone into an absolute mess or monster.

In this instance it was both.

You and Steve were at a cafe, one that you had been visiting together for years now.

Today, it seemed that the cafe had hired new employees as at least four faces you didn’t recognize were waltzing around the kitchen.

It didn’t bother you until a complete beauty who introduced herself as Cara waited at your table.

At first it was like the green eyed monster had crawled out of you and you felt shameful all until gut intuition showed you that she was being a bit too friendly with Steve.

Little glances from across the room with flirty waves. At one point you swore that she winked at him.

Her tone would instantly change anytime she talked to you and that made your blood boil.

Steve noticed your change in attitude as a borderline scary scowl worked its way on your lips.

You were burning holes into the back of her head as you thought about how perfect the two would be together.

Steve tried to nudge your half of your sandwich to catch your attention as he was clueless to what was running through your head.

“Hey, doll. Why don’t you eat your sandwich? The flies are crazy and I can’t keep them away for long!” He swatted at the nagging flies, laughing at how the tiny creatures were defeating him, Captain America.

You didn’t hear any of what he said and instead mean words that never once came out of his mouth.

“Why don’t you go be with her. She’s so perfect for you anyway.”

You stood from the table and stormed out the door, the tiny bell above it mocking you.

Steve was utterly confused at this random outburst.

All he had mentioned was the sandwich, nothing about a girl, especially the waitress, whatever her name was.

Thinking back, Steve realized that she was flirting with him, but he was just so used to being friendly that he didn’t notice that he had put up such an illusion.

Especially one that hurt you.

The only word he was able to get out was “what” before he rushed out behind you.

He grabbed your arm and spun you to face him, not angry as he knew exactly how being insecure felt.

“(y/n), you are the only one who is perfect for me.”

You just fell into his arms, remembering that you were truly the only one for Steve.

#Steve Rogers #andy barber #Chris Evans #ransom drysdale #steve rogers x reader #andy barber x reader #chris evans x reader #ransom drysdale x reader

109 notes · View notes

galactic-magick · 3 years

Text

Oblivious: Tech x Reader

Request: Could u possibly do a Tech x Reader where the batch is on an ocean planet of sorts and tech and the reader are nerding out over something like tide pools and the rest of the batch is like “how are these two so smart yet so oblivious to their feelings?”

Summary: You and The Bad Batch settle on an ocean planet for the night, and you and Tech seem to know everything except your own feelings for each other.

Words: 1000+

Warnings: none

Author’s Notes: Had to do some research on tide pools for this one lmao, and I made up a bunch of fake star wars science that probably doesn’t make any sense whatsoever, earth science experts don’t come at me pls XD

Laying low has been incredibly difficult for you and The Bad Batch, none of you are exactly the type to “blend in.” You’ve been hopping all over the galaxy, until you come across a planet almost entirely covered in ocean. It’s habitable, but not many people live on it due to the lack of large segments of land.

Thankfully though, you find an island that’s big enough for your ship and make a landing. You run out into the fresh air, the smell of salt water and cool breeze filling your nose. Tech follows close behind, analyzing the planet’s climate and resources, and the rest soon after.

“The tides are going to get much higher over the next couple hours, we’re going to lose much of the land we have right now,” Tech says, moving down the beach. “Don’t set anything up past this point,”

“Can we build a fire?” Wrecker asks excitedly.

“Why would we need a fire? Our ship has a heating system,”

“Because I want to!” he crosses his arms. “And what if the ship runs out of heat?”

“I think that’s a great idea!” Omega pipes up. “I’ve never even seen a campfire before,”

“You haven’t?!” Wrecker takes her hand and points to the small forest of trees on the other side of the island. “C’mon, let’s go!”

“Wait!” Tech calls after them, but they’re too fast. “Ugh. The wood is going to be too wet to use anyway, they’re wasting their time,”

“Hey, it doesn’t hurt to let them try,” you smile. “Besides, we’ll only be here a day or two at most, right?”

“I suppose,”

You skip across the rocks and sand, finding a couple tide pools with several sea creatures in them, “Look over here!”

“Careful, those are incredibly slippery,”

“I’ve never seen anything like these,” you poke at one. “Wait, didn’t you say high tide is later? That means the water will go even farther than this, we might be in trouble,”

“Not exactly. Tides are different depending on the gravitational pulls and phases of the moons, and this planet has three,”

“So?”

“So we’ll be fine,”

“This water is fresh, Tech. I don’t see how more moons changes the fact that these waves are going to drown us in a few hours,” you sigh. “Look, I get that you’re the intellectual around here, but I had ones like these back on my home planet, I know what I’m talking about,”

“Every planet is different, this one isn’t due for another tide that high for at least a couple weeks, the pools must just be deeper than average,”

“I guess you’re right,” you trust him, so you refrain from bickering any further. “Oh look! I think I’ve seen that fish before!”

“Really?” he cocks his head, looking towards where you’re pointing. “While interplanetary travel of non-sentient species is uncommon, it’s not impossible, although in most cases it’s considered an invasive species-“

“Nevermind,” you say as you lean closer. “It just looks similar,”

“Ah, I see,”

“You know, I love the kind of creatures in here, somehow they manage to survive despite the harsh conditions,” one of them crawls onto your hand. “They just stick to anything they can so they don’t get washed away by the water,”

“Especially somewhere like this,” he nods.

“What are you lovebirds going on about now?” Hunter exhales, walking up to you and barely holding back a smirk.

Both you and Tech immediately stop talking, avoiding eye contact. Sure, it’s true you fancy him a bit, but no way are you lovebirds of any sort. You bicker too much to ever admit your feelings anyway, and all your conversations are friendly or just exchanging thoughts and facts. Nothing special.

“You know,” Hunter continues. “You guys are the smartest people on the crew, but damn are you oblivious,”

He walks away, leaving you two in silence.

Against all odds, Wrecker and Omega actually do manage to make a fire for the evening. Omega’s eyes are glued to the flames, watching in awe and drowning out everything else.

You and Tech haven’t talked much since being called out by Hunter, not necessarily because you’re mad or bitter, but simply because you don’t know what to say.

Was Hunter right? Were you actually super into each other and you were just too stupid to see it?

Now that you think of it, Tech definitely treats you differently than everybody else. Not just because you’re not one of his brothers, but he genuinely goes out of his way to help and care about you. He’s super sweet when he wants to be.

As it gets later, most of the crew heads back to the ship to sleep. You’re honestly not that tired, so you stay by the fire, and Tech doesn’t leave either.

“Hey,”

“Hello,” he nods.

You scoot over until you’re sitting next to him, “What’s going on in that brain of yours?”

“Just…thinking,” he keeps staring forward at the fire. “For the first time in my life, I’m completely unsure about something,”

“How so?”

“Well, all my life, all our lives for that matter,” he gestures to the ship. “We’ve been born, raised, and trained to be soldiers. We’re literally created and grown for that purpose. We accept early on that we’ll probably never get the opportunity to live a normal life on our own terms. We don’t get the luxury of going where we want to go, staying where we want to stay. We don’t even get to choose our clothes or our food most of the time. We don’t get our own home, we don’t get to pick our jobs, we-“ he pauses. “We don’t get to fall in love,”

A quiet “oh” leaves your lips.

“Now that the Republic is gone, and we left the Empire, we’re not just soldiers anymore. We have the freedom to do all those things we couldn’t do. But how do I know what I should or shouldn’t pursue? How do I know what parts of normal life I should experience?”

You quickly lean in and kiss him, “You try it, Tech,”

He stares at you stunned, struggling to process what just happened.

“I…I think I should try it again. Just to be absolutely certain,”

“Of course,” you chuckle, kissing him again.

#tech x reader #the bad batch x reader #tbb x reader #tbb tech x reader #the bad batch #star wars #the bad batch imagine #tech imagine

123 notes · View notes

honeymoonjin · 4 years

Text

𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: fanboy!taehyung x artist!reader

𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 13.7k

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: still bitter about a scandal that ruined your painting career, you’re recommended a getaway by your therapist to a small island off the coast of seoul. expecting a tranquil location to wallow in self-pity, you’re startled when on your first night, you encounter an avid fan of your work. instead of annoying you for an autograph, kim taehyung ends up being the very thing you need to fall in love with art again.

𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: sexually explicit content, reader suffers from poor mental health but nothing serious, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, praise, that’s kinda it, it’s pretty soft tbh

The breeze is light here, broken by the gentle rise of the sand dunes behind you. It runs over your skin like water, a warm current that lasts long after the sun slips below the horizon line.

You sit for hours watching it, the tail of pinks and oranges and ochres that reflect thickly on the top of the water, the shallow crests of low tide. There’s a pull in your heart, a twitch at your fingers. The you a year ago would’ve had her paints out already, an easel with legs precariously shoved in the dry sand. The you a year ago would have been tossing up whether cadmium yellow or cadmium orange would suit the last slip of sun above the water, and whether you should wait til it was gone entirely to save making the decision.

Then again, the you a year ago would never have needed to come here.

The you today just waits, silently, you don’t even know what for. You’d been told this was a getaway. That you just needed some time to recover your muse, or some bullshit like that. But the more time you sit in silence and watch the sky blacken to navy and the stars prick the darkness with dazzling clarity, you think your therapist was wrong. How was this a getaway when all your problems were still festering inside you?

“Oh my god, Y/n L/n?”

You groan and sink back into the sand, head cushioned on the warm piles. Just your fucking luck. “You’ve got the wrong person,” you call out with eyes squeezed shut, praying the stranger will leave you alone. The last thing you needed was a green reporter or psycho fan to spill your location to the rest of the world. You can only imagine the headline. Disgraced painter Y/n L/n found hiding away on a tropical island eight months after she ruined the Met Gala.

“Oh my god, it is you! I’m a massive fan, wow!”

Fuck. At least there was a chance they’d keep quiet. You crack open an eye, staring up at the figure beside you, cast in shadow. From the glint of moonlight, you can see a crown of ruffled hair that’s a faded teal. It reminds you of the impressionist painting of a mountain lake that threw your work into the public eye. Just as faded as the dye on his hair, that time feels worn and aged, like from another life. A reminder of how far you’d fallen. “Look,” you confess lowly to the silhouette, “I just wanna be left alone, I’m not- I’m just here for a break from...everything.”

The figure shifts his weight in the sand, raising an arm to scratch at the back of his neck shyly. “I don’t mean to disturb you,” he apologises. With the slight breeze, his baggy clothes buffet around his lean figure and in the darkness he looks like some vengeful angel, towering over you with the moon behind him. But his voice is so soft, so genuine, so- so warm. Perhaps not vengeful, then, but definitely an angel. “You’re a hero of mine, I wanted to thank you for how much you’ve inspired me, saved me. Gosh, it’s crazy that you’re even here, I-”

“I’m sorry,” you force out, sitting up, wincing as grains of sand work their way down the nape of your neck, “really, I am. But I’m not the person you’re thinking of. Not anymore, at least.” You hate the way your voice rings out so thinly in the night air, nothing like the deep honey of his. You hate the way you sound broken.

He senses it too; he takes a step back, turns towards the dunes. “I should be going, I guess,” he murmurs. “For what it’s worth, I hope I see you around. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

You don’t respond, wrapping your arms around your hunched knees and staring at the silver ocean until you can no longer see him in your peripheral vision.

—

It’s over a week before you see him again. Though you’d never admit it to anyone, you keep an eye out for the boy with the teal hair. There wasn’t enough light that day to make out his face but still, with hardly any people for miles, you hadn’t anticipated he’d be all that difficult to find.

Truth be told, there had been a deep curl of regret and dissatisfaction that took root inside you shortly after you left. He was just trying to be nice, and you could use a friend. Could use someone.

You had asked for privacy when your therapist began recommending a break, a getaway, but you hadn’t expected it to this degree. The place you were staying at was a rundown bungalow just behind the dunes, tucked away in a sliver of land where sand met forest, rising up into hills. The only people you saw were the employees that ran it: a maid that stopped by every day at 1pm, even though you had already made the bed and cleaned up after yourself; an older gentleman that delivered you fresh groceries every couple of days in his ancient-looking four wheel drive; and finally, the electrician you’d had to call out a few nights prior after the power went out.

The mysterious fan hadn’t been dressed like an employee; then again, it was long past the workday when he’d approached you. Mulishly, you find yourself lugging a picnic blanket and a pillow down to the beachfront every evening, monitoring every inch of the coastline that stretches around this edge of the peninsula.

It’s only on the ninth night, when you’re folding up your rough blanket with a disappointed grumble, that a sudden yap catches your attention. You whirl around, toes sinking deeper into the light sand, and gasp as a familiar silhouette approaches, stumbling down a sand dune to your left.

He hasn’t seen you yet; so focused on the tiny fluffball that tugs restlessly at its leash. It’s a lot earlier tonight than the last time you’d seen him, and there’s enough remnants of sunlight in the sky to cast him in a warm golden glow.

He’s in baggy clothes like last time, a long-sleeved white t-shirt with a v in the center, unbuttoned and sagging over the shoulder of the arm that’s getting yanked along, and some tan linen shorts. It’s hard to tell with how he sinks to his ankles in sand with every step, but he’s barefoot, almost sliding down the steep dune more so than walking.

You can’t hear him at this distance, but his lips are moving, parted in a boxy grin as he responds to the constant yipping of the tiny dog at his feet. He’s gorgeous, tanned skin to fit the honey of his voice - the voice you’ve been unable to shake from your head - and the roots of his hair are the colour of brown sugar, lightening into the dyed teal ends, whipping over his cheeks and neck in the seabreeze.

He turns off when he reaches the base, following his dog, who pulls in your direction, short bursts of energy that get cut off by the length of the leash. Your heart jumps, and you find yourself waiting in anticipation, breath caught in your throat.

But the moment he glances up and sees you, he halts in his tracks. Stepping back, his smile falls, bowing his head to you apologetically and pulling on the leash so that the small black-and-tan puppy at his feet turns around with him.

They start walking away from you, and you don't have time to think before you're calling out to him, jogging over with your blanket and pillow forgotten behind you.

He stops walking, though he doesn't turn, and when you finally come to a stop beside him, he keeps his head down.

"Look, I'm sorry about yesterday," you rush out, slightly out of breath, "I was in a really shitty mood, and I had kinda come here to get away from...everything in the first place. I wasn't expecting a fan, and I reacted badly. I'm sorry."

Even after standing still, you can't seem to catch your breath. You haven't seen him this close, in this much detail, and it makes the air catch in your lungs. His eyes are an intense burnt umber, dancing over your face with an unreadable depth to them. He's taller than you, but not bulky. Though his shoulders are wide, he's lean, with a narrow nose and soft cheeks. The wind plays with the ends of his hair, revealing glimpses of a strong brow. He's beautiful.

"I didn't mean to bother you," he says after a moment, and you almost jump at the timbre of his voice so close to you, "I should be the one apologising. I'll leave you alone, honestly. I can find another place to go for a walk, or go at a different time-"

"Do you walk here a lot at this time?" you interrupt, the euphoria of finally holding a conversation after so long loosening your tongue. "You haven't been back since that night."

He tips his head to the side, shoulder jerking when his dog impatiently tugs at the leash, quiet snuffles and yips of disapproval ignored in the air between you. There's a flicker of something in his eyes - surprise? Amusement? "You were looking for me?"

"I-" Your voice fails you, and you realise how pathetic you must look. Your shoulders sink. "I was... I wanted to apologise," you land on finally.

That strange flicker in his eyes settles into a grateful warmth. "I normally do, yeah, but I had to go back to the mainland to pick up this guy." With a genuine smile, he glances down to the ball of fluff that's now lying over his bare foot. "I stayed there while he got his first lot of vaccinations. You can pat him, if you want."

You can recognise that offer for what it really is; an olive branch. In other words, he's apparently not holding a grudge against you for being an asshole. You smile gratefully, crouching down to pat the tiny animal. "What's his name?"

"Yeontan," he answers cheerily. "he's nine weeks old!"

You coo, chuckling at the soft fur wriggling beneath your fingertips, at the wet nose prodding at your palm for more pats. "Yeontan..." you muse. "Why does that name sound familiar?"

You hear a sheepish laugh from above. "Your, um, your painting of the old barn in Icheon? There's a kennel that's beside it in shadow, but you can just make out the name Yeontan painted on the front. I-" He breaks off awkwardly, falling silent.

Your hand freezes, and you feel yourself slump from a crouch to sitting fully on the sand, still hot from the afternoon sun. Yeontan. A detail you couldn't even remember painting, yet he'd named his dog after it. The dog continues to cover your hands in slobber and stray fur, but you just stare at it blankly.

"I'm sorry," the man winces, tone low with defeat. "You probably think it's stupid. I swear I'm not one of those crazy obsessed fans! There was just..." His voice changes then, closes up to cut off any emotion. "I shouldn't say. Sorry."

Your shoulders slacken. "You don't have to keep apologising," you say softly. After a moment's thought, you push up off the sand to stand up again, grains clinging to the skin that's damp from the dog's affections. The handsome stranger's face is stricken, reluctant as he watches you get up. You miss the boxy smile he'd held when he made his way down the dunes. You wonder if he'll ever smile that way at you. "I wanna hear. What you have to say."

Hand flexing on the leash, he looks down at Yeontan and back up at you, eyes squinted slightly as the sun glares onto his face; a radiant, sharp orange. "One of the reasons I'm such a fan of your work is the emotion you can actually see on the canvas. I don't even know how to explain it, but I feel it. And with the Icheon barn painting - I actually saved up for years to buy the original - there's something so sad and lonely about that kennel, that patch of shadow. The rest of the scene is so bright and open, it feels like a party that the kennel wasn't invited to. I don't know, it's stupid. But I thought if I ever bought a dog, I'd name it Yeontan so that it wouldn't feel so alone." He faces the horizon as he speaks, wincing into the light, and a broken laugh bubbles out of his throat once he's done. "Like I said; it's stupid."

But you don't think it's stupid at all. "Did it work?" you ask instead, nose prickling as tears build behind your eyes. The more he spoke, the more you remember the painting. It was your last work before the Met Gala disaster, and after everything went down in flames, desperate online tabloids went back to it, citing it as a 'cry for help'. You hadn't really painted it like that though, not really. You'd seen that beautifully painted barn in the countryside when you were driving between cities to visit your parents, and was taken by the dilapidated dog kennel tucked just beside it. Painting it wasn't some sort of clue to your nosedive, but more like a solidarity with that kennel, the dog that once lived there. The story that had been forgotten. And to hear this man had seen it, had wanted to ease the suffering just like you had... The emotions inside you, ones that had felt so dull and monochrome, now churn inside you in indecipherable technicolour, too many to count. But you think one of them might just be hope. "Did- did getting Yeontan work?"

He's looking at you now. He stays silent for a moment, the softest smile tugging at your lips, and it takes your breath away, watching the colours of sunset play across his skin while his brown eyes seek yours out intensely. "Yeah, it did," he answers eventually, his voice almost a whisper. It's only once he starts speaking that you realise the two of you have moved closer inwards without realising, so that it would only take a half step forward to be pressed against him. "But I think talking with you has helped more."

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. The whirlpool inside you settles, leaving you feeling lighter than you have in years. You don't know what it is about this man that makes you feel...sane again, but you want more of it. "I think talking with you has helped me too," you confess, voice lilting in uncertainty. "Can... can I see you again? I don't even know your name, but-"

"Taehyung," he answers immediately, and even with the fall of night, the sun well and truly gone, his eyes are bright. "I could come back tomorrow?"

Your toes flex in the sand fighting the urge to jump in relief. "Yes! Yes, I'd like that," you chime, a smile tugging at your lips. "It was nice to meet you, Taehyung."

"The pleasure is all mine."

You sleep well that night. You can’t remember the last time the peaceful rays of sun have woken you so gently, but you certainly aren’t complaining.

You’d spent the past week or so moping in your cabin until late afternoon and then moping on the beach. Only now, after finally meeting the boy again - Taehyung - you realise how much you’ve been wasting your time buried in your own thoughts. Now all you want to do is explore. You’d been told on the ferry over here that the island was only a few hours’ walk around the coastline, and that your cabin, a street of shops and a small village of houses were the only signs of life. No bar to drown your sorrows at. No club for finding faceless strangers to make you forget who you were for a few hours. All your coping vices had been replaced with open stretches of nature in all its colours; the cool grey rocky beaches on the southern shore, the lush greens of the hilly forests, the glinting turquoise of the sea, and open plains of pastel sky for miles and miles.

The walk isn’t particularly intensive, but it’s long, and your feet ache in their sandals by the time you reach the docks again, having marked a full loop around the island. The dock, empty this late in the morning, leads directly to the main street via a cobblestone path that weaves between dunes, flax bushes, fields and a skinny stretch of trees, and you follow it to the center of the island, resting in a small cafe.

There’s no free WiFi here, so you sip at a tall glass of homemade strawberry lemonade and watch the streets through the storefront window. From your seat, you can see the people wander back and forth, the odd few with kids, but almost all are retirement age. Slow-moving couples with walkers and canes, elderly men jangling the keys to their vintage cars (that surely didn’t have much road to drive on), women with age-spotted skin and heavy beaded jewellery.

You can’t work out how Taehyung fits in this picture. It’s almost impossible to picture him walking down the same street as everyone else; his dyed hair, clothes two sizes too big, tall and slender frame hurrying down with a dog leash in one hand and a grocery bag in the other-

Wait.

You straighten up, eyes widening as you watch the man himself pauses to let Yeontan cock his leg on a patch of grass by the intersection. Physically, he’s entirely incongruous with the rest of the villagers, but he looks entirely at home, glancing up to smile in recognition at every figure that passes by him. One goes so far as to reach up and ruffle his hair playfully as she talks, and his face brightens with crinkled eyes and a boxy grin, greeting her warmly.

The same feeling of longing and dissatisfaction stirs you from the other time you saw that smile. You want to be the one that makes him so happy. You frown, unconsciously chewing on the end of the paper straw. It’s too hot in here. There’s not enough ventilation, and with the sun streaming in, the heat just pools inside, sticking to your thighs and arms. That’s why you leave the cafe before finishing your drink. The heat.

The lady has left by the time you cross the street, and you fake a cough noisily as you pass him, eyes cast away but face turned so he’d easily recognise you.

“Y/n!” Your heart warms, keens at the calling of your name, and you turn to him, smiling broadly. Taehyung grins when Yeontan rushes over to greet you too, whole body rocking with the force of his tail wagging. “Fancy seeing you here,” he remarks, and you take in a deep breath of air, feeling lightheaded with his attention back on you.

“I decided to explore a bit,” you answer, eyes dropping down to the supermarket bag in his hands, white plastic taut and digging red lines into his palm with the weight of it. “Retail therapy?”

He laughs goodnaturedly, but there’s a flush of pink high on his cheekbones, standing out beside the strands of green that he’s tucked behind his ears. “It’s actually, uh, something for tonight. I didn’t know if you’d- If you still-” He breaks off his stammering with another laugh, this one more self-conscious, and the pink deepens to red. “I thought you and I could paint together. I bought us some materials just in case you didn’t bring your own.” You fall silent, mouth slack and parted in surprise, so he continues on, lifting up his hand for a moment, bag rustling, then changing his mind and letting it fall again. “There isn’t a proper art supplies store here, so it’s just from the toy store. I know you’re probably used to proper stuff, but a bad worker blames his tools, you know! Not that you would- that you’re a bad-”

“You paint?” you ask finally, ending his nervous rambling.

His whole body slackens a bit, like you’ve cut some tension from him, his head dipping down to break eye contact. “Um. I’m- learning,” he answers with an uncertain wobble to his voice.

You tilt your head to the side with an expectant smile. “That’s really cool. How long have you been studying?”

He swallows, looking up to send you a hesitant smile. “I, um, I studied the instructions on the back of a paint-by-numbers kit in the toy store. Just now.” His voice lifts at the end of each sentence like it’s a question, that same bargaining smile plastered on his face.

You let out a genuine laugh, the first one you’ve had in a while. In too long. “Is that so? I better bow down to the maestro then.”

“Hey!” he whines playfully, shoulders rocking forward like a toddler feeling sorry for himself. “I learnt everything I know so far just from your art. And did you hear that speech I gave you about The Barn at Icheon? That was pretty good, right? You have to admit, that was good.”

His hand, the one loosely holding Yeontan’s lead, reaches out to grasp gently just above your elbow as he speaks, rocking you slightly like he’s pleading for you to agree. You find a constant stream of laughter bubbling out of your throat as he does so, feeling so light in the sunny midday breeze. “Okay, okay, that was good,” you confess, “you get a point for that.”

Once your laughter subsides slowly, you find yourself looking up at him with a residual smile, the same of which is spread on his face, eyes glimmering with something fond. He waits for the air between you to fall silent, tongue slipping out just slightly to wet his lips as you hold his gaze. “Y/n,” he asks softly, your name like molten sugar on his tongue, thumb unconsciously rubbing at the sensitive skin in the crook of your arm, “will you paint with me?”

Though the thought of painting still sours inside your chest, with his skin on your skin and his smile just for you, you feel like you could do anything. There’s only one answer. “Yes, I’ll paint with you, Taehyung.”

Painting with Taehyung is less painting with Taehyung and more staring desolately into the middle distance as Taehyung decides to make the clouds purple, bottom lip sucked between his teeth in focus.

“Don’t overthink it,” he stresses for the millionth time, glancing over at your blank canvas, “I’m not judging you.”

But it’s not about him judging you. If it wasn’t for him, you don’t think a paintbrush would have ever found its way into your hands again, certainly not so soon. It’s just that- you feel an overwhelming burden, a historical pressure of all your mistakes before. If you put brush to canvas now and create a work of art, then was your complete mindblank for the Met Gala all for nothing? Though your therapist advised against it, you had rather become attached to the idea that you’d somehow gotten artistically injured somewhere, and that eventually you’d broken completely, irreparable. It made the constant white void easier. Your first death.

“Happy little accidents,” Taehyung says lightly, dipping heavily into orange and catching a dollop on his wide-leg jeans. Not noticing it, or not caring, he swipes the orange into the canvas in a wonky line down past the horizon line, forming the neck and body of what looks vaguely like a giraffe. “And, um, happy little- happy little trees. If you want we could turn around and face the forest?”

Though a glum cloud is settling in your stomach you flick him a soft smile. “So you watch Bob Ross too? I thought you said you learnt everything from me.”

Using the same brush, he scoops out some black, using a pinkie finger to mix the colours together inside the bristles, a murky brown. “Maybe just a little,” he admits, daubing rough patches onto the giraffe, half of them overlapping the edges of its body. There’s an endearing quality to his carefree worksmanship, and you can’t deny that his painting looks good, wonky lines and all. “But don’t worry, you’ll always be my first,” Taehyung adds, not looking at you but smirking all the same.

The double entendre isn’t missed on you, but still, as you sit on a picnic table right on the edge of the village, blank canvas in front of you, you can’t bring yourself to laugh at it. All you can see is the paint drying on the tip of Taehyung’s finger, the messy pots of basic acrylics, and the warm smile that doesn’t leave his face.

He’s having fun. How long has it been since painting has been fun for you? Annoyed, you grab the clear green plastic brush from the set, dipping it into black. Muscle memory tingles across your knuckles and down the muscles of your wrist, an instinct to hold the brush in a certain way, tap off the excess, but your frustration overrides it, and you take the paintladen brush and smear it directly across the center of the canvas, a gaping maw of glossy shadow that bulges on the lower edges, gravity pulling at the thick stripe. You go completely still once it’s done. Staring.

Taehyung looks over after a moment, watching you carefully. “Is everything alright? If you didn’t want to paint, we didn’t have to-”

“It’s terrible,” you interrupt, a frown marring your face. “I fucked it up.”

“You didn’t,” he chastises softly, pushing his canvas to the side and leaning over your shoulder. “It’s a promising start. Maybe the duck pond is black in your world.”

Your eyes slide lower, unfocused. “Maybe the whole ocean is black in my world,” you murmur.

He’s silent for a moment, unsure what to say. “Then how will the fish see?” he asks in a light tone, bumping your shoulder gently with his, but you just let out a broken sob, tears spilling over your cheeks like they’d been triggered by his contact. Taehyung’s mouth opens in a rounded o, eyes wide, and as the dam breaks, you feel an arm find your back, rubbing soothingly, and long, warm fingers wrap around the hand that holds the brush limply, cradling it. “We can fix it, it’s okay,” he soothes in a kind whisper, “here; it’s that mailbox now, yeah? And behind it is the candy shop-” His voice cuts off while he guides your shaking hand to the green, mixing it with white in the plastic pottle to make a pale pastel. You feel the pressure of the brush in your hand shift as he moves the bristles over the canvas in a roughly rectangular shape, but you’re unseeing, crying tears that sting like turpentine into that black ocean behind your eyelids, letting him move you.

The two of you stay like that for what feels like an eternity, you curled in his embrace as he quietly paints for you, commenting on each step of the process so you know what he’s doing, even with your eyes closed. At one point, your energy leaves you, and you collapse into him, pressing your cheek against the stable warmth of his chest, heartbeat audible through his thin t-shirt. He doesn’t complain, just adjusting his stance to better support you and resting his chin on your head.

“I’m sorry,” you blubber thickly at one point, tasting salt.

“You don’t have to be,” he assures, “just keep breathing. Look; let’s put some trees in, hm? One for you and one for me.”

You open your eyes with a sniffle, feeling your hand lower in his secure hold, and you twist around your head to watch him dip the filthy brush in a green which has already been tainted by white and red in places. Your eyes follow it up again, until he fearlessly swipes in the graceful branches of the fir trees which cover the highest points of the island. You look at the rest of the painting, and a disbelieving giggle bubbles out of you, a smile across your face despite everything.

Unlike the mental image you’d been plotting in your head with the narration, this square of canvas has a line of slightly leaning buildings stacked beside each other tightly, colours smearing on the borders. In the middle of the uneven grey strip of cement down the middle to mark out the road, two trees stand proud, mostly green but with bleeding patches of muddy purple and brown too. Entire drops of paint spatter and run, creating a chaotic but vivid daydream of the end of the street in front of you.

“A lot better in your head, wasn’t it?” Taehyung asks knowingly. You laugh again, the last few tears pressed out of the corners of your wet eyes. “It’s okay,” he replies easily, “it was better in my head too. But the one in our heads is boring, don’t you think? If I wanted to see the street in front of me exactly, I’d just look up. Or take a photo. But nobody can visit this place we’ve painted. It’s just here, brand new because of us. I think I like that more.”

You sit up, wiping your eyes with a tired smile. “There’s no way you learnt all that from me,” you deflect, voice still raw from crying. “But yeah. I think I like this one more too.”

“I’m glad,” he answers softly, letting go of your hand and removing his hand from your back at the same time. You suppress a shiver at the sudden absence of heat. “I’ll let this dry and hang it up right beside The Barn at Icheon.”

You laugh again, sniffing away the last dregs of self-pity. “You better not,” you warn playfully, “as semantically poignant as it is, it’s an awful paintjob.”

When Taehyung smiles, it’s bright and boxy. And it’s just for you.

Time passes, but not like in the real world. Out here on this island, you start counting the passage of time by how many occasions you’d met Taehyung. Then, once you’ve seen him too often to count, you let yourself lose track of time completely, remembering only the moments spent with him like vignettes on a fragile chain.

The two of you always meet in the town or on the beach, speaking about everything and nothing. One day, while waiting beside the blue metal mailbox for Yeontan to pee (though Taehyung still insisted it looked better black) you tell him of the time you accidentally turned all your clothes yellowy-green after accidentally putting an apron in the wash that had an opened sampler of chartruese in the pocket. On a rainy afternoon when you’d gotten caught in the downfall walking through the forest, Taehyung told you, while wringing out rainwater from his rumpled maroon sweater, that he was meant to be studying agricultural sciences on the mainland, but his grandmother was sick and so he bought a place nearby to care for her.

“One good thing about being on the island,” he’d chimed cheerily, dark teal and brown plastered to his cheeks and forehead, “is that property is super cheap here. My grandma paid half and I paid half, and now the one-bedroom I live in is all mine.”

“But isn’t that sad?” you’d questioned, feeling the ground turn to mud beneath your shoes. “Living on the island, I mean? You should be in a big city, partying with your friends, living life. This place is like one massive retirement village.”

Taehyung had just shrugged. “My grandma likes it. And I like living for someone else, you know? Makes me feel good.”

Long after you’d gone home, warming up by the radiator in your beachside bungalow, those words had stuck with you. You wonder if, with all this time he’s been spending with you, he’s starting to live for you, too. You wonder if maybe that’s a bad thing.

But still, time passes in this hazy, episodic way. Money continues to filter out of your bank account each week you stay, but you hadn’t worried about your finances for years now, enough successful exhibits from your productive days keeping a healthy sum.

Though he never pushes as much as last time at the picnic table, Taehyung keeps you creating. Backs of napkins, tourism pamphlets, the kids colouring sets at the local diner. No matter how scrawled or indecipherable, the soft-hearted boy compliments your work all the same, slipping the scraps into his pocket with a joking promise that he’s going to frame them. Somehow, every unthought, unplanned line of ink or lead or pigment that lights the page feels like one less needle buried deep inside your heart, one small salve to ease the burden. You don’t know if Taehyung knows it, but in all the ways that count he’s a better artist than you.

When he’s around you, the world is lusher, more vibrant. Your time alone is grey and muted; a dull beach, an empty bungalow. With him, you feel like the sky is bluer and the trees are greener. The bonfire you sit in front of now casts an intense orange glow on everything around it, including Taehyung’s hands as he deftly impales marshmallows onto a skewer.

It’s cooler at nighttime these days. At some point, you’d both exchanged sandals for sneakers, t-shirts for sweaters. Taehyung seems to fancy heavy cable knits and thick trousers even in mild weather, and you wonder if he’d still wear clothing typical of an elderly gentleman even if he was on the mainland in a modern city instead of around the older generation on the island.

Tonight, you’d tried and failed a traditional Korean barbecue over the open flame. While Taehyung had shoved his cut of pork right into the fire, ending up with a charred outside and raw inner, you’d diligently held yours above the flames, turning and turning until the muscles in your arm screamed and you had to give up and admit perhaps the meat from the local butcher was cut too thick, and that a bonfire was good for nothing more than toasted marshmallows.

“This is where it’s at, this is it,” the young man enthuses confidently, each skewer laden with four or five marshmallows, bunched together, “dessert for dinner. The way it should be.”

You’re content to sit back and let him work excitedly, wrapping the edges of the picnic blanket low over your shoulders and lap. Though Taehyung is always devastatingly handsome, he’s the most gorgeous like this: focused in his element and surrounded by all the colours and textures of nature, a painting come to life. The heat of the flames is curling his hair lightly, making teal ends flick at his temples and the nape of his neck. His hair was growing out steadily, but still he chose not to cut it, and you can’t deny the length suits him.

“There’s more brown than green now,” you mention softly. “Soon it’ll look like dip-dye.”

Taehyung glances back at you over his shoulder with a rougish grin, shuffling around so he faces you fully. “What; is this your way of saying it looks bad?”

“No,” you defend with a pout, reaching for the near-full packet of marshmallows. “I’m just curious if you’re gonna leave it like that.”

Taehyung hums like he doesn’t fully believe you, and he leans over to shove his hand in the packet at the same time that you’re rummaging for the soft sweets, your knuckles brushing together. You shiver at the contact. Somehow, that’s been the first time you’ve shared skin contact since that day at the picnic table. Wide-eyed, you wait til he’s grabbed a bunch and pull your own hand away, empty and white with powder.

“Sorry,” he adds reflexively, but you just shake your head. How are you supposed to tell him that you liked the feeling of his skin on yours? Taehyung pops a pink marshmallow into his left cheek, letting it bulge and slur his speech as he gives you a broad grin. “You could dye it for me! My hair, I mean. Pick a colour.”

Against your will, you smile back, cheeks puffing at the thought. “I have no idea how to dye hair, Tae.”

Something flickers in his eyes when you say that, or maybe it’s the dancing flames reflected in them. He chews quickly, swallowing with a jerk of his jaw, and licks the rest of the white powder off his lips. “I bet it’s a whole lot easier than painting a picture.”

You scoff, but there’s no bite to it. “Oh, so you didn’t want me to paint one of my works on your hair, then? Don’t fancy Jeju Dusk on your scalp?”

Taehyung grins at the name, recognising the title of one of your earlier paintings - one that had been relentlessly criticised for its blending of techniques, something that later became your signature. “That’s my second favorite piece, you know? I have a print of it at home, and I saw the original in the Leeum Museum last year.”

You remember the director of the Leeum fondly. In your beginning years, he’d fought for your works to be shown in some of the frequent exhibitions they held. Even though you’d barely made a name for yourself, and had only recently moved to Seoul, Director Kim Namjoon took you in like a mentee and gave you a job himself as his PA. The experience you’d gotten there, as well as that vital exposure, had kept you business-savvy throughout your career, and once you were in a position to give back, you donated almost all of your original canvases to the museum in his name. Maybe one day you’d return home to Seoul and tell Namjoon of the boy who lived on a faraway island, the boy who taught you to open up again. Would Taehyung still be with you then? Though it hasn’t been long, it’s hard to comprehend a life without Taehyung. All you can visualise is a great absence, a lack. You banish the thought from your mind with a shake of your head, glancing back up to see the boy himself boldly setting a skewer of marshmallows on fire in the orange heat. “I hope that’s your one,” you joke weakly as he puffs out the blue and orange that lick at the blackening lumps.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what my favorite work is?” he asks instead, ignoring your statement.

You stay silent for a moment, observing the way he discards the charred skewer in his lap and delicately toasts the other one, swivelling the base so that each side of the marshmallow stack warms to a golden brown. Once he pulls it out, he hands it to you with an expectant quirk of his brow. You take the stick with a slightly suspicious smile. “What’s your favorite, Taehyung?”

“Your next one,” he answers immediately, gaze locked on yours.

You blame the heat radiating off the bonfire for the warmth in your cheeks as you suppress a smile. “Alright then,” you say decisively.

“Alright what?”

“Alright, I’ll dye your hair for you.”

He grins broadly, eyes crinkling into crescent moons as he starts eating his thoroughly-burnt marshmallows. “Tomorrow,” he announces, melted strings of pink and white pooling in the corner of his lips. “Let’s meet at the convenience store and you can pick the colour.”

You smirk at the way he devours the toasted marshmallows with childish glee. “You’ll regret that when you come out of this with highlighter orange hair.”

He chucks his leftover stick into the grocery bag you brought your supplies in, letting himself collapse backwards onto the heated sand. “I think I could pull it off,” he deflects calmly. “Just you see.”

Breath taken away by the peace on his face as he closes his eyes, your mind works dizzily, desperate to find something to keep him talking, to keep this moment between you alive. “Maybe you could get a job as air traffic control. Or a streetlight. Just you wait; it’ll be orange orange.”

Taehyung’s face warms in a lazy smile as he hums. He looks so peaceful lying there that you’re tempted to join him, but you choose instead to shuffle back from the fire so that you can see his face better. His hair’s splayed out over the sand, and you can see the warm flickers from the bonfire play over his neck, his jaw, and the tip of his nose. Taehyung’s right; orange does suit him. “I had a dream, you know. Last night.”

You feel - with the gentle breeze and the silence of the sea surrounding you - that perhaps you’re in a dream right now. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” his low voice hushes, barely louder than the popping of wood on the fire. “We weren’t on the island, we were in Seoul. Your wing of the Leeum Museum.”

You laugh shallowly, not wanting to make much noise for a reason you couldn’t quite pinprick. “I don’t have a wing at the Leeum.”

“You did in my dream,” he defends resolutely, the beginnings of a boxy smile tugging at his lips. “Anyway, we were in your wing, and I remember being so confused because I didn’t recognise any of them. But you told me they were all new. They were paintings of m-” he cuts himself off a beat too late, lips pressed together.

Your heart falters, a rush of adrenaline that flows to the ends of your fingers and toes. You fight to keeo your voice steady. “Maybe it was a premonition.”

Resting on his stomach, Taehyung’s hands twitch, his fingers twisting together. His smile flattens into a tense line and his eyelids squeeze shut tightly. “I don’t wanna get my hopes up,” he admits quietly after a short pause of thought.

Looking back, you can’t remember your thought process, or where your boldness comes from. Maybe something about the way the moment felt detached from reality, a timeless bubble of the two of you that sat adjacent to your real life, separate from consequence. Maybe it was the brief glimpse of pink as he wets the inner seam of his lips. Maybe you’ve just wanted this for too long to think rationally anymore.

Whatever it is, you swallow past the dryness in your mouth, bend down, and press a kiss to his lips.

Taehyung goes completely still at first. You’re cross-legged on the sand, knees faced to his side, and when you kiss him, it’s on enough of an angle that you feel his nose brushing your cheekbone, and you can feel your hair falling down either side of your face like silken rain. He stays still, though, and you press a little harder, just for a moment, before his lack of response shatters your streak of confidence.

With a minute sigh of regret, you lift off of him, ready to sit up again and apologise profoundly. But before there’s more than a few centimeters of air between you, his hand is suddenly snaking around the nape of your neck, fingers slipping up into your hair as he pulls you back down.

When you collide again with a gasp, his mouth is parted, and his teeth scrape against your bottom lip with his urgency. Losing your balance, you throw your outside arm over him, palm plunging into the sand just beside his head, and let your upper torso rest on his his.

“Taehyung,” you sigh onto his lips, shivering when his free hand rests hotly on your waist, thumb slipping under the hem of your shirt to rub maddenly over the sensitive skin of your stomach. “Oh, Taehyung.”

His lips are sticky with the remains of the toasted marshmallows, and tentatively you seek out that sweetness, kissing deeper, letting your tongue slide over the pinkened skin. He holds you so gently, like you’re made of glass, yet his mouth on yours is pure fire, and your breath comes in little gasps, bursts of oxygen that only fan the flames higher. It takes you a few moments to realise the humming in his throat and the motion of his lips are words, so softly spoken, but once you do you slow your movements to a languid stream to better hear them.

“...so beautiful, I’ve wanted to do this for so long, I must be dreaming…” He speaks with his eyes half-lidded, like he doesn’t want to fully lose sight of you, uttering words between sweet kisses, strong hands cradling you so carefully. He presses his lips against yours one last time and moves his hand from your neck to your face, thumbing tenderly at your cheekbone. “God, I’m so lucky to be by your side,” he gasps. “And when you paint new works and attend exhibits, I’ll still be by your side.”

His words are sweet, but something about them strikes an odd note in your chest, and you pull back slightly, shaking off his hands.

He looks at you with wide eyes and swollen lips which are parted in a confused pout. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s my paintings,” you whisper disbelievingly, “isn’t it? That’s why you think you like me. You like my paintings, and you think it’s somehow the same thing.”

He frowns, shuffling back to sit up, further apart from you than you’d been all night. “No,” he says automatically, “I like you, I just… I think you’re talented, and I want to help you-”

“It’s not your place to help me,” you snap back, and Taehyung flinches. “I’m not some- some out-of-order printer that just needs some TLC to start pumping out pages again. You’re a fan, Taehyung, not a fucking therapist.”

He lets those words sit in the air until they sour, staring at you with eyes shiny and lips trembling. “I know that,” he says, voice cracking, “I know that. I just- Just because you had issues with the Met Gala exhibit doesn’t mean you have to run away and hide, you know?”

Your mouth falls open. “I… I didn’t have issues with the Met Gala, okay, Taehyung? I blanked. Every time I tried to paint something for the exhibit, it sucked. I hated it. And then, eventually, I stopped being able to paint anything at all. It was like I just- I just couldn’t. And the Director kept calling, but I couldn’t answer him because I was so fucking humiliated, and you get the day of the Met and the walls are empty because Y/n L/n is a fucking failure. So it’s not- You can’t fix me, Taehyung. I’m just broken.”

The fire spits, crackles, as it smoulders down, nothing more than hot coals that barely light the surroundings. Taehyung, face slowly darkening to shadow, doesn’t say anything. Just sits. Waits.

You sniff, looking down at your hands. “My point is, Tae-” and you scoff at yourself for using a nickname at a time like this, “You shouldn’t like me. I have nothing to give you anymore.”

Sand sticks to your bare legs when you stand, but you make no attempt to brush it off. Though it’s nearly complete darkness, you see Taehyung’s hair shift as he tips his head up to watch you. Rather than speak back, he waits in the pitch black of the extinguished bonfire and lets you go.

Later, in the unforgiving silence of your bungalow, you find yourself gravitating not towards your bed but towards your suitcase, to the small wooden chest of travel paints you had brought never expecting to use.

It’s easier to paint than to think on your regrets and mistakes, and so you let your mind go black, your palette filling with shades of brown, ochre and beige, as well as a single swatch of teal.

The entire next day sees you in a sleep-deprived fervour, the entire main room of your bungalow cleared out and transformed into a makeshift studio, paintings drying on emptied bookshelves, sheets of old newspaper covering the carpet covered in stray spots of colour, the kitchen bench housing your mismatched array of paints and tools.

After finishing your first painting, you’d collapsed onto your bed as the sun began to rise, too exhausted to wash the dried paint off your hands and brow. But it only took a few moments of rest before you felt yourself sinking into a glum quicksand, sucked in by all the emotions swirling in your chest. Suffocated by the sole image of Taehyung, sitting alone on the sand in the dark as you walked away.

So, you’d gotten up, fed the itch in your hands and picked up a brush once more, and let yourself be taken by the mindless haze of work, of colours and angles and perspectives, starting to paint the knuckles on one canvas while you waited for the eyes to dry on another.

Just after 10am, your housekeeper had knocked on the door, and you’d had to play sick so that she wouldn’t come inside. If they kept your deposit or charged you damages for a stray lick of paint on some surface, what did it matter?

You threw yourself so intensely into these paintings, that weren’t art so much as sighs of relief, or buoys in a churning sea. It was all too easy to let your mind latch onto the task of mixing colours, of choosing techniques, of mastering proportions. Normally, you’d work in front of a landscape, or take a photo and paint it later, wanting to get things right, but Taehyung comes to mind with startling clarity.

Soon, your bungalow fills with artworks - some painted on newspaper, or pages of a book when you run out of canvases. Vistas of those moments with him like clustered vignettes: his eyes with orange glints reflected in them from that night with the bonfire; his hands wringing his sodden sweater the day you got caught in the rain; a boxy smile, the first time he ever grinned at you like that; and finally, just as your hands begin to shake too much to hold the brush steady, a lone silhouette walking down a dune, tiny dog tugging at the leash in his hand. The memories flow in reverse, like some sort of undoing, a wish to go back in time and do things right, to be better for him, to do right by him.

When you set the brush down one final time, fingers trembling with exhaustion, it’s nearly midnight. You realise with a dull pang that you’d forgotten to go down to the township to buy Taehyung hair dye. You realise he probably wouldn’t have come down either.

Your face is stiff in places where swipes of paint have dried, and your hair is tangled, thrown up a half-hearted ponytail that keeps threatening to slip, but as you stare around the chaos of the room, at the fevered paintings of him, only him, always him, your heart knows what to do. Whether you like it or not, you can’t go back in time and start new, start fresh. But you can go forward, and you know exactly where your feet will take you.

Well, maybe not exactly, because you’ve never been to Taehyung’s house. But shoving on some sneakers and wrappin yourself up in a jacket, you figure you can find it. The island’s population was barely fifty, and all the houses were in the same sleepy neighborhood behind the main street.

It’s after knocking on exactly twenty-six doors that you realise maybe you should just ask if the stranger knew Taehyung’s address, rather than leaving when somebody unfamiliar answered the door. Shivering, even with the thick padded jacket you’re bundled in, you decide that the next house better be the last. If they didn’t know where Tae was, you could just come back and pick up where you left off tomorrow.

The street is so silent that your sneaker soles on the gravel fill the void entirely, amplified in the chilled night air. As you went on, and the moon passed the center of the sky, less and less people even opened their doors, some that did scolding you for waking them at such an hour. You’d feel bad, only your mind’s entirely locked on one single person.

The next house you reach is small, like most of them, but looks particularly well-groomed compared to most. A gleaming white postbox with the number 13B rests beside the driveway and footpath, both of which are bordered by lush, freshly-mowed grass, almost black in the darkness. Like a beacon, a single lamplight shines white-yellow above the front door, and your eyes ache with the warm brightness as you knock.

After fifteen or so seconds, you hear muffled movement inside, and straighten your back expectantly, mentally running through your speech. A light turns on behind lacy curtains to the left, and eventually a blurred silhouette approaches in the foyer, unlocking the door.

You put on your most sympathetic smile and take in a breath when it cracks, revealing an older woman in mismatching winter pyjamas. “I’m so sorry to wake you, ma’am, but I was wondering if you knew a boy called-” As your eyes search the old woman’s face, you freeze. You know those eyes. “K-Kim Taehyung?” you finish, blinking widely at the woman who somehow looks so familiar.

Rather than grumble about the time or huff, she smiles broadly, lips tugging up in a boxy smile. “Well, of course, he’s my grandson!” The smile drops, brows furrowing in concern. “Is he alright?”

You suck in a breath through your teeth, eyes widening. “I- oh my goodness, I’ve heard so much about you,” you gush, her eyes crinkling fondly at your words. “Sorry, uh- yes, Taehyung is okay, I just-” You stop yourself, trying to steady your racing heart. “Mrs. Kim, you probably don’t even know me, but I did something bad and I need to make it right with him and I just… I think I’m in love with your grandson.” The moment you finish, something in your heart settles at the sound of the words lingering in the air.

She takes her time to reply, letting the words sink into her with a thoughtful sigh. “Darling, am I right in assuming your name is Y/n?”

You swallow quickly. “Yes, that’s right.”

She nods with a fond smile, a glimmer in her eye. “Then I think there’s something you should come see.”

“Inside?” After she waves you in and guides you to slip off your shoes and step into some house slippers instead, you find yourself awkwardly following her down a homely, perfumed hallway. “By the way, I’m so sorry for waking you.”

She waves it off before you even finish your sentence, sending you a kind wink. “No bother to me, lovie. I’m just glad you didn’t wake the dog.”

“The dog?” you mumble to yourself, before halting suddenly as Mrs. Kim pauses in front of a door, hand resting on the glass knob.

“My grandson’s been visiting me more lately, you see,” she explains, turning the knob to reveal a room in complete darkness, nothing inside visible. “He had so much to tell me and so much to do, became as hyper as a boy on Christmas morning! He told me not to go in here, but I couldn’t help myself.”

You step inside on her indication, breath caught in your throat as your eyes struggle to adjust. “I don’t understand…”

“Lovie, don’t worry about whatever went wrong with you two. You love him and… Maybe I’m just a hopeless romantic, but it’s clear he loves you too.” And with that, she flicks the light on and the room comes into focus.

A barn. That’s the first thing you see. A painting of a bright, sprawling barn with a tiny dilapidated kennel in its shadow, wobbly letters spelling out YEONTAN. On the wall directly across from the door rests the original painting of The Barn at Icheon, close to a meter wide and half a metre high. The question of why he’d keep this prized possession of his in a random room barely bigger than a closet dies on your tongue as you turn, seeing the other walls.

A sketch of a bird you’d seen and wanted to show him, clumsily sketched on the back of a receipt with a pen from the lady at the grocery store checkout; a smudged map of your old neighborhood in Seoul that he’d made you draw on a napkin when you were explaining to him how far away the art supply store was; a tourism pamphlet that you and Taehyung had found on a park bench, drawing little Bigfoot silhouettes on the pictures of mountains and mermaids on the beaches. Every one of these thoughtless scrawls, careless scribbles and hurried drawings are here, each one framed or mounted like in a gallery, in order of the time they were made. You turn around slowly, barely noticing Taehyung’s grandmother in the doorway, giving you a knowing look. Finally, on the last wall, the trail of pieces disappear with a final creation, a canvas.

Feeling tears gather in your eyes, you look at the black smear of a mailbox, the wonky shops, the two tall trees incongruously planted in the middle of the street. And, in the bottom right corner painted meticulously in teal, the same teal as his hair, Y/n and Taehyung.

You let out a sob, turning back to Mrs. Kim. “Thank you for showing me this,” you make out in a voice thickened with tears, “but I really need to see him. Can you please give me his address?”

With a look of warm empathy, she steps forward to clasp your shoulders gently, maternally. “He told me about what happened, luvie. He doesn’t blame you.”

Trembling, you wipe the wetness from your cheeks and sniff. “He should,” you admit sullenly, “he’s too good for me. He’s been nothing but kind and patient and caring and all I’ve done is let him down.” Something occurs to you, and you frown in confusion. “Wait… Did he stop by and tell you?”

Her hands squeeze your upper arms comfortingly before dropping them and stepping back. “Oh honey,” she coos, and your heart stops as she steps aside out of the doorway, letting another, taller figure enter the room.

“Taehyung,” you whisper in shock, but before you can even comprehend his presence, his arms are around you, pulling you against his chest in a tight hug. You feel thick layers of pressure and worry evaporate off of you with a single moment, lungs filling with the familiar scent of him, body relaxing with his chin resting on your head and his arms cradling you. For what feels like a small eternity, you let yourself be fully enveloped in him, an indescribable catharsis of finally being in his arms once more. As your tears dry on the soft flanelette of his pyjama shirt and your fingers clutch at his back, you feel a thought transform into a certainty. “I love you, Taehyung,” you confess quietly, and his whole body shudders with a sob, arms tightening around you even more.

“I love you so much,” he confesses lowly, chest rumbling against your ear as he speaks. “And please don’t ever call yourself broken. You’re not. I didn’t love the art, I loved you. Because the art is a part of you Y/n, whether it’s perfect or not.”

“Tae,” you breathe shakily, his name the only word on your lips.

A soft voice comes from the hallway, Taehyung’s grandmother quietly excusing herself to “leave the two lovebirds alone.” You barely notice, lost in the way Taehyung gently rocks you back and forth in his arms, soothing you.

“I missed you,” you hear Taehyung whisper into your hair, nuzzling his nose gently.

Though you shiver at the feeling, you let out a teary laugh. “I saw you a day ago.”

“But it wasn’t the same then,” he insists softly, and a slow breath escapes you weakly. “It’s okay; you’re here now. You-” he breaks off to swallow, and when he speaks again his voice is much quieter, paper thin. “You won’t walk away again, will you?”

You answer by tipping your head up to look him in the eyes warmly, rising onto the tips of your toes so that you can reach his mouth, pressing a kiss against it tenderly. “Never,” you answer surely, “I promise.”

When he smiles, it’s beautiful - that big, boxy grin you saw that day on the dunes, that day you agreed to paint with him, and so many times since. But it never fails to make you melt, lips automatically returning the gesture. “Now,” he announces with a bemused lilt in his voice. “As much as I love this makeout session in my grandma’s closet, it is 2am. Shall we go get some rest?”

Sleep comes quickly once you have Taehyung’s arm around you and your face in the crook of his neck, and you let it take you, knowing you’ll have time to savor the feeling of sleeping beside him for many days to come.

You take him home the next day.

He hadn’t ever been to the bungalow before, but now there was something you desperately wanted him to see. You hadn’t cleaned up before you’d suddenly began roaming the streets of the island, and as he stares around at the chaos, you kind of wish you had. “It’s pretty messy, but…”

“No,” he deflects, mouth parted and eyes wide in wonder, “don’t apologise, this is- wow.” He steps further into the room, stepping over discarded paint tubes, dried canvases and uncleaned brushes. He takes a moment to take in each work. Every single one of them a snapshot of him. “How- When did you do all this?”

You bite your lip, loitering in the entryway. “From when I got back that night until I decided to come looking for you.”

He furrows his brow, fingers gently skimming the top edge of the painting that rests on the easel in the center of the room, the first one you’d painted. His teal growouts, his uneven eyes, the moles dotted so intricately on his face. Your Tae. “You haven’t been able to pick up a brush in months, and then...all this?”

“This was easy,” you say with a shake of your head, “it was easy because it was you.”

He turns, then, glancing at you over his shoulder with eyes brimming with affection. “You really love me.”

A disbelieving grin stretches across your lips. “The midnight confession didn’t make it clear enough?”

“It’s not that, I- I can read it,” he explains, stepping back over to you. “The Barn at Icheon is filled with loneliness, and a lot of your other works talk about fear or curiosity or patience. But this is all love. And it’s me.”

“It’s you,” you confirm with a soft smile, “I love you, Taehyung. So much.”

His eyes light up, then, a cheeky glimmer as his hand reaches out, gripping your elbow and giving it a playful shake. “If I’m your mojo then, you should paint something else today,” he bargains, “I wanna see your genius in action. The black mailbox sadly doesn’t qualify.”

Your mouth drops open in mock outrage, shoving his chest with a whine. “That’s not fair! You said you liked it better black.” Looking around at the disaster zone of the bungalow, you sigh. “I also don’t think I have any paintable surfaces left. I missed the housekeeper so I’ll probably get a fine as it is.”

“Use me, then.”

“Haven’t I painted you enough?” you fire back, but Taehyung just shakes his head emphatically.

“Paint on me. Here,” he says, and his hands leave yours in order to find the hem of his shirt, peeling his shirt off and tossing it into a far end of the room. “A big old waterfall, right down the middle. Rock pool at the bottom.”

“Stop it!” You blush fiercely, hands coming up to cover your cheeks as your eyes feast on his chest, the smooth planes and taut skin, a beautiful golden bronze. “Taehyung…”

For the first time, he doesn't press further. Instead, his shoulders sag, teasing facade slipping. "I'm sorry, you don't have to. I'll stop."

Inexplicably, you find yourself wanting to prove you aren't fragile anymore, unbroken just as he'd insisted you were last night. "I can do it," you protest, stepping away from him to fossick for some usable brushes. "Lie down, then."

Taehyung freezes. "Uh. Yeah, yeah, okay, gimme one sec, I'll just-" With the enthusiasm of a boy having his first kiss, Taehyung hunkers down on the newspaper-covered carpet, shuffling some tools and tubes and palettes out of the way. He looks beautiful like that, chest rising and falling shakily with anticipation, warm brown eyes widened on you. "You don't have to paint a waterfall, you know," he assures hurriedly. "Whatever you do will be perfect."

Heart leaping at his words, you feel a streak of confidence deep inside you, and instead of sitting beside him, you straddle his hips with a newly-filled palette in one hand and a brush in the other. "I want you to guess," you announce from above him, eying his chest and wondering how the colours might fill the space. "Guess what I'm painting. It'll be fun!"

Taehyung's throat bobs with a harsh swallow, nodding quickly. "O-okay, yeah, let's do that," he agrees weakly.

You smile warmly, and begin dipping into a forest green, coating the tips of the bristles. Bending down, you mark a single point of green on the top of his chest, just below his collarbone. The moment the cool paint touches his skin, Taehyung shudders, eyes falling shut. "Okay?" you check. He nods again, chest heaving, and so you continue tracking colour, gradual swoops downwards. Each drag of the brush makes Taehyung's breath catch, and you watch as goosebumps break out on his bare arms.

"Feels nice," he mumbles, lips barely moving like he didn't even intend to speak.

Your lip twitches, but still you focus, topping up the brush whenever the lines became too spotty. After trailing down to just above the level of his belly button, you raise the brush again, starting a new form on the other side of his chest, this one smaller. "Any idea what it is?" you question, but Taehyung just sighs airily.

Once you're finished with the forest green, you wipe your brush off on the edge of your palette and go for a deeper shade, pressing in shadows under each swipe of green. It's once you're working on the bottom half of the second structure that you begin to feel a hardness between your legs, the point where you're straddling him. Shocked, you look up, but Taehyung's covered his eyes with the back of his hand, face turned to the side with reddened cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he croaks out once he feels you stop. "Didn't mean to."

With a fond smile, you lean down, careful not to smudge the wet paint, and gently kiss the corner of his mouth. His fingers twitch and his lips part in surprise, but he otherwise stays still. "It's okay," you soothe, "if it's any consolation, I feel the same way right now."

Like a switch is flipped, Taehyung lifts his hand and tucks his chin, looking down at where the two of you are pressed together, then back up at your face. "Seriously?"

You laugh warmly. "Taehyung, I love you and you're currently lying beneath me, half-naked, writhing every time the brush touches you. Of course I'm turned on."

His cheeks flush hotter and he bites his lip. "You can- you can keep going. Keep painting."

Obediently continuing to fill in the shadow across his stomach, you grin. "Still no guesses on what I'm painting? I'm almost done, you know."

He cranes his neck down further, but the angle prevents him from seeing much. "Some-something green? I'll be honest with you, my focus really isn't-fuck!"

You suppress a laugh as he shudders, hands reaching out to clutch at your pants. Having finished the shadow, you'd mixed a paler green to add some light points on the tops, and one of those swipes had just happened to land across the top of one of his nipples, already stiff from arousal. You continue dipping colour here and there, smirking at the paint that covers the dark brown of his right nipple.

"You tease," Taehyung complains with furrowed brows. "Fuck, that felt good. Please tell me you need to paint the other one too."

You hum in mock thought, transferring your brush to the hand with the palette so that you can reach out, swiping a thumb over the sensitive flesh. Taehyung's whole body jerks, his hips beginning to grind under you, the dull friction pulling a pleasured sigh from your lips that's blessedly drowned by his drawn-out moan. "Why the pout, Tae? This was your idea."

"Next time I'm holding the paintbrush," he promises, hips moving slowly beneath you, eyes lidded as they focus on you, "then you won't be so cocky."

His words send a hot rush of arousal through you, and you rock your hips unconsciously, swallowing a moan. "Next time," you repeat breathily, "but for now I'm almost done."

It only takes a few more touches of pale green, followed by two vertical strokes of brown, before you're putting your tools aside, and standing up off of him.

Taehyung groans in complaint when your hips leave him, his casual grey sweatpants tented and a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. "Where are you going?"

"Come see," you guide, tugging at his hand. "I have a mirror in my room."

He gets up, palming himself with a pout before following you down the hall, pulled along by your interlocked hands. Once in front of the mirror, Taehyung lifts his eyebrows at just how wrecked he looks. Bottom lip swollen from biting at it, hair mussed and sticking up, and a burst of green slowly drying on his torso. "It's...trees?"

"It's us," you explain softly, "like that painting we did together the first time." From beside him, you reach around to gently tap each figure, two tall fir trees, the one on his right taller than the one on his left. "One for you and one for me."

Before you can pull your arm back, his hand comes up to flatten yours against his chest, hands going cold where the paint is still wet in places.

"Tae, you'll smudge it."

"Y/n," he said slowly, head turning to look at you, eyes brimming with affection, "will you let me make love to you?"

Your breath catches, and rather than trusting your voice, you nod wordlessly.

With a deep exhale, he bends down and joins your lips with his, a hand coming up to bury itself in your hair, keeping you close. His lips are hot against yours, passionate and wanting, and your stomach warms with desire. Clumsily, your fingers find the hem of your shirt, lifting it as far as you can before you have to break apart from him, flinging it away once it clears your head.

"The bed?" Taehyung pants in the moments his mouth is free, and you nod, shucking off your jeans before getting onto the mattress in just your bra and panties. "God, you're beautiful," he chants, "how did I get so lucky?"

He slips out of his sweatpants and joins you sitting on the edge, but your eyes linger on his face, the way his eyes soften and crinkle when they meet yours. "I'm the lucky one," you reply simply.

You shiver when a large palm runs up your bare thigh, warm and grounding. "Can I go down on your first?" he asks with a pleading gaze.

You laugh weakly. "I'm definitely the lucky one." In confirmation, you lie yourself back, scooting so your head rests on the pillows.

Hand now having slid down your leg to rest over your ankle, he wraps his fingers around and lifts it off the bed delicately, your knee crooking and legs parting. Smoothly, he slips himself in the gap, lying on his stomach and letting your raised leg rest on his shoulders. With eyes heavy on you, he leans forward slowly and licks a strip over your clothed pussy, a dull kiss of friction across your clit. You groan, head lolling back, and he takes it as his initiative to continue, sucking at the juices that have dampened your panties until the whole crotch is wet, your thighs shaking slightly with your increased sensitivity.

"Tae, please," you breath out, "I wan' more."

A finger slips below the hem of your panties, just over your hipbone. "Should we take these off?" You nod with a needy whimper, lifting your hips to give him easier access.

He sits up to slide them down your legs, calmly spreading your thighs again when you get the self-conscious urge to close them. With only your bra on, you feel so vulnerable, but rather than scaring you, you feel at peace, so happy to be having this moment with Taehyung.

When he shuffles back into place again, he takes his time, his warm breath tickling your inner thighs. At your needy wiggle of your hips, he chuckles and rubs soothingly at the top of your leg where it's crooked over his shoulder, finally dipping his head again to lick at you.

He starts out maddeningly light, the very tip of his tongue flicking slowly over your clit, tentatively venturing out to dip between your folds. You reach out for his hand, needing something to anchor you, and he smiles against you as he interlocks your fingers, keeping you grounded.

"So good, Tae," you encourage, moaning openly when his tongue trails lower and dips between your folds, over your entrance. "Fuck, so good."

Rather than answer verbally, Taehyung doubles his efforts and begins to speed up, lapping at your core and suckling your clit.

Every breath is a moan or a whimper, overtaken by pleasure, but you let yourself drown in it, letting Taehyung eat you out like a man starved. With one hand on your upper thigh and one entwined with yours, he's got no fingers free to play with you, but expertly he brings you to your peak with just his tongue, thrusting it inside you as his nose nudges at your clit.

When you feel your orgasm quickly approaching, your moans heighten and your back begins to arch, hips grinding against him desperately. Taehyung chuckles, the sound vibrating against you and making you shudder, and his hand slips high to press against your waist instead, holding you in place for him. Your thighs tense around him, praises and curses and his name spilling from your lips incoherently.

It's one last nibble at your clit, pulling it into his mouth and dragging his tongue over it, your vision whites out with the force of your orgasm, jerking beneath him and crying out wantonly, overcome with pleasure. He works you through it diligently, groaning as you come down from your high with weak shivers, his tongue never ceasing until you push at his head from oversensitivity.

He lets your leg down carefully, kissing his way up your bare stomach, the swells of your breasts and your throat until his lips are on yours and you can taste yourself on him, feel the ends of his hair tickling against your cheeks.

"That was incredible, Tae," you pant out, feeling boneless beneath him as he takes charge of the kiss, tugging at your lips and licking into your mouth. "I need you," he gasps, and you moan throatily when his clothed crotch grinds against your bare core, the fabric of his underwear catching on your sensitive clit. He's hard, probably painfully so, and all you want is to feel him inside you.

Desperate, your fingers slip behind you, arching your back so that you can deftly release the clasp of your bra, pulling it off hastily before reaching for his underwear. "I need you too, Tae," you plea, "please hurry."

His fingers, slightly cool from the air, slide down your stomach and between your thighs, making you jump as he slips two inside, thrusting them slowly. You're still sensitive, and his mouth falls to your ear, hushing you and pressing encouraging kisses to your temple as you whimper. "Doing so well for me," he praises, "just gotta make sure you're ready, okay?"

"O-okay," you make out, sucking in a breath when he pulls out and presses a third finger inside you, picking up his pace. Gradually, the prickling overstimulation warms into pleasure again, and you rock your hips to seek more friction, free hand coming up to wrap around his neck and shoulders, holding him close.

With no bra on, your full chest is flat against his, and as the paint dries it drags over your nipples, making you arch your back, seeking out the friction.

The warmth between your legs tightens with the extra stimulation, and your breath begins to catch, feeling another orgasm oncoming.

"Close?" Taehyung murmurs in your ear as he widens the gaps between his fingers inside you, scissoring to stretch you even more. You nod hastily, moans getting stuck in your throat, pushed out with every gasped breath. Taehyung hums in response, and you whimper when you feel his fingers slipping out of you completely. Before you can protest, the blunt head of his cock slips between your sopping folds, Taehyung running it up and down to coat himself in your slick.

"Fuck, yes, please Tae, I'm ready," you babble, legs lifting to wrap around his hips, attempting to pull him in closer.

He chuckles, but it's cut off prematurely by a hissed breath of pleasure as he lines up and begins to sink his length into you, a delicious feeling of fullness after his fingers left you so empty. Taehyung enters you slowly, letting you adjust, and you feel completely enveloped by him; his voice in your ear, his hand in yours, his cock inside you.

"Need you, Tae," you whine once he stills, bottomed out, "please move."

"Are you ready?" You wiggle your hips with a groaned yes, arm tightening around him as he pulls back. He stops when just his head still rests inside you, pauses for a moment with a moan as you clench around him, and then plunges back in with one slick thrust.

You cry out, satisfied smile stretching tiredly across your face as he finally begins a steady rhythm, favoring deeper thrusts that make your toes curl. "Yes, Tae, so good!"

"God, you're still so tight," he groans throatily, "so good for me."

On the edge before, you find yourself close after only a few minutes, and you tell him with a shaky breath. Taehyung lets out a relieved exhale as he continues to thrust into you. "Thank fuck," he huffs out, panting a word at a time, "I'm not gonna last, you drive me crazy."

You press your head against his, nuzzling at it as you unwrap your arm from around his shoulders, instead seeking out your clit for the needed friction to push you over the edge. The added stimulation has you clenching, and Taehyung swears desperately, his pace picking up but shuddering as he gets close.

The two of you pant loudly into the otherwise silent room, filling each others' ears with whimpered moans and slurred praises, until you finally catch the tip of your peak, and with one final drag of his cock inside you, you're falling apart, not suddenly and violently like the first time, but rather a slow, hot wave of pleasure that works its way out from your core, down to your toes and fingertips, clenching tightly around Taehyung until he curses and spills inside you, shuddering through his release.

"I love you so much," you whisper once you come down from your high, a contented exhaustion seeping into your bones.

"I love you too," Taehyung says with a final press of his lips on your temple.

---

"This one's gorgeous. I love the broad lines on the ocean compared to the texture of rocks on the shore. This is at the island, you say?"

You hum in confirmation, smiling at your old friend. "You should see, it, Joonie. There's this little cluster of houses and shops right in the middle but the rest is just open nature. Forests, beaches, everything in the middle. I go there every year."

Kim Namjoon, Director at the Leeum Museum in Seoul and avid nature buff, takes one last look at the landscape canvas and grins. "Ah, twist my arm..." You follow him as he moves down the line of mounted canvases, stopping at a familiar portrait. He furrows his brows and cocks his head. "I feel like I've seen this guy before, something about the face... He didn't have green in his hair though, I must be confused."

You laugh at your friend, spying a shock of red through the swathes of people. "You have seen him before," you explain, catching the figure's eye, "you would have seen him here tonight."

In front of you, Namjoon raises his brows. "Oh, really? Who is he, then?"

Over Namjoon's shoulder, you watch Taehyung approach, turning heads with his scarlet dye. He gives you a wink, and you grin back. "He's my husband."

3K notes · View notes