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writeiolite · 4 years

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mom and dad — [ WTF U! 19 ]

❝ You’re close to your dream life: early graduation and big-city opportunities. A one night stand with Oikawa turned into two, which turned to three, which somehow turned into two little lines on a plastic stick. It was nice being able to live your dreams, but suddenly it’s time for you both to wake the fuck up and start being parents. ❞

wc: 1,712

WTF U!: m.list . 19 . 20

A random text to Oikawa one day asking him to pick up his nephews is definitely something to worry about. Akiko usually sends the text, not Tarou.

“Haven’t you watched a single movie? Or experienced any common sense, Akiko? Waiting to bring these things up is never the answer!”

“I’m not the only one that kept this from Tooru. I’m going to tell him tonight because he deserves to know the truth. And stop raising your voice,” she replies evenly, watching her husband furiously dig his thumbs into the small screen of his phone. He looks like a beast — expression feral and fuming, borderline snarling at her with every word.

“I’m not raising my voice, you’re just not hearing me! You never hear me when I tell you to stay out of it — you always have to butt in.”

The last sentence is one that she’s repeated to herself too, but she can’t seem to grasp it. Telling Tarou about the phone call was something she wishes she could’ve skipped over, but he was listening in on the whole thing. Somehow, your relationship with his brother is tearing apart their relationship.

That’s not right at all, is it? Even Akiko knows you two aren’t to blame for her stupid optimism and stupid advice. But it’s so hard. She never meant for this to happen — she didn’t know you’d move to Osaka just like Dayoung, she just wants you both to do what you believe is best. If someone had believed in her like that then she knows she would’ve settled down with Tarou sooner, the two of them probably in a happier place.

But she knows she’s still to blame for this, which is why she wants to come clean and help fix this mess. Or maybe just come clean — she doesn’t need to get involved anymore.

“Mom, Dad, do you need me to get Maki’s bag?” Takeru pokes his head around the corner, his eyes void of stains from his parents’ fighting. They can only hope that means he hasn’t heard anything.

But he’s their son, and he’s learned to cover up his emotions well enough around others. To keep secrets from people important to him.

“Mom and Dad are fighting a lot lately.”

Certain people.

Oikawa’s face scrunches up behind his shaved ice. Maki doesn’t like it too much, but he lets his baby nephew take a few tentative tastes. Just seeing his chubby little face twist in dissatisfaction is enough to make Oikawa smile again.

“About what?” He watches Takeru swallow down some of his cold treat, his youthful expression filled with troubles.

“You and Y/N.”

What? He stares hard at Takeru now, almost dropping the dessert on the baby in his arms.

Like this topic is the most normal thing, Takeru shifts Oikawa’s arm so his baby brother doesn’t become a human snow cone. He’s unfazed by everything at this point. All it takes is one deep breath and he gets everything out in the open.

“Mom was the one that told your girlfriend to leave. And Dad’s mad because this happened last time too, but Mom is mad at him because he’s being hypocritical. Something like that. And then he said that she needs to stop butting in but she said he needs to get more involved if he cares that much because he ‘sweeps it under the rug’ or something.”

The wind blows, whistling through the leaves above them as if to praise Takeru for the speech… but Oikawa’s doing anything but praises. He’s got to hand it to the kid — he’s honest. Brutally honest, as most teens are. And that’s exactly what he needed, but didn’t want.

Aki-chan? His own brother? Dayoung? You?!

He moves on autopilot, legs moving him to the trash, hand tossing the shaved ice and grabbing his phone, thumb tapping the little green phone icon next to Akiko’s contact name. He doesn’t even realize he’s speaking, his own voice sounding foreign. Like the snarl of a sad, broken beast. One without any fight left in him.

“Why did you tell Y/N to leave me? And Dayoung?”

She barely recognizes him too, her eyes meeting Tarou’s who refuses to look at her anyway. This is her burden and her burden alone — even if Tarou is guilty of not stepping in to stop her, he’s never been the one to do so anyway. He knows who he married but he doesn’t know how to stop her from being the enemy of everyone. He merely grits his teeth and tries not to actually bite his tongue. He ignores the nagging thought that their marriage has been defiled.

“I-I didn’t, Tooru-chan. I talked to Y/N last night and I wanted to talk to you tonight ab-”

“It’s Oikawa-san.”

Her phone nearly slips from her fingers. She deserves this at the very least, but it feels worse than she was expecting. The young teen she took care of with her high school sweetheart is just a shadow clinging on to the nightmare on the other end of the phone.

There’s silence on either end as if she’s expecting him to say more. What the fuck is he supposed to say?! That he… he- he fucking what? He has nothing to say to her that would be appropriate for his nephews’ ears. At least Takeru is smart enough to read the room — definitely smarter than his mom — and buckles his little brother into the car seat when they get to the car. Tooru is almost tempted to drive his fist into the metal in frustration while waiting for her to say more.

He settles for yanking the door open and jamming his fingers into the radio’s buttons to connect his bluetooth. Still not satisfied. He slams the door shut while turning the car on, barely even hearing Takeru get into the car and whisper calming words to his brother. Still not satisfied. It’s only when he grinds his teeth together and pounds a fist into the steering wheel and hears Akiko squeak in surprise that he’s satisfied. She needs to talk. Fast.

“Tooru? Where are you going?” Timid.

“Your house.” Terror.

Finally, Tarou looks at her, giving her a firm shake of his head while grabbing his keys. “We’ll come to you. Where are you?” He doesn’t give her any room for argument, taking long strides to the car with Akiko struggling to follow behind.

She probably looks pitiful right now when she shouldn’t. She doesn’t need pity, she needs to fix things. She wants to fix things.

But fixing things is how they got into this mess in the first place, right?

Tooru glances in his mirrors before pulling out of the parking spot, anger still stealing away most of his attention. “Leaving the park.”

“Tooru,” his brother warns.

He scoffs. “So now you’re taking her side? Do you know how she’s ruined my life?! Give her the phone and let her explain!”

“You have my damn kids, Tooru, you better watch your attitude!”

Right, the kids. He forgot he didn’t matter.

Tarou shoves the phone back into Akiko’s hands when he buckles his seatbelt with a twinge of guilt — he hadn’t realized he snatched it away from her in the first place, but god he’s pissed. Still, at least she looks concerned about their sons too even when she’s neck-deep in her own mess. She begins speaking frantically as her husband drives with urgency.

“Don’t go anywhere, okay? I promise we’re on our way there right now. You shouldn’t be driving-”

Tooru honking the horn cuts her off, Amaki’s cries swiftly following. Takeru glances up to see that someone had cut in front of them, unease growing in his stomach. He’s doing his best to keep his brother calm, putting on a brave face like always and stroking over his hair. What else can he do? What would Mom or Dad do to make him feel better? How can he help his uncle and his brother?

“Tooru, I’m serious, please just park the car,” she begs, her mind playing an evil game of demonstrating every worst case scenario. It’s hard to breathe, let alone think or speak her next words with any precision. “I shouldn’t have talked to Dayoung and I shouldn’t have talked to Y/N, but I swear it isn’t what you think. Y/N left by her own choice and she still cares-”

Takeru jumps when his uncle screams over her, the crest of his cheek visible from the backseat. So red…

“Do you think that makes me feel better?!” His voice cracks almost as much as his heart when he chokes out his next words, “I trusted you!!!”

He uses his small hands to cover Amaki’s ears. If at least one of them can escape from this nightmare then he’d rather it be his baby brother. It doesn’t matter that they’re both trembling because of their sobbing uncle and desperate mother, Takeru just wants to preserve some semblance of normalcy — he recalls the soft memory of his family he once had as his head spins and the world outside the window spins faster.

His heart hurts, his head is aching, and he doesn’t get it! He doesn’t want to grow up like this, he doesn’t ever, ever, ever grow up and be like this. Amaki’s cries don’t get any quieter, rivaling Tooru’s and… Mom’s. Takeru parts his lips to speak, to beg for them to stop because he’s tired and shaking and-

“Dammit, Akiko-”

Dad never talks like that.

“-you better fix this! And Tooru-”

It’s so loud. I wanna get out of the car but we’re going too fas- Please just stop! Please don’t cry, Mom, please stop yelling please just-

“-I’ll kill you if you don’t tell me where the fuck you are!”

Stop!!!!

He squeezes his eyes shut and caves so instinct can take over. He always did this when he was terrified as a kid — Mom once said she would sit with him and cover his ears to muffle the world to replace it with her comforting protection. And while it’s a little quieter, the makeshift earmuffs don’t stop the gut-wrenching crunch of metal.

It finally stopped.

don’t hate me :’’’’’’)

also thank you @loneveenas for beta reading this🥺i appreciate it tons!!

{ taglist — tell me if you want to be added or taken off: @vventure @ilikeyourstory @infamouswhitepawsies @lapofthegodss @svtbitch @jaehyunluvcult @for-ests @spikertrash @booklover240 @ushimiyas @skysixx0523 @kozukens @toofickleheart @ksyy @keigosbitch @srhlsx @moonchild-kun94 @thissilverbadger @sugarshoyo-main @n3verending16 @asexualmarauder @taeiliee @samwritesss @kiwiialoe @theshirleygamer @tycrackculture @doenerfee @awkwardali6106 @icythotsenpai @dyosatalaga @vanderaliwaal @preparingtofall @yams046 @asahi-is-jesus-periodt @atsumunotsangwoo @sugawsites @nekoma-hoe @readeretal @starryhyun @kakaokenma @iridescentsunli @marinovakovich @yammmers @abi-inthesky @yeahhemmings- @ln-37 @sonotvic @aegeanblues }

#oikawa angst #haikyuu angst #oikawa x reader #haikyuu x reader #oikawa imagines #oikawa scenarios #oikawa tooru #oikawa fic #oikawa imagine #oikawa scenario #haikyuucreations #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu imagine #haikyuu fic #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #HQ #HQ!!#car accident tw

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oatmilkovich · 3 years

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not sure if you've shared your acting thoughts on j.a.w. but would love to hear if you have any stand-out moments. it keeps hitting me what a powerhouse he is and his arc (and especially the incredible power of his scenes with emmy) pretty much singlehandedly kept me watching through seasons 6-8 when a lot of other storylines dragged on! i'm still happy with the show in a post-fiona world but i really miss the lip and fiona dynamic as it really felt like the backbone of the show and the gallagher family!

hey! <3

you sent this weeks ago and i am profusely sorry about that. i haven’t talked about jeremy yet but since it was lip love hours on the dash today, i decided to have a crack at it. lip’s storyline has definitely been the most consistent and solid throughout the entire show – there’s never really a time i don’t enjoy watching his scenes (though i do find it difficult to watch the helene sl in s6). he and emmy consistently worked phenomenally off one another and though i really miss emmy now, i do think we need to hand it to jaw and his contribution to carrying the show for it’s run.

there’s a lot I could talk about with jeremy’s work so i’ve had to pick a couple of my favourite things for today, otherwise i’d be writing for hours. discussion under the cut!

remember: this is all my opinion! i’m just an unemployed actor in a pandemic.

one of my ultimate favourite things about jeremy’s performance is the way he approaches lip’s monologues. in my personal opinion as an actor, monologues fucking suck. they’re unnatural, difficult to pull off and so easily end up being a vehicle for the self indulgent actor to just hear their own voice. luckily for us, jaw manages to knock them out of the park every single time. the key to a successful monologue is a hell of a lot of prep work before hand – you’ve always got to remember that no one monologues and talks at a great interrupted length naturally, that’s just not how humans exist and interact in the world, so an actor always has to consider why their character continues talking and doesn’t stop after the first line. their objective for the scene – what they want to gain – has to be so solid, so vital to the actor/character that we believe they can’t stop talking until they achieve it. an objective is the only thing that drives dialogue forward – we only speak out loud because we want to achieve something. now, there’s an incredibly fine line between pushing to achieve your objective during a monologue and allowing the objective to push you. this is never a problem with jeremy’s work.

a good objective goes hand in hand with how the lines of the monologue are delivered. every line a character speaks is new to them – the actor rehearses a line but the character doesn’t – each thought behind a line, even if it’s something they’ve thought about before, is new to them. when you’re working in a scene with another actor and trading dialogue, it’s easier for that new line of dialogue to feel more natural as a response to your partner – when you’re on your own in a monologue this can be a huge challenge. monologues are badly done when everything sounds rehearsed – you can tell when the actor isn’t working from moment to moment and is simply saying the lines they’ve learnt in a huge chunk. you don’t believe they’re speaking to achieve their objective, they’re simply speaking the lines on the page and probably are thinking about how good they sound. again, this is never a problem with jeremy’s work.

now let’s look at this monologue from 5x08:

this is a really well done and subtle monologue on jeremy’s part – it’s one of my favourites and it does a really good job at highlighting how detailed and personalised his work is. before he even begins to speak, you can tell jeremy is prepared for the circumstances of scene. lip is completely riddled with tension – you can see it in the way he clenches his jaw and wipes his hands on his trousers – as an audience member, we already know there’s a hell of a lot on his plate. this monologue is a moment where he allows it all to bubble over.

lip’s obviously trying to get some leeway on his college finances by explaining his situation to his adviser – perhaps that was jeremy’s objective (to achieve help with his finances) but as he continues talking, it morphs into really heartbreaking glimpse into lip’s pov of being the ‘golden goose’ of the family. it’s the first time we really hear his thoughts on ian’s diagnosis, monica’s illness and how guilty he feels every single day being away from his family. lip asking for a favour becomes less about financial help and even more so about being heard. he needs someone to understand and hear him out. to understand the heavy pressure he feels to achieve what everyone else expects of him.

a monologue has a mini storyline arc within it and jeremy takes us on journey as we watch lip continue talking, continue exposing himself, putting himself in a horribly vulnerable position. he starts by easing himself in – cracking a joke about how they should get to know one another because he’ll be there a lot – but as soon as he starts going into detail about ian and why he needs an extension on payments, there’s a significant shift in jeremy’s delivery and lip’s relationship to how badly he needs this. jeremy allows himself to fully experience each thought before he delivers a line – he doesn't rush and allows moments to breathe. every single line he says, every single sibling or situation he mentions, we get a glimpse of his pov on the subject. these moments of pause allow lip’s journey throughout the speech to be so clear to us as audience members, there’s never a moment where a piece of dialogue feels delivered falsely or preplanned. jeremy doesn’t push to achieve anything and we follow lip throughout the speech on his journey without a clue where he’s going to end up.

by the end of the monologue, lip’s desperation to be understood is clearer than ever. he’s panicking but jeremy never overplays it. even as it builds and he begins to visibly get more emotional with tears in his eyes, it never becomes a performance. jeremy always manages to get the balance right and it’s just a really, really beautiful reaction to his circumstances and truthful acting coming from the moment. it’s a huge deal to bare his heart like this to someone – a stranger at that – and jeremy manages to capture that vulnerable dent in lip’s pride perfectly. he’s not yelling, he’s not pulling his hair out, but we still completely understand why this is so important to him. although I'll never know how he actually prepares his work, his text work here is deeply personalised – you can tell jeremy has given lip’s pov a good thought. I believe him the entire way through, his objective is clear and whatever it was that jeremy decided to use worked perfectly for both his motivation and our belief.

as someone who has shed a tear over performing many a monologue, he makes it seem so fucking effortless – i think that’s what really gets me. i’d love to see him do work on stage one day. as i said, there are about a million things I could talk about when it comes to jaw’s work on the show. this baaaaaarely even scratches the surface! I wanted to talk about another monologue here too, but i think this got long enough only talking about one!

please always feel free to ask me about any specific moments if you have any pressing questions, i can’t promise i’ll get to it very quickly (i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry!) but i will always try.my inbox is always open for anything, acting or otherwise. it takes me a while, but I really, really do love talking about this stuff.

thanks for reading! <3

#willa’s acting thoughts #sorry this ended up being about one scene and not more #but i just really really love this scene and i love his work #and i could talk about it for hours!!! hours!!#okay this made me nervous so i’m gonna go brush my teeth 🏃‍♀️#enjoy #jeremy allen white #shameless #lip gallagher #also surprisingly no one has asked me about emmy yet #but i was thinking of maybe looking at her conditioning force work w s4 and s9 ish #but ajdhshabdhajqksb #asks #actingasks

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argumentl · 3 years

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The Freedom of Expression, radio version - Ep 57, Nov 2016 - Bob Dylan awarded Nobel Prize, Headlines taken out of context.

Kaoru starts by saying that at the time of broadcast the band should have just finished a live show in Hong Kong the previous day, but at the time of recording, they were still in rehearsals. Kaoru had been in rehearsal up until coming to the studio to record this show, and he was a bit tired. Joe says that when Kaoru arrived at the studio today, he looked utterly exhausted. After meeting up, they had a bit of time before they were due to start recording the show, so they had to just hang out for a while outside, despite him already being wiped out.

Kaoru's first news is about Bob Dylan winning the Nobel Prize for Literature, and the many voices that had been raised as to whether song lyrics count as literature/whether they warrant winning a Nobel Prize. Joe really wants to hear Kaoru's opinion about this, him being a musician. Kaoru says it feels as if they are trying to change up the awarding of prizes a bit. He doesn't think Dylan was chosen for only this reason, but part of it was probably a reflection of changing times. Joe comments the science prizes are being awarded to wider and wider scopes each time, but the literature prize has always tended to be given to novels. In this era of evolving media, Joe wonders whether we are near the era where even influential tweets will be awarded prizes. He continues to say the Dylan definitely makes it as one of the top three influential musicians of the twentieth century, and awarding the prize to him opens up a lot of doors for the future of the award. Kaoru agrees with this, but also says that he understands the feelings of people who want to protect the Nobel Literature prize. He repeats that he does see this news as a reflection of the changing times. The prize is changing, rather than the artists.

Joe comments on the fact the there was some doubt as to whether Dylan would turn up to the award ceremony. In order to collect the prize money of nearly $1million, attendence to the ceremony in required, and a speech must be made. He also mentions that it would be quite Dylan-esque to miss the ceremony as a kind of rebellion against authority. Kaoru agrees with this, but also kind of hopes he does turn up. It would be interesting to see what Dylan had to say in his speech. Joe says that Dylan has recieved a number of prestigious awards in the past, so he is not exactly averse to award ceremonies really. He wonders whether Dylan might be embarresed about having to dress up for the Nobel ceremony.

They welcome Hiranabe next for the first time in a while, who is in the process of checking a new Line message during his introduction. After deciding not to talk about Niigata women for his topic, he brings up news that former Fuji TV announcer Hasegawa Yutaka (an aquaintance of Hiranabe's) has been under fire for making extreme statements on his blog, including the statement that all hospital patients on artificial dialysis should be left to die. Hiranabe thinks he didn't really mean to say this, rather he was trying to raise the issue of the cost to the state of treating illnesses that can never be cured but which also require huge financial costs. However, he took his point too far. Hiranabe admits that Tokyo Sports have been serialising his posts, and he may have made such extreme statements as a way to get sensational headlines in Tokyo Sports, therefore more attention on his blog. Hiranabe feels some small responsibility in the matter, for publishing said headlines. Kaoru still feels that Hasegawa took his ideas too far. Hiranabe says that after knowing Hasegawa in person, he is actually a very tuned in, alert person. He had put considerable thought into how to attract more attention. But he is also senstive, and has stuggled mentally with the backlash. Hiranabe wants him to revcover, not by forgetting about what he said, but by reflecting on it, and changing his behavior.

Joe brings up one time when Gotch/Gotō Masafumi of Asain Kung-fu Generation did an interview for Rolling Stone. During the interview, he made a brief comment criticizing PM Abe, but as a whole was not overly critical. However, this one critical comment was picked up and spread online, prompting harsh accusations of Gotō 'insulting our Prime Minister!'. Joe says that according to researchers, small chunks of text are much more likely to go viral, and only about 20-30% of people actually read the original longer sources where such headlines are picked from, leading to the the original meaning of statements to become obscured by sensational headlines. Kaoru thinks that people these days aren't interested in the details of news, they only want the headlines. Joe says that for writers or public speakers it has become kind of scary knowing that individual statements can be be blown up and taken out of context so easily. They won't be able to say anything before long. He does still think that Hasegawa's statement is in itself problematic, but putting that aside, he wants people to put more effort into reading news in full, instead of just the headlines.

Hiranabe then makes the comparison of looking at an image of a woman online and thinking she is nice, without really thinking about her emotion, earnestness, womanly stengths etc. Hiranabe is a fan of the Furumachi district in Niigata, which he says is still stuck in the Tanaka Kakuei era of Japan, but does also retain some of the old style clubs. The women who work there have such qualities as described above. He sees them as 'analog humans', not just after money. When Hiranabe talked about seeing photos of women online and being taken in by first impressions, Kaoru thought his story could have gone in an entirely different direction!

To finish, Kaoru plugs his upcomIng tours, and says that during the Kisou rehearsals, he rediscovered some songs he hasn't played for 15 or so years, which he thinks are really cool. He then quickly mentions the Instagram campaign before ending the show.

Songs - Dir en grey/Zomboid, Raintime/Beat It, Dir en grey/Utafumi.

To radio top page

#dir en grey #the freedom of expression #radio

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yogaadvise · 3 years

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The Meaning of Om

Many recognize with the "Om" shouted at the end of a yoga exercise course. But what is Om, what does it imply, and also why is it so important in yoga? Om is referred to as a magical incantation, vibration, syllable, and rule. Many think chanting the syllable "Om" has wonderful spiritual as well as emotional impacts. It is called the "sound of deep space". Om is also stated to be a sign of the Divine and ground the chanter right into a planetary energy.

Om is not just an audio or vibration. It is not just a symbol. It is the entire universes, whatever we can see, touch, hear as well as really feel ... It is the core of our really existence. Amit Ray

Beyond this magical side, however, Om is likewise vital because it is a global conjuration that any individual can make use of, any time. Chanting the syllable "Om" can appear much a lot more accessible than exercising typically complicated asanas (yoga postures). This universality makes Om a method of link. When chanted in a team at the start or end of a yoga exercise course, Om links the trainees and also educators, not simply to each various other but likewise to deep space around them and also the spiritual history of the yoga tradition.

History of Om

Om is an old principle that is likewise referred to by some as pranava, or cosmic noise. Om is essential to yoga, and came from the Sanskrit language as part of the Upanishads. Om is considered a spiritual sound, and scholars also see responds to Om in various other faiths such as Islam, Christianity, as well as Judaism. There are numerous historic messages which discuss the relevance of Om. One of these is the Mandukya Upanishad, a sacred Hindu text dating back countless years.

Here, Om is illustrated as at once superseding time, and including perpetuity. An additional sacred Hindu message that is central to yoga is the Bhagavad Gita. In this message, Lord Krishna (a sign for the Divine) defines the chanting of Om as,

Uttering Om, the single-syllabled Brahman, meditating on me, leaving thus from his body, he attains the Objective Supreme. Bhagavad Gita, 8(13)

So not just does Om connect all time, however it likewise connects the chanter with the Divine. It is claimed that Om is the initial audio of the universe, a primaeval sound that brings the chanter back harmonic with the Divine. In contemporary times, Om is popularly shouted in unison at the start and also end of yoga courses. This is a long-standing custom and to lots of yogis it is an essential nod to the sacred background of the yoga technique. However, for others Om has actually become a fashionable icon, with its written kind frequently made use of in jewelry and on clothes. Since Om lugs such a heavy spiritual history, it should only be worn or chanted in utmost respect. When taking a trip to India the Om symbol must just be put on attentively, and with acknowledgement of its spiritual meaning. The modern popularization of the Om symbol has actually been described as comparable to using the Christian cross without understanding or valuing what it indicates. When real history as well as definition of Om is understood, it can be an effective practice.

Pronunciation: Om or Aum?

At this point, it is crucial to mention to phonetics and also punctuation of Om. Because Om was initially a Hindu concept as well as composed in the Sanskrit alphabet, the punctuation "Om" is a Westernized modernization. Lots of individuals say that Om should be meant "Aum" because, when shouted, there are actually 3 separate noises: A, U, M. In Sanskrit, the "O" is actually noticable as a dipthong, or an audio composed of two vowels, in this instance "AU." Each sound stands for a distinct state, discussed below.

It is stated that Om is composed of every component of speech for all languages. In every language, despite alphabet or pronunciation, there are the "A," "U," as well as "M" noises. A stands for the throat sounds, U is the moving audio, as well as M is the closed-lip sound. Each of these three sound types are made use of in every human language. It is not surprising, then, that Om is an appropriate audio to stand for the original sound of the universe.

A-- syllable significance: Waking state

When chanting Om, the initial audio said is the "A" sound, pronounced as "Ahhhh". This is called the waking state. Simply as "Ahhh" is the beginning of chanting Om, it also stands for the start of the universe, as well as the creation of whatever within it. Assume as well as "A" as the start of the alphabet, just as waking is the start of consciousness. The waking state represents a person's recognition, when the mind regulates activity as well as the person determines with "I." The size, top quality, feeling, as well as convenience of the "Ahhh" syllable when shouting Om can use an insight right into an individual's waking state, their 5 detects, and their self-awareness or feeling of self.

U-- syllable meaning: Fantasize state

The 2nd state (U) is the desire state, articulated as "Oooo." The dream state is a balance between internal and also exterior emphasis, just as it is the connection between the waking state and deep sleep state. When shouting "Oooo," focus is attracted internal, yet it is still impacted by the outside world and the experiences of the "Ahhh," or waking state. The desire state is a giving up to the cosmos and also the Divine, as the chanter starts to draw away from external developments, the self, as well as the detects. To the waking state, the length, clearness, as well as top quality of the "Oooo" syllable will provide insight to an individual's dream state, knowledge, sense of clarity, and also connection with the bigger universe.

M-- syllable significance: Deep rest state

The last audible syllable is the M (obvious "Mmm"). This is known as the deep sleep state. This last audible syllable is identified as the transformative sound of deep space. The deep sleep state is the state of the gap, or simply put it is the state where all the detects and wishes of the waking state, and even the wisdom as well as representation of the desire state, and also launched. In the deep rest state, the individual will find tranquility, happiness, and replenishment via getting in touch with an universal awareness. The quality and size of the "Mmm" noise in Om will certainly offer insight to a person's deep rest state: Whether they are at tranquility, non-grasping, euphoric, and also more.

Importance of silence: Turiya

There is a last state of AUM that is not as well known. This finale state is called Turiya, as well as it is the silence following the last syllable. In this silence, the audible resonances of AUM have ended, yet they are still really felt in the throat, the mind, and the room.

[Om] is an everlasting tune of the Divine. It is continuously resounding in silence on the history of every little thing that exists. Amit Ray

Many people forget the presence of Turiya as a state, yet it is one of the most informed as well as pure of all the states. Nevertheless, without silence there can be no audio. Each state exists in contrast to the others. Unlike the other states, in Turiya there is no duality of sleep or wakefulness, Instead, there is just experience of pure awareness. This 4th state is elusive, yet constantly there complying with every AUM. The difficulty exists in genuinely feeling it and releasing all outside artifice.

Benefits of chanting Om

In enhancement to appreciating the lengthy as well as sacred background of Om, there are several advantages to shouting Om. Below are just a few benefits to chanting Om:

The gentle vibrations bring an euphoric feeling. Anxiety and also depression are reduced. Chanting enhances the voice and the throat chakra. Regular shouting brings a sense of health and wellbeing and also balance. The U (dream state) vibrations benefit the thyroid in throat. The resonances clear your sinus. Endorphins are launched and also hormones are balanced. Your concentration and also capacity to focus longer will certainly improve.

These advantages span the physical, emotional, as well as spiritual planes. They can be also more magnified by shouting Om within a group.

Science of Om

Behind the benefits of chanting Om exist the science behind it. Regardless of shouting Om being a thousands year old technique, it is only lately that it has been investigated by scientists. Currently, there is a lack of study on the benefits of chanting Om, nevertheless this is much more reflective on the absence of scientific research than the absence of benefits.

All that is the past, today and the future, all this is only the syllable Om. Mandukya Upanishad, 1

Many scientists rely upon the theory that the power of Om depends on its vibrations. In Quantum Physics, the study of the smallest bits of deep space, there is String Theory which proposes that matter is composed of miniscule string-like particles vibrating at various frequencies. It is these resonances that hold with each other all issue, and also consequently the world. Shouting Om produces a vibration in the body and also the surrounding environment, which when chanted repetitively can unite all bordered issue in the same frequency of vibration. With this vibration, the chanter is essentially unified with deep space via Om.

Furthermore, these resonances can awaken and energize areas of the body such as the pineal gland (recognized as the pineal eye), pituitary gland, and sinuses. This, consequently, can manage hormonal agents, boost mood and also rest, as well as more.

How to chant Om

Om can be shouted individually or in a group. When shouted in a group, the resonances are really felt and also sent out manifold, and will produce a much more profound sense of wellbeing.

Most individuals shout Om from a cross legged seated setting, or lotus present. Any type of mudra (hand setting) can be used, however a typical one is to attach forefinger and thumb and also extend other fingers, with arms expanded as well as hands facing upward on the knees. This is understood as Gyana Mudra.

Gaze must be cast downward, with the eyes shut. Take a deep breath in, expanding the diapgragm and filling the lungs, before shouting Om (or AUM) on the exhale. Do not overthink the pitch or tone of your Om. Instead, choose the most natural pitch for you. This might change with each Om and also may alter as you adapt to the other individuals in the room.

Exercise: Examine your AUM state

Once you fit shouting Om, a good workout is to periodically asses how your chant. To do this, you require to have expertise of the three states of AUM (waking state, dreaming state, and deep sleep state), which are reviewed previously. As you chant, either by yourself or within a team, bring understanding to each syllable you articulate. Some concerns to ask are:

Which syllable is longest? Which syllable is shortest? Which syllable feels the most natural/comfortable? Does any type of syllable bring stress to the throat, tongue, or third eye? Are there any feelings that emerge with a particular syllable? Are any one of the syllables skipped?

Thinking of these concerns, as well as just typically understanding exactly how you chant AUM will bring clearness to your own state of being. Shortages in one state will certainly bring understanding to other areas of your life. Do you skip over the U syllable, or dream state? You might not be taking adequate time to review life, or you might be experiencing a psychological block. Do you spend the most time on the A syllable, or waking state? You may be extremely connected to product possessions, or stressors in your life. Asking concerns as well as taking into consideration each syllable in connection with your life will certainly give you insight to yourself. By knowingly extending specific syllables, or balancing each syllable, you can bring much-needed equilibrium to your life.

Understanding the Om symbol

The audible noise, the vibrations, and the act of shouting are all important to the power of Om. Nonetheless, Om is additionally a composed Sanskrit sign. This symbol is sacred, and as reviewed formerly, must just be used by an individual that understands the history as well as power behind it. The Om composed sign reflects the top qualities of Om, consisting of the 3 audible states, and also the silent state.

The waking state is signified by the largest, bottom, left-most curve. The dream state is signified by the right-most curve which is virtually a circle. The deep rest state is represented by the left top contour (over the waking state). Maya, or lack of knowledge, is signified by the little, detached contour beneath the dot. Turiya, or unlimited awareness, is represented by the uppermost dot.

The icon of Om is greater than just a written personality. It is the representation to enlightenment. The three states of waking, fantasizing, and deep rest are attached, with deep rest climbing above. It is the ignorance as well as impression of Maya that stands in the method of pure enlightenment, or Turiya. Just once illusion is gone beyond knowledge be reached.

Conclusion

Just similar to all aspects of yoga, the significance of Om is complicated, historic, spiritual, profound, and also clinical. Its true advantages as well as significance can only be understood if it is exercised on a regular basis and with fantastic respect.

#iyengar yoga #meditating #pranayama #restorative yoga #spiritual #spiritual meaning #types of yoga #yin yoga #yoga #yoga nidra #yoga works

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fandomsilhouette · 4 years

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the stars will always fly

There was a star that burst under the pressure of all the love it carried and its stardust ended up in my veins and yours, and the iron in us knows we were one, once, and reaches for itself in each other. It finds its way into every step Felix takes, and every choice he makes.

Love is a choice. Felix chooses it.

Happy @felixmonth, y’all!

High school is bigger, busier than Felix was used to. Marinette is always rushing off someplace or another, and she always finds her way back to him at some point, but there are hours in the day where Felix finds himself spending a lot more time alone with Nino, getting slowly sucked into a spiral of analysis over musical techniques and their application in theatre and media. He hadn’t realized Nino knew anything other than whatever popular songs were playing, that he had his headphones in listening to the radio, but Nino actually writes music, and while he might not study in class, he’s learned a lot about musical theory. Nino seeks it out, no matter how tedious and mind numbing it might be. Marinette slots into these conversations easily, dropping down onto the bench in the middle of a heated discussion and picking up the thread like she’d never left. She’s picked up a fair bit of knowledge just existing next to Nino and Felix is… impressed, and a little jealous.

He likes how applicable this becomes to the speech and debate team he chooses to join, partly to fill the time when Marinette is busy with art club and commissions (with her other friends, with the people she likes more than she likes him, whispers the worst part of Felix), but also partly because when he walked by the club room at the beginning of the year, he watched a girl take down someone twice her size with nothing more than a casual recitation of brutal, weaponized facts, swinging her legs perched on a desk and casually checking out her nails. Her opponent ended the match falling dramatically to his knees, exclaiming over his wounds and flailing and throwing himself across the floor, and the girl finally broke character to laugh with the rest of the club. Felix found himself laughing too, and when someone waved him in, he followed.

Felix likes it, likes getting to use his words to hurt people and tear them down and still laugh with them afterwards. He likes the way Nino’s points about key changes and pitch bleed into the way he modulates his voice and intonation to pull pathos from his audience as he gives a speech, likes the way Marinette’s rambles on color theory find their way into the presentations he pulls together.

He likes the way he has friends at school now, people outside of Marinette and Nino, people who are his and who like him for more than who he knows.

He also likes the way speech and debate usually ends around when art club does, so he can walk home with Marinette afterwards. He finds himself lingering to finish conversations more and more, the way she does with her own friends, and likes the way that she’s always waiting for him once he’s done. She makes a point to leave a note in his texts if she has to leave, and every one sends his heart racing. She walks him to the library on the days they don’t have extracurriculars, and finds herself getting to know his kids, getting to fall in love with each of them as she drafts commission projects as he reads. Later, she tells him his voice is soothing and asks him over and over to read her to sleep until he caves. It doesn’t take very long. Every now and then, he'll pop into art club to say hi to Marinette, or she'll do her homework in the back of the speech and debate room, and being able to exist in the space as her without being fully engaged in what she’s doing is healing in a way he didn’t know he needed.

The most unusual part about having friends outside of Marinette is how oddly disengaged it feels in comparison: it’s not that he doesn’t care for them; when it’s just them Felix feels the affection lapping at his ankles in steady persistent waves and it’s good. But with Marinette, he’s drowning in the intensity of what he feels.

Felix starts to reconsider the words he chooses to put on that feeling.

It’s something he chews on throughout the bus ride to camp, throughout counselor orientation and the first few tentative weeks of learning how to be an adult to children who don’t know yet that he’s not. Being responsible for them makes Felix feel incredibly mature, and also incredibly young, the way that he sees himself in them, the way that he can’t anymore.

The first night the campers come to camp, Felix and Marinette take their group of campers up the mountain trail to see the night sky, unfiltered by pollution for the first time in their lives. When they pass through the clearing to the open horizon, a hushed awe falls over the group, same as seven years ago when Felix first walked this path. Then, he crossed his arms and refused to let the beauty of the night shape his features beyond anything more than a scowl. Now, the light plays over his features and he tilts his face up to meet the starlight.

It doesn’t last long. A cloud passes overhead, and one of the youngest campers starts crying, overwhelmed and missing home and scared by the dark. Marinette pulls them into her arms and starts bouncing them back and forth, and Felix stands there, at a loss. All he’s ever done is tell stories. That’s all he knows how to do.

Something shimmers in the sky, and the north star catches his eye. Words spill out of Felix that he didn’t know were there, and he refuses to hold them back.

“There have been stars in the sky for as long as the sky has existed. They’ve been called gods, fairies, balls of gas that shimmer when the light refracts against the atmosphere of the earth, a conspiracy, something beyond our comprehension, something a part of us. The sky you see tonight won’t be the same sky that you see tomorrow. You’ll never have this view again.” Someone whimpers behind him, and he rushes to continue.

“But every time you look up, the stars will be just as beautiful, if you care to find the beauty in them. Maybe it’ll take a moment before you find one winking at you. Maybe you’ll see them all, bantering back and forth on the horizon. Maybe you’ll point at the north star, and know that it is always there to guide you home, that it will always come back even if it’s hidden right now.” The sobs are quieting into messy hiccups, and Marinette adds her quiet hum to the rhythm of the story.

“Look at the stars, the moon, the sky. Let them change, and let them be constant. Find it in yourself to give them space to do both, and you will find that they will give you the same.” At that, Marinette picks up the thread, kneeling close to the campers and pulling them all in as best as she can.

“You are all made of stardust. Feel it, here, in your pulse. Find it when you feel lost, and let the stars remind you that you are so much, that you can be multitudes, that finding change and constancy both within yourself is not contradictory but human.”

They walk back in the dark, in silence. No one is scared. Felix can feel it in the air. He revels in it.

He's not much older than them. But he has to try to be the kind of person that keeps them safe, and Felix has seen so many kids get hurt in ways that don't show up on their bodies. Felix has been one of them. He wants to show them how to love and to do it safely. He wants to show them how to be messy, and vulnerable, and kind.

Felix wants it so much, so badly, that it consumes him. It pushes him into making friends, talking to people, calibrating his emotions one conversation at a time. These skills have atrophied for so long. He will build this muscle: for himself, for his kids. For Marinette.

They dance around each other all summer, building their friendship, edging into something flirty, something vulnerable. Sometimes Felix hears the older campers whispering and giggling about how he and Marinette are "like, definitely dating, right?" He doesn’t know how to answer.

He wishes he were, kind of. He loves Marinette. It’s taken him seven years to realize, or seven years to fall in love and maybe one year to realize, or something unquantifiable by any means he has. She fits so perfectly into his side by the campfire at night. She exists in her own light but never hesitates to pull Felix into her space, never hesitates to let him pull her into his. They exist outside of each other but cherish the spaces they share. But he loves her, so he worries about what it means, to be fourteen and in love, to be fourteen and just learning how to make friends. He worries about trying to put words to something that is bigger than human labels and breaking it with the weight of expectation.

He tells her, the night before camp ends. The campers have been sent to bed, and the counselors are enjoying the dying embers of the summer’s last campfire. There’s no urgency, no pressure in his heart to push the words out. He does it anyways, and it feels right.

“I love you, Marinette.”

“I love you too, Felix.” Her voice is soft and warm, and Felix basks in it.

“...what does this mean?” And then, before she can respond, he adds: “What does it have to mean?” He feels her shrug by his side, and grins.

“I don’t know. I don’t think it has to mean anything. I want to… keep loving you, and keep being your friend. And just… see how that goes. See where we end up.”

“What if we end up apart?” He’s too safe with her to sound timid. He puts the question out into the world, and waits.

“Why would we?”

“If we stop caring about each other, maybe.”

At that, she turns to him.

“I won’t. I promise. I’ll always care about you, Felix.”

“How do you know?” It comes out insecure and Felix makes no attempt to hide it, just leans in closer to Marinette.

“"I'll work at it. I promise to be here for you when we need to be, and we'll grow as people and find the best in each other. I'll make you a pillow if I need to," and she bumps into his shoulder.

"What if you like someone else?"

"What if you like someone else?" Felix wants to say he can't, he won't, he never will. Nino walks by and waves, and Felix knows that isn't true. There are so many people in the world. Felix wants to get to know them all, find out the ways he fits with them, find out what they bring out of him.

"...I guess... we'll date them. And love each other too, in whatever way we can.”

“What was it that you said? That the stars are constant and ever-changing, always there no matter how they move or shift. We’ll love each other like the stars, Felix.”

He hooks his pinky into hers. When she falls asleep on the bus ride home, sun shifting on her lap and glimmering against her hair as she leans on his shoulder, Felix squeezes her hand thrice.

“We’ll be starmates.”

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bjy-on-ao3 · 3 years

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Fic Friday: Helping Hand

(As usual, you can find the AO3 version of all my uploads [and some things I don’t post here to tumblr] via my Masterlist blog page.)

This story feels like fan content-ception to me, as it spawned from some NSFW art I made featuring Izaya, which was made from doodles to start with. Still scheming, but a lot more simple than my other fics with Izaya. Leaving this one a little open-ended in case I came back to it for Izaya returning the favor as he suggested. Not currently decided for sure though. I recently got my first request for Izaya and am brewing that, though it could be some time before I can get something down. It should be pretty fun though and spicier than this. (Note: Apologies for no cut - I am not sure how I add a cut with the new editor :/) Summary Invited over to Izaya’s apartment, Reader arrives too early and interrupts the informant’s alone time. And unfortunately (or fortunately), Izaya has no qualms about asking for a little help. Tags/Warnings Blowjobs, Come Swallowing, Hand Jobs, Oral Sex, Reader-Insert, Shameless Smut

Helping Hand (F! Reader/Izaya Orihara)

Arriving at the non-descript door in the hall of the impressive-looking apartment building, you hesitated. A few quick glances confirmed the numbers by the door matched up with the information listed in your phone’s address book. A few times before you had been to the apartment, but you hadn’t memorized everything about the address. All things considered, it was surprising you weren’t late this time, as you had been each time in the past. Maybe you were improving a little.

You raised a fist and drummed it against the door, starting light and polite. Nothing. You rapped harder. Surely that was loud enough to be heard? Your assumption was disproved when all that met you was silence, leaving you alone still in the hallway. You frowned in frustration and impatience. You knocked a third time, waiting a minute, wondering if he was preoccupied or just enjoying making you wait. When all remained quiet again, your frown deepened.

You looked back down at your phone, silently navigating to the texting feature and typing you a message irritably.

(X:XX PM): I’m here. I knocked, but I guess you didn’t hear it.

You didn’t need to wait more than fifteen seconds before your phone buzzed in reply. Two words met your gaze, followed after a moment by a second slightly longer message.

Izaya (X:XX PM): You’re early.

Izaya (X:XX PM): I’m a little busy right now.

You paused, your scowl becoming confusion, and you scrolled back up through the conversation. The log confirmed the time you had been told and the one in the corner of your phone matched. ‘ Early? Right. Don’t tell me Izaya of all people forgot.’

(X:XX PM): I checked and either I’m on time or you screwed up and sent me the wrong time.

Arguing with him wouldn’t do you any good one way or another; Izaya wasn’t one to genuinely apologize for any inconveniences he caused others. But correcting him made you feel a little better and somewhat less cross at least.

Izaya (X:XX PM): Oh, did I?

Izaya (X:XX PM): Well, if you don’t like waiting, you can just come in. Door’s unlocked.

Your face twisted again, now into a skeptical surprise. Izaya just left his door unlocked? Izaya Orihara, the man who had probably as many enemies as he had clients, decided it was smart to let whoever wanted to waltz right in. Yeah, that made sense. You wondered if he enjoyed the excitement of the potential danger.

(X:XX PM): Hardly seems like a good idea for YOU to leave your door unlocked, but whatever.

With a dismissive shrug, you tucked your phone into your pocket and reached for the knob. Pushing it open, you stepped inside quickly and closed it gently behind you. You took a step away before pausing, turning back and locking the door as an afterthought. Izaya could endanger himself all he wanted, but you would rather there be at least some kind of barrier between whatever messy trouble came looking for him.

Walking past the foyer, you expected to see him perched on his chair, clacking noisily away at his keyboard, fixed on the screens of his computers and cellphones or something of the sort. The chair was empty though, turned away from the screens. You scanned the area for the ever-frustrating information broker. Quickly, you noticed him tucked away in the corner of the dark-colored leather section, his back facing you. His head rested against the couch, one long arm lying curled over its back. For someone supposedly busy, Izaya looked pretty relaxed from where you were standing.

“You don’t look real busy to me,” you accused once you spotted him.

Izaya shifted, tilting his head further back to glance over his outstretched arm at you. “Oh, I am, I assure you.” He looked and sounded as collected as ever, as if nothing could or should trouble him. Except… was it just you, or did his face seem a bit red? “But I’ll be just a few minutes. Feel free to wait for me there,” Izaya suggested. There was something off as well about the quality of his voice you couldn’t place.

“Uh huh,” you said, unsure if you felt unsettled or just irritated still. Maybe a little of both.

He had told you to wait, yet your curiosity nagged at you viciously, demanding to see what exactly preoccupied him. Or maybe it was indignation needing to see what was so pressing he couldn’t remember the time he had told you. You took a few steps, intending to round the recessed floor area and the sectional to see what he was doing.

“You really should wait over there,” he warned you casually, the strange tone of his voice sounding stronger, but still indecipherable.

You scoffed, ignoring the warning and carrying on. When you swept around the corner of the area though, what you saw stopped you dead in your tracks, poised on the lip of the steps down. At first the strangled squeak that burst from your mouth didn’t quite register, nor did the immediate hot flush that fell across your face.

Izaya looked very comfortable where he sat, leaning back into the plush cushions. From the top-down, at first he looked perfectly normal, if a little flushed, one of his usual ‘v’-neck shirts tantalizing displaying a bit of his delicate-looking collarbones. Though the picture grew more suspect the further you went. The hem of his shirt was lifted, askew and higher on one side than the other, exposing his lean torso. That wasn’t nearly so scandalous though, as even further down.

He sat nude from the waist down, his pants and belt pooled around his ankles. His cock stood prominently between his splayed legs, a flushed tone to match the rosy tint in cheeks and leaking pre-cum. As if walking on Izaya with his pants literally down wasn’t mortifying enough, one hand was wrapped leisurely around his cock. Obviously he had been in the process of jerking off, and still was, having not bothered to stop even once you had caught him in the act.

What you were looking at hit you all at once, and a stream of half-finished sentences exploded out. “I’I’m sorry, I-- But what are you--? Why would let me come in if that’s what you’re busy doing?! You began in an apologetic voice, though your apology quickly turned to indignation at the fact Izaya’d had plenty of time to put himself away before you came in. Before he invited you, for example, and then before he greeted you.

“Well, I did warn you.” Izaya’s speech held no hint of apology. The shameless, steady stroke of his hand up and down confirmed he was not bothered whatsoever. “Besides, you’re the one who wanted to show up early and be nosy, darling.”

At last you recognized the tone in his voice you hadn’t been able to place before. Something husky and thick, a silky accent to his already smooth voice. You felt stupid not being able to put two-and-two together from his voice and face.

“I’m not early! I-it’s not my fault you told me the wrong time,” you tried to hide the shakiness in your voice with anger, though you knew Izaya was a master at seeing through masks.

You wanted to turn, to look away, but you found yours glued to the sight of him, stunned like a deer in headlights. Maybe it was his audacity that was truly so stunning. I’m just gonna go and come back later,” you ground out through teeth after you tore your eyes away from the enticingly lewd scene.

“Oh? But like I said, I’ll only be a little bit.” You nearly choked again from Izaya’s boldness. He really expected you to just wait around while he jacked off like it was nothing? For someone who claimed to love humans and all their emotions and behaviors so much, you really wondered how much he really understood them sometimes. “You know, if you wanted to lend a hand, it might be even sooner.”

You made another embarrassing noise, your eyes snapping back around and fixing on his own. The expression in his sharp brown eyes told you he wasn’t just you or making some inappropriate joke, not completely. Izaya was dead serious suggesting you ‘lend him a hand’ with his current ‘business’. You should have been mad. You should have been uncomfortable. You should have walked away then. But something else was creeping up and up, suppressing what you should have done, leaving behind the sense that you didn’t quite hate the idea.

You weren’t ready to give in completely, though, not yet. “Was that your plan when you invited me over?” You tried to deflect once more, but your angry speech was half-hearted.

He gave a small shrug, still languorously pumping his hand up and down, smearing a new bead of pre-cum along the head of his dick. You licked your lips, and you weren’t sure whether it was from nerves or hunger. “Who knows? Maybe, maybe not.” Of course Izaya would give you a nonsense answered that told you nothing.

“Can you just put your pants on, please?” You tried weakly, a last ditch effort to squish down the hot feeling suffusing you and to call his bluff. But Izaya wouldn’t be moved.

“Weren’t you leaving though?” He questioned calmly. “So why should I? Then I can’t take care of this.” You groaned mentally at his ‘logic’ that amounted to his typical games. “So, what’s stopping you?”

You didn’t speak, listening only to the slick sound of Izaya stroking himself, as if trying to come up with an appropriate excuse. But there was none. You were still there because you wanted to be. You sputtered some nonsense at first, before sighing in defeat.

“I...I just… fine,” you mumbled, unable to meet his cutting gaze when you agreed.

He didn’t seem bothered or surprised by your admission, and when you looked back up, he was smirking widely, as if he had expected you to crumble and play right into his hands. “Well, what are you waiting for then?”

You nearly scowled at the impatience of the question, but shook your head. You approached quickly, stopping once you stood in front of him. You licked your lips again and swallowed thickly, kneeling between his legs. Up close and personal with his cock, it you for real the favor you had submitted yourself to. It made your stomach twist in a way that was pleasantly hot, but with a nervous flutter. But even if he would probably let you, there was no back down now. You had dug your hole and you intended to stay in it.

Feeling Izaya’s eyes burning down onto you, you lifted a hand tentatively, more intimidated than you would have admitted. You nearly jumped when the hand he had been pleasuring himself with seized yours. Your face was on fire as he guided your hand over his shaft, helping you wrap it around the heated skin. He made a small sound in the back of his throat at the contact, his palm lingering over your hand. Gingerly, you shifted your hand up and down, mimicking him, the skin hot and velvety under your fingers.

“There, just like that,” Izaya cooed, his hips rocking up into your touch. His hand left yours to bury itself in the cushion beside him.

You chanced a subtle glance up, past his exposed torso and up his chest. His head lolled back against the sofa back, and his chest rose and fell deeply in more noticeable, pleasured breaths as you stroked. He seemed more than willing to sit back and fully indulge in your touch, apparently a far more exhilarating experience than his own.

“What a good girl,” he praised as your grip tightened you pumped his cock more surely, enjoying the noises that vibrated up his chest. They were low and smooth, containing all the richness of his speaking voice, yet none of the frustrating teasing or condescension. “Mmph, a little hard, don’t be shy,” he coaxed, giving a particularly eager buck of his hips, a new drop of pre-cum beading on the head of his dick.

You did as instructed, and the sound of his breathing deepened more, the small, pleasant sounds morphing into longer, bawdy groans. “How’s that?” you prompted, the confidence from watching him come slowly undone steadying your voice, the sheer arousal in it surprising you.

“Mm, good, keep going.”

You stuck to the steady rhythm you had set, your tongue wetting suddenly dry lips again as you alternated between watching Izaya’s blissful form above you and his throbbing cock in front of you. You moved your idle hand up, cradling his balls in your palm and rubbing gently, rewarded with even more erotic noises. You weren’t sure whether you were more turned on by the eroticism of the sounds themselves, or the fact you were hardly ever heard Izaya sound so unrestrained.

Your gaze stopped, lingering on his cock, and you decided if you were going to help out, you may as well have a little more fun, as well as satisfy the hunger building in you. You bent forward, your breath fanning over the head hotly, and you barely caught a shiver roll through Izaya. You leaned closer, opening your mouth and licking coyly at the flushed head, the bitter taste of pre-cum flooding your senses.

“ Oh .” The word was surprised, excited almost, made even more so by the breathiness that carried it. “I didn’t even have to ask you to do that.” Your faced burned with embarrassment you fought to ignore, letting your lips wrap around the head, swirling your tongue along the underside. “More eager than you let on, I see. But I’m not complaining.”

Izaya relaxed more limply against the cushions, save for the rhythmic roll of his hips meeting the hot, wet touch of your mouth. You sank down on his cock more, slowly, trying to account for the motion of his hips to not choke yourself on his length. Fortunately, though it was steady, his pace was languid, letting you adjust easily. You took as much as you could without inciting your gag reflex, shifting between dancing your tongue along his skin or pressing flat against the underside or teasing the head where it connected to his shaft.

Above you, Izaya’s dulcet chorus of groans and mumbled words escalated and his fingers met the top of your head. They curled loosely, massaging methodically, neither forcing you down or adjust to a new pace.

“Hmm, and they say I’ve got a talented tongue,” Izaya hummed huskily and you couldn’t stifle a low moan in answer, the sound shooting through Izaya and making his hips stutter. “Sure seems like you know to use yours though,” he praised again, and you could make out the teasing tone you were so used to among his lusty, strained voice.

Izaya fell silent for a time, or at least he fell wordless, panting and groaning his pleasure, the sounds accentuated by the wet noises you made while you sucked him off. But Izaya’s was a mouth that couldn’t stand staying silent for long. “You can take a little more, can’t you?” He asked insistently, his fingers tightening their loose hold. He thrust his hips more roughly into your mouth as you sank down again, as if punctuating his question.

Tears stung at your eyes for an instant as the tip of his dick touched your throat and you inhaled deeply to relax it. You took in even more of his cock, noticing the roll of his hips slow, as if accommodating you to take his length more easily. When you pulled back, his hand only let you go so far, effectively keeping you from pulling away. You indulged him, satisfied with the even more ragged breaths replacing his words and more of the salty fluid leaking from him.

Your jaw was beginning to ache, but you ached elsewhere as well, and it urged you to continue. With your mouth wrapped around him so intimately, you could tell Izaya was getting very close to cumming, from the increasing cant of his hips to the harsh pitch of his breath to the way his cock twitched, even more hard.

“Mm, that’s it. Almost there.” Izaya confirmed your suspicions, the lustiness of his tone adding to the urgency. “If you don’t want a mouthful, you might want to stop,” he warned you, surprisingly considerate in the moment.

Your eyes flickered up, but you didn’t stop, trying to hum your acknowledgement around a mouthful of his dick, working him even more eagerly.

“Oh, shit, you’re more obscene than I thought. If that’s how you want it,” His excitement pierced his arousal again, as if he hadn’t expected you to be so wrapped up in servicing him.

Thrusting into your mouth more desperately, his hips finally stuttered as he finished, filling your mouth with hot ropes of thick that you swallowed as soon as the bitter taste swept over your tongue. Several especially long, feral moans drifted from Izaya’s lips as you drank him down, until at last he was spent and there was nothing left for you to swallow. You drew away, wiping a smear of drool and some stray cum from your mouth with the back of your hand and resting back on your knees.

“There, that’s taken care of,” you said, your attempt to sound level and collected ruined by your own arousal making your voice overly breathy. “Now did you actually have a reason for inviting me over?”

Izaya laughed breathlessly, as if amused by your change of pace, lying boneless against the sectional. “Of course, my dear,” he answered when his laughter died, tipping his head forward to look at you. “I wouldn’t lie to your like that. Though, if you’d like, I can return the favor. It sounds like you need it.”

#izaya orihara #durarara!!#writing #fanfiction #ao3 #archive of our own #reader-insert #fic friday #nsft #n/s/f/w/#drrr!!

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akvtsuki-ari · 4 years

Text

A Study In Body Language | ii. tidal separations

Warnings: depictions of opioid withdrawal/drug use (there's a mention of needles), general warnings for drug addiction and arguing.

Length: 4.4k

Authors Note: After abandoning this fic for like? a year? I’m back at it. I really love this concept a lot and I think the end result will be good so please stick with me and read it! Promise it’ll be good <33

Plot Summary: Spencer takes time off and you’re worried about what the future holds. Maybe it’s moral obligation that leads you to take care of Reid as he works through his vices, but maybe there's something more to it. You can’t say for sure.

Chapter 1

Story Preface: In the altruistic language of foreign tongue, and the flower lettering of love stories, it's important to remember the context. In which Spencer Reid and you will fall in love under the circumstantial evidence that the two of you exchange in the language that is physical, no symbolism or hidden messages but instead an abysmal means to end to find each other in places you never expect. In the image of storytelling, this is a Case Study In Body Language, and all of it's idealist beliefs and intentions.

_______________

Midnight was detrimental to the human mind. The evidence of that was concise in the car ride between you and Dr. Spencer Reid. The space between tangible with tension and bubbling, simmering anger.

Your hands were fastened around the steering wheel, knuckles pale white. Spencer was sitting with his knees away from you - teeth gritted together in a symphony of misplaced emotions and projection. The silence was deafening - both of you looking at anything but the other person with angry and nonsensical confusion. The wind was blurring your eyesight as you drove down the highway to Spencer's apartment, an uncomplicated endeavor that suddenly had some great stakes to it that neither of you could prepare for. Every detail was carefully placed in order to cause the most destruction. The sound of the bottles in the back clicking together, the silence of the entire city at 3am you and Spencers generally disheveled appearance. All things that seem culminated together to create a perfect disaster - it was almost poetic.

Spencer cleared his throat, swallowing his pride as he turned his head to look at you. You were entirely still - nothing was moving except the fact he could see your toes curling in your shoes. It was a rapid and anxious movement, a way for the emotion to escape you while not showing anything else. Your jaw was forcibly still like you were telling yourself to keep it still. You were, gritted teeth and fists just begging to pound on Spencer's chest and knock some fucking sense into him.

Spencer folds first, the silence begging to cut your tightrope friendship entirely. This outcome was beyond your words and description - neither unexpected or catastrophic, but rather heavy. A heavyweight on the both of your shoulders, tied to each other in social contract. Was it respect that kept your hands away from your phone the second you saw? Was it friendship? Or was it something bigger, much more vast than either of you that was bordering indescribable. The silence begged many questions, but most of all it begged to broken. You and Spencer forced to put the pieces together.

“Y/N, listen,” his voice was calm - it was clear this speech was well-practiced and it pissed you off further. You shut your eyes with exasperation, as your tongue swipes the back of your teeth, physically trying to hold it back from calling him a fucking dumbass. You still might, but a selfish part of you was urged to just wait and hear his explanation.

“I’m fine - but please don’t tell the team, I don’t need them worrying about me,” Spencer rushed the words as if they were being beaten out of him. You laugh angrily and swerve your car into a parking lot on the next turn. Spencer looks at you curiously as you stop in - opening his mouth to speak, words replaced quickly with the sound of your voice.

“Oh, are you fucking kidding me? Are you genuinely fucking serious?,” your voice is beyond angry. Spencer's defense raises as he realizes the situation - as both of you play the other side of the court.

“I seriously cannot believe you - I knew you were a selfish prick, but fucking seriously? Jesus Christ, Spencer what do you think happens now?,” your voice borders a scream as you look at him, eyes blurry, fingers shaking. You want to hit him, punch him, anything to knock him to his sense but you don’t, the urge pulsating through your every nerve.

“What are you talking about? You were the one following me but this has nothing to fucking do with you! You’re supposed to just leave this alone, and I’m asking you a favor - what is complicated about that? This doesn’t concern you, so stay out of it!,” His voice is laced with dishonesty, hidden by anger but his selfishness prompts your frustration further. You want to correct him, to get it through his thick skull that this is bigger than him and you - that this has to do with the team and people he cares for but you’re too frustrated.

“I seriously can’t fucking believe you and to be honest, I cannot deal with having this conversation with someone so fucking stupid - I’m throwing away your stash and dropping you off at home - I’ll deal with you tomorrow,” you say exasperated. You were sick for fucksake, nose still dripping and voice already hoarse from before. Too many demons in your own life for you to fight his at 3am. Not tonight anyway.

“No, you can’t throw it away,” his voice nearly reads as a plea but you shoot him a look - one so sharp you suspect if you acted on that expression, he’d knocked out with a bruise on him.

The rest of the car ride passes in total silence, no gritting of teeth or anger left, all replaced with different kinds of exhaustion. Different kinds of frustration creating this chokehold on both of you as the long night become darker by nature - maybe as a show and tell for the plays that both of you are forced to make. To look into another's darkness without warning is a scary place to be, Both of you find yourself to explore together - the consequences were still unclear.

You dropped Spencer off at his apartment, and you drive home. Comforted by the solitude but unable to focus on anything but the road without feeling fear stir in your chest. The feeling wasn’t out of place but it wasn’t what you were expecting.

You feel your throat tightening as you walk into your own apartment, and walk into your kitchen - putting on coffee and rubbing your face with exasperation. The sleeplessness is replaced with jittery caffeination as you watch the sunrise through the window of your apartment. The darkness still seems to wane - but maybe that was the exhaustion talking.

Work called in like expecting but the morning lacked any feeling of normalcy expected. You were less angry now, surely. Everything was left feeling sticky in a sense - a long term discomfort surrounding everything you did, and the only thing that would relieve it would be seeing Spencer. After the anger subsided you just hoped he didn’t do anything stupid, but you weren’t close enough for the two of you to just talk or for you to text him. So you spent the whole night looking at lots of nothing while your mind went a hundred different places trying to figure out how you got here.

Walking into the BAU was helpful - it was grounding, a well-needed kind of sanity. You were one of the few people on earth that was comforted by a place many would consider dark, but it was home. A home with people to hold you still, and love to make you weep, something you didn’t normally experience. Something you’d never really experienced before, anyways.

Emily is the first to greet you, looking at you intently before laughing - partly concerned. You smile at her weakly, sending her a wave.

“Rough night?,” she asks lightly, you laugh playfully and nod. She looks at you fondly, pushing her hair behind her ears.

“Being sick is quite disruptive to sleep apparently,” you remark with sarcasm. She nods and smiles sympathetically.

“We don’t have a case today, Hotch might agree to let you stay home another day,” she comments. You shake your head.

“Still gotta catch up on paperwork,” you say sighing. She nods again and theres a few seconds of comfortable silence.

“Hey, Emily - do you know where Spence is?,” you ask carefully. She shoots you a curious look but answers your question.

“He called Hotch last night and took some time off, said it was something to do with his mom. Haven’t spoken to him since yesterday,” she says, recalling that very conversation.

Something in you drops, as you sit up straight. Emily looks at you confused, but you don't have any clue on how to explain so you don’t. Instead, you stand up and look for Hotch whose in his office.

“On second thought, I think I’m gonna go ask Hotch to take another day,” you say, voice hoarse. Emily just nods at you, dazed in her own right.

“Thanks, Em, see you soon,” you say as you rush over to Hotch’s office. He looks at you as you pop the door open, and greet him. You swallow thickly, your words seeming to be stuck to your throat as you speak them - unable to do anything but rush. Your every movement and expression feel that way - like time is moving too fast and too slow all at once.

Hotch looks at you concerned, sensing your urgency as you walk in and close the door behind you.

“Hey Hotch, can I talk to you?,” you repeat the question meekly.

“Of course, Y/N,” he says to you, brows furrowed tightly with worry.

“I wanted to request some time off, something is going on back home and - ,” your voice sounds like its going to break, so Hotch stops you.

“Take as much time as you need, we’ll be here when things settle,” He speaks knowingly, the only one on the whole team who does know anything about it. It wasn’t technically a lie either, but it was happenstance that you were taking time off for it.

“Thanks, Hotch,” you reply softly. He nods at you and you’re on your way out of the door. No one else is in, and Emily isn’t in sight so you slip away entirely undetected.

The car ride to Spencer's house makes your skin itch. You can’t get dark thoughts out of your head, struggling to drive there in the first place. Worry blossoms in your chest and every stoplight seems to stimulate the feeling. Every moment that you aren’t sure is another moment Spencer could be doing something detrimental and you can’t have that guilt resting in you.

You rush up his apartment stairs, and knock on the door. Silence. You shake yourself, trying to regain some balance before you knock again - voice small as your call to Spencer on the other side.

“Are you okay?, Spencer,” your voice echoes in the empty hallways - seeming to loom over both of you. Every movement you make is calculated, and precise.

Spencer lays against the other side of the door, slumped up against it with exhaustion. He knows he’s experienced minor withdrawals, he hasn’t gotten high in days and its working him heavily. His skin is hot against his clothes, eyes dilated, breathing through his mouth as he tried his best to stay still and relax. Pain shoots within his muscles as he fixates himself on anything, anything to keep him afloat. He hears your voice and winces.

“I’m fine, Y/N, leave me alone,” he croaks out. You sigh with relief but know you can’t leave.

“Just open the door, Spencer,” you say sighing. He feels a shiver run down his spine and shakes his head as if you can see him.

“This has nothing to do with you, Y/N. I don’t understand what you’re here for in the first place, you’re not gonna be some hero for finding this out. I gotta say I am impressed that you figured it out first though, I always figured you were kinda incompetent,” his breathing is heavy, taking an edge of his words. It stings to hear since you know he still means them but you don’t have the energy to complain. You sit down, back against his door and sigh.

“You really are an absolute dickhead,” you say more to yourself than anyone else, growing frustrated. You rub your face in your heads, your legs up to your chest and you sigh aloud - annoyed.

“Just leave me alone already,” his words hold sincerity in them. He sincerely doesn’t like you, and neither do you - but the two of you knew that already - before your relationship was purely political but it was forced to go deeper than that. This feeling was a cross between pure annoyance and frustration - you didn’t know someone's existence could be so frustrating but you found yourself here.

“What do you want Spencer? Do you want some emotional speech about how you shouldn’t do this, and how you’re stronger than this? Well, fuck you - you’re not getting that out of me. I’m not fucking JJ, or Penelope, or anyone else for that matter. To be honest, I don’t give a single shit about your life outside of work and I’ve always planned on keeping that way. This situation, my presence here - we lie in this bed together. I’m not JJ, I’m not gonna pretend to be here out of some deep-rooted platonic love. We’re co-workers, and I’m a decent fucking person so I’m not gonna let you sit here and rot-away. Why? Because JJ, Derek, Emily, Penelope, and Hotch all care for you and I care about them. I’m not gonna let you ruin yourself and be a selfish prick - so open the fucking door and let me help so you can actually get better. After that, I’ll keep your dirty little secret,”

Your speech is given unwavering, and every word you said held a specific weight. You were right, and that was ultimately the problem. You weren’t close to Spencer, but you were close to the team. He knew you were doing this because you had too, solely out of moral obligation - he knew that you understood that something was objectively wrong. And maybe that was the problem - none of this was personal to you. You were actually just trying to help because you knew he needed it - he had no intrusive thoughts about something so objective. He sighs heavily, letting tears escape him. Weakly, he stands up and opens the door slightly.

You walk into Spencer's apartment and scan the room. It’s a mess, books stacked up untidily along with take-out boxes and plastic water-bottle littering random areas. Fresh needles sat on the edge of his desk, and you winced at their presence - the whole thing too familiar. Spencer sitting on the couch dazed off. You know immediately.

“Withdrawal,” you mumble to yourself. He looks at you confused.

“How?,”

“Not important. How many days has it been since you showered?” you ask. He can’t seem to remember and you sigh.

“When was the last time you ate?,” you ask again. He shuts his eyes, lids twitching before he responds.

“Last night,” he says again. You check his temperature and his body is hot. You sigh.

“How long can you be alone for?,” you ask. He shakes his head, rubbing his face.

“An hour, at most,” he admits to you quietly. You sigh, standing up and giving him a tight hug. It’s unexpected, and not something he was used to but the comfort was so... comforting he couldn’t refuse. You feel hot tears land onto your abdomen as you sigh, rubbing Spencer's back with understanding.

“Leave the door unlocked in case you fall asleep, I’ll be back in half an hour. I’m gonna put on a nature documentary, so just watch that and just try to focus on it. When I come back, tell me something you didn't know already or correct something that was wrong - that’s your homework for the next half-hour, okay?” you say softly. Your tone of voice was warm, and knowing. This process seemed familiar to you but Spencer decides against saying anything.

You put on some animal planet on your laptop, and go off on your way, letting Spencer watch and focus intently. He finds his eyes shutting as time passes, and falls asleep.

Spencer wakes up to the sound of pots and pans in his kitchen. He doesn’t think he’s ever used his kitchen so he’s startled at first. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand as he walks into his kitchen to see you. You’re wearing an apron and bandanna, a long shirt and leggings. He’s never seen you like this, watching with intent as you fidget with the knobs on his oven. The smell of pasta and garlic hit him with ferocity and his stomach grumbles. You startled by his presence and turn to look at him. He finds himself overwhelmed and slips out a quiet hello.

“Hey, Spencer. How’d you sleep?,” you ask the question casually. He blinks again and looks at you.

“Well,” his response is dry. You start washing dishes in the kitchen sink as the oven turns off and Spencer finds himself walking closer to the island in the middle of it. He takes a seat, seeing fresh fruit and a glass of water poured out for him.

“They had some strawberries on sale, so I cut them up for you. Vitamin C is good for you right now, and you need to eat anyways - so have some,” you explain, mindlessly washing away. You shake your head at how many seem to be in the sink, probably a lot of weeks of build-up. It makes you wonder if anyone comes by.

“Why’re you doing this,” he asks before he can stop himself. He flinches at the sound of his voice, gravelly and exhausted. You know the questions coming, but you can’t give him a good answer yet. You figure it’s worth a shot to try.

“Recovery is a slow thing. The small things are what can be the most overwhelming when you’re trying to get better and I want you to get better” you say as honestly as possible.

“But why?” he asks again. Not urgent, just curious. You turn the water off and look at him

“It’s a story for when I know you a little better Spence,”

The answer seems to satisfy him, as he looks down.

His voice is barely a whisper as he looks at you, watching you bend down and pull out a tray of lasagna. He watches you so carefully, he finds his heart, stirring - unsure of why. He smiles, a very small, but genuine smile as you place the lasagna on the counter. You look to him and give him a tight-lipped smile back.

“It’ll be a minute before this cools, so I suggest you take a shower, or bath or something,” you suggest. Spencer winces, the thought of being alone in the bathroom making his skin crawl. He’s brain wracks itself with the idea of being alone again, that loneliness is what got him here in the first place and to be anywhere but there is so relieving. His eyes are hollow when he thinks about it. You see his expression and yours softens.

“I know it’s tough if you want I can massage your head with shampoo or something before you go in - make it a little less daunting. My little cousin likes it because he’s scared of the sound the shower makes, so it might help,” you explain. Spencer blushes, but the idea isn’t all that bad. A little embarrassing but it’d be nice. Plus his head hurts, so it’s not all that bad of an idea. He scratches the back of his neck and nods.

“Thank you,” his voice is barely above a whisper. You look at Spencer tenderly, and you sit down at the island next to him. He turns his body, neck stretching as he looks at you exhausted.

“You’re gonna be fine, Spencer. It’s not gonna be easy because this type of thing, it just seems to follow you. It’ll feel like it’s everywhere at first, but it isn’t. Keep your head up, if not for you - for the people who need you like Diana and the team,” you explained gently. Spencer and you weren’t ever very close but his mother loved you. Even if she couldn’t remember you, she always had a pleasant reaction to your name when she was feeling okay. She had met you when Spencer brought her into the BAU for a case.

Spencer's eyes shift their focus onto you and for the first time in his life, his reaction to you wasn’t so unpleasant. It was still strained, still difficult and unruly - but different. It was humanizing to see you like that. He nods at you, dazed. You give him an awkward smile.

“C’mon, let's get you cleaned up,” you say, softly. Spencer blushes as he leads you to the bathroom

“I’m starting to realize, I don’t actually know anything about you,” Spencer muses softly. Your fingers are tucked away in his curls, white bubbles of foam and shampoo between them as you work Spencer scalp. His hair was greasy, but that's probably because he used that terrible 4-in-1 stuff before. You figured you’d be there for a while anyway, so you ended up using your own products. Disgusted at the fact he was a grown man and still used 4-in-1. Who does that?

“I don’t really talk a lot about what I do outside of work,” you reply casually. You scratch a part of Spencer scalp and watch his neck crane in delight like he was a small dog. You stifle your laughter.

“What do you do then?” Spencer asks.

“I volunteer with kids, mostly. I help them learn to read at the library nearby, you know - read with them and help them pick out new stories to learn together,” you say sincerely. Spencer is softened by your words.

“That's really nice,” Spencer comments. You laugh.

“I guess so. It’s just something I do, you know? Kids are wonderful, they have so much wonder about life. It’s all sincere, too. It’s more fun to read with people whose imaginations are so big, seeing them make up their own world,” you say affectionately. Spencer nods in agreement.

“Yeah,”

There's a moment of comfortable silence before Spencer finds himself curious again.

“What else do you do in your spare time?,”

“I try to volunteer as much as I can, just in general. Soup kitchens, animal shelters, that kind of thing. If I’m taking some personal time, I cook a lot. I’ll invite some people over and have a small dinner party. I’d invite the BAU sometime but that's kinda Rossi’s thing so I wouldn’t wanna intrude,” you say softly. Spencer notes that none of those things are really all that personal.

“Those are all things you do for other people, though. What do you do for you?,” Spencer asks again. You feel something stir in you at the question, and you shift. You become a little suddenly aware at the fact that Spencer's head is between your thighs but you can’t say anything about it.

“I listen to music a lot. I cross-stitch sometimes but that makes me sound super old. I bake a lot too, loaves of bread and bagels and sometimes desserts but I don’t have much of a sweet tooth. I really enjoy my me-time so I have very long-winded self-care routines that I do to loosen up and feel pampered. It’s nice,” you say shyly. You’re not used to the question, about what you do for you. It feels vain to answer. Spencer seems intrigued by that.

“Self-care routine?,” Spencer eggs on. You chuckle at his curiosity.

“Skincare, self-pampering, shit like that. Most women have like 3 different versions and they vary based on how much time they have. I’m a working woman, so I have a version for cases and a version for weekends alone and a version for going out. I can’t speak for guys here, so I won’t but yeah,”

“You know, it’s been proven time and time again that it’s majorly beneficial for people of any gender to take time off to attend to personal needs. It’s shown major benefits in overall happiness, mood, and overall attitude,” Spencer repeats back. You give a small smile, it finally feels more like Spencer.

“Take your own advice, genius,” you comment back sarcastically. Spencer laughs, leaning into your fingers without much thought. He’s visibly more comfortable than he was before. It makes you comfortable too.

“Alright, you feeling okay to go shower, kid?,” you ask Spencer. He does, but he find himself a little disappointed. The nickname bounces around his head for a moment before he laughs again. His voice is light.

“Yeah, yeah I think I’m okay. Thank you,” He stands up and so do you, and the two of you look at each other for what feels like a few seconds too long. You look at him, the old t-shirt he’s in, and his pajama pants and you can’t help the way your heart bangs against the cage of your chest. It could’ve been a lot of things, maybe the fluorescent lightning or the way that your hands were covered in shampoo, or the way Spencer stood a little slumped and sleepy. You didn’t want to kiss him. You were just compelled to give him a break, and maybe that was worse. Feeling compelled to give someone empathy even though a small part of you always felt like they were a complete asshole. Feeling moved by someone's vulnerability so much you almost give them a pass, yes certainly that was more dangerous.

You don’t say anything, you just give Spencer a smile and a pat on his chest. He hates the way he takes notice of the feeling.

“I’m gonna set up dinner, and we can watch Harry Potter,” It was the one thing you two had in common before all this. He nods.

“Okay, yeah, that works. Thanks,” he says again more softly. He wants to say more, and in a way so do you but neither of you does. You wash your hands of the shampoo and close the door behind you. Your eyes flutter closed for a moment as you listen to the water run and think to yourself. It was by pure circumstance that you ended up here, really. The way every move had made thus far, though it felt so careful feels beyond your control. You weren’t alone for the first time in a long time and this feeling keeps weighing on you. More dangerous than love is empathy. Empathy for someone so stupid and selfish, it made you feel strange. Yet it was there. Yet, you were there.

Spencer understood the feeling. Guardian Angel, the term bounced around in Spencer's mind as he showered. The feeling of your fingers still on his mind. Not alone, for the first time in too long. Strange is such a phenomenon.

__ taglist: @cynbx @zephyr-studiesjp @reid-187 @louistwinslover @skrrrrrrrrrrt

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid oneshot #Criminal Minds #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds angst #acsibdl #i really like this story mane #please read

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thehunterwithanangel · 4 years

Text

Not Done Yet A Destiel One Shot for post 15x18 and what I want to happen (but probably wont)

Ship: Destiel (Dean Winchester/Castiel)

Word Count: 4,362

Written by: thehunterwithanangel

Notes/Warnings: Very angsty Dean but ends drowning in fluff, some language

The words played on a loop in Dean’s head for what felt like hours before he could process them, at least that’s how he felt; ‘I love you…’ ‘I love you…’ ‘I love you…’ over and over again.

For a brief moment Dean sat in total denial, there’s no way Cas, his Cas actually just said that, only he did and now he was gone. Dean started to cry, and not just a few tears, he started to sob; at first he told himself it was from the shock, but once that settled and he was still left feeling like somebody had just ripped his heart from his chest, he knew it was more. Dean shut down, as he always did when something highly emotional happened, and next thing he knew Sam and Jack were shaking him back to reality.

Dean wasn’t sure how long he’d been sat there but time was irrelevant to him the moment Cas disappeared into the empty; in fact, nothing at all mattered to him right then because all he could focus on was those three words, still on loop what must actually be hours later. Dean also wasn’t sure how he got back to the bunker, he guessed Sam drove Baby when he realised Dean was in no fit state to drive (he would have to argue with him about that some other time); but here he was, staring at his bedroom ceiling feeling so unfathomably empty, and not the fun ‘give zero fucks’ soulless way, in the way that makes you disconnect from your own body mentally because being in it is just too painful…

Three days went by with Dean staying much of the same way, only really talking to say ‘Cas is gone, the empty took him’ and multiple counts of ‘go away’ and ‘leave me alone’. Dean didn’t eat or drink, he barely even slept because every time he closed his eyes, there was Cas saying ‘I love you…’ all over again; the only time he ever got any sleep was after many hours of disassociating and silent sobbing...

The thing is, even though Dean was clearly devastated, he refused to admit to himself as to why. Why even though he’d lost Cas before, hell, had Cas die before, that this time was different; in the back of his mind he knew, of course he knew, but admitting to himself he knew only meant opening himself up to more pain right now and he just couldn’t do it, not now…

It had been a month since Cas had been gone, physically Dean was okay again, thanks to many, many, many, attempts to get him being a human again from Sam and Jack; Mentally though, he was still destroyed, still refusing to talk about Cas or anything that happened that day, and despite pushing him a couple times, the others knew it wasn’t going to work, he would talk when he was ready, if he was ever ready.

It had gotten to the point that the others wondered if Dean had completely repressed what had happened though, because his level of fine-ness was almost too much. Little did they know it was quite the opposite.

A normal day, normal routine, normal conversations, everything was normal to everyone, except Dean. Dean felt almost itchy as he could feel the pain clawing it’s way back to the surface, ready to ruin him again; and his time he didn’t know if he would survive it. So Dean made some excuse about needing pie and took off driving, maybe if he could distract himself with Baby long enough he could push away the hurt once more; at least that was his plan…

For a couple hours it worked. He kept his feelings at bay and enjoyed the road, but then it happened, an otherwise fun energetic song kicked up from his radio, a song he’d loved to annoy Sam with before, a song he played after they had a successful hunt for example; but now all it carried was pain because this wasn’t just his feel good song, it had become Cas’ too, and that hit way too close to home for Dean. In a split second he slammed on his breaks, shut off the radio, and froze, tears pouring down his face as his hands gripped tightly to the steering wheel, while he tried to hold on to his okay reality for just a little longer. It didn’t work.

Dean’s body was shaking so hard from the uncontrollable sobbing that every muscle hurt, he gasped for air as the sobs stole the air from his lungs, his vision so blurred from all the tears he wasn’t even sure if he was conscious anymore; and then he said it, the thing he’d been pushing away for weeks, even years if he was being totally honest with himself, out in fuck-knows-where USA, a complete and utter wreck, barely able to function let alone speak, but the words find their way out of his mouth regardless:

“I love you too Cas” Dean choked out, his voice ruined from all the crying. For a fleeting moment Dean hoped Cas could hear him, could know that even though he may be trapped in the empty, he is still so loved by Dean.

Dean cursed at himself once the words left his mouth, not because he regretted saying them, but because it had taken each of them so damn long to just say it! The truth was Dean always knew deep down but was so scared of losing what they had, he never said anything. ‘Chuck must be laughing at me right now’ he thought; I mean how ironic that he realised he didn’t say it as to not lose Cas after losing Cas…

Some time later Dean had recomposed himself and while he still felt shattered, that was accompanied with a new sense of determination.

“I love you Cas and somehow, some way, I’m gonna bring you home” Dean said assuredly to himself before shifting Baby into drive and speeding back to the bunker (probably much faster than was anywhere close to safe). He could do this.

Meanwhile at the bunker everyone was freaking out trying to find Dean; it had been about eight hours since he had ‘left to get pie’, he wasn’t answering his phone, which was going straight to voice-mail, no hints, no notes, nothing; and based on Dean’s current mental health everyone was on edge fearing he’d done something dumb and reckless.

Dean stopped off at a rest stop to get snacks when the thought crossed his mind he should probably turn his phone back on. He hadn’t meant to go MIA, he just had a lot on his mind and he needed one less thing to think about for a while, which accidentally turned into a long while. Once his phone was rebooted, a pang of guilt shot through him, he was greeted by missed calls from pretty much every single person he knew, and even a couple numbers he didn’t recognise; in total there were at least a couple hundred calls, though Dean didn’t bother to count after the first 50 or so, it was a lot regardless.

“Ah shit.” Dean muttered to himself as he walked back to his car “I should say something to Sam at least” Dean decided before sending a quick ‘I’m fine omw home now’ text to Sam. His chest tightened in fear, or joy, Dean wasn’t sure, at the thought of having to tell Sam what had happened with Cas and how Dean felt and how he had to get him back, yikes, definitely not something you say over text; Dean laughed at the thought of sending a text that was just ‘hey bro btw Cas said he loved me and I love him too so we’re getting him back’ and the chaotic side of him almost did it, but he knew it was going to be more complicated than that so thought better of it. Another thing that made him laugh was Sam’s text back

‘Good, when you’re back I’m going to kill you :)’

He wouldn’t actually kill him obviously but Dean could feel the passive aggressiveness though his phone and he knew Sam was pissed.

A few hours and Dean was pulling into the bunker and swinging open the door, very shortly followed by Sam slapping him across the back of the head.

“Do you have any idea--!” Sam began but to angry to finish “You couldn’t be bothered to turn your phone on sooner--!” He tried again “What the hell Dean!?” He yelled before pulling Dean into a tight hug.

“Sorry, lost track of time…” Dean said matter-of-factly

“Lost track of….Unbelievable” Sam muttered shaking his head in disbelief. The was a brief moment of pure silence and Dean held his breath, knowing Sam was about to lose it. “YOU DISAPPEAR FOR LIKE NINE HOURS AND ALL YOU CAN SAY IS YOU LOST TRACK OF TIME!? ARE YOU SERIOUS!? DID IT NOT OCCUR TO YOU THAT THE FACT YOU WERE DEPRESSED AFTER CAS AND THEN JUST VANISHED COULD BE WORRYING!?!?” Sam yelled; it wasn’t very often he was legitimately mad at Dean, but right now, he definitely was.

“I’m sorry! Look I’ll explain, but not until you agree to stop yelling” Dean pleaded; Sam took a deep breath.

“Okay okay I’m calm now what is it?” Sam asked

“I…” Dean started, his voice shaking “Okay uh, first I need whiskey.” He decided, heading to their bar area; he was going to need some liquid courage to say it to other people, hell, it took him over a decade to admit it to himself. “Okay I…” nope that wasn’t it, he closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. He could do this. He decided it was better to say it all at once because saying it was the hardest part. “When Cas got taken by the empty it wasn’t totally random apparently he made a deal to save Jack and this was his price only it wasn’t just about him being taken that I was freaking out” Dean explained pausing to breathe “Before it took him he had this big speech about how I’m the reason he cares about anyone, how saving me opened him up to being able to feel and how I’m a better person than I think I am” Dean continued, paraphrasing, because even though that whole speech was burned into his memory forever, that was a big deal for him and Cas and he wasn’t about to share every detail. There was one thing he had to tell them though, or they’d never understand why he acted the way he did. “…He also told me he loved me and it felt way more like an ‘I’m in love with you’ than not and so I was freaking out because holy shit what and then I froze” Dean paused as a lump formed in his throat and tears welled in his eyes as his heart filled with regret all over again. “I…I should’ve said something, done something, I shouldn’t have just stood there, especially because the next second he was pushing me out of the way of the empty…I should’ve saved him…” Dean rambled, choking back tears at the last phrase. A heavy silence hung in the air as neither Sam nor Jack knew if they should speak first or if Dean had more to share; eventually Sam spoke up.

“At least he’s gone knowing he saved Jack though right? And took out Billie” Sam pointed out trying to find the silver lining. Dean breathed out a laugh as few tears finally fell; his head falling into his hands.

“But I didn’t get to say it back” Dean said quietly, his head still pointed at the floor

“What?” Sam and Jack said in unison, Dean looked up at them, eyes still full of tears

“I didn’t get to say it back.” Dean repeated, louder this time, more sure of his words. “I wanted to say it back but he was gone before I could so I shut down” Dean added, his heart pounding because he actually did it, he told them; he watched them for a moment trying to gauge a reaction. For a while nothing happened and Dean wondered if he’d actually said it or not, but then Sam and Jack looked at each other, then began grinning and laughing lightly. Dean blinked a few times, confused.

“Well it’s about. damn. time.” Sam said shaking his head laughing

“W-What…?” Dean asked

“Dean we’ve known for years” Jack explained casually, Dean did a double take at that.

“And nobody thought to mention it!?”

“Well no…we figured you’d tell us you were together eventually…” Sam told him to which Dean’s mouth fell open.

“Well guess what I didn’t even realise how I felt until he was gone so thanks for that!” Dean informed them, his tone kind of harsh because he could’ve avoided a lot of pain if they had said something sooner.

“Oh…Oh no” Jack said, his hand moving swiftly to cover his mouth

“Oh we screwed up bad” Sam said, more to himself

“You can make up for it by helping me get him back” Dean told them bluntly

“Dean…how..? I mean every other time it was Chuck or Jack but Jack is powerless and Chuck definitely isn’t going to…” Sam pointed out

“I don’t know Sammy but after everything we’ve been though I have to try everything I can, he has to know I love him too” Dean replied frantically

“Dean…He knew. Even if he didn’t hear you say it, he knew” Jack assured him

“Even if he did I refuse to let the time I want him back the most to be the one time it doesn’t happen”

“Okay, where do we start?” Sam asked and with that they set about making a plan to bring Cas home.

They tried every lead, every contact, every spell, nothing worked. Dean was so defeated, this was so unfair. Jack also spiralled over how if it wasn’t for him Cas never would have made the deal to which Sam and Dean assured him that Cas would’ve made that choice for either of them too. Two months went by and it was time to focus on the bigger picture…

“If I can’t get Cas back I’m damn sure gonna rain hell upon Chuck at least!” Dean exclaimed confidently as he set another shotgun on the bunker tables.

“What is that now? Seventeen?” Sam questioned glancing over the arsenal Dean had gathered.

“Yup. And I got the flame thrower up and running again so I can watch him burn.” Dean confirmed. Sam would admit this side of Dean scared him a little but who can blame Dean after everything? So he let it go.

It was one hell of a fight but in the end they won! They may have had a few broken bones and definitely some new scars, but at least they made the son of a bitch pay.

Two days later and the boys were still riding the high of victory, drinking, laughing, generally having fun; and then Dean’s phone rang.

“Hello?” Dean picked up, puzzled, it was a number he didn’t recognise. The person on the other end spoke briefly and it made all the colour drain from Dean’s face.

“Dean?” Sam prompted with no response. Tears started pouring from Dean’s eyes and both Sam and Jack stood there bewildered

“Uh huh, yep, on our way” Dean told the person before hanging up, clearly not really registering what he was saying. After he hung up his phone dropped out of his hand and he fell to the floor sobbing.

“Dean!?” Sam repeated, more urgently this time; it took him a minute but Dean eventually replied.

“He’s back Sammy! He’s back!” Dean exclaimed between sobs

“Who…? Chuck!?” Sam asked suddenly panicked, relieved when Dean shook his head no

“Cas.” Dean told him simply

“WHAT!?” Sam and Jack both yelled

“How is that possible?!?!” Jack asked, still kind of yelling

“I don’t know but whatever the reason he said it makes his head hurt to think about so it was better in person” Dean informed them “So c’mon!” Dean added as he practically dragged them out of the bunker.

A few hours later and they were at the location Cas gave. Dean couldn’t believe they’d actually made it; the entire drive he was either hyperventilating or his heart was pounding or both; he had fully given up hope but there he was driving to Cas, his Cas. The three of them walked around the area Cas pointed them to, looking for him, and after a couple of minutes both Sam and Jack stopped walking and stood still which Dean looked perplexed at until he heard him and his heart stopped for a moment.

“Hello Dean.” A voice rang out over the cold winter wind. Dean whipped around sharply to see Cas looking warmly at him, without hesitation Dean ran to him, hugging him with so much force he nearly knocked them both over. “Dean I…” Cas began to say but Dean interrupted him.

“I love you” Dean told him, the words rolling off his tongue as if he’d said them a thousand times; which to be fair, he had in his head over the last few months. Cas stared at Dean dumbfounded and Dean laughed lightly because this must be how Cas felt after he told Dean he loved him. Dean decided that he needed to be stronger with his admission of love. He placed his hand on Cas’ cheek with his thumb under Cas’ chin, and tilted Cas’ head up slightly so that Cas was looking him in the eyes “I love you” Dean repeated, this time putting more emphasis on his words so that Cas knew he meant it.

“Really?” Cas asked as tears welled in his eyes, to which Dean nodded. “Are you sure you mean it the same way I do? Because I mean I get if you mean it in a family way I just…I don’t…” Cas rambled

“Cas” Dean prompted, startling Cas a little by how close he suddenly was, their foreheads touching, Dean’s hand still on Cas’ cheek. “I know…” Dean assured him, his voice barely a whisper, which made Cas’ breath hitch in his throat involuntarily. Dean smirked slightly which made Cas look down at Dean’s lips and Dean could almost hear Cas thinking ‘kiss me’ and so he did.

The first second or so Cas couldn’t move, completely shocked that Dean actually made the move, but after that he relaxed into it, savouring the moment he’d waited a lifetime (or in his case several lifetimes) for.

“I love you” Cas said softly after they pulled apart. Dean’s heart felt like it flipped at that moment, there was a time he thought he’d never hear those words, coming out of Cas’ mouth, again

“And I love you” Dean reiterated

They stood there hugging for a few minutes, oblivious to the world around them, before someone broke the silence

“Listen this is really sweet and everything but Dean you have the car keys and it is freezing out here can you at least toss them over so Jack and I don’t freeze to death!?” Sam called from back over by the car.

“Oh oops!” Dean said, mainly to Cas, before turning and throwing Sam the keys, feeling his back vibrate as Cas laughed against it.

“You know…we should probably get out of the cold too” Cas told Dean

“But I like our little warm bubble” Dean whined

“Don’t you wanna know how I’m back?” Cas asked, Dean inhaled sharply; in all the joy of Cas being back and getting to hold him and kiss him, Dean had completely forgotten about the how he ended up there “I’ll take that as a yes” Cas said, before he moved around Dean to head back to the car, only to be stopped a couple of steps after by Dean who took his hand. It was a small thing but Cas could swear if Dean hadn’t been holding onto him he would’ve melted. So many times Cas had wanted to do this, a simple touch, a brush of fingers; so small and yet so important. After so many years telling himself he can’t let himself crave connection like that, to finally to not only admit he wanted it, but to actually get it, felt incredible. He glanced at Dean who responded by holding his hand a little tighter as if to say ‘I know what I’m doing and I want to do it’ so Cas just smiled and they walked hand in hand back to the car where Sam and Jack were sat grinning at them from the back seat.

“Holy crap!” Dean exclaimed as the warm air from the Impala hit him, in that moment realising just how cold he’d become. After a few minutes regulating their body temperatures Dean was ready to know and Cas was ready to tell

“Okay so…The empty took me into oblivion as you know” Cas began, everyone else nodded “So I get there and I’m awake and so I think oh no not this again and sure enough the empty was pissed saying ‘why won’t you just die quietly!?’ and such and this went on for however long I was gone pretty much” Cas continued “and then one day I was being…dragged? Ejected? Out. It was very weird because it wasn’t like I was being carried out, it was like the empty was trying to push me out, kind of like last time only this time I remember it, as well as an overwhelming feeling of ‘you don’t belong here’ then I woke up and have been trying to find my way back to civilization since” Cas explained then looked at the boys expectantly.

“Cas, when did you come back?” Sam asked

“Two days ago, I remember hearing the radio of a car that drove past me and they said the date that was two days ago”

“What the…” Dean said, shocked

“...Cas, two days ago we took out Chuck.” Sam informed him

“Do you think it’s related?”

“You break out of angel/demon hell the same day we kill the most powerful being ever? Yes it’s related! I mean c’mon!” Dean insisted

“But how?” Jack added

They brainstormed for a while but every theory had some kind of fatal flaw and then it hit Jack like a lightning bolt

“Wait wait what if it’s not complicated at all? Cas went to the empty but the empty is for angels and demons who died”

“Right…” the others agreed

“Well Cas didn’t die he was just kind of consumed by it. So what if killing Chuck was some kind of reset that every being in there that didn’t actually die, was thrown out??”

“That actually…makes sense…good job kid!” Dean praised

“But if that’s true what else got let out!?” Sam asked panicked, suddenly Cas froze.

“Billie.” Cas stated coldly

“Shit!” They all collectively yelled in unison. And just like that they all knew they’re not done yet…

Fade to black/credits etc...

#Destiel #destiel fanfic #ooh boy this is long #i had a lot of feelings #mine #text

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yeoldontknow · 5 years

Text

As Still As Sound: 4

Author’s Note: thank you to everyone who has patiently waited for this update. ive been waiting for it too. ily so much. i hope you enjoy <3 Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Songs Mentioned: From Her To Eternity - Nick Cave and The Badseeds / Cry To Me - Solomon Burke Genre: soulmate!au; angst; fluff; romance Rating (this chapter): R Warnings: some mature sexual themes; explicit language Word Count: 9K

masterlist

Months ago, the concert was your idea, a thing you suggested with fire behind your teeth and adrenaline in your veins.

You remember, now, the way your hands rushed to buy the tickets, typing passwords and entering pre-sale codes, telling Kate over and over down the phone that you’d pay for hers if you got in, that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity - that Nick Cave, more than anyone, had constructed your adulthood. In your heart, you carried him, the sound of his voice, and the words from his lips - a soundtrack of misery, anguish, and the fleeting experience of contentment that painted your journey into maturity red and red and red.

Months ago, Kate agreed, her excitement at the prospect of joining you almost wild and ravenous. Together, you’d looked forward to this, marked days on calendars and held the tickets in your hands in the morning before work, disbelieving and somewhat overwhelmed.

Today, the concert is her idea, a suggestion born purely from kindness; a friendly reminder you need to go out, away from your home and away from your constant, desperate soundtrack - released, finally, from your state of entrapment.

It is not, you imagine, that your anticipation of the show has ceased - far from it - merely that your anticipation and excitement has been redirected to a man whose voice is just as low, just as effective, and meant for your ears alone. The gravel nestled within Chanyeol’s voice is a chocolate honeycomb of affection, putting syrup and sweetness and devotion into your blood - a sugar rush upon which you get high; where Nick’s lyrics remind you of the heartbreak so unilaterally partnered with the act of living, Chanyeol’s words - simple and unpoetic as they often are - ignite the hope you had scorned and turned away, putting the thrill of living back into your lungs.

For weeks you have wondered if this is how people live now, if this is how people had been living long before the solar flare - endlessly searching and seeking, restless and waiting for the vibrancy of an overeager heartbeat; hoping and hoping and hoping to be touched and felt and needed.

Until Chanyeol, this was not you. These types of deep rooted, tenacious emotions carried with them an unprecedented sense of repulsion - not to the person, but to the intensity, and to, more than anything, the incomprehensible notion that you needed another person to feel whole.

Finding romance, for you, was a pleasure, and seeking pleasure in another person was a brief, impermanent adventure, something only slightly more transient than a roller coaster. Did people always crave like this? Did your parents want and need and yearn for one another long before they had confirmation they could? Was it not existentially exhausting to want and pine and wish, almost as compulsively as breathing, for the arms of another?

Would you, had you met Chanyeol on the street and not entwined or laced between your music, have felt such pining and longing for his hands, his voice, his breath as you do now? Would you, had you seen him at the shop, buying records and buying albums, unknowingly sharing his music taste with your cash register, have listened to all the same things, hoping to share a part of him as you do now?

In the end, it does not matter.

These questions do not matter because the cosmos has built itself around you and around him, twining your hearts together until the days have started to blur into one half formed and hardly tangible rise and set of the sun. In your efforts of hearing him once more, the play count and hours logged on your last.fm have reached new highs, an almost constant list of songs based on genres, artists, and decades you imagine he would like growing and growing until, for several hours, it stopped counting altogether, seemingly overwhelmed. Where before you listened to only one album, playing through enough Neil Diamond to feel as though his lyrics are the lexicon of your speech, now you have knowledge of a science and a pattern, but no element of control to manage your testing.

All you know is that you will meet him when you play the same song, and you have, and will and are, pushed yourself into obsession in the effort of meeting him again.

And so it is not that you do not want to go to the show any longer.

On the contrary, you find, as you tie the laces of your combat boots and check - twice before you leave and once after the tube carriage doors close - for your tickets, you are craving the thunder and violence of live music. Lately, you have needed to be rattled - shaken down to your core by something familiar, not something cosmic. Live music builds the person you are back up from nothing, the person you have lost after days and weeks and months of work, and family, and responsibility structured through a sound wave.

In losing yourself completely, surrendering to the passion and the energy and the noise until your mind is full of nothing else, do you find your true soul, remember who you are and what you are, someone who survives on the edge of existence and with a smile wide enough to hurt.

And so, it is not that you don't want to go to the show. You are adamant about this, reminding yourself that you need the emotional rest and that you crave this as you stand on the tube platform. An approaching train puts a warm breeze through your hair, the unprecedented loudness drowning out all other sounds and leaving you, momentarily, in a dull roar of silence. Grimacing, you step on the train, frustrated with the noise of the tube and the sense that you lose time every time you take a journey.

Time you could have spent finding Chanyeol.

Annoyed with yourself, you release a chastising laugh. It is not that you don’t want to go to the show, it is simply the hours with live music are hours without him, without an opportunity to find him, have him, hold him - three minutes amongst hours that slip through your fingers. Pressing your back against rough cushion of the tube seat, you raise the volume of the music in your headphones, hoping the sound of Etta James can slow your rapid thoughts into silence, a pout pushing at your lips in disdain.

You only ever have three minutes with Chanyeol, three minutes which seem to pass in seconds, time slipping through and around you as though you are both simultaneously part of the natural order of the earth and separate from it altogether. His voice alone renders time meaningless, a concept the air in his lungs blows to dust, lips kissing at words that become stars in your eyes and held together by the fabric of your ardor. Three minutes and endless seconds, hours missed and hours lost, and it is all completely unequivocally unfair.

Tonight, the tube carriage is full of people and strangers, some bonded, some free; some headed to the same show as you, evidenced by their band tee shirts and their jittery, shaking legs, and all, most likely, will get to experience the slow descent into love at a pace they have chosen to set. Chewing at the inside of your cheek, you bite back a frustrated sigh, willing your mouth to suck the bitterness from your tongue. The envy of their supposed simplicity sends your heart sinking, resentful and aware that you deserve nothing less than what you have been given.

Gifted to you, somewhat cruelly, is a love that appears only when you least expect it and always when you imagine it has departed from you entirely, a fluke or trick of the imagination brought forward by the human instinct to want a partner. Once more, you are reminded of Kate's words, her small laugh and the acknowledgement that this sort of connection is so like you, your inherent distrust of love resulting in a connection that feels incredible but seems to distrust if you were worthy of it.

But still, your hand grips your phone tightly, hoping that maybe Chanyeol is listening to Etta James too and that, even if you do not meet in these songs, he wants you, through and beyond time, and down to his very core.

Kate is waiting for you at the front entry of the Eventim Apollo, a delicate flush painted on her cheeks from the uncharacteristically cool night and a bounce in her knees, unable to keep still. A smile is tucked into the corner of her lips as she speaks on the phone, a secret affection given away by the glimmer of joy in her eyes. The surrounding city lights are eaten by the matte fabric of her burgundy coat, as though she absorbs the world and glows on her own. Hurrying through her conversation as you approach, she laughs, the sound adopting a musical cadence she only ever exudes when she is blissfully happy.

'Yes, I'll text when it's over and we're leaving,' she says, rushing through the words as she waves you over. 'Do you want me to call if they play Jesus of the Moon? Okay, love you too. Bye.'

Coming to stand at her side, you dig through your bag, smiling to yourself. 'Baekhyun couldn't make it?'

She slips her phone into her pocket, taking the ticket you hand her with a small pout. 'No, he couldn't find any tickets on StubHub or the forums. The prices were astronomical.'

Nodding, you walk with her to the queue, which has already begun to shrink. Doors opened twenty minutes ago, and while you both have standing stall tickets, neither of you had the energy to queue. It will be just as magical, you know, standing towards the back and letting the light in.

'I can't imagine the fans would be selling,' you muse, opening your bag for checking and offering a polite smile to the security guard who nods mutely in gratitude. 'I'm disappointed, though. I was looking forward to meeting him.'

'You'll meet him soon enough,’ she replies offhandedly, muttering a gentle thank you as security waves her forward. 'I'm impressed by you, though.'

Walking through the entry, you hand your ticket for scanning and cock a quizzical brow in her direction. 'How do you mean?'

Ticket scanned, she pushes it into her bag before gesturing her hands over her ears, giving the impression of ear muffs. 'You brought the small earbuds and not your big clunkers.'

Rolling your eyes, you purse your lips. 'I hate that you call them that.’

The slight irritation in your voice is undercut by the hum of people within the venue, some at the bar and others heading towards coat check. Glancing in Kate's direction, you find her eyes remain locked on the entryway to the stage floor, expression unfazed and unmarred by your displeasure. It does not matter if she heard you or not, she's had this conversation enough to know your opinion.

'They're studio headphones,’ you finish, unbothered by the petulant tone you’ve adopted.

She laughs, nodding at your clarification while she trains a focused stare on the sound booth and the surrounding barrier.

'There good?' she asks, pointing to the section just in front of the sound desk - a place for you to stand and lean if you grow tired. At your hum of approval, she beelines with you in tow, and continues where your conversation left off.

'Precisely zero people walk around the tube with those,’ she says, pride overtaking an edge to her voice, pleased by her success of finding a good spot.

'Fuck off,' you murmur, leaning back against the barrier and assessing your view of the stage. 'I just didn't want to bring a big bag. And,' you emphasize, turning to finally look at her once more, 'I'll have you know those headphones have incredible audio quality.'

'For music?' Kate's lip curls in a mischievous smirk, and your mouth runs dry in anticipation. 'Or for a certain someone?'

A small hiss of air escapes your teeth, bemused but unsurprised. For a moment, you let your eyes wander around the room, battling with yourself as you decide just how much you want to give away.

'And if I said both?' you counter eventually, voice bold and unflinchingly honest as you watch her expression immediately softens.

'Any luck the last few days, then?'

You shake your head, spine straightening as you roll your shoulders back, determined to appear decidedly okay. 'No.'

‘Are you certain he’s your soulmate?’

It is neither an insult nor an accusation, but still the air escapes your lungs, chest winded and pained by the unintended cruelty of her question. But then, you quickly realize the last she's heard is that you were uncertain - that you had no idea about him at all, meeting with her at the pub only to disappear for weeks, responding here and there through text. To her, your relationship with Chanyeol is as good as a science experiment. While you know for a fact you had lied, unwilling to admit, then, that you knew from the moment his first breath reached your ears he was yours, now she simply questions your diligence in an act of concern for her closest friend.

And so you smile, aware that the expression looks sad, unmoved in your effort to make someone else feel comfortable when discussing this topic.

‘I’m confident it’s him.’

The firmness in your tone as you say the words does not make up for the pain your muscles had taken on after you lied, but at least, in this moment, the weightlessness of such a melancholy statement gives your heart the sensation of floating beneath your sternum.

It feels good to say it, to admit it. It feels good to be claimed by him.

Warmth floods her irises, one of her hands coming to hold your arm in gentle reassurance. Empathy mixes with sympathy, shades of the Kate you remember pre-Baekhyun glossing over her current visage in a sort of time slip. It hits you, then, that she had felt this way, once. While she had a clear marker for her connection, a clock beneath her skin stopping the moment she came into contact with her soulmate, the confidence that she would ever be released from her own prison had never once been something she believed she could touch.

All at once, you are reminded of the months she said she wanted to bond even if she didn’t like it, just so that it could be over.

'You'll figure it out soon,' she affirms, the softness in her voice mixing with her stubborn determination. 'On the bright side, this is a vast improvement from believing you don't have anyone at all.'

'Is it though?' You don't mean for it to sound pleading, but the ferocity of your affection has taken hold of pieces within your soul you did not know existed. And, while you are confident you don’t wish to be freed from this new, uncharted intensity, you simply wish there was a logic to make the pain a little more bearable. 'Or am I simply driving myself mad, thinking and overthinking?'

'You do that anyway,' she counters, playfully, 'so I'm not sure the bond is to blame.'

Laughing, you nudge your shoulder into hers and release a groan of agreement, jostled by her honesty. Regardless if you had bonded with Chanyeol or not, your mind would have raced towards an infinite number of conclusions, exhausting your heart into a state of paralysis. Bond or no bond, your mind was never one to allow itself a moment of reprieve.

'Look,' she continues, cocking her head towards the stage in encouragement. 'Just forget about it for tonight. You need a break. No bonds. Just us and our first boyfriend.'

Kate’s advice is sound, and it works for a while. For a time, you are tethered to the moment by the strength in the hold of her hand, the way she holds you to her side and shares, with all of herself, the light and the sound and the feeling. But soon, her grasp on your hand turns your thoughts inward, in that purgatory of time between the opener and the main act, when there is little to do apart from buy another pint of cider, feeling the thrum of excitement down into your bones.

While she checks her phone for texts from Baekhyun, you wonder if Chanyeol is here, sharing this moment with you the same way you have been sharing songs. It would not be preposterous to assume he would be, the majority of London’s rock scene gathered to get high and get wrecked by a sonic release that will likely feel akin to something biblical. Craning your neck, you glance around the venue, hoping to be struck by him as if by lightning.

For weeks, you’ve wondered if you’ve passed him, shared a tube with him - if he’s even in London at all. Being separated by miles and seas from your soulmate is not uncommon; you would not be the first instance of such a curse, but still those couples found one another, and so you have not given up the waxy sensation of hope as it glides over your fingers.

But still, you may be the first instance of couple sharing song and sharing sound, only having minutes - perhaps less - to glean as much information from one another as you can. Those who hear one another’s thoughts coordinate meeting places, already knowing what and who they should be looking for; those with sensory loss and clocks have concise ways of knowing when and how to find their person, the earthquake of first contact partnered with a monumental change. Yet, there is no guarantee you would find Chanyeol even if he were here, no promise that you would feel him even if he were rows behind or in front of you.

And so you cling, in the end, to the prayer that tonight, even if he is not here, he finds his way to any of the twenty-six songs on the setlist.

The lights dim at nine on the dot, carrying with it the familiar sensation of floating, the yells from the crowd swiftly wiping any further thought from your mind. You smile - you feel yourself smiling, and you are unsure when your cheeks had pulled back to reveal your teeth, but you do not mind. At once, the hairs on your arms stand on end, brought to life by the strength of adrenaline alone, the gooseflesh along your skin and sending a shiver down your spine. Kate’s hand squeezes yours, a touch and a hold that feels to you like a liveware, and you lift yourself taller, back straightening as though boosted by the roar of the speaker feedback.

The first notes hit you in the center of your chest, the kind of eruption that could leave a person winded, and the force of it does not seem to stop throughout the night. Eyes closed, mouth screaming the words, the only tether you have to the earth is Kate’s hand, rooting you to gravity. Tension leaves your jaw, the stress of existence seeping from your bones and leaving you weightless, skin tingling from the sudden relaxation. Throughout the night, Kate’s hand in yours becomes a comfort, a familiar sensation you do not need to focus on but recognize just the same, feeling safe simply because her own fingers press into your knuckles in delight.

And it is then, in the middle of From Her To Eternity, when you realize touch and contact carries with it its own set of rules, a logic and an understanding that goes far beyond conscious conception; a logic that need not be experienced in order to be conceived - you can feel the texture of silk just by thinking of the word; you can feel, rather easily, the cool clasp of a leather jacket, just by picturing the silver.

And it is then, in the middle of From Her To Eternity, that you think on Chanyeol, on the way he pulls at you and your soul, and suddenly, all at once, as if he had never been departed from you at all, feel him over and inside of you.

From out of the black, his hands tug at your waist, aching to press you flush against his body - seemingly disdainful of any separation. During the guitar riff before the chorus, you can almost hear him, cheering and singing along to the notes with an ecstatic sort of howl - one hand fisting in your shirt in an effort to make sure you experience him at the same time. Heart racing and blood rushing beneath your skin, you lean back into where you imagine his chest would be, careful not to fall or pull Kate with you. You take luxury in the peculiarity of this sensation, at a body without a body being at once behind and a part of yours. Almost instantly, you open for and open to him, begging him to stay, to never leave, to make a home of you, and you spread your legs a little wider hoping to feel his leg press against your thighs, encouraging him to bind his bones with yours.

A shiver walks along your nerves as his other hand glides up your extended arm, carding your fingers together as he sings - rich, and full voiced, and transcendent - all the lyrics you echo back to him, to Nick, to the atmosphere. The warmth of his aura floods your muscles, a small moan escaping your lips in the middle your favourite lyric, words garbled by the sudden overwhelm of heat. As badly as you want Chanyeol, so too does he want your skin, wants the prints of your fingertips smeared all over him, bodies thrumming from passion, adrenaline, and delirium.

The fabric of your clothes becomes tight, the denim of your black jeans feeling thin and damp around the curve of your ass; your shirt, wrapped in his grip and rubbing against your waist, is moist at the base of your spine, the heat from the crowd and the heat from Chanyeol pulling the wetness from your pores. His long fingers extend upward against your stomach, grazing the soft fabric of your bra with his nails - a sensation that tickles you, barely there and barely tangible, but felt all the same.

Looking up at your hand, vision blurred and lips pulled into a messy, lopsided smile, you suddenly feel dizzy.

This hand is empty. You know and can see that it is empty. Part of you does not question this because if he were here, if he were truly with you, the roughness of his skin would ignite the chemistry of your molecules, transforming you into something Other and something Unknown. You know your hand is empty, but still the haze of fingers and knuckles and the pink redness of blood at the fingertips takes shape. The blurred edges of this image make you feel motion sick, bewildered by the sudden trick of the light and the trick of your heart, blinking once and twice before it is gone altogether.

There is no hand holding yours, no fingers pressing hungrily at your breast, but you feel them - you still feel him, as though the seismic weight of your wishing has brought him forth, brought the memory of every other contact you’ve felt into the nerves of your palm and married it, desperately, with the malformed shadow of Chanyeol.

It’s difficult, you find, building a person around a voice or building a heart around sound, but then - isn’t that what a heartbeat is? A constant rhythm keeping space and keeping time, pulling you close and close and close, able to be recognized regardless of the cartilage that separates you from it.

Chanyeol holds you close, curled into you from fear that you will leave him, rocking into your back and pressing a smile into the skin of your neck as he sings and sings and sings. You’re vibrating, holding onto nothing at the same time as you hold onto Kate, feeling wetness pool between your thighs from the sheer magnitude of wanting without having, knowing how it feels to be pressed close to a body, the hardness of a person grazing your back and ass, and allow your mind to fill the missing pieces in on your behalf. The sound of his voice travels through your ears, your mind, and into your open mouth, tongue going dry from the sheer force of him.

Like always, he is a flood, a force of nature you absolutely cannot resist, soul surrendering, almost immediately, to the magic of his existence.

It could be the cider, you think, that elevates your heart rate and puts a rush of blood into your lips that makes them feel swollen, and full, begging to be kissed or bitten. It could be the crowd and their energy making you wish and crave for someone to share this intimacy with, the energy of the room pushed flush the chambers of your heart, and your brain ensuring the hazy outline of Chanyeol be there to deliver you to paradise. In the end, you decide it does not matter, the answers to these questions are not nearly as meaningful as the way he tells you this is his favourite song too, and you cling to the way he speaks and breathes; mostly, you cling to the way his lips seem to press against your ear, demanding you hear him and you do not forget.

And just as swiftly as the song started, just as quickly as the feeling came, it leaves you, the red flush on your chest lingering even after he is gone. The heat from the room sticks to your skin, much the same way Kate’s eyes burn into your profile. With vigor, she pulls her hand from yours, tugging it from your grip. In your peripheral, you watch the way she stretches out her hand and fingers, massaging the bones and regards you with wide, worried eyes that demand an explanation. Unsure what to say and unprepared to speak at all, you keep your eyes trained on the stage, watching the stage as it goes dark and waiting for the sadness of your loss to creep back in as it always does.

But this time, there is change. This time, you are left with a tangible residue to mark his presence, a sign that your overactive imagination was not alone in its efforts.

This time, instead of the loss and the torment of separation, you focus on the sensation of your wet underwear, a pulsing vibration from inside your core reminding you this was real.

This was real.

The deep flush of your cheeks and the dry skin of your lips is grateful for the chilly night air as you exit the venue after the show. Tonight, the sky of London is clear and black, stars swallowed by the street lights with only the glow of the full moon reminding you there exists a world beyond this, beyond the world you've fallen into with Chanyeol. Breathless, you stand outside and check the time, hands shaking from both adrenaline and memory. This late at night, the tube is still running, but you crave the open expanse of the world, synapses too flooded with desire to handle the closed tunnels of the underground.

Close quarters and tight seats would only make you yearn for the press of his hands and his groin into your lap, the longing to be handled brimming over in the heat of your blood.

‘What the fuck was that?’ Kate asks, the disbelieving nature of her voice breaking your thoughts.

Tearing your eyes away from the sky, you regard her, wide eyed and breathless. Shadows have been carved into her features from the Eventim Apollo marquee sign and the silver glimmers of moonlight, a darkness under her eyes and cheekbones making her look severe and unnerved.

‘What?’ The small, thinness to your voice gives away you know precisely to what she is referring, but you need her to say it.

You need her to say it and to confirm it.

‘You nearly broke my hand during that song.’ Neither angry nor upset, she simply massages her hand in concern, easing the lingering soreness. ‘I know its your favourite, but have some consideration for my joints, yeah?’

Looking down at your feet, your mind empties, mouth giving shape to apologies before your mind can properly form them. ‘Sorry,' you mutter, 'I didn’t realize I was squeezing you so tightly.’

Kate steps closer to you, bending down to study your face with a furrowed brow. ‘You’re all flushed, too. Are you drunk?’

You laugh, but you're not sure why. The sound is a faint whisper of humour carrying with it the turmoil of confusion, sounding, altogether, like you could be drunk. You might be, you think. He makes your skin feel just as edgeless as when you are too many ciders deep and telling London it is your only true, passionate love affair.

‘Maybe?’ you manage, the words little more than a noise of delirium.

‘You only had three ciders,’ she chuckles, yet her eyes remain guarded.

‘Well,’ you shrug, turning in the direction of the night bus. Your feet move of their own accord, not bothering to see if she follows. ‘Nick will do that to you.’

Pulling out her phone to presumably text Baekhyun, she hums in agreement, but still you feel her eyes bore into your back as you walk away, watching and watching, almost certain you might disappear.

You realize you never said goodbye.

The night bus home is difficult.

Normally, you relish this journey, take your time savoring the top level of the bus which somehow always feels reserved for concert goers. This late at night, their voices carry, domed around you as they discuss the show, the highlights, or, conversely, simply not talking at all, choosing instead to relive the show through their headphones. Tonight you join them, settling in an open row of seats next to the window and resting your head against the glass, seeking the refreshing texture in the hopes that it will cool your skin.

Tonight should be no different from all your other post-gig journeys home, excitement palpable in the almost thick heat of the bus and the way there’s a rush of emotion as the bus pulls away from the stop. This is when you’d smile, take your headphones out and play your way through the setlist; other times, you’d eavesdrop on the other conversations, smiling at their reactions and responses, turning inward and tuning out only after you cross the bridge over the Thames and the conversation turns a bit quiet, and a bit personal.

But tonight, the difference is in you - in the way you still cannot shake the feeling of Chanyeol’s strong hands and the thick cream of his voice, the memory of him seeming to overtake the memory of the show altogether.

Headphones wound in your lap, you regard them with a small pout. The ringing in your ears will do you no favors should you listen to any music, but your hesitation to touch and to use them runs deeper than the usual post-gig tinnitus. Even now, you can still feel him, the paradoxically smooth roughness of his palms as they moved over your skin, and the way his voice made you vibrate, trembling into nothingness in the effort of seeking more. Now, the white wires of your headphones pose an element of distrust and betrayal, the ground rules of your connection seeming to change just as soon as you understand them, and you wonder if you’re ready to feel him again, if you could, or if you’ve even stopped.

Turning to glance out the window, London seems to pass in a crystal haze, the lights from the city dotting the river like miniature spotlights, the city still alive and glittering. The vibrancy of London puts a smile on your face, the memory of the last time you rode a bus mixing with the memories of all the times before you’ve looked out at the skyline and wondered who was living, who was dying, and how many stories could be contained beneath just one streetlight. These idle thoughts always compelled you, your love for London and for the heartbeat of the city always overtaking your thoughts once the bus grew quiet.

Now, your imagination has become consumed with a man and the frequency of a voice that haunts you. Staring down at your hands, you study the lines in your skin and wonder what you felt - if you truly were feeling. Already a naturally warm person, the tender hold of his hand in yours put a rush of blood in your fingers, making them appear swollen and pink. And while you could see through and beyond him, as though he were an ephemeral mirage comprised of a longing that reached down into the chasm of your essence, for one moment you swore you could see the pink of his knuckles as he held you, clutching at your bones in an effort to stitch your bodies together.

Tonight, too, the steps up to your door feel endless, walls of the stairway closing in and becoming tight, compressed. Laughter echoes around you, strange for this hour of the night when your neighbors are usually asleep or out even later than you. It doesn’t sound familiar but it doesn’t sound foreign, the richness of the tone giving way to a younger Mr. Kim and a female voice you place as his wife, Aki. How many times had they walked these stairs, holding hands and kissing wrists, laughing and laughing until they silenced one another with kisses that seared against their smiles? How many times had they pressed one another against these walls, pressing fingers to lips to keep quiet only to fall into one another instead?

Were they soulmates, too, long before the world allowed for such a love?

The nostalgia of these unlived experiences burns against your throat, a lump forming that seems out of place and altogether irrational. A missing has taken root within you, deep down and all over again, though this time it is not for Chanyeol but for a future and a past running in beside one another in tandem. Do you miss the idea of youth, spending too much time with Mr. Kim and watching the way time eats at a heart and at a person? Do you miss the connection that comes from bodies? Your last boyfriend was years ago, just before the solar flare, and even then you had stopped connecting long before you called the relationship off. Even when you were together, pressed against one another in bed and sharing breaths, you weren’t really there, heart and mind going elsewhere to find pleasure.

Perhaps, in the end, you simply miss the happiness of coming home to someone, coming home to Chanyeol, or, most likely, coming home at all. Pushing through your door, the silence seems to swallow you, the quietness of your flat unfit for the energy pooling at your fingertips. Home hasn't felt like home for months, not since you first played Neil Diamond on repeat for days. Something about your flat has felt off, right in the ways that are familiar and wrong as thought something terribly important had been lost, or never found at all. Tonight, the quiet of it all eats at you, skin still stinging with the strength of Chanyeol's touch, and you find you need sound to drown out this loneliness.

Stripping off your clothes, the freedom of your removed bra makes you smile, suddenly hyper aware of the curves of your body. Embodied as you are, you find you need music to hold you together, to press against you the way hands should be - the way Chanyeol's hands would.

Solomon Burke's record is torn at the sides, the edges fraying and taped too many times for you to count. It should never have been left in a charity shop, but then, if it hadn't you never would have come to own it. Faded and worn as its sleeve may be, the record still rings clean and true, the pressed black vinyl glossy and glimmering in the low light of your flat. Uncorking a bottle of wine, your lips go numb as your heart begins to race, head tilting to the side in the expectation of a mouth gliding along your neck. The hair on your arms stands on end, the atmosphere suddenly full of static, electric as it kisses against your skin.

The world fades, the familiarity of this comforting and so unlike the illusion of his touch at the concert. In this, you ground, the world around you silenced except for the music and for him.

‘God, I’ve missed you,' you mumble, knowing he can hear you just fine.

Redness spreads across your chest, a flush of embarrassment at your admission painting you pink and pink. Silly, you think, for there was nothing to miss. You're certain he had never left you.

Chanyeol's laugh is low, a thunder roll easily missed if one is not hanging on every sound he makes. ‘I can still feel you,' he says, though the words come together behind a soft, impatient whine. ‘You’re driving me wild.’

‘Speak for yourself,' you snort, watching the wine as you pour it through half lidded eyes. ‘You’re the one that found me, and now I’m wearing you. I didn’t think we’d be able to...do that.’

He hums in agreement, pride evident in the smile you can almost hear him wear. ‘This, too.’

You knit your brows together, corking the bottle as you glance around your flat, confused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s the first time I’m hearing you without headphones.'

Eyes widening, your gaze lands on the record as it turns and turns, the glimmers of light swirling over the record as it plays. Your headphones, earbuds and studio over-ear alike, are in your bedroom, packed away for their use tomorrow when you'll need them for your commute. Out of habit and the inherent human need for rationality, you look around your flat, feeling him close and hearing his breath as falls in a rushed, excited rhythm. Outside your window, the streetlights take on an otherworldly glow, the fabric of your couches, chairs, and curtains suddenly richer, deeper, your world coloured entirely by his presence.

Overwhelmed, you find all you can manage is the painfully simple, whispered exclamation, 'Oh, my god.'

He moves, that much is evident by the sound of his rustling clothes, and you turn around, looking for his shadow.

‘It’s the clearest you’ve ever been,' he says, sounding pleased. The joy of it, the joy and the shock and the clarity of him is heady, and you reach a hand out, gripping your counter. 'You’re surrounding me.’

Once again, he is not wrong, the sound of his voice seeming to fill the empty corners of your house and mind. Your grip on the counter tightens, joints aching from the effort of keeping still. If he were here, you'd reach for him, pull him to you and kiss him until your lungs hurt from lack of breath. If he were just as needy, maybe he'd place you on the counter top, spilling your wine as his hands massaged bruises into your thighs, leaving marks on your neck for the world to see.

It's shocking, you realize, what the sound of his voice can do. Just one laugh and already he stains the walls.

Swallowing thickly, you take in a long inhale, hoping to clear your mind and focus. ‘So you were at the show.’

It is not a question, just a statement of fact.

Chanyeol's laugh is one of disbelief and one of comfort, an odd mix of emotions you read so easily and find yourself getting drunk on just the same. Glancing down, you see the wine, untouched. ‘It’s so bizarre you just know it,' he says, breathless in his delight. ‘It’s like continuing a conversation we never started.’

‘So you were there tonight?’ you repeat, needing to hear his confirmation and refusing to let yourself run wild with the sheer magnitude of him.

‘Yeah, I was,' he admits. ‘I started feeling like you were there and...I don’t know.’ Chanyeol falls silent, but just as clearly as you can hear him, so too does your mind see him. He blushes, looking down at his hands and standing in the same place as you, sleeveless grey shirt revealing the muscles in his arms as he holds onto the counter. ‘I couldn’t help myself.’

The sound of your heartbeat fills your ears, and while you want to rush forward and talk and talk, for a moment you are speechless.

Chanyeol is in London.

There are no seas separating you.

Tonight, he was at the concert and just as easily as sharing a song, so too can you share the city. This kind of confirmation is worthy of a celebration, a late night phone call or text message to give an address, a number, a cab ride to a doorstep so hands and mouths can finally meet. But you don't mention it or expand on it, biting the side of your tongue in hesitation instead. Blood rushing in your ears interrupts all your fantasies, mouth unsure you're ready for your own admission to make it real.

When it's real, it breaks, and you're still unsure you're ready to be moved beyond the confines of the earth.

Blinking slowly, you ground yourself back in the deep breaths he takes to keep himself calm, and smile. 'I'm glad you didn't.' Once more, your eyes find your wine glass, hand reaching for the stem to swirl it around and around. 'It's been a long time since I've felt someone hold me so close at a concert. You were keeping me warm.'

Almost immediately, he replies. ‘Don’t talk about someone else's hands on you.' It is neither a demand not a command, but a plea. ‘I don’t like picturing it.’

Smirking, you cock your head to the side, the honey sweet drip of arousal running down your spine. ‘Possessive already?’

‘Yes,' comes his quick, unashamed reply. ‘Everyone before doesn’t matter,' he clarifies, eyes falling closed to keep himself calm, 'but I still can’t help it. My hands have been aching all night. I'll never have my fill of you.'

Uncertain how to reply, you simply smile. You smile straight ahead and at nothing at all, knowing that he can feel it. Nothing matters anymore, so long as he can feel it.

‘I wouldn’t have expected you to be there,' he says, words falling quickly in an effort of making the most of your time together. 'There weren’t many women, especially towards the front.’

Rolling your eyes, you sigh, tired of these types of gendered comments men so easily make when it comes to rock music. ‘Then you weren’t looking hard enough.’

Chanyeol, however, acquiesces easily. ‘True,' he affirms. ‘Though, to be fair, I was really only looking for you.’ You both fall into the memory, of the way you found one another in the breadth of a moment, in a setlist, and in the all encompassing ecstasy that comes from live music. ‘That’s my favourite song of his,' Chanyeol shares, sounding almost shy. 'From Her To Eternity is so powerful.'

Something about this makes you feel young, impossibly young and carefree, like your longtime crush has just admitted he likes the same things as you, and therefore it must be destiny. You laugh, feeling yourself go light headed from the force of it, and remind yourself that it is. It is actually destiny.

‘Mine too,' you agree, giggling. ‘It’s funny, people don’t mention that deep cut.’

‘Deep cut?’ he questions, and you have to stop yourself from sighing in deep affection at the image of his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. ‘Do you know something I don’t?’

‘No...just…’ Your words die, backtracking from your blanket statement. ‘It doesn’t get chosen very often as a favourite, is all.’

Seeming to realize that your time together is coming short, the end of side A looming closer, Chanyeol changes the subject. ‘I didn’t think I’d find you in this record.’

Humming, you look back at the record, and the torn somewhat bent edges of the sleeve. 'That's true,' you nod at no one in particular. 'It's a hard record to find, which is a shame because Cry To Me is the best part of Dirty Dancing.’

A small noise of uncertainty blooms from Chanyeol's chest, curiosity and interest blending together in one small, magical sound. ‘I don’t know what that is.'

Baffled and overtaken by skepticism, you laugh. Normally, such statements make you roll your eyes in disgust but there is something so wonderfully endearing about his joke you cannot help but smile. ‘That’s literally impossible. You’re such a guy.’

A low, slow rumble quakes in his chest, your eyes falling shut in preparation of the thickness of pleasure you know he is about to adopt. ‘If dirty dancing is what you want…’

‘Don’t start,' you whisper, mind replaying the sound over and over, addicted. ‘You’ve got me drunk on you.’

‘Speak for yourself,' he teases, mirroring your earlier statement.

For a brief moment, you can almost see him. Bottom lip caught between his teeth, his wide eyes look longing through you, hoping to find and touch and hold whatever part of you he can access. Like this, you both fall quiet, looking everywhere and nowhere for one another, and eventually, the shift of the earth on its axis makes your body sway, overcome by your unintentional stillness. Just like you could at the concert, you feel his hand reach for your waist, catching you, and it is this contact that makes you understand the difference between imagination and connection.

Where imagination is distant and feather light, a super imposition of assumption onto expectation, this is is a cosmic wave in which your drown, skin and soul and heart rattled by the impossibility and intensity of him. Neither fictional nor imagined, he is hyper-present and he is cosmic, a sunbeam trick that runs along the endings of your nerves.

‘So, do you like soul music, then?’ he asks, breaking your silence with an anxious tension at the back of his throat. His words are thick, heavy things that weigh against you, and you know he too is struggling to hold himself together.

A slow smile tugs at your lips, a lopsided grin of adoration. ‘I love it,’ you begin, pressing your tongue against your teeth unsure if you should continue. There’s so much on this you want to say, so much you normally give to other people with little passion returned. But he’s your soulmate, and if he’s really yours he will give back in spades. ‘Most days, I think it’s my favourite genre. It’s speaks of human connection in a way that I think other genres just can’t comprehend.’

‘Absolutely,’ he agrees, enthusiasm palpable in every syllable. ‘Their voices are full of the full spectrum of human emotion...it’s like they’ve felt so much more than I ever could. Every lyric is a love letter.’

Silently, you chuckle to yourself, eyes roaming up towards your ceiling in thanks to a God you never really had faith in. ‘Every time I listen to it, especially to an Otis song -’

‘God, I love Otis,’ he interrupts, over eager. ‘Sorry,’ comes his rushed apology, bemused by his excitement. ‘It’s just good to talk about it with someone.’

‘It’s okay.’

You want to reassure him everything he will ever say, every interruption is fine and good and gold, because you want, more than anything, to listen to him speak until the sun goes black. But Chanyeol remains quiet, impatiently waiting for you to continue, and you are so willing to give him absolutely everything he desires.

‘It’s so hard to explain…’ Your words fade, mind struggling to form a sentence that could convey the depth of your emotion. ‘He moves me,’ you finally announce, uncertain anything further needs to be said.

You have said this before. This thought and opinion is not unfamiliar or new. You have said as much to countless other people, people who simply laugh and tell you this thought is incomplete. Movement is born from a moment of pleasure, a spark and release of joy, and rarely is such a feeling understood outside of the moment in which it exists. To everyone else, this thought is illogical - not impossible, just unusual.

But Chanyeol sighs, a long exclamation of understanding, his heart and soul wilting directly into yours, finally witnessed. ‘Yeah?’ he swoons, urging you to continue with the force of his ardor.

Turning, you lean back against the counter, tilting your head upwards as though anticipating a kiss. ‘He was so young,’ you continue, voice small and distant, longing tracing every word on your tongue, ;but the way he spoke and the way he sang…’ You drift, trembling at the sudden sensation of a light touch ghosting along your cheek. You think it might be his nose as he runs it along your skin, breathing you in. ‘His music always feels like he’s lived three lifetimes, and loved, intensely, his way through each of them. I think I’d like to live like that.’

With his hands on you, you don’t even apologize for the slight stutter to your speech, affected.

‘Intensely in love?’ he whispers, and you lean into the sound, wanting.

‘Yeah.’

The sensation shifts to your other cheek, and you tilt your head in the mime of granting permission. Barely there grazes move along the edge of your cheekbone, tickling a phantom of wave of affection in its wake. But he remains silent, expecting and yearning for more.

‘For a long time,’ you manage, voice strained against your tight throat, ‘it was something I thought I’d ever want or need, that feeling of being loved through your humanity and into your spirit. I never thought I’d want it, because it couldn’t exist or, if it did, it was rare enough most of humanity shouldn’t bother trying to find it.’

‘A losing game,’ he clarifies, wistful and longing in his agreement.

Briefly reminded of Amy Winehouse, the distant melody plays in your mind. You wonder if he likes her as much as you. ‘But now -’ you raise your hands, curling your fingers and almost feeling the hard muscles of his hips as you pull him into you, ‘it’s like unlocking a door, you know? Stepping through to the other side and realizing, finally, what everyone had been singing about. I want that...to be loved so intensely, so in love, that it becomes the one thing I never question.’

Drowning in one another, you let yourself be held, body warming to a temperature that makes you crave the refreshment of air conditioning. Your skin is flushed, cheeks and neck and knuckles a reddish pink from both heat and desire, the rhythm of your heart putting a sheen of sweat at your brow. You don’t know when you got so warm, when he became a fire for your hands alone, but you don’t mind. If having him means burning, you don’t ever want to be cooled.

‘I want that, too.’ His forehead rests against yours, the last force of a touch you know is about to fade. ‘I want to give that to you.’

And with that, he is gone. The record stops, apartment quiet enough to make your teeth and ears ache, Side A complete. Normally, you’d whine and let yourself grieve, screaming to yourself that you want it, god how you want that, too, but tonight, for some reason, there is no place for such woe.

Chanyeol is in London.

Chanyeol is in London and now you have both heard and felt and learned him.

Chanyeol is in London.

It won’t be long now.

#chanyeol x reader #chanyeol fanfic #exosnet #kpopwonderlandtag #prettyboysnetwork #chanyeol scenario #chanyeol au #chanyeol fanfiction #exo au #exo scenario #exo fanfic #exo fanfiction #chanyeol fluff #chanyeol romance #park chanyeol

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fuwafuwamedb · 4 years

Text

Dodging Death Pt 7 (Hakuno, Caster Gilgamesh)

Previously: 1 2 3 4 5 6

____

The sound of her stumble had been his first sign that something was wrong.

Watching her fall, Gilgamesh had felt his insides grow terribly cold. It felt like all the blood in his being simply ceased to be, like a great chill was coming over him. He found his feet moving across the tiled floors of the kitchen and the carpeting in the other room. He rushed as fast as his four paws would take him, pressing his front paws to the woman’s chest.

She was struggling to breathe.

He could see the jagged breath she took, the soft cries falling from her lips as she remained unconscious. If she was still capable of being conscious, to which he prayed she was not, then she was in agony. She must have been.

He could almost feel the pain running through her. He could see the tremble here and there, the murmurs of his people’s words escaping her.

“It hurts,” she whimpered. “It hurts so much…”

Then tell me what happened.

He moved close, licking at her face, trying to awaken her enough that she would look at him and allow him to resume his human form once again.

Hakuno…

Those eyes needed to open.

Hakuno needed to look at him. He wanted to see those brown eyes, with flecks and bits of copper and gold within them, looking at him. That was what he needed right now.

Ereshkigal, don’t take her away.

The goddess of the underworld hadn’t even appeared and he was struggling to keep someone close to him alive again. He meowed and pawed at the woman, listening to the rare sound of that voice calling out to him. From time to time, he would hear her voice again, telling him that it hurt.

From those lips, he could hear her tell him that she was in pain.

This wasn’t right.

What had she been reading?

That was the first thing to check and he forced himself to pull back from her to go take a look. Whatever was wrong had begun with the book she’d dropped. Taking a look though, it seemed to simply be a book on Sumerian grammar.

Had there been a spell inadvertently written upon the text?

Turning pages and investigating took so long. He ran to the dripping sink only to note that he was not the only one who would be suffering right now.

Hakuno had been lying on the floor for a while. Despite the shaking going down and her person becoming quieter, there was still something wrong. She still needed food and drink.

What could he do?

It was a curse to be this small. It was a curse to be trapped like this, unable to do anything more than watch as Hakuno wasted away.

He had to try to do something.

He let the sink turn on the rest of the way, watching the water overflow onto the floors. From there, he could splash water on the floor at her.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

He looked at the fridge, but…

No thumbs or hands; that wasn’t going to be feasible for him. All he could do was cuddle Hakuno close and hope that he could get her to awaken soon.

The sun fell.

It rose the next morning.

Alone and without means, he was trapped. This was Ishtar and Ereshkigal’s faults They were the ones to blame for him being this way. They were the ones to blame for him being able to do nothing more than watch as Hakuno suffered and toiled away.

What joys were there in letting others suffer before him?

Did they seek a sadistic pleasure from this? Was there some rush to the senses that they found in seeing a perfectly average woman suffer on the floor like this?

Was he to pray to them? Beg them to release the woman from whatever spell they had cast this time so that she could see her healthy and whole? Did Ereshkigal want to simply make him wish for death before coming to take him?

He didn’t know and he wasn’t sure if he ever would understand.

Hakuno was suffering.

Make it end.

There was little else to do upon the second day, merely lying there and licking her face. He longed for someone to come. Where was the blue haired fool? The white haired pest? Where were those women that Hakuno spoke to from time to time?

This is not what friends did for one another. Enkidu would have sensed him in agony. They would have come to find him and they would have gotten him to an apsu.

If I turn human again, Gilgamesh promised her silently. If I change once more, I will not cease until you are mine.

She would never suffer like this again.

Siduri and the palace of Uruk itself would ensure that she was watched over. Should she collapse again, he would have her treated immediately. Never would he allow such a woman to lay like this: lost to the world and unable to care for herself.

Magician for Uruk was not enough.

Being his, while admirable, was not enough.

I have a plan for you.

It would require patience, diligence; he would have to fully and wholly seduce her. It would not be enough to hold just a part of her spirit, she would need to surrender fully to him. Whether it was vengeance for this pain she was placing him in or merely his own heart’s demands, he wasn’t sure; but she would become his.

The night fell on the third day.

He awakened to the feeling of his bones popping. His eyes drifted to his hands- hands! The familiar and painful feeling of his body once more changing into that of a human was coming back. He could feel the ripples as fur receded and limbs elongated. He could feel those blessed fingers being able to be stretched and balled up into a fist.

In a matter of moments, he was human again. Naked, but human.

His arms wrapped around Hakuno’s person immediately, pulling her into his arms and clinging to her. He pressed his lips to her temple, hauling her towards her bathing chamber.

A bath would help.

The water needed to be hot, almost too hot to the touch. He allowed it to flow until the heat was great, peeling the clothing from her person and carefully sliding both her and himself into the waters. For a long while, he lost himself in massaging her limbs.

Mana flow was much like blood flow. While he could sense her mana, it felt blocked once more.

It was long after the water had grown a chill that Caster pulled her from the tub. He pulled the towels around her, drying her off before carrying her to the bed.

More massaging.

He could feel much of that mana returning to her person. She was starting to feel better-

A phone rang nearby.

He grabbed her phone and pressed the answer circle, holding the phone to his ear.

“Hakuno?”

“Hakuno is busy,” Caster began. The white haired menace was on the phone, but if Hakuno’s condition was serious…

It is a risk, but treatment is more important right now.

He would tolerate the mongrel for-

“I see. You must be the reason that Hakuno was so pleased about my relationship,” the fool stated, almost grumbling. “You two must be occupied. Tell her next time to inform the rest of us if she is going to be having sex for a few days.”

The fool ended the call.

Sex?

The mongrel thought that Hakuno had simply been having sex with him all this time?!

His eyes drifted to the slumbering woman, having seen her unconscious for days. Days; with no friends or family or anyone coming to check on her. The fool had thought she had been simply ignoring her responsibilities to sleep with him. The fool actually believed so little of Hakuno that he would assume such blasphemy!

My intuition is never wrong.

It was clear that Hakuno was his for only he knew how to treat her. Only he understood what she was suffering.

Heading to the other room, he cleaned the waters from the floor and poured a proper glass for the woman. He found some sauce in the fridge that smelled of apples, pouring that into another glass.

She needed energy. She needed nourishment of some sort.

Pulling her against his chest, he tilted her head back and forced her to drink and to partake in the apple sauce. It would not quell all of her hunger, but it would make strides. Right now, she needed the help. She needed anything that could help her live.

They did three rounds of the water and the apple sauce before he was satisfied. He held her a while longer, brushing her curling hair out and holding her to himself.

This was his woman.

He could feel it in the way she leaned into his embrace. He could feel it in the way her hair curled around his fingers as he ran them through her hair. It was as though her very hair wanted to desperately cling to him for a moment longer. Her body said what her lips could not speak.

She cared for him.

She needed him.

Truly she did, for no other would come to her in her time of need.

He was still holding her as she opened those eyes.

Those precious brown gems, gleaming with hints of the gold and warmth that was the value of her spirit, looked up at him. Her lips parted, her voice cracking slightly.

“…G-Gilgamesh…”

Once more, he was brushing her hair back. He leaned in close to press his lips to hers.

“What happened?” she asked sleepily.

“You collapsed,” he murmured. “What were you doing, Hakuno?”

Her face pressed to his chest a little more, her eyes closing. “I was trying to see if I could learn Sumerian… I thought, if I could simply use magic to memorize…”

Her speech was fluently Sumerian. From start to finish, there were no qualms with her speech or faults that he could sense. However…

What a fool.

To use magic to attempt to learn something like that! Language was not a memorization, it was a systematic learning of speech and emotion. It meant changing the way the mind thinks and what information would be retained. To force her mind to memorize all that would mean forcing usage and possibilities into the head.

“My head hurts,” Hakuno whispered.

He pressed his lips to her forehead, willing with all his being for at least a trickle of magic to help her. The woman leaned into him further, sighing happily.

“Thank you.”

“You will never do such a thing again,” he murmured to her. “Never, Hakuno. If there is magic you wish to try, you must tell me. Even I am not foolish enough to believe in memorization through magic. There are simply some magics that are too strong to attempt without years of practice.”

Healing severe wounds.

Memorization of language.

Attempting to bring back the dead.

Forcing the mind to retain information that was long passed.

“I won’t do it again,” Hakuno promised. “Just do that thing with your lips again.”

That thing…

Gilgamesh pressed his lips to her forehead again, pushing more mana if he could. She happily sighed at him, tilting her head back and opening those eyes.

“Do you wish to learn how to do it back?” he asked.

“Teach me.”

What a cute fool.

Caster stroked her cheek a bit, making her continue to tilt her face back.

“You need to pucker these lips,” he instructed her. “Look up at me and kiss me, thinking and willing the magic in your veins to flood my system. Will that magic to resolve my ailments and wish me well.”

“So like a true love’s kiss,” she offered, still half asleep.

“A true love’s kiss?”

“It’s where the lover in all the fairytales is trapped, unable to do something or be with the other person. Then the other leans in and kisses their pains and troubles away, letting magic and their love do all the work. The two marry and live happily ever after…” Hakuno paused, scoffing a bit. “I bet it is also to keep the curses from ever returning.”

True love’s kiss…

Gilgamesh looked down at his skeptical and exhausted woman, hesitating a bit before he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers lightly.

“Will you not try it with me?”

Her hands held him weakly. Her arms moved to wrap themselves around his shoulders. He found her mana bursting forth as the sun began to rise outside the window.

She flooded him with her mana and it was simply magnificent.

There were no words eloquent enough to describe the way her body seemed to flood him with her mana. He could feel the pleasure to the tips of his fingers and toes. He could feel the way she seemed to make his body simply hum with energy.

Any fatigue he felt from helping her and caring for her was gone.

Every bit of adrenaline was flowing through his veins wildly, allowing him to cup her cheeks and kiss her once more.

Gods, but the woman was his.

She belonged to him. Be damned whether or not this was a true love or simply the standard of pleasure in this time; he had seen enough to know she would suit being at his side.

Sunlight hit his feet.

I will return to human form soon, he promised silently.

He laid her back down before she found herself laying over her cat. He waited for the change to set in once more, forcing him back into the form that Ishtar had cursed him into remaining.

Any second now…

Gilgamesh listened to the sounds of the world outside. He looked down at the woman who was looking up at him with drooping eyelids and bruised lips. The deep red color was worsened as he ran his fingers over those lips. His eyes remained fixed on her own as he waited.

“Your hair is more golden than blond,” she told him gently, reaching up to brush his hair back. Her soft smile hit his chest like the left fist of Enkidu. “You look handsome, Gil.”

True love…

The gods hadn’t been able to stop them.

Caster stared at the woman in growing awe, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

Hakuno had lifted his curse through a means that required love and affection. She’d resolved his curse and confessed in a manner that would have slayed the icy souls of even the most damned of creations. The woman had defied all odds and catered to him, despite her condition.

She loves me.

The thought echoed in his head as he leaned in, covering her lips with his own. He tugged the blankets between their naked bodies aside, finding her legs only to feel her hands still him.

“Gil-“

“I need you,” he breathed.

She stared up at him, hesitating.

She is an innocent.

He knew that look. It had been so long since he had bothered with a woman. It’d been so long since he had felt the urge, the necessity, to be inside someone. The woman before him was not ready though. Her legs were pressing together as much as they could with one of his legs between them. Her eyebrows were furrowed. Her eyes gleamed in a manner that made his urges still.

“…I will take this slow,” he consoled, allowing his sleepy woman to close her eyes and relax once more. “I will bring you more pleasure than you have ever felt before, but I will make sure to do so in a manner that will make any other person seem undesirable.”

It would not take much effort.

She was his love, after all.

And he was her king.

#drabble #drabbles

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