#turns out it's hard to figure out how to paint sun dogs

[pearl-kite]

in the bible only angels have wings and the rest must wait to be saved

[thoughtsfromlayla]

Dreamweaver's Heart

Summary: The Dream Lord takes fascination to a new lucid dreamer in his realm, his Dreamweaver. The waking world is less than kind and he will travel dimensions to make sure you are safe.

Notes: ~8.6k, this was a request sent in by Anon based on this post! Otherwise, I'm sorry for having this fic take such a dark turn? It was supposed to be sweet but then in my search for more Tom Sturridge films, I came across Like Minds and it fucked with me. So now it fucks with my writing until further notice.

Warnings: Don't ever get attached to the characters I make for the plot, graphic descriptions of gore, death, murder, and drowning, betrayal of a friend, nonconsensual kissing (not from Dream), graphic serial killer activities, run in with a serial killer. Dream's a dream tho, a knight in black armor <3 Happy ending :D

I'm not going to say it's 18+, because it's not NSFW, but some of these themes can be disturbing. Please read the tags carefully.

Masterlist

“One, two, three, four, five, okay,” You count your right-hand fingers to yourself. Then cast your eyes on the watch you always carried on your wrist.

“8:13,” You take another look at your surroundings and take in the fresh air and kind sun. “AM,” you concluded.

You look back to your fingers and count again. “One, two, three, four, five,” You listed off in your head. Then one more time look at your watch. This time it read 5:15 PM, but the sun hadn’t moved. A grin crawls up to your face as you realize that you were dreaming. Lucid dreaming to be more specific. 

When you first heard about lucid dreaming in some off-handed news article you rolled your eyes and went on with your morning. There wasn’t much time in your life to worry about those things, not when another project was due, you had another meeting to attend, or another email to look at. But then life got unbearably hard to live with, stress kept piling up, and your vacation hours kept being declined. 

Your dreams turned from weird but forgettable dreams to nightmares of being chased, drowned, or murdered, only for you to both feel and witness again and again. When you wake up in a sweat at the ungodly midnight hours, you open your phone to find the news article again. It took you well over a month to get the hang of lucid dreaming but it was all worth the cognitive effort. Each time you go to sleep you count your fingers, then your clock, then your fingers, and then your clock again. There are always telltale signs that you were dreaming, dreams tend to never make sense so you look for those things. 

You intake another fresh breath of air and smile, head tilted towards the sun. The city air was polluted with car fumes and sewage smells, and while you loved the city, you do miss the easier days back in the countryside. You imagine the lush meadows, old trees, and the house that your grandfather hand-built for him and his wife. Before you the scenery changes and you’re sitting on a hand-carved rocking chair in a thin shirt and shorts. 

“This is the life,” You groan out to yourself as you begin the rock back and forth, thighs and arms trembling from a stretch. You stay like that for god knows how long, the waking world not a priority of your thoughts as you had the next day off. 

You only get up when sweat begins to collect along your hairline and the sunhat you are wearing begins to become itchy. A farm dog comes up to you and pants at your side urging you to go inside the house, maybe for a cup of lemonade, which sounded delicious the more you thought about it. 

When you look into the house from the windowed front door, a black figure briefly catches your eyes. It walks within the kitchen, running a finger across the worn wooden table and tracing lines of chipped paint over the tops of chairs. Confusion eclipses your face as his figure distorts on the thick glass and you open the door quickly. 

Much to your surprise, there was no such figure when the door opened. Your heart beats inside your chest and you look down at your fingers again. One, two, three, four, five… six. Six fingers, which is odd. You exhale slowly, it’s just a dream you say to yourself and carry on.

While sitting at the kitchen table you pinch your index and thumb together then bring both hands until they meet the other’s fingers. You pull them apart and a delicate golden string connects the fingers together. With a calming inhale of breath you move your fingers purposefully, drawing a picture of lemonade with a glass cup. If only it were this easy in the waking world. 

Lemonade appears on the kitchen table in a glass pitcher and you pour yourself a cup, chugging down the citrusy-sweet drink with a smile. You sit for a while, not particularly thinking of anything, your job had you doing enough of that. The kitchen window was open and you could feel the summer wind and hear the leaves rustling and mourning doves cooing. It was a scene straight out of your childhood, and if you concentrated enough you could hear the lawn mower going in the distance, the smell of freshly cut grass invading the house. 

A bark interrupts your serenity and you look over to the farm dog. He’s patiently sitting by his food bowl with a wagging tail. A small box of dog food appears on a nearby shelf and you go to him with a smile. 

“Are you hungry, boy?” You ask and reach for the kibble. He barks back in return and watches you intently as you pour a small serving. You then thought to yourself that, well, this is a dream and can dogs get diabetes in dreams? Probably not, so you dump the rest of the kibble into his bowl. It piled higher and higher and you can see a satisfied glint in the dog’s eyes as it begins to chow down on its food. 

You wipe your hands off on your shorts and toss the empty box into some unknown void in the hallway and go back to the kitchen. This time, however, two glasses were accompanying the pitcher. One, the glass you just drank out of, and the other, a half-drunk glass of lemonade. The condensation of the cool drink was still on the glass and you could see a clear handprint of where someone had grabbed it. 

You look back at the dog and notice that he is missing and panic sets in again. You look outside the window and the sun disappears, clouds rolling in with a sheet of rain. The ground around you starts to become wet despite the intact roof and it floods over your feet. The water fills up the space quickly. 

You try to calm your breathing and will the water to go away, for the sun to come back, anything to have your hours of peace before you have to wake up. But, nothing worked and the water came over your hips, and you’re hyperventilating now. The rain comes in through the windows in large gushes of water and you find yourself stuck in place, unable to move. 

“Wake up, wake up!” You chant to yourself, tears beading along your lower lash line. You pinch at yourself and are exasperated when you still don’t wake. The water felt too real, it was cold and piercing and you could feel the twigs and leaves of debris that brushed against your legs now and then. “This isn’t funny, wake up!” You cry to yourself again as the water rises higher. 

Behind you, in the shadows, the Dream Lord watches with intent. He always had a fascination with lucid dreamers, after all, they were able to minorly manipulate dreams to their whim. Something that the Dream King wouldn’t admit hurt his ego a little bit… just a smudge. But he had been watching your dreams lately and found it fascinating that you never dreamed of anything grand. No mystical adventure, no aspirations, and certainly no dreams of a more… sexual nature. Which, if he was allowed to comment, may be the reason why you were so stressed in the waking world and needed to find peace in his instead. 

“This dream is over,” He commands and waves his hand over the scene. 

You wake with a start, the sweat you produced while sleeping made your shirt stick to you uncomfortably and reminded you of your dream. You’re quick to get rid of it and throw it into your laundry hamper, now topless and rushing to the bathroom for a cold shower to calm you down. When you were done, your weekend alarm still hadn’t gone off and you were tempted to go back to sleep again. 

Eventually, you decided against it, unless you wanted to repeat what just happened. Purposeful, dreamless sleep hasn’t found you in a long time and you doubt it would come back just on a whim. You watch the sunrise in your apartment, sighing as sleep tugs at your body still. The cup of hot coffee in your hands felt more like decoration than anything useful as it didn’t give you the energy you craved. 

Thankfully you had nothing to do on your day off and you pat your past self on the back for going grocery shopping last night instead of making you do it today. You spend the rest of the day in bed, reading books on your Kindle and taking breaks by mindlessly scrolling through different forms of social media. Sleep tugs on your eyes but no matter how much you try to sleep, even a nap escapes you. 

The day goes by at a molasses-like pace, you don’t even remember eating. But once the sun has set and the stars made their debut, you happily resign as sleep overcomes you. The Kindle falls somewhere off your bed as you lose consciousness. When you come to your dreams, you’re greeted by a whale… in a tutu. 

Your laughter is hard to contain at the sight as you watched it dance on its fins to Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, part of your favorite ballet to watch when you were younger. It splashes some water on you and you use your hands to cover your face. It’s then that you remember to count your fingers.

“One, two, three, four, five,” All five fingers. What time was it? You repeat the ritual that has been so ingrained in your head and when you notice that you only have four fingers on your second count, you know then that you have control over the dream. 

“Thank you for your entertainment tonight, my friend,” You wave goodbye to it as the scenery changes around you. 

You’re back out in nature. A low-hanging tree greets you instead and a white and red checkered blanket is laid before it. The blanket had a mighty spread of slices of bread, jams, cheeses, meats, and tea. You make your way over and sit on the soft blanket, slowly picking the foods to taste. The atmosphere was perfect and the wind blew the smell of fresh water into your nose from the nearby pond. Ducks and geese honk at each other in greeting as they swim by. 

Deeper in the picnic basket was more food, but you found them in pairs. Two sandwiches, two teacups, and two dessert cakes. You quizzically stare at them as you hold the two sandwiches, one in each hand. You didn’t eat that much, did you?

“I see that you have started without me,” A voice comments. 

You jump in your skin at the sudden intrusion and look up. You see a man, dressed in casual black with an impressive coat. 

“Isn’t it a bit too warm to wear such a long coat?” You ask instead. 

You don’t protest when he sits next to you and hand him a sandwich instead. He places the wrapped food gently on the ground before taking off his jacket. 

“Better?” He asks as he goes to grab his sandwich again. 

“Hmm,” You only hum in agreement and start to unwrap your own. It’s a few minutes of silent chewing before you realize how weird this is. “Wait, who are you?” 

“No one you haven’t met before,” He answers vaguely. His sandwich was left untouched except for the bread which he threw at the ducks near the pond. 

You chew slowly as you try to digest his answer. He pours you a cup of tea which you drink freely from, murmuring a thanks as he hands you the fine china. The smell of vanilla and peaches invades your senses as you sip on the sweet tea. The favor takes you by surprise at how wonderfully it paired with the sandwich. By the end of the picnic, you have learned two things, your mystery man was great company, and that carbs made you comatose. 

“Oh, my god. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten that much food in one sitting,” You sigh happily as you lay down on the blanket. Your head hits the hard ground and an idea sparks in you. 

Once again you pinch your fingers together and then bring your hands together. You intertwine and loop the golden strings that emit from your movements, much like an old childhood game of yours, Cat’s Cradle, and produce a small pillow. 

You place the pillow down and give it a good smack before laying down again. The sun envelopes you in a kind warmth that makes you smile. You see dancing shadows behind your eyelids when you close them to enjoy the moment. 

You hear rustling beside you and turn your head towards the man lying down beside you. He really was quite beautiful, something more than a man, perhaps a deity. He is lost in thought, almost, as he thinks about your abilities, but he keeps his thoughts to himself. 

“You have a great side profile, you know?” You don’t know why you said that, but rarely in dreams do you know why anything happens. 

Your comment makes him chuckle, a sound that you wish to hear again. It was light-hearted and pure, something that you wouldn’t expect to hear from someone who looked like him. You couldn’t help but laugh along, finding his happiness contagious. 

“Thank you,” He says when he is done laughing. 

When the giggles leave your body, you go back to relaxing and soon you doze off. The rest of the dream is peaceful and pure, no more nightmares to haunt you tonight. The Dream Lord looks at you fondly as the wind blows some of your hair astray, happy to assist you for once in his realm. As long as he is here, you won’t have to fight your demons on your own again. 

The next morning was the first time in a long time that you felt energized. The old coffee pot is nearly forgotten as you get ready to go on a morning walk, something you have done in a long while. Afterward, a shower, and then lunch with an old friend you haven’t seen in months. He had decided to drop by after his work allowed him to come into the city. 

You meet with Oliver at a local cafe and you order tea this time around, along with some soup and a side salad. The AC is on full blast as more and more people come into the small building. You were lucky to find Oliver already waiting for you at a small table by the large windows. He waves at you when you come close enough and then pushes his glasses back into place. 

“How have you been, Poppet?” He starts right off the bat with a smile, using the same nickname he’s been using since grade 3. That smile brings you back all the way to your younger days when you first met him as your new neighbor. 

You think briefly about possibly mentioning your horrid dreams to him but decide to skip it, seeing as you didn’t want to ruin the mood for today, not to mention the peaceful dream you had last night all but almost made you forget it in its entirety. 

“Oh, you know me, running around like a chicken with its head cut off.” You joke with a self-deprecating laugh. Your comment makes you realize that you have to go to work the next day and deal with annoying clients all over again. “Same shit, different day,” You mutter in conclusion. 

Both of your foods arrive just in time for you to ignore the glare he sent your way. Instead, you find fascination in the soup you choose, the same soup you had for the past three years of your life. 

“What brings you into town?” You ask as you pick apart the complimentary bread. 

“Work, of course. Though I never thought it would bring me to this place.” He gestures to the city around him. 

Oliver works as a farm veterinarian so, rarely, does he come into a large city where each piece of green is covered in concrete or chewed gum. And, of course, there are no farm animals around. He goes on to talk about a conference that he was invited to, something to do with the fight on farm animal antibiotics. You only nod along as you ate your lunch, your talents lie elsewhere but don't want to seem rude. 

Only scraps of your meal are left when the two decide that it is time to depart ways. 

“How long are you staying in the city?” You ask outside the cafe. The weather was almost perfect today, save for the slightly chilling wind that came every now and then. 

“About a week.” Oliver puts on his jacket and then pushes his round glasses back in place. 

“A week, huh?” You thought out loud before a smile came to your face. “You should come by the exhibit later this week. My client is showcasing their art, and going together would be fun.” 

“I’ll be there.” Oliver takes the business card you hand him, the heavy paper turns from warm white to gray as the sun disappears behind some clouds. 

Rain begins to drizzle and splatter on the card. 

“Aw, man. What?” You complain and put your jacket over your head as the rain continues to fall. “There wasn’t a rain forecast today,” You grumble to yourself. 

The two of you step under the cafe awning, the thin fabric providing little protection. 

“Do you want to stay at my place until the rain lets up? It’s just a few blocks from here.” You offer. 

“Lead the way, Poppet,” Oliver says with a smile. 

You smile back as you hype yourself to run through the rain. Thank god you wore sensible shoes today. With a squeal, you run in the direction of your apartment. You hear Oliver laughing behind you as he follows closely behind. Your laughter and giggles continue when you two find the comfort of your apartment and quickly turn up the thermostat when you get inside. 

“Wow, you’ve decorated the place nicely,” Oliver whistles his approval. 

He kindly sets his dripping jacket on the coat rack before you do the same and thank him. He shakes his head, much like a dog, you mused, to get rid of the water as his hair splays out from his actions. You, the more sensible one, simply wrung it out over the kitchen sink. 

“Yeah, if work can’t destress me why should my own home be?” You nodded along. 

The storm had raged harder ever since you got inside, the rain pelting on the window. If you didn’t have company over, you would’ve tossed all chores to the side and huddled up for a nap. Sleeping has been wonderful ever since you figured out lucid dreaming. 

“Poppet, you got a remote for this giant T.V, or what?” Oliver says as he pokes his hands between couch cushions. 

“Erm, yeah, somewhere on the T.V. stand.” Your comment was absent minded as you poke around in your small pantry for some snacks. 

Your eyes lock on packets of hot chocolate you didn’t know you had and what could be more perfect than a rainy day and hot chocolate with a friend? You squint at the box, looking for the expiration date. When you find it, and see that it’s been expired since last christmas, you pretend you don’t. 

There’s probably enough preservative to make the powdered drink last until the end of days, right? Plus who is throwing out food like this? In this economy? You scoff to yourself. 

“Want hot chocolate?” You ask, peeking at Oliver’s form in the living room. 

He stands in front of the T.V., hip slightly popped out to support himself with a hand on his hip and the other on the remote. The news comes on instead of your usual menu of different streaming services and a confused look takes over Oliver’s face when he turns around. 

“No, not that remote, the other one,” You laughed and went ahead to the fridge to warm up some milk anyway. 

“Which remote, you have, like, 13 for no reason!” He cries out exasperated but goes to the stand to find the correct remote.

The news continues to play and with nothing better to do, you listen in while you wait for your milk to warm up. 

“There has been a recent murder here in our lovely city and we encourage citizens to remain vigilant. The killer has not yet been caught and there is no pattern as to what kind of victims they take.” The news anchor speaks. 

“Oh, shit.” Oliver stops his search as he, too, starts listening in to the news. 

“Welcome to the city, I guess,” You shrug with a defeated sigh. The milk starts to shimmer before you turn off the stove. 

“Still, you should stay safe,” Oliver comments as he finally finds the correct remote, turning in to a streaming service and picking a light hearted movie. You’re mixing the chocolate powder, spoon clinking against the non-matching mugs, and when you don’t answer right away, Oliver presses again. “You will be safe, right?”

“Yes, mom,” You sarcastically groan. “I’ll be safe.”

“That’s my Poppet,” He chides, some of his accent slipping through, and sits down. He opens an arm for you to sit next to him before you hand him the hot chocolate that you made. 

“Careful, it’s ho-”

“JESUS!” Oliver exclaims as his face flies away from the mug. His shocked face makes your own burst out into laughter, so much so that you have to set down your mug so that you don’t spill it all over yourself. 

“Are you laughing at my pain?” Oliver jokes and pokes your sides.

The ticklish action only makes you laugh harder, if that was at all possible. Seeing your reaction, Oliver goes to poke you again, and you defend weakly as your laughing makes you all but weak. 

“Sto-stop, you’re going to make me pee,” You choke out between fits of giggles. Your hands were clenched to your sides as a last ditch effort to conceal your weak points. Your cheeks were starting to hurt and your smile was so wide that you couldn’t even open your eyes anymore. You were simply at the mercy of feeling true happiness.

Oliver eventually stops and the T.V. goes into a mandatory ad break (I mean, you’re not going to pay for no ads after already paying for the streaming service, let’s be real). Your energy is sapped out of you and you deflate into the couch with a satisfied sigh. 

“That was the first time tonight I heard you laugh that hard. Has the city been that mean to you?” Oliver asks, now cautiously sipping his drink. 

“The city is not mean, it’s just different than home,” You reply with a roll of your eyes. “I wouldn’t change it for anything though.”

Oliver hums in response, whipped cream stuck on his upper lips. You could tell he wanted to say more but decided to keep quiet instead. Eventually, the two of you fell into a comfortable and familiar silence as you watched the rest of the movie. 

You ended up crying at a particular scene and Oliver, same old Oliver, poked at you again to try and get you laughing. The rain still hasn't stopped and you’re glad to live on a higher floor of the apartment complex or else you would’ve had to worry about potential flooding. 

At the end of the day, you ended up cooking dinner for the two of you as well, convincing Oliver to stay and have a warm meal before going home alone. Especially considering the news about the killer on the loose. You’re on your third movie when the two of you finally finish your late dinner and you fall asleep on the couch against Oliver’s much warmer body. 

The body underneath you shifts and your eyes snap open. 

“Sorry, Oliver, didn’t mean to fall asleep on you,” You apologize before you’re completely awake. 

“It is nothing of note,” Someone else’s voice responds instead. 

You rub your eyes and take a closer look at him and are surprisingly greeted by your mystery man. He wears the same clothes as the last time you met, only this time it’s warranted as you feel the chilling wind brush against your prickling skin. Unconsciously you crawl closer to him again and he wraps a protective arm around your body. 

Looking around at your surroundings you notice that the two of you were huddled amongst the clouds. Stars and nebulas dance around the two of you in sparkling wonder. When you reach out your hand to touch a star and find it surprising when you are greeted with a cold feeling. Your hand snaps back quickly and you tuck it under your arms to quickly warm up. 

“Guess I’m dreaming again,” You comment nonchalantly and lean back. The clouds seem to know where to stop and you’re lying comfortably by the man’s side again. 

“Ever the perceptive one,” He responds back. 

“I didn’t know I could dream of something this… spectacular,” You think to yourself, taking the risk to rest your head on his shoulders. Besides momentarily stiffening under your touch, he doesn’t move away, something you took as a good sign. 

“You did not, I did,” He says slowly. 

“Hmm, it’s nice, thank you.” You close your eyes and enjoy his warmth. 

Besides you, the Endless smiles to himself at your compliment. To him, it was nothing more than the wave of his hand to gift you this dream. He would be lying to himself if he were to say he hasn’t been waiting for you to cross over to the Dreaming since your last dream. His fascination for your abilities grows stronger yet. 

Yet, he has created a beautiful enough dream that you didn’t find the need to change anything, something he takes pride in. Your waking world has left you tired and weary, and he is here to provide. A tugging sensation pulls at him and he remembers why he is here. 

“My Dreamweaver, I have something to tell you. You must listen carefully.” His words were calculated when he spoke. “You are in danger, be cautious.”

“What?” 

“This dream is over.”

You wake up in your bed with a dry mouth and a pounding headache. When you roll over to look at the glowing digital clock, it reads 3:00 AM. With a groan, you leave your warm bed to tread the treacherous cold apartment for a glass of water. 

You fill up a small cup with some water and notice that by your sink is a small note, scribbled in red crayon. Your tired eyebrows shoot up at the note and grimace at the atrocious handwriting that was undoubtedly Oliver’s.

“Poppet, I can’t find your pens but I found this crayon by the TV remotes Don’t worry I called a cab I won’t get murdered tonight cause I’m vigilant unlike some people Mwah, Oliver” 

That night, your mystery man didn’t visit you again. He only leaves his vague message that echoes in the empty chambers of your heads. You’re plagued with dreams of drowning and despite all you can do to take control of the nightmare, there is nothing you can do but subject yourself to the violent, crashing waves. To constantly inhale gallons of gallons of salty water, to feel your muscles tired out, to feel yourself lose control. 

Your only salvation throughout the week was seeing Oliver again at the art exhibit. The murders haven’t stopped and it’s gotten enough traction for everyone in the office to talk about it, too. Yet, you could turn to your dreams instead to find relief. 

The man clad in black follows you still into your dreams, any mention of his message is quickly shut down or ignored completely. At the end of the day, you don’t mind, his company is more than enough to make your dreams sweet. He accompanies you through wildflower fields and stardust skies, he brushes your hair by the seashore and tells you the myths of old. Each day is a new dream and brings forth a reason to keep going. 

“A few nights ago,” He starts as he watches you gently touch the petals of a flower made of snow and glass. You turn to him expectantly and urge him to continue silently. “You did not call for me when you were having that nightmare.”

It takes a few moments for you to realize he was talking about your drowning nightmare. The one you so “wonderfully” had after an amazing time in the swirling cosmos. You begin to walk again, your shoes making no noise against the cold snow. The man follows beside you, face tilted towards yours in anticipation. His question had been burning at the back of his mind since it happened and he held on, barely, for the answer. 

“You can’t really scream when you’re drowning.” Your lousy excuse comes out and even you flinch at the words. 

You don’t dare to look at him, knowing the disappointed look he was surely giving you. Everyone knows that anything is possible when you dream, even more when you can lucid dream. After a very pregnant pause you give you real reason. 

“I don’t know your name, how would I call out for you, my sweet mystery man.”

It’s now that he stops walking and after a few steps, you too pause and turn to look at him. In the cold mountains of your dream, the snow is stark in contrast to his ebony form. It is here that you recognize how different he was, like the snow pulls away from any distractions and you look at him, really look at him. The facade of just a man falls away, and within, you see a being beyond your comprehension, held together by sheer will. You were right, he was more than mortal, more than a god, something more in every sense. 

“I am Dream of the Endless,” He says, voice slow, calculated and raspy as he closes the gap between the two of you. “I am the very dream you are in, the voice inside your head, the person you think you’ve met before while walking the street.”

You’re very aware of how close he was to you now, to see the precipitation of his breath, and the way his eyes are never truly one color. His form keeps the winter chill away from your body, warming the very spot you stood in where snow turns into sunlight and the ground beneath you turns to soft valley grass and wildflowers made of toffee candy and sour rope candy. 

“Would you really have come if I called for you?” You ask timidly, head turned down and away from his gaze. 

“Yes.”

“Okay.” You say with a smile, cheeks crinkling your eyes as you look at him again. All Dream could think about was making a sun that shines as brightly as you. 

Your dreams seem to start leaping out into your waking life as the words of the Endless follow you. Every now and then you would notice a flurry of black and alabaster skin in the peripheral of your vision, but when you go to look it’s nothing but a chair, or a stack of books. His familiar face haunts you when you space out on the bus ride home, or when you’re simply walking down the street and someone bumps into you that just barely looks like him.

Each time you shake your head no, it was impossible, he was only a dream. 

The night before the exhibit, Oliver gives you a text message that explains that he would need to be picked up from another location. A client had called him for an at-home euthanasia early in the morning right before the exhibit. You agreed and were sent an address. You brush your teeth and wash your face before turning into bed, sleep coming easily. 

Your dream starts, as always, with you counting your fingers. Then you look at your watch, and then you count your fingers again. Your clock had 5 hands instead of two and with control over the dream, you find yourself standing in an Asian inspired pergola surrounded by water for miles around. The only sounds that accompany you are the sound of the sloshing water and the wind’s percussion between the mountain cracks. 

You sit on the wooden flooring, cooled by the water, and inhale the scent of fresh water. You bring your fingers together, just like always, and watch as the golden strings move with your movement, producing a pouch of fish food. Large koi fish swim beneath you and you run a finger across the water’s surface and watch with a small smile as they chase your fingers as you sprinkle some of the golden kibble along the water's surface. A koi leaps up and bites your finger and the sharp pain flings your arm away from the water. 

“Ow, what the hell?” You frown and look at your finger, the pouch dispersing into gold dust. Pressing into the digit allows blood to leak from the wound. You don’t have time to think about it when your alarm blares at you and you wake. 

Your day starts in a rush, slamming your hand over the off button of the alarm clock. You skiddy your way into your bathroom, brushing your teeth, combing your hair and doing your makeup. Your outfit was ready on the door of your bedroom. The casual formal wear was perfect for the day ahead. Comfortable but respectable and easily spotted if someone were to come looking for you. 

You look at your watch before briskly walking out the door, a few minutes ahead of schedule and traffic. When you arrive at the house Oliver had told you to, you stand outside the door as you hear murmuring from inside the door. You remember why Oliver was here in the first place and slowly lean against the wall to wait for him. 

“He was the most perfect dog, he was loved, he was cared for. And it gives me great honor that you allow me to ease his suffering so he may continue to run in the never ending fields of the afterlife.” Oliver’s voice carries through the thin wall. 

Sobbing follows after and hushes of comfort as the dog passes in the arms of the owner. Uncomfortable that you were involuntarily eavesdropping in such a private conversation you start to play with your hands, picking at the nails and the cuticles around them. It’s now that you see, with a quickening heartbeat, a closed over wound on your finger. When you run your thumb over it, the pain long since subdued, you are reminded of a feisty koi bite from a certain dream. 

Was it real then? The dream, or merely the pain?

“Ah, Poppet, you’re here already,” Oliver’s whisper pulls you out of your thoughts slowly. “Is your finger hurt?” He notices and reaches for your hand.

“No,” You say quickly, perhaps too quickly, and move your hands away. “It’s just a scratch. Shall we go?” You turn before you give him a chance to answer. 

The exhibit, while productive, was blanketed over by a feeling of grief and melancholy. Your artist was soaking in the praises of success, but you find yourself sticking by Oliver’s side, drinking mimosas hoping the little alcohol could erase the uneasiness in your throat. Your finger gives phantom pains now and then, reminding you of the breaking cracks between dreams and real life. 

It’s only noon and you’re exhausted, giving the keys to Oliver to drive you back to your place. As if to taunt you even more, the elevator was down for repairs and so arm in arm, you and Oliver make your way up the seven sets of stairs until you reach your own apartment. 

“Oh my God, I can taste blood,” You whine, leaning all of your weight onto Oliver by the fifth floor. He, on the other hand, could not have looked more pristine. 

“When was the last time you exercised?” He chuckles as he lets you rest for a moment. 

You groan as your hand grasps onto the worn metal railing. “I briskly walked to my car this morning,” Your voice is gravelly and hoarse as you use your arm to continue upwards. “After the elevator ride down to the main floor.”

“Good grief, woman,” He jests. “We need to get you to the gym.” 

“Over my dead body,” You huff as you make your way again, steps heavy and stomping, the sound echoing in the empty chamber. 

The barren of your door gave you the last bit of energy to finish. The sight of your couch was enough for you to flop onto it and simply wish to perish. You’re breathing heavily out of your mouth, face to the ceiling and bounce when Oliver sits down next to you with exaggeration. 

“Don’t be dramatic,” Oliver teases, barely winded by the seven flights of stairs. You on the other hand felt like you had just come from a week at sea with nothing but a row boat and canned crackers. 

“I’m going to go shower, do you want to stay for lunch?” You ask, already halfway to your room after you caught your breath. 

“No, I’ve got my own thing to do, packing mostly.” You hear Oliver’s voice from the bathroom. You turn on the water to let it warm up and peek out of your bedroom. “Alright, I’ll see you off in a few days, yeah?” 

Oliver’s outside your door and the sudden proximity makes you jump in your skin. 

“Geez, you scared me. I thought you were still in the kitchen,” You say behind a small laugh. 

“I’m going to head out, alright? But yeah, let’s meet one more time before I leave later this week.” Oliver smiles and pokes your forehead. 

“Sounds good,” You agree, staring at the finger. 

“Stay safe out there, Poppet.” He waves and goes for the door. “I’ve got a cab waiting for me downstairs.”

You use the shower to cleanse yourself of not only the physical properties of today, and more importantly the sweat you accumulated walking up the steps, but also the more emotional toil. The warm water seemingly soaking up all of your depressive thoughts. It runs down the water and out the drain, and you feel lighter when you step out. 

You’re drying your hair with your towel when you see the brown square that is Oliver’s wallet sitting on your couch - opening it and seeing his ID card clarifies it. You groan as you know that he can’t get anywhere without his wallet, especially if he wants to leave. 

An internal debate was settled with going to his place before you pick something up for dinner. You place the wallet by your keys near the front door and make yourself some lunch, and put some much needed laundry into the washer while it cooks. You watch a small episode while you eat before returning to your work laptop and answering emails. 

The day goes by quickly and the rumbling of your stomach tells you that it’s time for dinner and more importantly, returning Oliver’s wallet. You redress in the same clothes you wore earlier that day, deciding to just deal with the high heels as any other shoe wouldn’t tie in well with your outfit, and you were not going to go out looking anything less than put together. 

How lucky you were when you walked down the hall to find the elevator back in operation. Down, down you went, seven flights of stairs to the parking garage. The echoing beep of your car tells you where Oliver had parked for you and you climb in. 

Traffic was a pain in the ass and you couldn't take another slow minute during dinner rush. Beeps and honks accompany you all the way to Oliver’s home and it takes a solid 45 minutes to travel 10 miles. You knock on Oliver’s door and you don’t know why but you’re nervous. There wasn’t an answer and you knocked again. Nothing. The door is unlocked and with a shrug to yourself you enter. 

All of the lights were turned off when you entered, fumbling about to turn on the lobby light near the door. The rented home was much bigger than your medium apartment and you seriously start to regret your career choice. 

“Oliver?” You call out, taking off your shoes and putting them aside. 

No answer.

“Ollieeee…” You sing out as you make your way further into the house. You drop the wallet on the dining room table and still nothing. You knew he was here, somewhere, the rental car he had was still in the driveway when you pulled up.

You bring out your phone, about to call him, when a small noise directs you to a staircase that leads downstairs and you make your way into the finished basement. When you open the door, something you never thought you would see greets you instead. Yes, Oliver was there but so was another woman. She’s tied down to a wooden table and you think you’re interrupting something if it wasn’t for the way her teary eyes snap towards you. Despair is washed out with a small glint of hope as her trembling hand reaches for you. 

“Help me,” She pleads. 

Oliver calls your name, almost breathlessly, and walks closer to you. In his hand holds a small knife, blood already smeared on the glinting metal. He greets you with a smile, but your attention is on the woman on the table. 

“Please.” She sobs again. 

You’re numb, on the brink of hyperventilation, and you’re sure that if you had gotten dinner before coming here you would’ve thrown up all over the vinyl flooring. 

“Oliver,” You gulp down as you take a step back.

He advances with another step, knife still in hand as the blood drips down onto the floor. He approaches you like a predator to scared prey, and he wouldn’t be wrong. His weaponless hand wraps around your wrist, warm and alive just like all of the other times he has done since you became friends all those years ago. 

“Come here.” He guides you closer. “This is our guest, Poppet.” He introduces. 

The woman squirms against her restraints and cusses. “Stop calling me Poppet, my name is fucking Alora, let me go!”

Oliver guides you closer and then slinks behind you, using his body to trap you from the exit. From this distance you can see the cuts and bruises Alora endured and you lean away in denial. Bile crawls up from the bottom of your throat begging to be released, it’s acidity painful to swallow. Alora’s tear stains seem permanent as another one follows its path as she watches the two of you lean over her. 

“Let.. let her go,” You say with a shaky breath. It’s the opposite of assertive, the opposite of a demand.

Oliver sighs behind you and slams the blade down on the table and both you and Alora flinch at the sudden noise. He laughs behind you, the breath tickling the nape of your neck. 

“I thought we could… share her,” He responds. You feel his lips on the junction of your neck and your body trembles again. 

“Share… her,” You echo.

This wasn’t real, there was no way this was real. No, you were definitely dreaming, Oliver took you home and then after your shower you fell asleep. He never left his wallet at your place. Oliver heals, he would never… 

You look down at your fingers, they’re shaking but still countable. One, two, three, four, five. You look at your watch, and with dread you notice that everything is in its place. One, two, three, four, five. It’s still the right time. One, two, three, four, five. 

“A dream, this has to be a dream. A nightmare.” You lie to yourself. Your thumb presses into each of your fingers and to your dismay, there are still five. 

You look down at Alora again, her eyes wide and begging and her fingers go to grab at you. 

“Ah, ah, none of that.” Oliver notices and pushes her fingers away from the two of you. 

His attention turns back to you again. “What do you think of it?” He asks, his hands resting on your hips and to your further disgust inhales your scent. 

“What do I think of it?” You echo again except this time it was more harsh, judgemental as it should be. 

Oliver scoffs and leaves your side. He walks to the other side of the table, knife back in hand as he points it to Alora’s face. 

“Look at Poppet here, notice anything?”

That’s when you look at her, really look at her. At first you didn’t see it, or maybe your mind was simply trying to prevent you from seeing it, but under Oliver’s scrutinizing gaze you notice with teary eyes. Her hair was the same color as yours, so were her eyes, they even mimicked the way yours were shaped. Her lips curled just like yours as they’re upturned in agony. 

“I think I’m going to be sick,” You gag, your hand flies to cover your mouth as you dry heave. 

“No, don’t be, my sweet Poppet,” Oliver comes to you again and holds your face steady. His eyes have always been like they are now, caring, soft, non-dangerous, but seeing his actions made you doubt everything. “Here, you can watch for the first time instead, how about that?”

“Wh-what?” You gape and he pulls away from you. He places the knife over Alora’s throat and her sobbing and pleas grow louder. 

“NO!” You scream and go to reach for the knife, unsure where the sudden bravery comes from. But, it’s too late, he slices, you feel the way his muscle moves under your palm, how it grips the blade, how it ticks when it kills.

The blood sprays and decorates you in its red and sticky liquid and you’re left stunned. Beneath you, you hear as Alora chokes on her own blood as her body trashes as a last ditch effort of escape. Oliver looks at you with a smile, his white shirt decorated just like yours. He looks at you with adoration and something like pride as he places the knife down and comes to you again. 

“You look even more beautiful in red, Poppet,” He compliments, but it falls on deaf ears. His lips press to yours in a one sided kiss and you weakly push back. “Let me clean everything up and then I’ll take care of you, okay?”

You stand still as you watch him, rag in hand as he begins to clean. 

“You were the most perfect person, you were loved, you were cared for. And it gives me great honor that you allow me to ease your suffering so you may continue to live free in the never ending fields of the afterlife.” Oliver’s familiar eulogy snaps you out of your shock, if not for a brief moment. 

It’s enough for you to run out the door, adrenaline blazes down your spine and pumps to all of your limbs. The door almost flies off its hinges as you open it into the dark night. You don’t know where you’re going to go, but anywhere is better than here. 

“Poppet! Wait!” Oliver screams behind you and he’s fast to catch you. 

Your bare feet scrap across the concrete sidewalk as your vision blurs with salty tears. You trip into an alleyway and sob, your pristine clothes now covered in dirt and blood, and you hear the crack of your watch as it breaks under the fall. At the edges of your mind, a small girl with wild and colorful hair peeks at you in fishnets, the world warps, distorting the difference between reality and delirium. 

A moment of clarity comes to you as you remember something. It tries to fall between the crevices of your mind but you grab onto it and hold it close. 

“Would you really have come if I called for you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Dream,” You cry out into the darkness. Oliver finds you on the ground and his arms pick you up. “No, no, let go of me!” 

The man clad in black doesn’t show his face and you beat yourself over it, because of course he doesn’t. It was just a dream. This is reality. Despite it all, you try one more time. A name falls on your tongue, one you didn’t previously know. 

“Morpheus!” You scream and the calling echoes in the suburban neighborhood. 

Oliver pays you no mind and hoists you onto his shoulders. You’re pounding at his back but his muscles never falter. He walks back with heaving breaths to his house when he is suddenly stopped and drops you. You unceremoniously roll and then sit quickly to run away again. You’re stopped short at the sight. 

In front of Oliver stands a man, his form fuzzy at the sides and blends in to the night around them. He wears a helm made of bones, accompanied by a bright ruby necklace, and a leather pouch of sand. 

“Dream?” You question and his gaze turns to you. You can’t see his eyes past the large bug-like design of the helm, but you know he sees you. 

“Who the hell are you?” Oliver sneers at him.

Dream doesn’t reply and instead he shrinks back into the shadows and wisps around until he stands in front of you. You hide behind his back as he protects you from Oliver. 

“Hey, get away from my Poppet.” Oliver takes a step forward but is stopped by Dream’s words. 

“Be quiet,” He commands. It’s two words, but it renders him speechless. “I turn you into prey. Your judgment upon you is to be hunted. Even after you wish for death, you will form into another and be hunted again. This is my gift to you, Oliver Barlowe, make good use of it.”

The curse is etched in stone as he speaks. He pours from his leather pouch and sand falls between his fingers. He curls then unfurls them before blowing the particles into Oliver’s face. You watch with horror as his form shrinks under the swirling sand and he turns into a shrew. He runs into the grass, his brown fur lost amongst the foliage. 

“Hello, my Dreamweaver,” He whispers and crouches to your height on the cold concrete. He extends a patient hand and you grab hold. “Come, nightmares shall hunt you no further.” 

“You came,” You say, still in disbelief as he helps you stand. 

“I kept my promise. I do not break such vows, ever.” His fingers gently wipe away the tears from your face. 

"You're real," You whisper, still not believing that he stands before you.

His fingers trace across your bottom lip as he comes closer to you still. Dream doesn't say anything, he simply soaks in your presence, drawn to you in a way neither of you could comprehend. His fingers still trace your face, running over your nose and the apple of your cheekbones.

You feel the swirling of sand around your feet and the world changes around you. You’re in the meadows again, surrounded by flowers made of snow and glass, and you see the cabin your grandfather built. Dream sits you down on a white and red checkered picnic blanket with two glasses of lemonade. 

“Will you stay?” You ask as you grab the cool glass cup of lemonade. Your gaze turns to the sweet yellow drink and you rub the smooth glass as a way of calming yourself. 

“Yes.”

“Okay.” You smile. 

Alsooooo, very inappropriate use of being a veterinarian, we don't kill people and we don't make that much money, sigh

My Sandman comics came and they're so heavy... Second also, Comic Dream is such a mood

Maybe a more lighthearted fic for next time, hmm?

♡ Yours, Layla

[penguinwithitsarseonfire]

spring breaks loose, the time is near

Pairing: Thirteenth Doctor x Reader

Word Count: 3,297

Warnings: reader is sick but the illness is never specified, so much fluff

Summary: You’re sick. The Doctor finds you in the garden and gives you company, with a hidden mission on getting you to bed.

Request: Do u write for thirteen? Bc I need some fluff. Nothing specific just hundreds of fluff. Drown me in fluff. Have me regenerate in fluff. Let me be gay in le fluff. Fluff.

A/N: Apologies if sick!fics aren’t your thing, I’m currently sick spicy positive which is a whole bag and a half so this is where my brain was leaning when I thought of fluff. I hope you enjoy!!

You loved gardens.

There was something about them that made you feel safe. The warm sun on your face, not too harsh, speckled through the overhanging trees. The sound of the bees flitting through the early spring buds, wrapping around your heavy frame and throbbing mind. The gentle breeze, bringing with it all the familiar smells of home, of the first flowers, and of the bright green leaves that lifted themselves to the sun.

And the sun – oh, the sun. It was moments like this where you understood why sunflowers turned towards it. Why they shaped themselves yellow to match it, why they built themselves taller, spread their petals wider, all to capture as much of the sun as they could.

It was warm.

Fatigue ached at your bones, one the main cons to being sick, you thought. It pulled your fragile limbs into the concrete beneath you, made every innocuous movement, the turn of your head, the blinking of your eyes, as weighted and heavy as the many heavy bags you had been forced to pick up in your lifetime.

And your eyes? They were hit with it the worst.

Your eyes were heavy, drooping like the petals from the irises next to you, the spring weather still too early for them to reach the light. One wrong move, and you wouldn’t be surprised if they fell away from you. You closed your eyes, letting your head rest into your knees – which wasn’t good for your chest, but any other position put too much strain on your body – and let your back capture the sunlight around you.

You had found the garden a few months ago, after talking about – complaining about, rather – on how much you missed a good garden. Travelling with the Doctor was wonderful, really, it truly was, but on days like this, nothing beat a cosy garden.

The Doctor had looked surprised when the garden first appeared. She had been adamant that while it was a “great idea, seriously, would love a bunch of bees in the place – ooh or maybe a bird or two! Always had a fondness for a woodpecker,” that it just wouldn’t be practical.

Yet, the garden was here, and it was a wonderful reprieve from the little sick bubble your bedroom had grown into.

Familiar footsteps floated into your hearing. You didn’t want to look up, comfortable in your huddled position on the ground. The concrete was hard against you, but it reflected the sun onto your arms, which, again, was warm.

An equally familiar clearing of the throat pulled you from your position. You were met with soft eyes and a soft smile, and tried to mimic the smile in turn. You weren’t sure if the Doctor could see it, you couldn’t feel your eyes crease or the warmth of it lift your cheeks. The Doctors gaze grew warmer though, adoring.

You gave her a slow, heavy nod. “Hey Doc,”

The Doctor considered you for a moment. Her hair was slightly curled, wavy and relaxed in the way the Doctor so often wasn’t. She was holding two mugs, one, a mug with dogs printed across the ceramic. Another, painted with the sharpie scribblings of the language from Gallifrey. It was a familiar mug, one the Doctor had made for you in a past face, when she had been a bit more obsessed with bowties, but still loved a fez.

She held out the sharpie mug, giving you a small grin. “Hey, I figured some tea would help.”

You lifted an arm, making a rather pathetic attempt at a grabby hand. Your fingers closed into a fist once, then twice, before collapsing into the ground.

The Doctor chuckled softly and chose to crouch down beside you. She crossed her legs, lightly bumping her shoulder with yours as she passed you the mug. The tea was the perfect colour, just warm and dark enough that you knew she made it right.

“I don’t want to make you sick,” you commented, your voice apologetic.

The Doctor took a sip of her tea, before screwing up her face. “Might have over brewed this sorry,” then turned to you. “I’m a Time Lord y’know, have you ever seen me sick?”

You scrunched up your face at that, forehead creasing in the most dramatic display of emotions you had been successful with since falling sick. You crawled through your mind, searching for a memory – any memory, that even hinted that the Doctor had been sick. You’d known her long enough… so surely.

Except the memories were hazy, pulling away from you with every attempt to burrow deeper.

The Doctor gave you an insufferable, triumphant grin. “See, told you. I’ll be fine.”

You tried not to show how much you adored the way her eyes sparkled when she said it. The worst thing you could do was feed into it.

You took a careful sip of the tea, letting out a small, delighted breath as the warm liquid met your tongue and throat. You hadn’t realised how itchy your throat had been, how your vocal cords clawed against one another, grating and painful. You smiled again, hopefully larger than your earlier one. “It’s perfect, thank you.”

The Doctors grin changed, from smug to silently pleased, and, not for the first time, you wanted to kiss her.

It was moments like this when she made you feel held, when she made you feel cherished.

Clouds pooled above you, snuffing out the sun. It wriggled down your back, making you shiver. In protest, you gave the sky a half-hearted glare.

“How is it,” you mused disappointedly. “That in a perfect ship, in a perfect room, clouds still manage to block the sun?”

A ladybug twirled around you then, and you spilled pearls of laughter. You scrunched up your nose as it came in close to your eyes, and you realised, rather belatedly, that the TARDIS had sent it your way.

You smiled up into the sky, a silent thank you.

“The garden’s mimicking your home’s weather,” the Doctor said. “Doing it in real time too,” her voice was so matter of fact that, for a moment, you almost believed that she had designed the room.

But then your mind fell back to the look of surprise that had stretched across her face when she had found you in it, marvelling at the sunset that pooled itself over the skyline, oranges, pinks, and reds tangled in the clouds.

It fell into her saying “the amount of work it would take to build an entire ecosystem isn’t worth it,” the memory hazy and brittle. Yet she had stood there, eyes fond as you first took her in, standing under the setting sky and bubbling with excitement, and you weren’t sure she hadn’t been involved.

So, you tested it, letting your mouth turn into a conspiratorial smirk. “How do you know that?”

The Doctor shrugged, waving her free hand. “It’s pretty obvious, don’t you think? It feels like you.”

Your head cocked to the side, taking in her words. The garden felt warm, safe, but you hadn’t realised it felt like… you. Or, more importantly, that the Doctor had a place in her mind that, when reminded of you, recognised it as a feeling.

You hadn’t realised you were that special.

The Doctors voice dropped lower then. If she were anyone else, you would dare to suggest it was shy. “I’m glad you like the tea.”

“Of course, I do,” you said. “You always make it how I like it, and it’s in my favourite mug and everything.”

The Doctor brightened then, her face moved into a look of surprise, eyebrows raised and smile delighted, the same look she had given you when you had first found the garden. “That’s your favourite mug?”

Your eyebrows knitted together in confusion. For you, it was obvious. “Well, you made it for me, so of course it is,” you said, before adding. “Even if I don’t know what it means.”

The Doctors face matched yours, eyebrows drawing to her nose, giving it that familiar scrunch that had never, not once, failed to make your heart freeze. “Nah, I totally told you, didn’t I?”

And you let out a soft laugh. “No Doctor, you never have.”

And she shrugged again, face falling into… you couldn’t quite describe it. You mind was hazy, and it couldn’t pick the careful blank expression the Doctor had schooled her features into.

She looked away from you then, gesturing around you. “You like the garden?”

And it was your turn to frown again, but you were used to the way the Doctor would flip a conversation, peel away from it the moment anything got too sentimental for her.

Which made you burn with curiosity – what did the mug say?

You didn’t press it, instead, turning towards the view. Now, the garden was lovely. It wasn’t any garden you recognised. Pots lined the brick wall behind you, stood on the small patch of cement where you sat. By your side was a long iron bench, the metal twisted to mimic tree branches.

Above you, a tall oak shielded you from the sun, allowing just enough of the sunlight to peak through the crack, warming your face and your back. But it was the small stream that you couldn’t quite get over. It spilled from next to the doorway, small enough that you could walk through, and the water would barely hit your ankles. Steppingstones no larger than a dinner plate weaved through it, and you had taken dizzying steps on them only moments before.

Stretched beyond you was simply green. Plants spilled around you, wildflowers, shrubbery, and a few alien plants you couldn’t identify, with purple stalks and glowing leaves.

It really was wonderful.

Slowly, the clouds parted again, and you turned your face up into the sun, basking in the warmth.

“I love it,” you breathed, eyes closed as they met the light. “It’s so warm in here. I was going stir-crazy in my room.”

The Doctor let out a breath that you swore sounded like relief, bright and airy, like it was lifting a weight from her shoulders. “Good, I’m really glad about that.”

You peeled open an eye, turning to her slightly so you could look at her. You parroted past works back to her. “And here I thought a garden wasn’t practical.”

The Doctor shrugged, not catching that you were watching her. Her ears went red, and she subtly brushed her hair over them. “Yeah well, the TARDIS does crazy things when I’m not looking. She’s always trying to replace the pool.”

Once, you had sat with her in the console room, papers from different notebooks scattered around you, hastily drawn, and just as hastily torn from their bindings. They had been filled with ideas; a popcorn room, an extension to the library, notes upon notes on how to upgrade the pool.

Form memory, it had never been the TARDIS who was building or designing the rooms in here.

You closed your eye, tilting your head back to capture more of the sun. Careful eyes fell onto your frame, warm and familiar. You could feel the way the Doctors gaze tracked your face, your hair, your hands clasped securely on your tea.

Your face went warm, flushed on your nose, your cheeks, and down your neck. You hoped the Doctor chalked it up to the sun, and not the… well. The everything you felt for this mad Time Lord in a box.

A box she, occasionally, had far more control over than she gave herself credit for.

“I really do love it,” you said again, voice as quiet as the nearby stream. “It feels like home.”

You let the weight of that statement hang in the air, as heavy and as full as your fatigued bones. Your it feels like you, was left unsaid. 

You took another sip of your tea, delighting in how perfectly made it really was. It was warm, but not to the extent that it would burn your tongue, and when it came from the Doctor, it was never bitter. The Doctor had always taken careful consideration of your tea, and had never brewed it wrong since… Since giving you this mug, actually.

“And the tea,” you added, pausing to take another sip. “It’s wonderful.”

You heard the smile in her voice, the self-satisfied grin that you never wanted to admit you loved. “Well, I’ve gotten pretty handy with the tea, haven’t had a falling out with the kettle since…” she paused then, voice trailing into memory. “Think I might’ve been Scottish then.”

You laughed then, because of course that was the case. You thought of the Doctors wild hair and equally perturbed temper back then, and yeah, you could easily picture just how the Doctor would have a falling out with a kettle.

Your laughter bubbled into a violent cough. It wrang through your frame, twisting into your chest with stringy hands, gripping into your lungs and your sternum with white knuckled fists. The cough racked up into your throat, your body bowling forward, some of your tea sloshing out of the mug.

You winced, groaning at the sudden onslaught. Belatedly, you looked up at the Doctor, whose horrified expression fell into one of concern. “Your coughing has gotten worse.”

You shrugged. “It happens. I’m sick.”

The Doctor nodded, eyes going hard as her expression fell into what you had dubbed as her ‘thinking face’. It was a familiar sight, one that, despite the features, whether it was a blonde head, bushy eyebrows, or a particularly large chin, caused the Doctors face to tighten, eyebrows creasing and mouth falling into a tight line.

You had memorised all the Doctors expressions, the way they echoed in her hazel eyes and bright smile. You tried not to think about why you had done so.

“We need to get you to bed,” she said finally, her voice with the same punch of finality as she gave the fam when finalising a plan, or when she was telling someone off when they did something particularly dumb when she was saving the day.

Yet, you fought it. You let out a near petulant groan, letting your head rock back into your knees. “But it’s warm here.”

“It can be warm in bed too,” she countered. “Where you should be resting. You humans, your bones are so frail, you need to let your body mend”

You picked your head up simply to glare at her, but it was half-hearted at best. “My bones aren’t the problem here.”

You ignored the fatigue, how it pressed into your arms, your legs, and the curve of your spine.

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. “Humour me? I made you tea.”

And yeah, she had done that, hadn’t she.

With a dramatic sigh, you nodded. “I suppose rest would probably help.”

The smile the Doctor gave you was reward enough. It spilled out from her, brighter and warmer than the sun that sat above you. You would do anything for that smile.

The Doctor stood, offering you her hand. You took it carefully, gripping tight as she helped pull you into a stand. Dizziness clawed across your vision, spotty and hazy, threatening to spin you downwards.

In an instant, the Doctor’s arms were around you, her own mug of tea forgotten on the cement. Her hold on you was solid, wrapped tight against your frame, warm against your waist and your chest.

Her voice was like honey against the base of your ear, pooling and circling down your spine. “You okay,” she asked, and it rocked you forward, making you shiver.

You nodded belatedly. “Yeah,” you said, and you couldn’t tell if your breathlessness was because of your illness, or because of her. “I’m okay.”

As close to you as she was, you felt, rather than saw the Doctor’s nod in acknowledgement.

“Let’s get you to bed then,” she said, her breath falling onto the back of your neck, making the hair there stand.

Still gripping your mug, the Doctor guided you over the steppingstones.

You really loved this garden. The grass was soft under your bare feet, the sun wrapped around your frame, and with your hand in the Doctors, it felt like this garden truly was made for you.

And oh.

Your voice was small when you tested it again. “You said a garden was impractical,” you said. “Yet you did it anyway.”

The Doctor froze, her grip on you tightening ever so slightly. The water lapped at her ankles, just missing the hem of her trousers. Her reply was clipped when she spoke, embarrassed. “Rule 1.”

The Doctor lies.

It was a half-hearted response, and one you scoffed at that. Her rules, as she had once called them, weren’t something she really often referred to these days. Well, besides the no-wandering off rule, but that wasn’t something she really stuck with herself.

Besides, the Doctor wasn’t often one to lie after doing something to make you happy. It was baffling.

“You said it wasn’t worth it,” you pressed.

The Doctor ignored you, instead saying. “C’mon, my feet are getting wet, and I’m wearing socks.”

It was like blinking. One moment, you were in the garden, the sun warm and the Doctors grip firm. Next, you were falling into bed, body collapsing into the pillows and sheets that were stacked against the head.

Your body practically melted, the bed capturing every ache in your bones, every fatigued and weary muscle. You let a small, easy groan, letting your mattress and blankets wrap around your frame.

You wouldn’t admit to the Doctor that she was right. But to yourself? Yeah, she was right. Rest is just what you needed.

Your weariness overtook you, clouding over your eyes and pulling down your neck. Your body was as tired as your mind, and although a part of you, the part that wanted to stay awake for the mere pleasure of spending more time with the Doctor, protested loudly in your mind. It was quickly stifled by how tired you were.

A lazy yawn consumed you, reaching through your frame as you buried your head into your pillow. You mumbled a soft thank you to the Doctor, but the sound came out muffled, like a ‘thnkoo’ than any discernible word.

You heard her chuckle then, voice low and fond, and her hand found your back. She moved her hand over your shoulder blades and into the centre of your back, slowly and languidly. Almost unconsciously, almost, because you loved it,you leaned into her.

“Get some sleep,” you heard her say, as sleep danced across the edges of your mind.

You nodded, your heartbeat slowing, your mind quieting.

In the silence, as you began to waltz with sleep, not quite unconscious, but not awake enough to trust your sense of hearing, your sense of feeling. A light pressure met your forehead, brushing against the space just above where your eyebrows met. The kiss was warm, safe, and if you had the energy, you would have leaned into it.

The Doctors fingers brushed against your hair, tucking some loose strands behind your ear. She paused for a moment, as if debating something, before, just as softly, she kissed you again, in the place where your face met your ear.

“The mug,” the Doctor spoke softly, voice so quiet that, were her lips not next to your ear, you may have missed it all together. “I wrote ‘I cherish you,’ that’s what it says.”

Your tumbled into sleep, mind turning into a haze, the Doctors final words falling through you like water through a sieve.

“You’ve always been worth everything,” she said. “I cherish you.”

A/N^2: Just a reminder I’m taking requests! Please read my rules before sending anything in. Also a HUGE thank you to everyone who sprinted with me in the thirsting for thirteen server, I adore you all so so much, and this fic wouldn’t have been written otherwise.

[thebisexualwreckoning]

you meet me in the dumpster behind the community art centre, elbow deep in cardboard packaging and ruined art supplies. your canvas tote bag hangs limp at your side, wondering whether i'm crazy and need help or whether i'm just your local weirdo every new york neighbourhood seems to have.

just the local weirdo you decide as i begin to separate the scraps of leftover metal not properly disposed off, stuffing them into one of the larger carboard boxes i grab as well.

"can i help you?" seems to stupid a question to ask. i obviously know what i'm doing, my hands moving with the flawless grace of someone who's been dumpster diving for many years now. but like, is this even legal? you don't know New York City Laws. I don't know New York City Laws. neither of us paid much attention in intro to law beside what was needed to pass.

in the end i'm the one who speaks first. i tend to do that, taking a hold of awkward situations when you didn't know what to say.

'are you just going to keep on standing there or ask me why the fuck i'm going through your trash?'

there's a flush coating your cheeks, high on your sharp jawbones (the surgeon had done a good job on the face masculinising surgery). you always lit up like the first cherry tomato on the vine whenever you felt embarrassed.

'i'm sorry. didn't mean to stare.'

's'alright. i'd stare at the rando going through the trash as well if i was in your place.'

'what are you doing going through the trash? there's so many better things you could be doing with your time.'

'that an offer, cowboy?'

i smirk as you realise how your words could be interpreted, the distress blooming along your face. you're reading this behind my back right now, i can tell, probably telling me that that was not what happened!

i decide to put you out of your misery. 'i know a good spanish restaurant nearby? if you're not too scared of the weird dumpster diving lady to figure out why i was dumpster diving?'

'sure,' you say. 'let me just text my friend in case you do turn out to be axe wielding murderer.'

i laugh, surprised at the little glimpse of your personality. i should've figured anyone who'd stop to check on the rando collecting trash in fucking new york could not have been normal themselves.

'you, oh i'm gonna like you.'

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

the next time we meet, it isn't an accident. you bring the coffee and i bring the bagels. we're at the harbour, the most fucking cliché date spot the two of us could think of.

we walk along, the manhatten skyline and setting sun framing you like a michelangelo painting. i'd compare you to something divine but i feel like that's overdone. also, tumblr doesn't think religious guilt hits as hard if it isn't christian and i'm both not christian and too sure of my gods to even bother trying to write it.

besides, there's something so grounded in domesticity, something divinity can never recreate. is it romantic if i say you looked like a stand mixer? or a blender! just solid i guess. dependable. beautiful in your simplicity. god i was so jealous about that, how you were so sure in who were. simple. don't know why people think that's an insult. i'd kill for something simple these days.

but no matter how complicated shit got you were there. just talking about your dogs (cassidy learned to roll over today. it took like half packet of dog treats but at least we're getting there!) or your colleagues at work (samantha's trying so hard to appear accepting it's kinda gotten transphobic. you know what i mean). dependable as a stand mixer.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

i wouldn't say what we had was romantic exactly. sure, we fucked and made out like horny teenagers and did the groceries and you were practically living at my place by the time year was over, but we weren't romantic. not really.

i don't think i can feel romantic love. it's not coded into me. sometimes i feel like i can't feel love at all. did you know i didn't cry when my grandma died? it might have been because i was like 9 and she'd been dying since i was 6 (cancer's a fucking bitch) but i still didn't care. i feel guilty about it. have felt guilty about it since i figured out what death actually was and how you're usually supposed to react to it. what a fucking joke.

but like, i cared about you. i still do. i might not be able to differentiate between romantic love and platonic love, but i knew i cared about you. and you didn't mind. at least i hope you didn't mind.

i'm cold. i'm always cold in this city. guess i'm still a tropical girl at heart. you're born and brought up though, so you don't mind giving me your scarf, tying it around my neck like a bow.

'i feel like there's a noose around my neck. or that i'm a christmas present. either way i feel very objectified.'

'shut up -' you laugh, '- would you prefer freezing to death instead?'

'i mean, kinda?'

'you really need to sort out your priorities.'

i smirk. 'but i wouldn't be as interesting then. and isn't that we're living? to try to be the most annoying interesting motherfuckers alive?'

you look at me with that look in your eyes, like i'm some complicated puzzle that you're trying to figure out how to solve. you always had that look in your eyes when interacting with me, but at some point, it turned more into fond exasperation rather then genuine befuddlement.

i think that's when i started to love you.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

i was gonna ask you to marry me.

can you imagine it? the two of us! married! i mean, we joked about it enough, how we should just tie the knot for the tax benefits (there aren't really that many benefits you get if you're married. but like it's the spirit of the thing).

you'd have said yes. i knew you would have. and you wouldn't have cared that i didn't love you the way our parents expected us to love. i loved you how i could and that was enough for you. thank you for that by the way, for thinking i was enough.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

i don't believe in soulmates. you know that better than anyone. you were the one who was subject to all my rants on how i think its just not as romantic and how there's no angst or will they-won't they and how it's just a complete mockery of free will and how love is always more romantic if there's an active choice that's being made. i love you i love you you're the one i choose. i guess it makes sense considering my own experience with romance. i'd hate to be tied to someone just because some outside force thinks we should be together.

but like, i don't really have any other word to describe what you are to me. i think you're my other half, which sounds cheesy as all hell, but its true. you are. fuck if there isn't some sort of irony in that.

i don't think i can live without you. i don't know how i lived all those years without you. you slotted into my life like the final puzzlepiece that you find under the sofa after family gamenight. a little dented, a little dusty, but without you the picture's incomplete.

look, i don't know where i'm going with this. i guess what i'm trying to say is that you were there, for whatever reason, you were there. you pulled me out when i was drowning in that depressive haze and you baked chocolate muffins and you held my hands when they were cold. you were there.

and like, maybe that isn't fair on you. maybe i shouldn't have made you the single turning point around which my life revolved. but like, that's how it turned out and i guess we've got to make the best of it. you're the fucking sun and i'm drawn into orbit whenever i look at you.

obsessive, my therapist used to say, there's nothing in your life you think there's worth living for so you get obsessive over other people's lives.

well fuck her. what does she know?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

i never liked hospital waiting rooms. though, to be fair, i've never been on the waiting side of them. asthma meant people were doing the waiting on me, not the other way around.

still, it's the principal of the thing. no one likes hospital waiting rooms. they're liminal spaces like you'd say. they exist the same way hotel rooms and airports exist. you're always on your way out, and if you're lucky, through the door.

i sneeze, a middle-aged mom holding her daughter closer to her and glaring at me. i can't be bothered to pretend to care. if you were here, you'd wrap your scarf around me in a bow like a christmas present.

my phone screen's about to die. i've been staring at it for the past hour, your last message blinking up at me through the screen.

hey i noticed that we're out of eggs could you go grab some?

i'd not written anything back, too busy pre-gaming with a friend who'd told me we should celebrate my finally buying a ring. you must have seen the unread sign and decided to go grab them yourself.

i can see you now, kissing cassidy on her furry forehead and petting tom as you pulled your shoes on. you probably wouldn't have left any food for them, thinking you'd just pop down to the asian grocery store the next block over and be back in time for the 8 p.m. showing of whatever you were watching on tv.

the funny thing is, it was my job to get the eggs, even before you sent that message. i'd just not cared enough been too busy to get around to doing it. i suppose in the end i was to you what judas was to christ. (guess we are doing the christian religious guilt comparison).

your death was so... mundane in the end. car crashes are a dime a dozen in new york. just another statistic to put on the national census. it doesn't feel over yet, doesn't feel like you're actually gone. the ring box is still in my pocket, warm from my body heat. it should've been on your finger.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

your father's there at the funeral. i guess he got his head out of his ass for long enough to realise being a transphobic piece of shit was not reason enough to not attend his son's (you ever say that name in my presence again i will knock your fucking teeth out. he hasn't been that little girl in a long long time) funeral.

it's beautiful, sunflowers and baby's breath everywhere, just like that tattoo on your thigh. you fucking hated roses, couldn't stand the thought of them at our 'potential' wedding. i'm glad i could at least make sure they weren't present at your death.

i'm walking along the harbour now, two cups of coffee in the carrier in one hand and two bagels still in the packaging in the other. i find a bench to sit at, which is a miracle in and of itself in new york during summer vacation time. the pigeons get your bagel and the fishes your coffee.

you once said that you hoped i didn't turn out to be an axe murderer. i'm not. but you can't live in new york city as femme presenting person for as long as i have without having some method of protecting yourself. i just so also happened to like the manic pixie dream girl core aesthetic, my extensive collection of daggers testament to that fact (renfaires truly are amazing for finding things that would otherwise get you put on an fbi watchlist).

but like, bleeding out is so messy and takes so long and really just isn't that dignified at all. and besides, your scarf is tied around my neck and doesn't that sound so much more appealing. i've always known your's were the only hands i ever wanted to die from.

my fingers are shaking from the cold by the time i get home. cass and tom are taken care off, a single mother who needed a guard dog for the kids while she was at work and an old lady who wanted a cat as an companion because it was fucking lonely in the house all alone after the kids left. i've slipped a note underneath our neighbours' door, telling her to call the police and under no circumstances try and open our door. she's at work right now, and it should give me plenty of time to do what needs to be done. i just don't want her getting traumatised from seeing the body.

it's quiet. so quiet in the apartment tonight. you loved these kinds of nights. we'd curl up under the blankets with a movie on and hot chocolate to drink. you'd always have a chocolate moustache by the end of the first half and i'd lick it off your face while you pretended to find me disgusting.

the scarf's warm around my neck. i didn't think it was worth it to turn the heater on just to wrack up the bills. my parents have enough to worry about as is.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

i never did end up telling you what i was going to do with the scrap metal i'd collected before we ended up on our impromptu first date. and by the time you moved in it was already installed.

i crafted a chandelier with it actually, your favourite part of the apartment. it's the only thing high enough to tie a scarf too.

[starry-skies-116]

FUCK IT, NEW PINNED POST THIS TIME!!:

Okay, once again, from the top- top of the mornin' to ya! My humblest and sincerest greetings to all mortals, dragons, demons, spirits, celestial beings and all in between and many more!

I’m your local multifandom enthusiast, I go by Starr!

I’m aroace and intersex, and I am genderfluid/nonbinary! Presentation changes from time to time but I really want an undercut tbh. I'm still kinda sad that sex-ed in schools isn't LGBTQIA+ friendly yet.

I also have very few but very loving and wonderful IRL friends! Usual pronouns change between she/her, they/them/ he/him and it/its; I am a neopronouns user too!

Also please use tone-tags around me, this user's can't tell a joke from a serious statement a lot of times-

Personality: Hopeless idealist, wants deep companionship, feels lonely and ignored from time to time but that’s aight, life do be like that sometimes though. Sappy poet and writer lol-

I do program and write and draw, but half the time whenever I program I just wrestle with the computer lmfao (ESPECIALLY the standard library like tf)-

DNI: Transphobes, Truscum, Transmeds, TERFS, ableists, anti-cluster B/believe in n@rc abuse, racist, aphobes, homophobes, queerphobes, xenophobic, gender-critical, bigots, LGBTQIA+ exclusionists, thinspo/pro ED, bullies, NSFW/K!nk, anti-agere/agedre, Pro-DDLG and all its variants, P3d0ph!l3s, N@z!s, really anything that makes me feel uncomfortable- just come on here and you're welcome as long as you're not being an ass. (and don't make fun of me for having a DNI, it really isn't that hard to spare me the trouble of blocking you and just... not interact).

Actually REALLY high empathy by modern standards, just figured out I have to turn the tap off a lot because the suffering of other people affects me deeply!

I stim alot irl (playing with hair, foot/leg spazzing out restlessly, vocal echolalia/mimicking choirs, rocking back and forth but never adjusting position, chewing gum a tad too aggressively if I have any- if not then grinding teeth way too much, etc.)

I'm diagnosed with depression, PCOS and ADHD, and have a lot of symptoms of autism and dyscalculia (because of how genuinely chaotic and dysfunctional I can be at times tbh). I also do descend into major depressive episodes from time to time, though I don't know how to recognize if they're just sensory overloads, meltdowns, brain fog episodes or just bad brain days/symptom days in general.

My mental and physical health is getting better, but I still hate being called a cis woman or being referred to as strictly feminine.

Multiple fandoms and hyperfixations, including but not limited to:

ROTTMNT, FNAF, Poppy Playtime, Fire Emblem, Genshin Impact, Honkai Star Rail, Demon Slayer/KNY, TMNT, Stranger Things, Star Wars, OMORI, Transformers, Pacific Rim, The Owl House, Zelda, Zenless Zone Zero and much more!! Sorry if you're here for any one of these specific fandoms, I tend to aggressively post about my current hyperfixation depending on it lmao-

Additional facts: Kind of a glutton when it comes to food, introvert asf on top of being autistic (doesn’t know how to do human social things), has way too many hobbies/things I find interesting to count! Absolutely fuckin HATES dresses and the unnecessary, excessive femininity of periods (especially when they worsen my gastric issues and give me stool problems)! I DO also age-regress and age-dream from time to time!

I like sweets, rice, food in general, dogs (have one, he's named Bruno and he’s a little baby I love him sm), butterflies, sleeping, plushies, space, dragons, fantasy, sci-fi, writing and reading fanfic, drawing/painting, numbers, napping in the sun/underneath the stars, stargazing, etc.

I strongly dislike spiders, too-spicy food, tofu when it’s cooked wrong, cooking (because I’m a disaster at it), bigoted people, strong smells and bright lights, difficult people, being bored- y’know, the works.

Aesthetics change from time to time but I love wierdcore, dreamcore, 80’s core, nostalgiacore, fantasycore, faecore, dragoncore, cybercore, kidcore, spacecore, liminalcore, etc.

Will update this Pinned Post from time to time as time goes on and my fluid identity changes, but for now, I’ll keep being me and I hope to get along well with everyone here!

[100dayproductivity]

12/100.

Need to regroup again. This Tumblr blog is like my mini mental reset. A place to just kind of stop, reflect, and organize my thoughts.

Oh guess what! I finished rehanging the kitchen cupboard above the fridge! I'm so proud of myself for breaking down something I thought was going to be really hard into smaller manageable steps. It was still a little hard but taking it one step at a time made it realistically achievable.

So here's before and after applying the drywall filler. Lol, I bet you can't tell the difference. There wasn't much to fill.

Here are some close-up shots. (Ok, the red stuff is not dried blood. It was the colour the kitchen was painted when I moved in. Ikr.)

The putty is pink but turns white when it's dry. Neat, huh?!

Next, I painted with primer (which I got for free from my local Buy Nothing group 👍). Then with my favourite white paint colour, Mountainpeak White. It's a neutral-warm white that I use all over the house. It's the white of, like, table cream.

(Yeah, the tape was an afterthought. I didn't really need it because the cupboard would be covering the part where white meets green, but I realized when applying the primer that maybe I didn't know where to stop painting and needed a guide, lol).

This was all the easy part. The hard part was mounting the cupboard. First, I needed to build a "structure" to hold it up. This is why I needed the milk crates I was using as a book shelf in my bedroom!

And the cupboard in all its well-hung glory! (😂)

Oh shoot! I'm outta photo space again! I'll have to show you the well-hung glory next post.

In the meantime, here's my updated to-do list. Currently, I'm stuck at filling out eye surgery forms. I know why I'm stuck. It's asking me about previous surgeries and I'm not sure what to put. Is the procedure I had before a "surgery"? What was it called and when did I have it? I don't remember and I can't find paperwork about it. Is it really that important to put down? Ugh 😩 I know I should just put down "procedure to remove suspicious growth" (it wasn't cancerous and it wasn't a cyst, I know this for sure.) And then just put down the year (2019?) And be done with it. If they want more specific details I'll have to get it from my doctor, I guess. I wish I knew WHY they need to know this. Do they want to know whether I have ever been put under? Do they want to know if I've ever had major surgery? What do they want to know?? If they had given me the forms when I arrived at my consultation instead of when I was leaving, I might have been able to ask someone my questions during the almost 3 hours I was sitting in the waiting room 🙄.

Running to-do list:

Hang cabinet. ✓

Figure out how to hang cabinet. ✓

Build scaffold. ✓

Get milk crates. ✓

Remove dog crate. ✓

Remove stuff from milk crates. ✓

Remove everything from under kitchen sink and check for leaks. ✓

Gmail account sign in.

Buy new charger for Pixel phone.

Transfer e-gift card to Amazon account. ✓

Check Web Perspectives point balance. ✓

Cash in Web Perspectives points for Amazon e-gift card. ✓

Transfer Web Perspectives Amazon e-gift card to Amazon account.

Do Web Perspectives surveys.

Fill out eye surgery forms.

Make appointment at bank.

Print out bank documents.

Recurring:

Alternate heat and ice on foot.

Do hamstring stretches.

Reference: https://www.sports-injury-physio.com/post/top-5-stretches-plantar-fasciitis

Roll out knots in leg muscle.

Do Sun Salutation x5 - 0/5

Take inhaler

[luciferpanini]

hm hm hm writing list uuh yes it’s schrodinger’s swap!ruikasa.

For the sixth time that day, Rui catches sight of him. That same blonde head, same face, same yellow cardigan worn over his uniform with sleeves way too long to be comfortable for late spring. School has long ended and the sun is about to set, forcing him to squint else the boy would use his perfect camouflage to blend into the few last clinging fragments of light still illuminating Kamiyama High.

He seems to show up everywhere no matter what direction Rui looks at, like a little (he’s little alright) parasite that resides within his periphery. He looks to the left, there’s that boy. To the right, that boy again. Rui headed to the drama club for materials (a favour from Mafuyu-kun), and he was there, mindlessly organising and reorganising the props. Rui got called to the teacher’s office and there he was again, smoothing out some documents while chatting up a storm with his homeroom teacher out of all people. Rui almost bumped into him on the rooftop that afternoon, him who was just sitting there, back against the wall, chewing on the straw of a dried-up juice box. Like a pliant rock.

He made a beeline past that boy and he didn’t react.

Hell, even when he looks at Nene, there he is, looming over her while she holds back the urge to sock him in the face.

Rui’s latest search result is “Is it possible to accidentally stalk someone?” 

It startles him when the other moves, as if it’s just that unnatural. Anyone would be surprised when a figure in a painting suddenly turns their head and blinks, no? Terrified even. For Rui, it’s more intriguing than anything.

Scene: On the left side, approaches a girl with short brown hair, taking tired steps toward the school building. Someone from the night classes, maybe. Someone who definitely did not have enough sleep. On the right side, his observational target (This is not stalking, Rui simply people-watches. It’s so normal, absolutely normal. Rui is normal.) breaks into a wide grin and uses his whole arm to wave at her, his perceived energy level going from 4 to 11 in a split second. Rui fears he is going to break his arm at this rate.

Panning to the left side again, the girl’s face twists into an expression that is so Nene.

And of course, his vision parasite refuses to stay out of the shot for too long, skipping across the frames and running circles around the other like he’s a dog whose owner just got home.

Faintly, he hears.

“Enanaaan!!”

Enanan’s reaction is equally Nene-like.

They chat for a short while before parting ways. Enanan trudging her way to class, and him finally leaving the campus.

Rui figures if he runs, he may barely make it on time for the night shows.

He apologises to his imaginary Emu.

-

“I saw a dog.” He explains to her when they’re taking their usual break between shows.

“A dog?? Was it cute??” Emu gasps, bouncing up from her seat, so much so Mizuki has to physically hold her down and take the bottle of water away from her grasp. (“You’re going to choke like that.”)

“It was a dog.” He repeats the blatant lie.

“Mm?” Mafuyu hums, making it incredibly hard to tell whether she’s actually interested in the conversation. “You got distracted by a dog.”

“Then it must be a super duper fluffy wuffy amazing dog!” Emu cuts in almost immediately, shooting Mizuki a look she must have thought he wouldn’t notice.

“If it’s a cute dog then it can’t be helped.” Mizuki laughs nervously. “Though to interest our Rui, it must have been able to fly or shoot laser or something.”

“I can assure you it was a normal dog.”

“Oooh! What color was it???”  Emu just has to express how she’s absolutely enthralled by the topic of this made-up creature, shaking her hands up and down. Just how much energy can this small girl produce through vibrating alone, he wonders, a question that he tucks back to the metaphorical drawers of his mind.

Probably enough to run a car though.

“Yellow.”

“So a Golden Retriever.” The two pink-haired members of the cast freeze when Mafuyu speaks up again.

Rui only nods.

-

“Oh.” Is the only noise coming out of Nene’s mouth before her face falters. “That guy.”

“The usage of ‘That guy’ suggests a strained relationship, Nene-kun. Is he bothering you?”

He might be, out of all the times he’s seen ‘that guy’, two of those instances were of him harassing girls. 

“Whatever scheme you’re planning in your head right now, I’d rather do it myself.” Nene puts her hand on his shoulder, patting it in her typical ‘don’t do anything rash’ way. “But it’s fine, he’s just someone from the music circle.”

He runs the member list through his head. “K, you mean?”

“No, K is our composer. If it was him who invited me, I would have never joined in the first place. I didn’t even know he was there, he’s more like, what do you call it? A mascot?”

“Your—”

“Our Tenma Tsukasa, I guess.”

Rui blinks at the familiar name. “Like that Tenma-senpai?”

“Yeah.” His friend looks to the side. “That Tenma-senpai.”

-

>HE'S REAL?<

Nene reads his message, rubs her eyes, and reads his message again. There are 2, maybe 3 words in that sentence, and yet she struggles to comprehend it.

“Who?” She asks. “Rui?”

>YEAH, RUI?< 

If he was allowed to speak, she's pretty sure he would be way too loud for comfort again. Then it's a blessing he pissed off Enanan earlier, Nene thinks. Sorry Enanan, she mentally adds.

“Of course he's real-”

>HE GOES TO KAMIYAMA.<

“I've shown you pictures of him in uniform.”

>NO LIKE. HE'S REAL.<

“Tell me how on earth is there a chance my childhood friend Kamishiro Rui whom I live next to and have shown you multiple pictures of before, is not real?”

>IDK. HE'S. BREATHING?? IT'S WEIRD??<

“It would be weirder if he isn't.”

>.

kjefhsjkdhkjgh???<

[acciopietro]

night hike - e.m.

pairing: eddie munson x fem! henderson! reader

summary: the pair of you get lost in the woods, and it is entirely eddie’s fault.

word count: 1291

tw: none! mention of demo-dogs and smoking but nothing else

a/n: reader is dustin’s sister but it’s not a giant part of the plot. guys stranger things has consumed every fiber of my being so i apologize if the pietro requests take a while to come out. it’s hard to think ab anything else aside from steve and ROBIN omfg if im honest. anyways hope u enjoy :)

“HOW LONG HAVE WE BEEN walking for?” you whined, tilting your head back and dragging your feet against the grass-littered dirt like a child. A few steps ahead of you was Eddie, holding his compass out with furrowed brows. He scratched his head.

“Dunno. Somethin’s up with the damn compass,” he muttered.

“Good, so we’re lost,” you ran your fingers across your scalp. Wrapping your arms around your torso, you glanced feverishly about you, the woods becoming darker with every step you took as the sun prepared to descend from its place within the orangey-pink sky. “Wonderful. Really super awesome. I have to be home by dinner time, y’know.”

“I know, I know. I’ll getcha home by then,” he told you, lips curling up. “What, is alone time with me so bad?”

“No,” you muttered, turning around so he couldn’t see your cheeks burning pink. “My mom’ll kill me and so will Dustin once he finds out where I was. Am.”

“Don’t stress, mkay?” Eddie said, eyes flickering between down at his compass and up at the endless woods that surrounded the pair of you. Adjusting the strap around his chest, he said, “I’m like sixty-five-percent sure we go that way.”

“Wow, a whopping sixty-five-percent. You’ve got me relaxed already,” you said dryly, but following nonetheless. The leaves rustled behind you, causing you to snap your head to the source; the wind had tousled them about themselves. You sighed. “I’m starting to regret this.”

“No way,” he denied. “I taught you a solid minute and a half of ‘Holy Diver’. That’s good, easy, shit, okay?”

“I just don’t get why we had to go so deep in the woods for you to teach me Dio on guitar,” you shrugged. Eddie rolled his eyes. “Besides, I wanted to learn the other song. The Metallica one.”

“‘Master of Puppets’ is way too hard for a beginner,” he said matter-of-factly. “Patience, you must have, my young Padawan.”

You stared at him blankly. 

“Star-Wars,” he clarified. You blinked. “Yoda.”

“I know, Eddie,” you sighed, watching as he shoved his compass into his pocket. 

Shrugging his hands into his pockets and slowing his pace so he’d match his with yours, he casted his gaze across the forest tranquilly, warm brown eyes calm and collected. The sunset’s canvas of colors coated across the leaves and branches of the forest, painting a layer of pinky-orange on both your skins. You glanced at Eddie, whose face was pleasantly staring off. Your stomach pleasurably flipped. 

“Any idea if this is the right way?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” he said unconvincingly. Squinting his eyes, he pointed up ahead. “See, look. Skull Rock.”

“Okay...” you trailed off, watching as Skull Rock came further into view. 

You felt your face get hot at the idea of you and Eddie being at such a location by yourselves; Skull Rock was Hawkins’ most popular make-out spot, and you hadn’t really gotten the impression that Eddie liked you like that. You figured he’d want someone more wild than you.

You hadn’t gotten to know him until Dustin brought him around before their first very D&D campaign, but you had known him from school due to his infamous “freak” status, and due to the fact that he intimidated you. It wasn’t until you crossed paths with Eddie more often that you realized he wasn’t how everyone painted him out to be; he was actually sweet when he wanted to be, and kind. And cute. He still scared you a bit.

Eddie paused at the foot of the largest rock, placing his hands on his hips and staring up at it. You pursed your lips, standing behind him, unsure of what to do. Was he trying to pull something? He didn’t bring you here to hook-up, did he? It didn’t feel like a move he’d pull; maybe if you had gotten lost with Steve Harrington, you would’ve expected it, but from Eddie? No way.

“So,” you rocked on your toes. Eddie turned around, chestnut brown hair being tousled by the breeze. “What do we do now that you’ve gotten us lost?”

Eddie shrugged, strolled around the rocks with his hands slumped in his pockets. “Dunno. Smoke?”

You scoffed. “No. My mom will smell it on me in a heartbeat.”

He lifted his hands up in defense and said, “Just an idea. Why d’you seem so tense? S’just me.”

You mimicked him and shrugged. 

“Is it the woods? You scared?” he teased, his lips twitching up into a smirk. You shook your head defiantly. “Oh, you so are.”

“No, I’m not,” you lied. It’s not like you could tell him that the woods freaked you out since you were almost eaten by a demo-dog in them two years ago. Eddie gave you a look of disbelief. “I’m not!”

“Mmhm,” he said, chuckling, his eyes veering off behind you. Brows furrowing, he stared off behind you, before his eyes grew wide, terrified. His jaw dropped and he took a staggered step back. You furrowed your brow. “Y/N— Y/N, run!”

Heart jumping and face growing pale, you whipped your head around to see nothing at all. Behind you, Eddie’s laughter grew. Clenching your jaw, you huffed and turned back around. Stepping forward, you whacked him hard on the arm. He flinched and rubbed the spot on his bicep where you hit him; when you went to strike again, he grabbed your wrist to stop you.

“Not funny, ass-hat!” you chastised him as he grasped at your wrist.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he told you, stepping forward a bit and gently placing your hand down at your side. You were still angry with him, but his newfound proximity to you didn’t make you feel less shaken. “I’ll stop, all right?”

You rolled your eyes and wrapped your arms around your torso again, eyes still flitting about the now dark woods. Your chest still tightened when in the woods, flashbacks of demo-dogs sprinting towards you and Steve sparking in your head. Grabbing Dustin and pulling him back to avoid getting swiped by the claws of one of those devils. The feeling of those same claws slicing across your chest like a seatbelt.

“You okay?” he eyed you. Pointing to your face, he said, “You’re all pale all of a sudden.”

“Yeah, m’fine,” you said, glancing once to your left. Eddie furrowed his brows. You stared at him, watching his warm eyes stare down at yours, searching for something. You shifted your gaze to your feet, kicking the dirt. “You were right, okay? The woods do freak me out a bit... at least when it's dark...”

Eddie frowned, staring at you for a long moment. After a pregnant pause filled with him staring despondently at your frowning face and his hands itching at his sides, he sighed and closed his eyes.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s get out of here, yeah?”

He nudged your shoulder and turned around, back in the direction the pair of you came from. Confused, you followed and said, “Isn’t that the wrong way?”

“Nope,” he said shortly. “This is right.”

You jogged up next to him. “I thought you said we were lost.”

“Yeah, well,” he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I, uh... miraculously now know where we are and how to get back.”

You blinked, walking in silence with him for a moment. “You... we were never lost, were we?”

“...nope.”

“Well... why did you say we were?” you asked. “I got freaked out, Eddie, my mom would’ve killed me—”

“Because I wanted to spend time with you, okay?” he sheepishly but abruptly. You stopped talking, lips parted. You were almost certain you heard him wrong. “We only hung out for like two hours, and... and I didn’t want you to go, so I figured I’d give us an hour or so by getting lost.”

“Oh,” you said quietly. “I... I would’ve just stayed longer, if you only said so.”

“It’s not that simple, okay?” he told you, now avoiding your eyes.

“Well, explain it to me, then,” you said, trying to catch his gaze. He stared at the ground in front of him as the pair of you walked. When he didn’t say anything, you went on and said, “I didn’t think you wanted to teach me. I ended it ‘cause I thought you were annoyed.”

He shot you a look. “That is... like, so incredibly far from the truth.”

“And that is...?” you tried. He pursed his lips.

“Look, it’s... not important,” Eddie said, shaking his head and fiddling with the guitar strap around his chest. You frowned, dragging your feet again. You felt him glance at you, eyes apprehensive. A minute later, you heard him sharply inhale before saying, “The truth is... I just... like you, all right?”

You glanced at him. He looked away.

“And I didn’t want you to leave,” he pressed further. “Because I know you’ll just... go home, and... forget about me and go talk on the phone with some pretty boy who plays golf or some shit and then Dustin will totally shit on me about how his sister would never go for someone like... like me.”

You kept walking, silent for a moment. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched him run a hand through his hair, gripping it almost anxiously before letting his hand drop at his side. He glanced at you for a split second before hastily looking away again.

“What makes you say that?” you finally said. He only looked at you. “Golf is stupid, first off. And second off, don’t trust anything that little shit says, because he just likes to meddle in other people's business.”

“Yeah, well, he sounded pretty convincing,” Eddie breathed.

“He’s an asshole,” you reassured him, sending him a glance through your eyelashes, lips curling up. He, too, let himself smile a bit as the pair of you walked. “I, uhm… kinda… like you too. And Dustin said you’d never go for someone as lame as me.”

Eddie scrunched up his brows but grinned. “Oh, wow. He is a little shit.”

“Mmhm,” you hummed. The pair of you continued to walk until the small lot where Eddie’s bike and your car were parked came into your line of vision. Eddie was grinning dopily to himself, not saying much of anything else as you walked. “Hey, do you, er... mind teaching me the rest of ‘Holy Diver’ sometime?”

“Wouldn’t mind at all,” he flashed his teeth in a grin. “Maybe we’ll start somethin’ harder, too.”

“‘Master of Puppets?’”

“Well, no,” he shook his head. “Not that hard. But... we could get there. It would just mean more time alone at Skull Rock.”

“Okay,” you pressed your lips together to hold back a flustered beam. “I could probably handle that.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yup,” you glanced at him as you approached your car. “You wanna ride?”

“I got this old girl,” he kicked the tire of his rusted bike. You gave him a deadpanned look.

“Put her in the trunk and get in the car,” you demanded, to which he raised a single brow and lifted his hands up in defense before picking up the old, too-small bike and putting her in the trunk of your mother’s SUV.

“Whatever you say, m’lady.”

If it were anyone else, you thought to yourself. He might have been intimidating with his ripped denim jeans and chains on his waistband, but at his core, he was just a little dork. You could get used to it.

---

taglist:

@niallhoransupremacy​ @childishnewt @criesinlies​ @fairydxll​ (my tagliar was updated so go check it out and re-fill it out!)

a/n: something short and sweet to feed you guys whilst i start trying to tackle the beast that is my inbox

[slasherrabbitmadness]

Beach day with the Slashers

Female Reader -Bo- Gender-neutral -everyone else-

Bo- Fingering but no penetration. Dirty talk.

Angst and Fluff with Herbert and Dan (They pronouns used for Y/N) Fluff with Michael and Jason.

Michael Myers (1978 with the extra height of the 2018 one)

> Wants to visit the beach during the day. He’ll even have his mask off. Instead of enjoying the beautiful view of the sun hitting the blue ocean, you spend your day staring at your handsome boyfriend.

> Michael is just there to scan for new victims. He kills people who litter, hates seeing wrappers and cigarette butts littered across nature.

> You egg him on to go swimming, it takes a lot of coaxing. “Please, Michael, just for a little bit.” He points to your belongings on the towel, “They’ll be fine, who’s gonna want to steal some sandwiches and some towels?” He shook his head. You got down on your knees and gave him sad puppy dog eyes. He grumbled then lifted you onto his shoulder, you squealed as you placed your hands on his firm back, rubbing his taut muscles.

> When he got up to his pecs in the water he threw you in. You came up for air, “Mikey, what the hell!?”

> “What? You wanted in the water.” He gave a small smile.

> He made you swim in front of the beach while he just stood in the water and watched. He knew you’d be fine, it was your belongings he was worried for. You caught his eyes, his already dark blue eyes were now matching the deepest parts of the ocean. He barreled through the water, pushing you aside. You watched him as he made his way up onto the beach.

> Some fuck had the bright idea to do some stealing. He just happens to choose the one man’s belongings you don’t fuck with.

> Before that guy had time to react to a six-foot-three man, hauling ass like he is a tiger chasing after a deer, Michael clocked him so hard in the face the man immediately went down.

> People stood around Michael, some congratulating him for knocking out a thief, others gawked “My God he swung that punch so hard.” “Is the thief even breathing?” Michael stood over your belongings, and turned back towards you, just making your way out of the ocean. Michael was mad, but not as mad at what he saw next.

> Some random beach Chad made his way over to you, “Yo, that was wild huh?” You gave a quick, “Ya.” not caring to speak to him, just wanted to get back to your boyfriend. “He just knocked that guy out in one punch.” You made your way up the beach, he grabbed at you “Hey, be careful, probably want to stay aw-”

>The poor sap never stood a chance, Michael swung his fist so hard Chad went flying back into the water.

> “I’ve had enough, we're leaving.”

> You were gonna protest, but when you scanned the crowd, you realized that yeah, we’re gonna go home.

> Walking back home, Michael held your hand, tightly. “Mikey?” He grunts, “You don’t like people touching your belongings, huh?” You turned to look up at him and he caught you in a kiss. He snuck his tongue in, dominating yours, you moaned and he pulled away. You whined and he smiled.

> “what’s mine is mine.”

Jason Voorhees

> He’s the beach’s lifeguard, so if you wanna spend a beach day with Jason, you’ll have to do it after hours. You would, but Jason takes the evening shifts too.

> Everybody loved Jason. Kids loved him, he was always so nice to them after all. He gave them swimming lessons. He was always so patient with them, never getting mad if a kid was struggling to grasp the basics.

> Men and Women loved Jason. His stoic demeanor, his calming presence...his bulging muscles. Jason was oblivious to all kinds of flirting. “Your hands are like, so big!” said a bubbly tanned beach bunny. Jason just grunts. A muscle-bound beach bro asked, “Bet you lift a lot eh, what’s your macros?” Jason just looked at his large bicep, he shrugged.

> When you visit him at work he gives you small waves then his eyes go right back to the water, not wanting to miss anything. Dedicated <3

> He doesn’t take a proper lunch break, he’ll eat his food while watching the beach, scarfing down the food as fast as possible.

> After a long day, you’ll finally have Jason all to yourself.

> Night swimming!

> You and Jason have splash fights, that he often wins, his large palms create huge splashes that knock you back into the water.

> Keeps you incredibly close in the water, will bug you to wear a life jacket if you ever swam without him. He’s very protective.

> Holds you close to him the further out you go. He won’t let you go, so it’s the perfect time to smother him in kisses.

> Jason hums into your kisses, his large hands running up and down your back, the water and his hands feel perfect on your skin.

> Jason couldn’t be happier that you're together.

Herbert West + Dan Cain - Poly relationship or what Derrick Barry calls a ‘throuple’

> “Please Herbert, for me?” He grimaced at you. Don’t you know how busy he is? Perfect specimens don’t just end up dead you know? Someones gotta end a life! You sighed and brought out the big gun. “Well, Dan said-” The moment Dan left your lips, Herbert was pushing you and him out the door.

> You and Dan had a blast, building castles, collecting seashells, playing some beach volleyball with another friendly couple.

> Herbert sulked under the beach umbrella, nose in a large medical textbook.

> “If you come with us, Herbert, we’ll get you a grape freezie!” Dan coaxed but it did not affect Herbert. Herbert waved you both off as if you were two mosquitoes bugging him.

> You and Dan walked hand in hand, swinging them in between yourself on your way to the little concession stand. “You sure it was for the best we brought him, Dan?” Dan looked at you and frowned, your eyes were a little glossy. “He only came because you were coming.” You felt the tears rolling down your cheek.

> “fuck, Herbert, you little monster.” Dan cursed to under his breath. Dan knew Herbert gravitated more towards him. It’s not that Herbert didn’t like you, just Dan was there first. Dan never told you but he often caught Herbert staring at you, a softness in his eyes that Dan knew meant one thing…

> “I’m sorry…” You mumbled, quickly rubbing the back of your hand over your eyes. Dan shushed you and brought you in for a hug, kissing the top of your head.

> “Don’t be, Herbert should be. Some Vitamin D is much needed for his pale little body. I’ll talk to him, okay? In the meantime, focus on me!”

> Dan and you continued with the most fun day ever. You ate your freezies, swapping flavors halfway through. A little boy asked Dan to help with flying his kite, Dan’s height coming in handy.

> Herbert stewed in his spot under the umbrella, watching you and Dan have fun, “Hmph, wasting time.” He kept peeking from his book, eyes on you, how you smiled when you looked into Dan’s eyes, how you leaned in closer, head resting on his shoulder. How Dan wrapped his arm around your waist, lips on your ear whispering...God knows what, Herbert can only imagine.

> “They could just yank me away from this, make me spend time with them...not that I want to. But if they dragged me away from my book then I’d have no choice.”

> When it got late, You and Dan packed away everything into the bags, Herbert supervised. How helpful/s

> Dan had you drop a few of the smaller items at the car on your own, he made Herbert help with some of the heavier items. As your figure became smaller and smaller in the distance, Dan turned to Herbert, “You know, they wer-”

> “I can’t believe you two, frolicking about so openly.” Herbert had cut Dan off. Herbert fumbled with the bags while trying to push up his glasses. Dan fumed.

> “You mean act like a couple, which we are, which you're a part of. Or are you only a couple with me?”

> Herbert snapped “excuse me, you and Y/N are most certainly a couple, which I have no part of.”

> Dan scoffed and shook his head “They want to be with you too, Herbert, They do like you, They feel upset with how you treat them. Now I know deep down you adore them, you best start showing it.”

> Herbert stopped, he looked at Dan and then at you in the distance starting the car.

> Later that night, Herbert had asked if you’d help in the basement. As tired as you were, you went to help. Herbert scarcely looked at you, but he found ways to touch you. Hands ghosting over yours as you handed him some flasks. Grabbing your hips softly to move you out of the way.

> “Everything good, Herbert?” You asked. His eyes looked everywhere but you. He stepped a little closer to you, His face only a foot away.

> He smashed his lips onto yours and wrapped you up in his arms. His hands rubbing along your sides, pulling you in so tight you were surprised he was strong enough to bring pain that way.

> “Don’t cry over me. Okay?” Your face felt hot, you nodded. “You are mine too, not just Dan’s, okay?” You nodded again. “Good. Now kiss me.”

> The kiss started tender but that just wasn’t gonna cut it with all the tension between you two.

Bo Sinclair /Female reader/

> Lookin’ at all the pretty girls go by.

> Catches you catching him staring, flashes his baby blues at you, “C’mon darling, you know you're still the apple of mah eye.”

> Gets pissed when other guys check you out. Strolls on over and wraps an arm around you, sneering at the Chads and Kyles.

> “You just had to wear that sexy little number, didn’t ya?” He snarled in your face. You grabbed your tits in the cute red bikini and gave them a Lil shake.

> Bo yanked you away from the beach, you protested, hitting his large forearm, “Bo, what the hell? Oh come on, you act like a leech an-” He cut you off, his lips slammed onto yours, the kiss was teeth and a little tongue action.

> Bo had yanked you away to some run-down looking bathrooms, the paint was so old it looked like the original coat from the 1960s

> “Now, Darlin, looks like you’ve just been wanting to rial me up now, huh? Wanting those sons of bitches to fuck you?” He leaned in close to your ear, his heavy breathing making you shake with anticipation. He suckled on it, causing you to buckle at the knees.

> “Bo, no I didn’t wan-want ah, the- them to” You were panting as he made small circles on your clit over your bikini bottoms. His fingers were calloused but he could be surprisingly gentle.

> “Now, yah best be quiet so no one hears ya, understood, Doll?” You whimpered and Bo flashed you his pearly whites. “That’s a good girl.”

> You should make him jealous more often.

[honeymoonjin]

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."

[ahkaahshi]

our place [fushiguro megumi x reader]

pairing: fushiguro megumi x gn reader

genre: fluff with sprinkles of moments that might make your heart go :’)

warning(s): n/a

word count: 1.7k

overview: you’re not particularly fond of mornings, but you think you could grow to love them if you spent every one of them with megumi

Through bleary eyes threatening to take shelter behind the comforting darkness of your own eyelids and give in to the fatigue weighing heavily in your body, you watch your feet lazily trudge through dewy grass that wets your shoes. Your palms are warm from the fresh cup of coffee you’re nursing, but your knuckles are slightly numb from the brisk air your clothing’s barely able to fend off. There’s a deafening silence in the air aside from the crunching of grass beneath four sets of feet—two of which are a set of four paws—and you ponder the oxymoron that the absence of sound somehow seems louder.

Your foot catching on the root of a large tree when your eyelids flutter shut for a moment brings you to attention and your boyfriend’s hand to your arm. It’s as if he knew in that moment you would stumble, but you figure the connection isn’t hard to make, given you’re a night owl being taken out of a warm nest for an unexpected flight in the cold, early hours of the morning. Your eyes meet for a moment, a subtle flash of gratitude in yours that he acknowledges with a nod before the two of you continue your trek through the forest.

“Megumi,” you sigh, “how is it I’ve downed half this cup of coffee and still don’t feel a thing yet?”

He shrugs. “Maybe because it’s decaf.”

His words have your jaw slackening and a small scoff of disbelief leaving your throat. The way he looks at you over his shoulder, a twinkle of mischief in his deep blue eyes that reflect what little light there is, shows he’s expecting the reaction you give him. “I trusted you.”

“Then why are you so shocked?” he asks, “I didn’t give you caffeine so you wouldn’t be too energized to nap again before classes start.”

Though you’ve felt too tired to show any emotion since you’d been awakened by the man walking by your side, you can’t help but smile and chuckle in response. “Fine. I’ll let it pass since it’s actually considerate of you—even if it’s in an indirect way. I’ll just make my students read or do something quiet while I wait for the caffeine from the next cup of coffee I make to kick in.”

“I’m sure they’ll love that.”

“I really hope you got me out of bed for a reason other than to frown upon my teaching methods.”

Megumi’s lips curl into a small smile and you swear he seems to glow just a bit amongst the silhouettes of the tall trees surrounding you, their branches heavy with leaves and moisture. His happiness is like a breath of fresh air filling your lungs; so much so that you’re reminded to take another deep one in an attempt at keeping yourself awake. His divine dogs—one a shock of white and the other seemingly its shadow—draw your attention when they approach him with a large branch in their mouths they’ve taken a shining to during your walk, and that he launches off into the forest for them to chase down again.

Something about the moment seems so surreal. Maybe it’s because the times the two of you get to spend together in peace outside of your home seem to be so few and far between, or maybe it’s because you normally scoff at the idea of being up and active before the sun rises. But, whatever it is, it creates an undeniable warmth in your chest that prompts you to push away any thoughts of yearning for the coziness of your bed, and reach out towards your partner instead.

“Try not to trip again, alright?” he murmurs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his joggers while you slot an arm between one of his and his torso, “I actually like this sweater and would prefer not to get coffee on it.”

“But it’s decaf!”

His lips pause in their action of forming a rebuttal presumably about how his sweater would stain, regardless of the presence of caffeine, and he simply shakes his head with a sigh upon realizing you’re joking.

The same silence that had once filled the crisp air returns, only interrupted by paws pounding the damp earth, but it feels more peaceful now. It’s calming, given the normally hectic lives you and your boyfriend lead as special grade sorcerers and teachers, and very much appreciated. Megumi’s pace is a bit slower and more relaxed than usual, as if he wants to stay immersed in the quietude with you and his dogs at his side. But you know he has a destination in mind with the definitive nature of his steps.

At the top of a hill whose grassy slopes had been decorated with worn stone steps that would indicate many a visitor had travelled up them, sits a stone bench you’ve never seen before. And, in front of it, a clearing where the leafy spires part just enough for you to see the small flicker of light burning at the edge of the horizon decorated with the distant buildings of Tokyo’s bustling cityscape. Your eyes remain fixated on the gentle colors the sun’s impending arrival starts painting across the dark canvas the sky provides as Megumi leads you over towards the bench so you can take a seat and bear witness to nature’s awakening.

You find yourself lost in it for what feels to be a long stretch of time until his voice brings your gaze to him instead. “Well, this is where I go.” The eyebrow you raise at his statement provided without any context coaxes him to elaborate, “You know, on those mornings I leave for a bit and come back, and you ask me where I went? This is where I go.” His long fingers card through the furry coats of his dogs where they sit on the grass between you.

Nodding slowly, you take another sip of the drink in your hand. “So, why’d you decide to take me here, considering it’s probably the only place where you can get away from the madness of everything?”

As the sun ascends skyward at what feels to be a faster pace than expected, you notice the most beautiful pools of cerulean form in his eyes more brilliant than you think you’ve ever seen them before. His hand finds yours, and your fingers intertwine. “Because I wanted you to be here with me.” There’s a pause, and his gaze shifts away from the sunrise to meet with yours instead. It’s an action that unwittingly reaffirms your importance given the beauty of the scene ahead. “I wanted it to be us here instead of just me.”

Gently, you squeeze his hand, relishing in the comfort of his touch that always brings a smile to your face. “So, what are you saying? That you think I’m actually gonna change my sleep schedule entirely just for you?” is your teasing reply.

“No,” he sighs, narrowing his eyes at your jest, “but maybe every now and then, we could go to sleep at a decent time so we can come here and watch the sunrise.”

Moving your face closer to his shortens the gap between your lips, but you stop before they can meet to answer, “We can do that.” Oftentimes, you find that Megumi’s straightforward manner of speaking doesn’t always match the true intensity of his emotions, but his kisses never betray how he’s feeling. They’re soft and tender, as if his intentions are to give you a few pecks and nothing more, but he’s always quick to chase your lips when they separate from his, even for a moment.

When your eyes flutter open once more, you watch his flit back and forth between each of yours in miniscule movements before pecking his cheek and resting your head on his shoulder. A long expanse of peaceful quietude follows, save for the chirping of newly awakened birds and the secretive whispers of the breeze through the trees.

“Do you think this could be our place?”

The sound of his deep voice reverberating in his chest sends subtle vibrations through your head, and his words bring small prickles of heat to your cheeks. “You want it to be?” A wet nose brushes against your unoccupied fingertips, guiding your hand onto a fuzzy, black snout that you give an affectionate rub.

Megumi nods and his cheek comes to rest against the crown of your head. “Yeah,” he answers, slinging an arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer to him.

“Better make sure none of your nosy students ever find out you’re coming up here, then,” is your warning delivered with a chuckle.

“They’re so desperate to be done with classes for the day that I doubt they’ll want to spend their free time tailing their teacher. Your students are the nosy ones, wanting to follow you on social media, or whatever.”

Each of your laughs permeate the cool air slowly becoming warmer with the sun’s expanding reach—from which you take shelter by burying your face in his neck.

“Megumi?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we just… stay here for a bit?”

You feel his arm move as he checks his phone. “Classes start in an hour.”

“Just a little bit longer?”

A notification appears on his screen, but he turns it off and tucks the device back into his pocket. “Sure,” he murmurs into your hair before pecking your temple.

He says it so nonchalantly, but you know he’s hoping whatever time he’s set in his head to leave doesn’t arrive for an eternity. Because it’s the same hope that settles deeply into your heart as the two of you hold onto one another and watch waves of light slowly wash over the dark sky, doing everything you can to cherish your company rather than agonize over the moment when you’ll have to let go.

In an exhale that tickles your skin, Megumi hums, “I’m glad you came here with me.”

[batgurl1989]

A Hike To Remember

Summary: You are hiking when you come across Henry and Kal

Word Count: 1700

Warning: fluff

A/N: this was a suggestion from @henrynerdfan about a hiker meeting Kal and Henry while on the trails in the Pacific Northwest. If you want to be added to my taglist, let me know

Taglist: @rmtndew @princesssterek @cynic-spirit

My breath fogged out in front of me as I walked the trails, trying to keep a brisk pace. It was a crisp fall morning, and the trails were empty for now, so I was enjoying the sound of the early rising birds as I made my way down the dirt path. The leaves were changing colours, painting a beautiful picture of nature around me. I had been on the trail for maybe an hour, and still hadn't seen another human. Animals, however, were abundant as long as I didn't make too much noise.

I was just reaching the crest of another hill when I saw a black and white blur to my side. I looked, trying to figure out what animal would be black and white in the Pacific Northwest. But the blur was gone. Maybe I was imagining things.

Or maybe I wasn't.

When I crested the hill, I could see further down the path where a man was bent over, patting a black and white dog. The dog looked at me, and I felt like I should recognize him. It wasn't until the man turned in my direction to see what had caught his dog's interest that it clicked into place.

"Kal?" I scrunched up my nose in disbelief. That meant that Henry Cavill was hiking the same trails as you. In Washington. When he was supposed to be in the UK for some down time.

Henry's laugh reached my ears, snapping me out of my thoughts. My eyes snapped to his, going wide as I realized that I had acknowledged his dog before him. I'm sure I looked like a fish as I wracked my brain for an apology that seemed suitable.

"I'm a dog person." I ended up blurting out instead, instantly turning red as I realized I had practically shouted that.

"It's okay. It happens more often than you think." Henry was still chuckling as he walked back up the path toward me. Kal followed happily beside him.

"Do you mind if I pet him? If he will let me, of course." I couldn't help my eyes drifting to the fluffy dog. He was wagging his tail and it looked like he was smiling.

"I'm sure he would love a good ear scratch." Henry nodded, a huge smile plastered on his face.

I squatted down, and waited to see if Kal would come over to me. I didn't want to encroach on his space if he didn't want me there. My heart sang when the American Akita came trotting over, wagging his tail happily. He snuffled my hand that I offered him to sniff and then threw his weight into me for snuggles.

I would have fallen over had Henry not been there to grab my hand as I flailed it out for balance. Even through his glove, I could feel how warm his hand was. I looked up at him to say thank you, but Kal chose that moment to stuff his face in mine.

"Kal, come on. You are being invasive." Henry good-naturedly chastised his dog, trying to shove Kal off of me to give me space to get my balance.

What happened instead was that Kal pushed into me again, and toppled both Henry and I over. Kal lounged across us, nuzzling Henry for treats I assumed.

If you had told me when I started out on my hike that I would end up in a pile with Henry Cavill and Kal, I would have laughed at the fantasy you were trying to feed me. I was mortified as I tried to disentangle myself from Henry. His laughter was a balm on my soul and blushing, however, making me feel a little better.

Henry finally managed to shove Kal off of us, and helped me sit up. I brushed dirt off my arms, suddenly self-conscious. I froze in place when Henry reached over to brush my hair out of my face. His hand paused as he went to tuck the hair on the other side of my face behind my ear. A light blush dusted his cheeks, and he dropped his hand.

"Sorry about that. Here I am getting after Kal for being in your space, and then I go and do it." Henry cleared his throat. Once he was standing, he offered me his hand and helped me up when I took it.

"It's okay. It's not exactly like Kal gave us a choice about being in each other's bubbles." I dusted my pants off, trying to sound casual, but inside my stomach was filled with butterflies and my heart was beating hard against my ribs.

Images of him being flocked by fans had me stepping back, respecting his and Kal's space once again. I hadn't been expecting to come across another person out here, and I certainly didn't think it would Henry. Scooping up my backpack from where it fell during the ordeal, I adjusted the straps.

"I'm sorry I interrupted your hike. I'm sure you wanted to be alone when you came out here." I tucked my hair behind my ears, catching Henry in the acting of watching my every move. "I can go down a different path."

I took another step back, but bumped into Kal. The Akita had decided it was a good idea to stand behind me, blocking my escape route. Henry stepped forward to steady me, once again coming to my rescue.

"I swear, I am not normally this clumsy." You laughed, unable to keep calm now that his hand was gripping yours again.

"Kal has a tendency to get in the way when he wants attention." Henry assured you, letting go of your hand slowly. "And Kal seems to be really taken with you, so why don't you join us for the rest of the hike?"

The request blindsided me. Never in a million years would I have expected him to suggest that. He didn't even know my name, and he wanted me to join him on his walk. Was I off base in thinking that Kal's approval meant a great deal to Henry?

I realized as these thoughts ran through my head that I still hadn't answered him. When I met his eyes, his intensely blue eyes, I found myself floundering again for what to say.

"Y/N. That's my name." I blurted out, once again mortified that I was acting so off from my normal self. Taking a deep breath in a weak attempt to calm myself, I scratched Kal's ears absentmindedly. "And if Kal really wants me to join you two, then I guess I can't say no."

"You just made his day." Henry said with a twinkle in his eye.

We walked along the path, no longer trying to keep a certain pace. Kal romped around us, bringing sticks for us to throw, or pulling on Henry's arm to get him to examine a tree that had some squirrels chattering in the branches. We talked about nothing in particular, just enjoyed each other's company. I did find out that he was in Washington on vacation. A little trip to get away is how he described it.

When we got back to the parking lot, there were lots of cars, and people milling about. Henry had clipped Kal's leash on before we reached it, and they walked me to my car. I was glad I parked under the shade of a tree. Now that the sun had risen, it was getting quite warm.

"Look, I am in town for a few more days." Henry leaned on my car, watching as I settled my bag in the trunk. He opened the drivers side door for me, ever the gentleman. He reached for my hand when I made to get in the car, getting my full attention. He had taken his gloves off, and I could feel the callouses on his warm hand as it engulfed mine. "I want to see you again."

"Are you sure you don't mean Kal wants to see me again?" I teased as Kal gave out a little whine. I patted his head, but didn't take my eyes off Henry. I couldn't decide what I was seeing, but it made my stomach do flips. "But if that's the case, I would love to see you both again."

I reached into the car for a gum wrapper and a pen. I quickly but neatly wrote out my cell number, but paused before handing it over. There was something very surreal about giving a celebrity your phone number because they wanted it. Smiling, I handed it to Henry, who looked at, a line showing up between his eyebrows as he concentrated on the digits, as though he was committing them to memory in case her lost the gum wrapper.

I squatted down, petting Kal vigorously as I said goodbye to him. The Akita lapped up the attention, shoving himself into me again. Luckily this time I was ready, and leaned against the car door.

"I guess I will be seeing you then." I stood up to face Henry again. He smiled down at me, not hesitating this time as he tucked my hair behind my ear.

"You definitely will." Henry's voice was barely more than whisper as his eyes searched you face.

There was a brief moment--an insane moment--when I thought he would kiss me. But I snapped out of that fantasy, and cleared my throat. That seemed to snap him out his thoughts too, and he straightened. We quickly said goodbyes and I got in my car.

As I was leaving the parking lot, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I hit play on the steering wheel, expecting a text from my sister or mom asking where I was. I normally didn't hike that long, and cell service on the trails was spotty. I was pleasantly surprised when the automated voice of my car started reading the text.

"I hope this is your real number. It was so nice meeting you today, Y/N. And I can't wait to see you again, and possibly take you out on a real date. -HC"

[the-slasher-files]

GONE

INCLUDES BO X READER

This is taken me so long to write and not because I've been super busy but just putting my all into it and only writing this when I'm feeling in the angsty headspace... Now, this is a very broken Bo in all forms, at its almost a 2k description of you just laying on the couch with him, taking in his pain. If you read my write "Affection" it is a very similar writing style... so I hope you enjoy and feel all the painful and comforting vibes. tw suicidal dark thoughts🔪💕

MASTERLIST

“oh Bo” you sighed as the old dingy couch squeaked underneath your weight. It was scratchy and ripped on the corners, yellowed from the age and sunken where Bo would always sit at the end of the night. The house was quiet, too quiet. The man beside you was not making smartass remarks, or sexual comments, or even ranting about his day, he just sat there, staring at the piles of dusty books and the odd papers thrown along the ruff aged hardwood. Bo was lost in his own head, it was hard for him to hear you over the screams and howls of his memories and future premonitions. You didn’t know what particular thoughts had hounded him tonight but it did not matter, you just knew Bo needed a soft grasp to pull him from the swirling waves in his mind that threatened to pull him under. 

When you had woken up this morning he was already gone from the tangled cotton sheets, the hot Louisiana sun had flowed in through the lacy curtains of the home, replacing the warmth he had given you in the bed. It wasn’t strange when Bo was gone in the mornings, for the town he held so close forced him to wake early to fix the odds and ends. Sometimes you wondered what life for him would be like away from Ambrose, if he would be better off, but at the same time you could never imagine him away from it. The desolate town started to be an extension of Bo; charming, quaint, warm like his bourbon and alluring on the outside, with a little unease like his scars that were visible from his suit, but below the surface there was horrific pain, darkness and a truth that made your heartbreak and stomach swirl. 

Getting up and starting your day Bo’s absence screamed in your head, but you knew sometimes his and your affection would take a toll; He was never affectionate before you came along and it was a struggle for Bo to keep up the task some days. You understood that and would remember what Bo was taught; Love equalled pain. Most days it was better to leave him alone for the morning and let him collect the pieces of his wax mask and put on the act. You did not care if he had his mask on or not. You loved him either way. 

Craving his presence you continued your day, puttering around the house and finally leaving to the town over to pick up some groceries, and supplies for you and the 3 men. Coming home the sun was starting to set along the ridgeline and the sky was painted in reds and pinks, kissing the clouds and beckoning the darkness to chase the sun. Pulling up to the shared home, Bo’s truck was out front, and the ripped screen door banged in the breeze making a home in the cadence of the wilderness surrounding. Footfalls fell along the creaking steps and inside the home. Everything went silent once inside the crumbling walls. A shape of a man sat on the couch in the darkening home, he didn't bother with the lights because he probably didn't even realize the sun was going down.

Bo was gone. Gone in his dangerous thoughts.

It had only been a handful of times Bo allowed you to see him this way, just his shell, broken and tired. Tired of fighting, tired of his own mind. You were the only person he let see this side; Vincent had caught glimpses but then would get yelled at through a fit of triggering rage. To Bo you were the only person that could truly help him from the demons, beckoning him to the shadows, just like where they called and ultimately found home in his father; gun in hand and blood on the walls. It was the only way your nightmares -future premonitions- found Bo at the end. Dying by his own hand. Hands that could rip away just as easily as they could build and hold. Hold you.

Placing your bags down on the pool table to your right, you quickly shouldered off your jacket and carelessly kicked off your shoes among the other mess.

There you sat with him, not touching Bo, you just gave him time, hoping and praying he would just snap out of it and continue to lay on his charm, but that never came. Bo didn't even acknowledge you, not a glance, not a touch to your thighs, nothing. As still as one of the wax figures he sat, slowly breathing in and out, rubbing a thick thumb over the lip of the amber-coloured beer bottle dangling between his oil-stained fingers. The bottle was not even half-finished and it had begun to turn warm, the condensation gently letting a drop fall to the dusty floor every few minutes. Bo wasn't drunk yet, not even close, by the looks of it he had only taken one or two gulp's and let it hang there, warming in the Louisiana air some time ago. 

This is was the worst you had seen him, you could tell Bo's mind was racing with the shifting of his baby blues that seemed fixated on the old books and candle wax.

You knew that you needed to touch him but your hesitation ran deep and cold; Bo was like a beaten dog and touching him was a dangerous game, especially in this state; he could either lash out and hurt you or he would just leave from the embarrassment of you seeing him as such. Anything was worth a shot right now. You needed him back.

Gingerly you brought a small hand to his broad coverall covered shoulder, grazing the rough fabric Bo shuttered at the touch, his eyes became alive again as your other hand went to his thigh. “Bo... my love, it’s ok” 

His breath hitched and he snapped his head in your direction, you could see the fear, the torture in his features as his breath began to pick up through rosy agape lips, clutching the beer bottle like a lifeline. Bo looked scared. Scared of his thoughts. Scared of his memories. Scared by the fact that the demons had held him under the waves for so long just waiting for the bubbles to stop. Bo was almost a different person in this moment, he let his emotions twist his face openly. His pain was greater than his pride, you felt it, you could see it. Broken blood-shot baby blues were searching for something in yours, perhaps Bo was waiting for the taunting or berating or yelling his parents gave him when he was lost in emotions; but you smiled softly as a tear slowly formed along your lash line. 

This broke your heart to see him like this, but it broke him more allowing this vulnerability; He waited for you to rip out his throat like a wolf and spit back out in his face. You knew Bo had a tortured soul and a devastating past, he was held together like thin lines of glue to a broken mirror; one day the shatter was inevitable much to his dismay, but seeing it was too raw and painful yet, somehow beautiful in the torture. In this moment Bo was just a man, not the murderer of Ambrose or even the demigod he seemed to let you believe he was on the day to day, Bo was just the scared child of a broken home. 

“It’s ok baby...I’m here...” you spoke gently, grabbing the beer bottle from his right hand and placing it on the richly stained coffee table with a reassuring nod. “I’m here now” Bo didn’t speak and just watched you carefully like a wounded vulnerable animal to a predator. 

Slowly you placed your shaky hands along his angular jaw, feeling the slight stubble and running your thumb along the long jagged scar he wore with pride. Bo started to shift in the cushions, uncomfortable with the vulnerability and soft touches you placed on him. Some days it was more apparent than others that he was touch starved and didn't realize just how much he needed your fluttering fingers against his skin. Slowly you ran a small hand through his dark brown curls, cupping and now cradling the man you slowly pulled yourself to lay on your back, and brought Bo down with you, the couch springs creaking in defeat. 

His head laid upon your chest. He could hear your heartbeat. Proof that someone deeply loved him, had a beating heart that was fast and strong. You were here. You were not a figure of the town or a scared wounded woman in the chair or a ghost in his nightmares. You were here. It broke him more. He had something to lose now. Had a wound in his flesh that was you, it would never heal, and it stung every day waking up to you next to him, and tore a millimetre more with every smile.

Bo’s head rose and fell with your breaths as you slowly rubbed his skull and back, tracing the scars you couldn’t see under his shirt, just retracing from hardened memory. Bo haunted you. Hounded your thoughts every second you were together, and when you were apart it hurt, you missed him even though Bo was just down the hall. His sliver blade was lodged in your heart and it teased to make you bleed out.  

One of his large hands gripped the ripping old cushion as the other held your waist, unwavering. Bo inhaled your scent; sweetness of florals, softness of warm vanillas and the undernotes of him. A ghost of your souls intertwined in a dangerous perfume. And then a soft wail escaped Bo’s lips, --the breaking of the flood gates he held onto for so long-- with bared teeth against your shirt he pushed himself into you, almost wanting to hide away from the world in your ribcage. You gently cooed and hushed him, feeling the pain of his shattered soul. Hot tears stained your shirt as you held him tighter, as long as he needed, you were there. 

“It’s ok Bo... I’m here... you never deserved the hurt. Never.”

A broken crumpled mess you two became, melting together and running away like the wax of the candles. Holding each other until the morning sun showed its face, forcing the demons and hounds to retreat into the shadows only to surface later, but it didn’t matter, they were gone and Bo was asleep. At peace, as you counted his scars and recounted, as long as he needed you to hold him, you would. 

Broken and wretched like his parents taught him, a monster was asleep in your delicate hands, holding a beast, it ached inside your bones, and wounded you like a knife slipping in slowly and quietly between your ribcage, twisting with his every breath. You loved him and he loved you, in a broken mess. However long he needed you, you would stay.

[archerdaryl]

Oblivious.

Daryl gets it into his head that the girl he’s infatuated with doesn’t like him one bit. What he fails to remember is that when it comes to people, she’s about as oblivious as he is. 

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Tags: moody?? angsty?? idiot meets bigger idiot | @madshelily​​ Word Count: 2.7k (approximately) Notes: Request by @petrified-teeth​​ ♥ This is my first time trying something angsty since getting back into writing -- I’d love to hear what people think!

Whispers echoed through the canteen hall as Daryl lumbered through, his crossbow bloody and slung over his shoulder. There was a particularly scathing scowl painted across his grizzly features, one that unfortunately wasn’t the result of a hard day’s work outside the prison walls, and people were quick to move or look away as he grumpily made his way through the building.

To say it had been a long week was an understatement, but he was used to getting his hands dirty. He didn’t mind the aching muscles or the sweat that came with working under the scorching Georgia sun. If anything, he was happiest when he was put to work. He felt useful, like he was needed, which was something he hadn’t ever felt much of in his life.

No, that wasn’t what had been bothering him at all. Not even close.

When Daryl eventually reached his cell, he threw down his crossbow before collapsing onto his bunk. He adjusted his pillow so that he could sit up a little against the wall, eventually settling into the thin mattress with a long, heavy exhale. He was glad to finally be alone, but he still had to simmer in his thoughts which were only getting louder. 

Why hadn’t you talked to him this week? Shit, you’d barely even looked at him. 

None of it made sense. 

From the very first moment that you arrived at the prison, something about you set the archer on edge. You had been on your own, somehow surviving against the world and all its horrors for God knows how long, and yet you hadn’t turned to stone. You were everything he wasn’t in many ways. Unabashedly emotional and full of faith despite it all even though he knew you had experienced some of the worst things a person could. 

He didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand you, but that didn’t matter. He just wanted to make sure nothing ever smacked that smile off your face again. 

Daryl’s stomach stirred. His own features softened at the mere thought of your smile, which only made him forcibly frown again. What the fuck was his problem? He had to be overthinking this. Maybe he was just tired, but that couldn’t be it. 

You hadn’t spoken to him all week.

It was driving him insane. 

Looking back, he really wasn’t sure when his feelings for you snuck up on him. He could only pinpoint the moment he realised it for himself that he liked you at all. You had gotten separated from the group on a run, took it upon yourself to divert a small herd away from everyone. You ended up bloody and bruised. Damn well nearly got yourself bit, but you still giggled and told him he worried too much.

It took almost losing you to realise you had chiselled away at the walls he built around himself. You’d made a little home for yourself in his heart and the idea of you turning on him now was making him spiral.

Daryl shifted in his bunk and began to absentmindedly pick at the skin around his fingernails. One soon started to bleed, but he was too lost in thought to notice. 

There was no fucking way you felt the same as he did. How could a girl like you possibly want a guy like him? You personified sunshine and he was a weed that had absolutely no business taking up your time and energy. 

God, if his brother could see him now.  He was pathetic. Merle would tell him just that, laughing in his face and reminding him that he told him so, that no one would ever care about his baby brother Daryl but him. 

And the worst thing was that he could live with that. He could live with you not wanting to be with him. It kept him awake at night and gnawed away at whatever little sense of self he had left but as long as you liked him just a little bit and wanted him around he could live with it. 

So why the fuck weren’t you talking to him?

Daryl started to retrace his steps, trying to figure out if he had done something wrong. He knew he could be blunt, often rude at times, but he meant well. Maybe meaning well wasn’t enough. Maybe he just had to suck it up and apologise and hope it was enough despite not having a damn clue what he had done wrong. 

But maybe that was just it. Maybe he hadn’t done anything at all. Maybe there was something wrong with him.

He was breathing heavily now, eyes squeezed shut and anger building further in his chest. He couldn’t fix this. He wanted to but he couldn’t. The echoes of Merle’s laughter haunted him. He’d been thrown away like he’d been countless times before and he only had himself to blame.

“Hey Da-” A familiar voice interrupted him, quickly sounding concerned, “What’s going on?”

Daryl’s eyes shot open, scowling at the figure who had approached his cell. It was just Rick, but he didn’t want to talk to Rick right now. He didn’t want to talk to anyone.

“Nothin’.” He spat angrily, “Get lost.”

Rick sighed and stepped into Daryl’s cell, drawing the thin curtain behind him to try and give Daryl the illusion of privacy. 

“Daryl you can’t keep storming around the prison like this. People are uncomfortable.” He paused, lowering his gaze to shake his head before looking at his friend with sympathetic eyes, “Now what is it? Is it her?”

The archer blinked up at him, unable to respond.

“You think I ain’t noticed?” Rick chuckled, “Like a dog to a bone whenever she’s around.”

“Well she ain’t around. She ain’t fuckin’ talkin’ to me.”

Daryl sat up from his bunk and threw his legs over the side, leaning onto them with his elbows. He couldn’t deny it even if he wanted to. He may not have said anything, but Daryl had a language of his own only those closest to him could understand. Rick was one of those people. 

“She’s been bouncin’ around all week helpin’ out with the library. Have you talked to her?”

Again, Daryl was stuck for words. He was starting to feel stupid. 

“Why don’t you just tell her man?”

“Tell her what?” He snarled back, now massaging his fists as if he were in pain. 

He couldn’t fathom trying to tell you how he really felt. How could he? He was no good. He never understood why you insisted on talking to him in the first place, he was just glad you did. Every moment he got to spend with you made him want to make the world a better place for you to be in so that faith of yours never betrayed you again.

“C’mon now. You can lie to everyone else but I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

Daryl shot Rick another scowl but didn’t bother trying to tell him otherwise. 

“You talk too damn much.”

“She won’t figure it out for herself, man. D’ya think if she could take a hint you’d be sulkin’ like this right now?”

Dary’s brows knitted together and a sigh of defeat drew slowly from his lips. Rick had a point whether he liked it or not. You weren’t exactly… the most cognizant person when it came to others. You did good and hoped people were good to you in return, but unless someone spelled out their intentions or desires for you, you were left with simply navigating the waters the best you could. 

That was why you got on so well with Michonne. There was no bullshit with her. She told you what she thought, what she wanted, or where to go if you were pissing her off. You were better off for it, never having to second guess yourself, but not everyone was like that. 

Daryl certainly wasn’t. Did you have any idea where you stood with him at all? Did you see him like you saw everyone else? He swallowed hard. 

“Rick?” A voice then called out, “Are you down here?”

“In here!”

Footsteps approached Daryl’s cell and the curtain was pulled open, “Maggie wants you. Something about the library? She should be still in there.”

Daryl glanced up at the new arrival who met his crystalline gaze with a sweet smile. 

It was you. 

His mouth suddenly felt incredibly dry. 

Rick turned to Daryl and cocked a brow suggestively before making his departure. Daryl wanted to shove the smug bastard against a wall, but he stayed silent, clearing his throat and waiting for you to follow Rick without bothering to say another word.

Instead, you stayed and perched yourself on the edge of his squeaky metal desk which was covered in borrowed books and makeshift arrows. He silently cursed himself for not thinking to tidy up a little, especially with the pile of dirty clothes he kept forgetting about building up in the corner of his cell. 

“You charged right past me in the canteen earlier.” You finally said, voice gentle but steady, “Did something happen out there?”

“Naw.” He responded bluntly, “Just been a long week.”

“Oh.” You paused, unsure of how to proceed, “Do you want me to go?”

He was a difficult man to read, but you felt you knew him well enough by now to know that he often just wanted to be on his own. He wasn’t a talker. He was introspective and quiet, never wanted to bother anyone with anything if he didn’t have to, but over the last few months he seemed to have grown to like having you around. He tolerated you at the very least you thought, because he stopped ignoring you and started to speak in (almost) complete sentences. 

Still, something was nagging at you. You weren’t sure what, but in your experience it was best to come right out with it otherwise you’d be stuck in limbo forever. 

“Have I done -”

Daryl looked down at his hands, “Ain’t seen you all week.”

A frown pulled at your features. Had it really been that long? You weren’t even sure what day it was. Maggie had you running around all week trying to get this library in order for the kids and you had never been particularly good at juggling a million things at once. 

Pushing yourself up off the desk, you approached the bunk and nudged his feet with your shoe in a silent request for him to shuffle over. He obliged and you took a seat next to him. 

“I’m sorry.” You mumbled, “I’ve been so caught up in the library I didn’t even realise I hadn’t spoken much to anyone.”

Silence followed. Daryl was chewing the inside of his lip to keep himself from running, unable to meet your eyes that were fixated on him with such care and curiosity. He’d never felt so fuckin’ stupid. 

“Funny.” You continued, “I wouldn’t have thought you cared.”

“What?”

“I don’t know where I stand with you at all, truthfully.”

This girl had to be joking. From an outside perspective, it likely made perfect sense, but he thought about you all the damn time. He wanted to know if you slept well, how your day went, wanted to know the little stories behind the things you did and why you never seemed to give up on anybody or anything. 

He felt like a damn school girl. He liked you so much that he could have laughed at the idea of you not thinking he liked you at all. 

“I mean, I hope you like me. I pretend you do and keep buggin’ you anyways, but I don’t know that you do.”

“Of course I like ya.” He finally met your gaze, “Never gave me a choice.”

You studied his face. Sure, he was rough around the edges, but there was also a tenderness to him that made you feel safe. An appreciative grin tugged at your lips, relieved that you hadn’t been making a fool of yourself this entire time. 

“Don’ think I could hate ya’ if I tried.”

“That’s high praise coming from you. Might start getting the wrong idea.”

Daryl forced himself to snort in response as if he found the notion of being interested in you like that funny, though it came out half-heartedly. He didn’t really think it was funny at all.

“Though,” You teased him further, “Worse things have happened.”

Weaving an arm through his, you took it upon yourself to rest your head against his shoulder. You didn’t care that he was grubby. You had nothing to lose anymore. He just said he couldn’t hate you, which honestly made you feel a little giddy inside. You’d have to bug him more often.

Daryl, on the other hand, thought he had lost the ability to breathe. He turned his head slightly, taking in the unmistakable scent of peaches and vanilla. How was it you could smell that good during the Goddamn apocalypse? Not to mention your hands, almost disgustingly soft compared to his. Except, it wasn’t disgusting at all. You were a fleece blanket and he wanted nothing more than to be engulfed by you. 

“Sorry about lunch.” He mumbled quietly into your hair. You hummed happily, not at all bothered by his previous outburst in the canteen before he continued, “Could get dinner?”

“Sure. I gotta talk to Rick about the run tomorrow anyways.”

Daryl frowned. He was going to have to try and spell it out for her. Fuckin’ Rick and his meddling. 

“Naw I meant,” He hesitated for a moment and swallowed hard, “I meant just the two of us. If ya’ want.”

You glanced up from his shoulder, eyes beautiful and wide. This was one of those times you didn’t know what to think -- especially in regards to him --  but your first instinct was to nod, so you did. You nodded and searched his gentle gaze for some sort of sign, something that told you what he was thinking, whether he just wanted to make up for lost time or whether he was actually… nah. 

He couldn’t be.

And he could see that confusion painted across your face. Goddamn it. Just getting his words out at all was like trying to get blood out of a stone. It’s a date. That’s all he had to say, but it sounded so childish. The fuck did he look like asking out a girl on a date with the world gone to shit? He could hear his heart beating in his ears 

“Damn it,” He grunted, that Southern drawl of his getting thicker the more impatient he got. He exhaled heavily through his nose and tried not to roll his eyes, “I’m asking you out.”

“Oh.” Was all you could respond, soft and surprised. 

Ten minutes ago you weren’t even sure he liked you at all. That giddy feeling in your stomach grew stronger and you tried to stop yourself from beaming. 

“I can still say yes, right?”

Daryl shrugged you off of him, “You drive me nuts, you know tha’?”

“Alright, shit, I won’t come.”

“You’re coming, alrigh’? Now get outa here before Maggie bites my head off.”

Rolling your eyes, you stood up and stepped towards the gateway. Daryl watched you, his own gaze drifting from your hair to your waist and up again. That agonising ache in the pit of his stomach was finally starting to subside, though it was being replaced by something entirely different. He sucked in his bottom lip nervously as your hips swayed away from him. 

You only took a couple of steps out of his cell when you stopped in your tracks, turning half-way to glance at him with that sunshine smile spreading across your face. 

Daryl finally smiled back, shy and sweet and more than ready to smack Rick upside the head. 

[ouyangzizhensdad]

I just saw a post saying nhs has an inferiority complex and I'm?? Confused?? I always thought he was fine with being weaker in terms of cultivation, maybe I missed something

Hi anon,

I have to say, I struggle as well to figure out where people are getting this from the text. I think, oftentimes, people don't actually pay attention to what the text provides us in terms of characterisation as a whole, but take elements of what makes the character or which happens to them and simply extrapolate how they themselves would feel in that situation as a means of understanding the character. I can easily imagine how a reader would think: wow, if I had low cultivation in a world that values it (and within a clan that values strength even more so!) and a brother who was not only super strong and admired but who wanted me to fit into that role, and then found myself having to fill his shoes after his sudden death, I'd feel some sort of inferiority complex. I think that's the same reason you see so much people insisting WWX has self-esteem issues.

The thing about NHS is that, as a youth, we never saw him value high cultivation or "academic" achievements (not sure how to otherwise call his time at CR but there is probably a better word for it) or brute strength. He's afraid of consequences from his brother for failing at the CR, as we see here:

Although the brothers were not born from the same mother, their relationship was quite solid. Nie Mingjue had always taught his younger brother with extreme harshness, particularly caring for his studies. This was why, even though Nie Huaisang respected his older brother, he was the most scared of Nie Mingjue mentioning his schoolwork.

and here:

Although he didn’t understand a single bit as he listened in class, Nie Huaisang worked as hard as a slave when the date of the test approached. He copied Virtue two times for Wei Wuxian, and begged before the test, “Please, Wei-xiong, if my grade is lower than yi, my brother would really break my legs! Stuff like telling apart direct lineage, collateral lineage, main clan, clan branches… For us disciples from big clans, we can’t even distinguish our relationships with our own relatives, randomly calling everyone who are more than two tiers away from us aunts and uncles. Does anyone have enough capacity in their brain to remember those of other clans?!”

After thinking for a few moments, an expression of envy and yearning appeared on Nie Huaisang’s face, “To be honest, Wei-xiong’s words were quite interesting. Spiritual energy can only be obtained through cultivation and taking great pains to form a golden core (金丹). It would take I-don’t-know-how-many years to do, especially for someone like me, whose talent seems as if it was gnawed by a dog when I was in my mother’s womb. But, resentful energy are from the fierce ghosts. If they can easily be taken and used, it would be beyond wonderful.”

[...] . If disciple from a prominent clan forms the core at a later age, it would be a disgrace to tell other people of it, yet Nie Huaisang didn’t feel ashamed at all. Wei Wuxian also laughed, “I know, right? No harm comes from using it.”

The only moment that I can find that could tangentially be used to suggest that NHS has an inferiority complex could be this one, where NHS wants to avoid LXC's questioning about how his studies are going (and WWX picking up on his cues like a good friend to redirect the conversation). However, when you consider the whole context of the scene, it’s not because NHS feels self-conscious but because he’s afraid LXC is going to report to his brother that he’s not working hard at his studies:

Lan Xichen turned to him, “Huaisang, a while ago, as I returned from Qinghe, your brother asked of your studies. How is it? This year, will you be able to pass?”

Nie Huaisang replied, “Generally speaking, yes…” He seemed like a wilted cucumber, looking at Wei Wuxian in a helpless way. Wei Wuxian grinned, “Zewu-Jun, what are you two going out for?”

[...] Nie Huaisang also wanted to join in, but he had been reminded of his older brother as he met Lan Xichen. Cringing silently, he didn’t dare to have fun, “I’ll pass and go back so that I can review…” With this act, he hoped that Lan Xichen would put in some good words for him to his brother.

NHS seems very industrious at finding ways not to have to do anything that relates to cultivation or to leading a sect, and that is linked once more to the fact that he does not want to do these things (so not a case where we could say he’s self-sabotaging because he fears failure):

Lan Xichen took Nie Huaisang’s saber into his qiankun sleeve, “Huaisang has been using the excuse that he left his saber at home. Now he will have no excuses for lazing around.”

or here

“Nie Huaisang!”

Nie Huaisang fell at once.

He really did fall to his knees from the terror. He only staggered up after he finished kneeling, “D-d-d-da-ge.”

Nie Mingjue, “Where is your saber?”

Nie Huaisang cowered, “In… in my room. No, in the school grounds. No, let me… think…”

Wei Wuxian could feel that Nie Mingjue almost wanted to hack him dead right there, “You bring a dozen fans with you wherever you go, yet you don’t even know where your own saber is?!”

Nie Huaisang hurried, “I’ll go find it right now!”

[...]

In a hurry, Nie Huaisang dropped a few fans on the ground. Jin Guangyao picked them up for him and put them into his arms, “Huaisang’s hobbies are quite elegant. He’s dedicated to art and calligraphy, and has no propensity for mischief. How can you say that they’re useless?”

Nie Huaisang nodded as fast as he could, “Yes, Brother is right!”

Nie Mingjue, “But sect leaders have no need for such things.”

Nie Huaisang, “I’m not going to be a sect leader, though. You can be it, Da-ge. I’m not doing it!”

or here

Nie Mingjue was on the school ground, teaching and supervising Nie Huaisang’s saberwork in person. He did not acknowledge Jin Guangyao, so he stood at the edge of the field, waiting with respect. Since Nie Huaisang was quite uninterested and the sun was bright, he was rather half-hearted, complaining that he was tired after just a few moves. He beamed as he got ready to go to Jin Guangyao and see what presents he brought this time. In the past, Nie Mingjue would only frown at such things, but today he was angered, “Nie Huaisang, do you want this strike to land on your head?! Get back here!”

If only Nie Huaisang were like Wei Wuxian and could feel how great Nie Mingjue’s rage was, he wouldn’t grin in such a bold way. He protested, “Da-ge, the time is up. It’s time to rest!”

Nie Mingjue, “You rested just thirty minutes ago. Keep on going, until you learn it.”

Nie Huaisang was still giddy, “I won’t be able to learn it anyways. I’m done for the day!”

He often said this, but today Nie Mingjue’s reaction was entirely different from his past reaction. He shouted, “A pig would’ve learnt this by now, so why haven’t you?!”

Never expecting Nie Mingjue to burst out so suddenly, Nie Huaisang’s face was blank with shock as he shrunk toward Jin Guangyao. Seeing the two together, Nie Mingjue was even more provoked, “It’s been one year already and you still haven’t learnt this one set of saber techniques. You stand on the field for just thirty minutes and you’re complaining that you’re tired. You don’t have to excel, but you can’t even protect yourself! How did the QingheNie Sect produce such a good-for-nothing! The both of you should be tied up and beaten once every day. Carry out all those things in his room!”

The last sentence was spoken to the disciples standing by the side of the field. Seeing that they had gone, Nie Huaisang felt as though he was on pins and needles. A moment later, the row of disciples really did bring out all the fans, paintings, porcelain from his room. Nie Mingjue had always threatened to burn his room, but he had never actually burned them. This time, though, he was serious. Nie Huaisang panicked. He threw himself over, “Da-ge! You can’t burn them!”

Noticing that the situation wasn’t good, Jin Guangyao also spoke, “Da-ge, don’t act on impulse.”

Yet, Nie Mingjue’s saber had already striked. All of the delicate objects piled at the center of the field erupted in roaring flames. Nie Huaisang wailed and plunged into the fire to save them. Jin Guangyao hurried to pull him back, “Huaisang, be careful!”

With a sweep of Nie Mingjue’s hand, the two blanc de chine antiques shattered into pieces in his palms. The scrolls and paintings had already turned into dust in a split second. Nie Huaisang could only watch blankly as the much loved items that he had gathered throughout the years vanish into ashes. Jin Guangyao grabbed his hands to examine them, “Are they burnt?”

He turned to a few disciples, “Please prepare some medicine first.”

The disciples answered and left. Nie Huaisang stood at the same place, his entire body trembling as he looked over at Nie Mingjue, pupil encircled by veins. Seeing that his expression wasn’t right, Jin Guangyao put his arm around his shoulders and whispered, “Huaisang, how are you feeling? Stop watching. Go back to your room and have some rest.”

Nie Huaisang’s eyes brimmed red. He didn’t even make a sound. Jin Guangyao added, “It’s alright even if the things are gone. Next time I can find you more…”

Nie Mingjue interrupted, his words like ice, “I’ll burn them each time he brings them back into this sect.”

Anger and hatred suddenly flashed across Nie Huaisang’s face. He threw his saber onto the ground and yelled, “Then burn them!!!”

Jin Guangyao quickly stopped him, “Huaisang! Your brother is still angry. Don’t…”

Nie Huaisang roared at Nie Mingjue, “Saber, saber, saber! Who the fuck wants to practice the damn thing?! So what if I want to be a good-for-nothing?! Whoever that wants to can be the sect leader! I can’t learn it means I can’t learn it and I don’t like it means I don’t like it! What’s the use of forcing me?!”

I'm not saying he didn't have a hard time during the first moment of him taking over a leadership role in the sect after the sudden death of his brother (ultimately we can wonder whether the yiwensanbuzhi persona originated then, as he could have felt overwhelmed and actually didn't have the answers needed for the position he didn't prepare for--or whether it was always a pure fabrication to serve his goals), but I don't think we can chalk it up to an inferiority complex.

In the past, Wei Wuxian and Nie Huaisang studied together, so there were a few things he could comment about this person. Nie Huaisang wasn’t an unkind person. It wasn’t that he was not clever, but that his heart was set somewhere else and used his smarts on other areas, such as painting on fans, searching for birds, skipping classes, and catching fish. Because his talent in terms of cultivation really was poor, he formed his core around eight or nine years later than the other disciples of the same generation as him. When he lived, Nie Mingjue was often exasperated by the fact that his brother didn’t meet his expectations, so he disciplined him strictly. Despite this, he still didn’t improve much. Now, without his older brother protecting and supervising him, under his lead, the QingheNie Sect declined day by day. After he grew up, especially after he became the sect leader, he was often troubled by all kinds of affairs unfamiliar to him and looked for helpers everywhere, mainly his brother’s two sworn brothers. One day he’d go to Jinling Tower to complain to Jin Guangyao, and the next day he’d go to the Cloud Recesses to whine to Lan Xichen. With the two leaders of the Jin and Lan Sects supporting him, he still barely managed to settle on the sect leader position. Nowadays, whenever people mentioned Nie Huaisang, although they didn’t say anything on the surface, the same phrase was written on their faces—good-for-nothing.

And after NHS pieced together what happened to his brother and set out on a path to revenge, I don't see how someone who is so sharp and deceptive and able to reach his goals while hiding behind a facade the entire time would feel "inferior".

[rose-stardew-imagines]

Hi, I don't know if it's allowed, I'm new asking for writings and I would like something related to Sebastian discovering that farmer suffers ̶E̶a̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶d̶i̶s̶o̶r̶d̶e̶r̶ and how he treats them. Maybe it's a touchy subject but i need some some support on it. I really like your writings. Hug 💕

Hello, this is absolutely allowed...though it will have a trigger warning obviously. Thank you for your compliment and I hope you get all the best, if you need anyone to talk to I am here...I know what it's like to go through that sort of thing 💜. I chose to have the reader be a female who suffers with Anorexia since that is the one I know the most about and this isn't the subject I want to be getting things wrong about, hope that's okay!

Sebastian x Reader who suffers with a Eating Disorder

TW:Eating Disorder, Weight Loss, Body Image problems, Weight Gain

It had been almost a year of this 'habit' you had acquired. You had started to truly dislike who you had seen in the mirror, your body wasn't as perfect as you had wished. Even though you had spent days working hard on the farm, you had still seen too many curves, too much skin and fat. It disgusted you.

You were determined to lose weight, so you had begun to skip meals. No breakfast one morning, no dinner and lunch the next. It had made you sick, but you saw it as progress...a good thing. So you ignored it. The outdoor heat made you feel dizzy almost instantly, the daily work of the farm was grueling. You had to sleep more, skipping saloon nights and game nights with Sebastian, Sam and Abby.

Your friends had begun to notice as the months drew on. You looked frail, sunken in cheeks and shaky hands. When they would bring snacks, or order pizza from Gus, you always declined. A faltering smile and a hurried response of you 'eating earlier' in the day. Sam and Abigail seemed convinced, though Sebastian had his doubts.

The final straw was in late summer, the sun was scorching down onto you and you were exhausted, having to use your hoe as a cane as you worked on the farm. Strong dizziness washing over you whenever you turned your head too quick or moved too fast. This happened so often, yet you never stopped, you didn't want to give up your goal of achieving the "beauty" you so desperately craved. Once you were thin enough, you would stop. You always said that, yet your goal kept raising and raising, you could never reach it.

"Y/N?" You head snapped towards the sound, gripping onto your tool and blinking the stars away. Sebastian stood in the gateway of the crop field, his purple hair pulled back behind his neck and his usual hoodie tied around his waist. "You alright? You weren't answering your phone." He asked, brow furrowing as he looked over you. You nodded shakily, feeling as if your knees would give out below you.

"Yeah, sorry. Just been working all morning and haven't had my phone on me." You apologized, running your free hand through your hair. "What's up Bas?" Sebastian hummed, diving his hands into his pockets, keeping his eyes locked on you.

"Abby and Sam wanted to go hang out at the beach tonight. Just wanted to see if you wanted to join." Sebastian bit the inside of his cheek, looking away briefly. "Abigail and Sam are planning on swimming, I'm just going to hang out though." Your heart sank to your stomach. You rushed to figure out some sort of excuse, anything to get you out of going, having them see you in a bathing suit.

"Uhh," You stuttered, wringing your hands together. "I...don't think I can. I am going to be busy most of the day with this," you vaguely gestured to the fields around you. "Autumn is starting soon, lots of new seeds to plant." You explained quickly, hoping he somehow wouldn't notice that you were almost done clearing the fields.

"I can help if you want." Sebastian hummed, "I don't have much work to do today anyway." He held his hand out for the hoe stuck against your side. "You can go take a break for a bit." A tiny smile found its way on his face. You chuckled, gripping the tool tighter in your hands.

"Didn't know you were good with farm work Seb." You teased, smiling. You hesitantly handed the hoe over to Sebastian. "Thank you." He nodded with a small smile, walking off. You dug your heels into the dirt, trying to keep yourself stable as you slowly walked over to your front porch, sitting on the steps and watching Seb as he cleared the fields.

It had taken him about an hour to clear the fields, you had run into the house a few times to bring him water, and to let your dog come out and say hello. The sky was painted with red hues, cool breeze sweeping through the trees.

"We should probably go soon," Sebastian mumbled, leaning back against your porch railing, hair pulled back from his tired face. "Sam and Abby are probably there by now." You nodded, quickly pulling yourself up. The motion caused to spin, stars flashing before your eyes as your knees lost their strength. You heard a low buzzing, a figure moving in the corner of your eye as your knees gave out, and the last thing you felt was a set of arms grabbing you.

You slowly blinked your eyes open, bright flourescent lights burning through your eyelids. You hissed, pushing yourself up to scan your surroundings. You were in Harvey's clinic, numerous machines and monitors beeping around you. Sebastian was sat next to your bed, leaning down and resting his head on the space by your leg. His hair was a mess, and his breathing was deep and slow, his face turned towards you. How long had he been here?

You hesitantly ran your shaky fingers through his purple hair, loosening the knots and messy spots. His eyes fluttered, and he sighed, turning his head and slowly sitting up. You quickly pulled your hand back, occupying it with the many blankets laid over you.

"Y/N?" He mumbled groggily, rubbing the heel of his palm over his eyes and looking up at you. His features brightened up slightly. "Your awake, I'm glad." He smiled, scooting his chair closer to the bed. "How are you feeling?" You shrugged, tightening your grip on the sheets.

"Fine...tired. What happened?" He swallowed hard, clearing his throat and glancing towards the door.

"You passed out. You wouldn't wake up so I ran you to Harvey's." His brow furrowed, "He said it was cause of malnutrition. How long have you been doing this? He said it must have been weeks since you ate properly." His dark eyes burned through you. The air felt caught in your throat as you fumbled for words. Desperate for anything to say that would calm him down.

"It hasn't been that long, I swear. I've just been busy these past days and forgotten-"

"Bullshit." You froze, looking up at him quickly. "That's bullshit and we both know it. You have been here passed out for days, Harvey didn't think you would come out of it okay and you try and lie to me?" He hissed, his now shaky hands darting into his pockets. "Tell me the truth, Y/N." Your heart sank to your stomach, your gaze drifting down to your lap. Hot tears pricked your eyes, sending large drops onto the bed.

"A couple of months...." You whispered, his hissed in a breath through his teeth. "I didn't....I-" You quickly wiped your eyes, anxiously running your fingers through your hair. "I'm sorry...Seb." He shook his head quickly, scooting his chair closer to you, nervously taking his hands out of his pockets to have them open on the bed. A silent offer.

"You don't have to apologize to me...just...you don't have to do this to yourself." You looked up and stared at his pale hands, slowly reaching out and placing your hand in his, your fingertips brushing over his many calluses.

"Yes I do, I-" His grip on your hand tightened.

"No. You don't have to starve yourself like that, Y/N." He slowly rubbed his thumb across the back of your hand, his gaze softened, a warm kindness kindling in his dark eyes. "You are perfect, please...don't do this to yourself. You aren't alone....I've got you." You bit the inside of your cheek.

"You don't have to...I'll be fine.."

"I want to." Hot tears brimmed your eyes again.

"Thank you..."

After you got out of Harvey's care, Sebastian stuck with you pretty often, inviting you to his place and texting you daily. You two would text till one of you fell asleep, he would listen to your every worry, bring you out of your darkest moments. He would always be there to support you, and you couldn't be more grateful. He didn't ever plan on leaving you, and you didn't ever want him to.

I know this wasn't my best work...this was really hard to write, but I hope you all like it. Apologies it took so long...I wanted it to be as perfect as I could make it... ~Rose💜