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sssilverstoned · 3 months

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while you can still smell them ꩜ ln4

type: full length fic

word count: 3.9k

title from: i wish you roses by kali uchis

warnings: some fluff, angst, but like it's a happy ending. cursing bc i'm me, italics are memories

lily said: you know me i can never leave well enough alone. i thought this little snapshot of the break that was never really a break would be cute! for context, i'd suggest looking at the ig au linked below! this would be taking place in between part 2 and 3.

part 1

part 2

part 3

masterlist

You've only seen Lando cry on occasions that called for it. When family members died, when racing got too much for his mental, in some awful, awful moments. Maybe that's why it hurts so bad to see him cry now.

"A break feels a lot like you should add 'up' to that statement," he had said, turning away from you, looking out at the stars. You were sat on his balcony, feeling suffocated by the apartment. But the AC was on and working fine, and windows were open. Your emotions were suffocating you, that was more fitting.

"We can't keep on like this, Lan," you say in a broken voice, the lump in your throat thick and threatening. "It's not fair to either of us."

He doesn't realize he's crying until the drop hits his nose, making it quirk up in surprise. He swipes at his face, a pawlike move to get rid of the teardrops.

"Do you not love me anymore?"

His question makes you sob. Full body, head dropping to chest, your hands writing in your lap. The sound of you breaking down turns him back to you, rushing to the chair you've melted into. He lifts your face in his hands, and you take a breath when you see his face, discolored with tears.

"I'll always love you," he makes out of your words, just barely. "I, I just, it's not the same,"

"We can fix this, us. We can work on it together," Lando's brain is whirring at hyper speed, damage controlling the last 8 months of your lives together.

The cracks began to become schisms when he committed your largest pet peeve, which was ignoring things out of ease. Blissful ignorance, if you will.

It was small things, like forgetting about date nights in lieu of longer trainings or prolonging trips. Sometimes he forgot to water the plants, or didn't move laundry over, and that was manageable. That's what every couple encounters. What every couple does not encounter, was the intense pressure of racing a car for a living.

He was frustrated, with Zak, with anything papaya colored, and with his own self-doubts. He carried that frustration in his chest, and it came out in some of the words he spoke to you, and actions he took. You eventually stopped offering to come over and cook, because dinners were becoming continuously tense, and you were uncomfortable. Felt like a nuisance.

But at the same time, you were both so codependent. Without anything being said, you two began to avoid things you assumed the other wouldn't like, and asked for permission to do the smallest of things. You first noticed it when your sister pointed had asked you to come go with her out of town for the weekend, and you hesitated. "I'll have to ask Lando," you had told her. She bit her tongue.

Lando was just as bad, he had quite literally lost the ability to sleep when you weren't around. It made Grand Prix weekends an actual nightmare when you weren't there, calling you at any times in the day or night.

"Are you alright, it's 4am,"

"Sorry, can't sleep again. The melatonin does nothing,"

"Did you try the tea my mum got you?"

"Baby I just," he scrubs a hand down his exhausted face. "I just need you here."

"I can't just get up and go to Australia."

"I'll get you a flight, or maybe we can-"

"Lando," you say in a sterner voice. "I can't."

He's quiet for a moment, and you wonder what's going through his head. You hardly raised your voice or got intense, certainly never at him. But then again, recently, you seemed to never know what was going through his head.

It was silly to think that Lando was the same man that you began dating. You were 19, you would pray that he had changed somehow over the span of 5 years. But there was something missing that once was. The relationship was becoming more of a task, and that wasn't right. Which is what brought you to this moment, brought you to telling him you needed to talk.

"Lan," you whimper, bringing a hand up where his hold your face on either side. You don't even have to say anything more, he knows you better than you know yourself. And he begins to cry harder.

"I've never loved anyone but you, baby."

"I know."

"I can't, I really don't want to live without you," he shakes his head, standing back up to his full height. His hands stay busy, though, ripping through his hair.

"I'm not going to go away," you explain, agonized that you're calmer than he at this point. You stand from the wicker chair, but don't edge closer to him. "But my career is unpredictable right now, 6 months in Marbella is a long time. And you're, well, everywhere. And you need to focus on that."

"I've multitasked for 5 years," he says bitterly, making you sigh. His eyes are back on the stars, and his back to you makes your eyes blurry again.

"I'm not happy." You finally blurt, making his body stiffen. "I'm really not."

When he looks at you again, his expression reads clearly with fatigue, with anguish. "Please, baby, don't,"

It's your turn to clutch his face, bringing his forehead to touch with yours. Through your contact, you feel the heaves of his body, the breaths he's trying to control. "It's not forever," you whisper, mustering courage. "But we need to stop acting like everything's fine."

"I don't see myself without you."

"You're not," your hold tightens, he leans further into your palm, "but we've grown up together. The flower pot's too small now," you try to joke, he barely can fake amusement.

"I'll buy a thousand new pots."

"We need to clean up the broken one, first." His jaw clenches, you soothe it with your thumb. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He says back, almost silently. "Still wear that Mclaren shirt on race days, I need the luck."

You finally crack a smile. "I'll wear the hat too if my hairstyle permits."

He kisses you, almost convincing himself this if is the last fix he can get for a while, he needed it now. Not that either of you know it, but you both have the same thought. You both notice that your cheeks have each other's tears on them now, not sure which ones came from whom. You were on the same page in that regard, at least.

꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜

"You should ask y/n out," your best friend says to Lando in the middle of a party. He chokes on his drink, not expecting her to come up to him like she did, and not expecting the words out her mouth.

You all were freshly 19, still congregating in someone's living room to try to have a good time. He knew your friends better than he knew you, the newest of the group in town, only having moved to the area with your family when you were 16.

"Should I, now?" He says, recovering from his fright.

"Yeah," she replies, ignoring the sarcasm. "She goes on about you, it's cute. She'd hurt me if she knew I told you, though. Not sure what she sees in you," his eyes narrow at the girl, which she ignores once again. "You'd be lucky to have a girl like her in your life."

That much, he knew. You were fiercely loyal to your friends and family, and treated him with a kindness that made him melt every time. You were funny, and genuine, and not to mention, the most beautiful person he's sure he knows.

When he bumps into you later at the party, he asks you what you're doing the following evening.

That was the story he'd tell people with a proud grin when they ask how you two got together. All you recount is how he nearly ruined your cute top with a shitty guinness.

He's struck with the memory when he sees the guinness logo in the ads on the walls of a restaurant. "Mate," Max all but snaps his fingers. Lando locks back in, humming for what he missed.

"Was just curious if you wanted to go out tonight. They've been texting in the chat about it, I saw you never responded."

Clubbing wasn't as fun as it used to be, not when you weren't dancing your heart out beside him, or waiting in bed with your nose in a book when he came home because you weren't feeling like going out. It felt like a waste of his time, and like he was sucking the fun out of other people's nights.

"'M alright," he says with a tight mouthed grin. "Gonna sit this one out."

Max looks at his friend, seeing through his response. "When's the last time you went out?"

If he had to take an educated guess, you last graced his apartment that night on the balcony, 4 weeks ago. So, 4 weeks ago. Perhaps longer, judging by the schisms. "A while. Not up to it."

"You're torturing yourself."

"I'm not interested in getting shitfaced, Max."

Max looks away for a second, quickly weighing the pros and cons of asking what he's been wanting to for the last, well, 4 weeks. "Do you think Y/n is wallowing too?"

The sound of your name makes his fingers twitch inadvertently, almost like a flinch. "That's not fair."

"I'm serious, Lando. You said she needed a break because she felt like you two were co-dependent and not actually working through problems, and look at you. You're not functioning without her. I mean, it's your fucking birthday next week, and you haven't brought it up once, you realize that, right?"

He knows he's right. Nothing he said was out of line, or wrong, and that's why Lando has nothing to say back. He wants to argue, to prove him wrong, but he can't. He's seen your ads and campaigns, the beautiful shots of you promoting luxury brands and names that your fans only dreamed of owning. Despite the distance, he was so proud of you still. You worked hard, were disciplined and humble through your success. He had texted you when the Dior campaign had launched, and the message of your thanks, with a smiley face, made him, for just a second, think that things were back to normal.

When they left the restaurant, and ran directly into fans, Lando tried to put on his best face for them, smiling for selfies and signing what was gestured toward him. When a sweet looking girl with glasses shyly spoke up, telling her favorite driver where she was visiting from, his tired eyes light up. "You're from there?" He confirms, and she smiles with an eager nod.

"Y/n is too," he almost mumbles, but every fan in earshot heard it. The typical squeals followed, the hushed whispers amonst themselves on if they'd push the questions they were itching to ask or not. And heard it they did, as the encounter made its way onto social media and gossip pages. But Max was right, his mourning period needed to be over, if anything was going to change for the better.

You call him on his birthday. It was nerve wracking, which made you bitterly laugh, because never did you think you'd be nervous to talk to Lando Norris of all people. One of the few people in the world you wholeheartedly trusted.

It had only been about a month since you requested time apart, and he had honored that. The texts were sparse, the calls nonexistent. Although, that was sort of what had brought you to this point anyway. But you were working on yourself, and your career at the same time, and things were looking better. Change never happened overnight, but the journal your therapist recommended, and the disappearance from social media besides professional posts were great starts.

You bite at your cuticle as the phone rings. You take your cell away from your ear, chest panging at the contact name "Lan <3" at the top of the screen. Was he really going to screen your call? Is that what you deserved, possibly?

"Y/n," he finally answers, and you quickly bring your phone back to your ear.

"Hi," you say awkwardly. "Happy birthday, Lando."

"Thank you," he says stiffly. "I'm happy to hear from you."

"Yeah I um, haven't really been on my phone here," you bite harder on your finger. "I think it's nice here, you'd love Marbella."

"I'm sure I would," he says with what you can hear is a smile. "I miss you, you know?"

"I miss you too," you concede, "how have you been?"

"Not great, I won't lie. Much rather would hear about you."

"'s not my birthday," and he smiles a bit at that.

"Well, racing's fine. But Max is sick of my shit, says I've been wallowing."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Yeah."

You don't really know what to say, you've rarely been the perpetrator of his negative feelings. No relationship was perfect, but you all hadn't really hit a communication wall until now. It was uncharted, scary territory. "Well, I wanted to wish you a happy birthday, that was all. Have a good day, really. 24 is a big one. Kobe year, that's what someone said to me. I hope this year is great for you."

"Y/n, wait," he halts your beginnings to hang up. "I'd like to come to see you soon, I've got some time before Abu Dhabi and maybe I could swing by Spain on the way."

"Lando," he absolutely hates that you're calling him by his whole name. Lan, that's what would you called him almost exclusively. Lando feels so formal from you.

He needs to hear it, you know he does. He needs to hear that you want to see him, that you need to see him just as much as he yearns to put eyes on you once more. But you were constantly afraid of accidental manipulation, holding him by some invisbile garotte. But this was his first birthday you hadn't celebrated together since you were 19, that meant something.

"Please focus on racing," you implore, and squeeze your eyes shut before adding, "but you if you'd like to come and it won't be an issue in your plans, you're more than welcome."

꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜꩜

You saw the posts, it wasn't very hard. Fans utterly disappointed that you and Lando hadn't been seen together in ages, putting pieces together quickly after you didn't post for his birthday. It didn't make you feel worse, to be truthful, and to your surprise. You were sure there'd be a barrage of insults hurled your way, maybe a cheating rumor or two. But really, all there was to see were requiems for your relationship, nostalgia for what once was. What did cause you to delete instagram from your phone, was the response to the podcast.

You were single for the time being, that's what you and Lando had agreed on when he visited you. It wasn't an invitation to go out and find the next man to lay in your bed, but you both had agreed that it wasn't healthy to hold out in anticipation of your rekindling.

"You're the only girl I've, you know," he awkwardly trailed off, scratching the back of his neck. He sits up in bed, linens pooling around his hips. Hooking up with your now ex-boyfriend, might've not been your brightest idea, sure, but you were both human, at the end of the day.

"Fucked?" you tease, remaining comfortable against your plush pillow. "I know. First few times kinda showed that."

He looks back at you pointedly. "You cried the first time."

"It hurt!"

He rolls his eyes, shaking his head in fake annoyance. You grin. "I'm sure the girlies are gonna have a field day with you being single now,"

He rolls his eyes again, laying, or rathing slumping, back into the pillow next to you. His arm instinctively comes around the top of your head, you try not to lean into it. "I think I really will finally listen to you and focus on racing."

You turn on your side, admiring his profile as he stares up at the ceiling, probably tangled in his thoughts. His nose sloped perfectly, the little freckles dotting his skin like constellations. Your boy.

"I told my mum."

He snorts. "She hates me now, I'm sure."

"Mm, no, her first ask was what I did," your mom was Lando's biggest fan, through and through. Of course, you were her daughter, but she was convinced he was cosmically made perfectly for you.

He looks at you then, realizing your eyes have been on him the whole time. He copies your position, turning to you so your bodies lay parallel, nowhere to look but each other's eyes.

"Do you regret that I'm the only boyfriend you've ever had?"

You immediately shake your head in denial of the question. "No, not at all," you were lucky, if anything. "You?"

"Well, I've had other girlfriends,"

"Ouch?"

"You knew that," he chuckles, and yeah, you did. "But I don't regret that you're the only one I've been serious about. I still am."

"I know. I am too."

"An ex-boyfriend doesn't lay in bed with you, you know."

"And an ex-girlfriend doesn't still remind your team when your doctor's appointments are,"

"Fair enough, guess we're just weird."

You share a matching grin. "So weird."

So once Alex uploaded the Call Her Daddy episode you were a guest on, and it was official to the masses that you had been single for now almost 4 months, the articles came in. The timelines of you and Lando's relationship, the rumors of him leaving clubs with random girls. You'd be lying if you said you didn't zoom in on some of their faces, relaxing when you recongized most of them as friends or even family members. He wasn't yours to be worried about, you suppose, but you also knew that any girl he decided to share his time with would be a lucky one.

Your friends had tried to get you on dates, that wasn't a lie when you said that on the podcast. But you weren't ever excited to get to know someone new, small talk was painful and you didn't feel comfortable going home with them.

But then, a few weeks later into February, you get a phone call from Lando. "Hi," You answer, pleasently surprised.

"Hey there," he says, sounding slightly out of breath. "How are you?"

"I'm good, great even. Finished up everything down here, leaving Marbella next week to head back home." Home was London to you, not Monaco. You constantly visited, had a family flat there and everything, but couldn't leave officially becuause of your career.

"Congratulations, everything looked stunning," he compliments, and your stomach flutters.

"But um, how are you? I'd ask if you were relaxing, but I'm sure training's well underway."

"Meh, more or less. I'm heading to Surrey next week, actually. Got some stuff to do at HQ."

"Oh," Surrey was only about an hour and a half from where you were in London. "Would you, well, not assuming anything, but if you'd have time to spare, it would be great to catch up?"

This isn't why Lando called you, you fully know this. Who knows what he picked up the phone for, he could be calling to let you know he's eloped with someone he's met in the 6 months you've been apart.

"I'd love to," you hear his grin in his voice. "You haven't moved, have you?"

Not only had you not moved, but you haven't changed much about your flat either. Same bedding, same color schemes, same photos decorating your tables and walls of your friends, family, and Lando. He never took the photos of you down either, and that photo from your 21st birthday was still stuffed in his wallet.

You order takeout, sitting across the kitchen island from each other acting like it didn't feel like your first date again. He acts like he doesn't want to reach out for your hands as you animatedly use them to share stories of Spain, and you act like you don't want to push the curls back that threathen to land over his eyebrows.

The food gets cold as you two catch up, a few glasses of wine becoming a whole bottle gone. You actually can't remember the last time the two of you had done this, and perhaps, absence had truly made your hearts grow fonder.

"Bahrain is on leap day," Lando says, making you gasp.

"That's got to be good luck, no?"

"It's just the first practice,"

"But still, you're starting your first weekend of the year on a special day like that," you muse, "so exciting. I'm excited for you,"

His chest warms at endearment in your voice. You truly and honestly rooted for him through everything, that was one of the things he was most grateful for about you. He knows you don't truly care about all of this, if he won or lost, but that you care about him and his development, how he sees himself and his profession. He fell in love with that about you.

"Would you come?"

You hesitate, daring to look at him from where you had begun to clean the countertop. "To the race? "

He nods, and turn back to the counter. "I don't know, Lan. Is that where we are?"

He hopes so. He's missed you something horrible, prays you missed him just as bad.

Lando takes the cloth from your hand, replacing it with his own. "I know it's only been about 6 months, and that's not enough time to say everything's well and dandy," you fight a smile. "But I want to work through things, with you. I've had nothing but time to consider what was off with us, and I want to be better. For you, more than anything. Yeah, I learned how to be just Lando. But I know I prefer being Lando and Y/n."

You bite your lip, finally meeting his eyes. "I want to take it slow."

"We can do that,"

"So, I don't know if I'm ready for the race. But, my birthday's coming up,"

"It is,"

"And we'll be in Dubai. My sister did it up, got this crazy plan going since it'll be my 25th."

"Quite the old woman you're becoming,"

"Oh get off that," you scoff, pushing his chest. He chuckles and pulls you back into him, where you go willingly. "But, if you can, I'd love for you to come to the dinner."

He raises an eyebrow with a smirk. "You want me to fly to Dubai just for your birthday dinner?"

"You'll be in Saudi Arabia then anyway,"

The smirk gets bigger. "You know my schedule already, love?"

"You're so fucking cheeky, can't stand it," you feign annoyance, but never move from his arms.

He holds you, as your arms delicately find themselves behind his neck, not daring to kiss just yet. To really be honest, you're not sure if you're ready to take that whole plunge.

"I'm happy to be back, even if things are slow. They can be molasses for all I care."

"Thank you for being patient with me," you lean your forehead against his. However, this time, neither of you are crying. Nice, for a change.

"I'd wait decades for you, my love."

After a beat of sweet silence. You speak up once more. "One thing though," he hums to prompt your continuance. "I'm pretty sure, when it's said, it's Y/n and Lando, just so you know."

#is this me projecting? yeah #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris x reader

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sidesplashofsainz · 16 days

Text

Invisible 2

I’m so sorry that this took me ages to finish, here is the original ending that the anon asked for

Here is the link to part one 🎀https://www.tumblr.com/sidesplashofsainz/747013673029189632/hiya-could-you-write-something-with-charles-x?source=share

here is the link to the angsty alternate ending 🎀

https://www.tumblr.com/sidesplashofsainz/747104615177273344/invisible-2?source=share

680 words around 3370 - 4381 characters 🎀

Charles was a dick—a proper dick. He had promised that he would never make you feel small or insecure around him, yet he had made you feel that way.

If the old Charles could see himself right now, he would have probably smacked himself hard on the head.

He really didn’t know why he didn’t just talk to you, giving you the time and opportunity to explain why you said what you said. He knew it wasn’t your words that hurt him; it was the truth behind them that had smacked Charles in the face.

Charles lived in this delusional world where Ferrari were still the world champions and believed that he could bring the Scuderia back to its former glory. How silly of him to think that.

His wife’s words were the last straw; her words had shattered his whole perception of the team. He went back to all the failed races and championship opportunities.

Charles knew he had messed up big time; luckily for him, he knew how to make up big time as well. He started off by driving to Paris just to pick up your favorite pastries; he followed that up with picking up your favorite flowers. Black Red and white roses mixed with tulips—you said that they reminded you of Monaco and Charles; that’s why they were your favorites. Charles shakes his head and laughs faintly, his heart feeling heavy. He couldn’t wait to make it up to you. He was willing to hear you yell and curse at him; he was willing to endure the hits that your fists would throw at his arms and shoulders. He just missed you—your voice, your happy smiles, your eyes, everything about you.

He played your favourite song on his drive back, wishing that you were next to him.

Your soft cries welcomed him home, waking him up to the mess he had created for no valid reason. He was scared. For the first time, he was scared to see you.

Never did he expect to find you in the state you currently were in, shaking and trembling hands all red from the scratches you inflicted on yourself—a crying mess. Little sorry being muttered in between the shallow breaths you were taking, Charles felt his eyes water, knowing he was the cause of all your pain and anguish.

His watercolored eyes were all it took for you to collapse into his arms, just wanting the warmth and comfort that only he possessed; it was intoxicating his heartbeat; his scent was his presence; it was overwhelming for you.

Everything that you had tried to hide came bubbling up to the surface. Charles was all you needed; he will always be what you desire, regardless of what he does to you.

Charles was shaking; his eyes were wet and closed with regret. He started muttering incoherent apologies into your soft hair; all you could hear was “mon ange” over and over again. It took him an hour to calm both himself and you down.

What followed after that hour was Charles apologising over and over for what felt like an eternity. You didn’t let him forget how he made you feel. You made sure to set boundaries and make sure that you’d never let him bring you down such a dark path again. The rest of the day was spent with Charles making up to you in every single way known to mankind, from hugs and kisses to soft intimacy, breakfast in bed, long shopping sprees, hundreds of flowers, and what felt like millions of love letters. All of that was followed by devoting the whole week to fixing everything he had destroyed, both physically and mentally.

It took weeks for everything to go back to the way it was, for you to feel like you were finally seen by your husband, and for you to not feel invisible. Everything took time and effort for the both of you to rebuild your relationship. Everything worked out in the end; you were no longer invisible.

#charles leclerc x wife reader #f1 imagine #f1 scenario #f1 x reader #mafia!charles leclerc #mafia!f1 #charles leclerc #dad!charles leclerc #formula 1 #fanfic #fandom #charles lecrelc

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lilylylalil · 3 months

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Normal Fucking Day

Alastor × Reader

Before reading, i will like to inform you that this version isn't finish and will never will be, if you want more information i will put a link where i talk why, anyways hope you still enjoy.

Warnings: cursing, blood, killing, reader has a problem

______

Fucking shit…

who could have thought that your co-worker could be a degenerate fucking cult leader…?!

I am sorry but i am done from this shit. Nope this shit is worst then the time that my mother tried to stab me with a fucking sandal. Actually i prefered if i could go to that time then this shit….

Ugh, why the dangerous psychopaths are the hot boys? Literally he is soo fucking hot Alexander. I could say some catching quotes like: “i don't mind you stabbing me~” but i could say that for shits and giggles! Not when that person literaly tried to stab me!?

Alexander almost stabbed Reader untill he paused and look at Reqder and ask:

“Do you always think aloud?”

“Shit! Did i say that aloud?!”

“yes and you are doing again”

As Reader was distracted as she felt ashemed and Alexander had the time in succeding in stabing her on her left shoulder.

“Fuck! You motherless son of a bitch! Hope you choke on a dick! No actually i hope you choke with your salivia! Hope you have the most stupidiest death! I want it to be so stupid that they can't make it public! Like…you electrocute yourself when you tried to use a sex toy when you could be in a bathtub with water you dumb shit-”

Of course Reader inuslted Alexander for the 15 minutes or at leats she planned that but Alexander didn't let her and knock her out.

You may be wandering why didn't she fight back? Well the same reason you start your homework at the last minute. because both of you are stupid.

______

When you opened your eyes you were tied down on a..table…?

“oh great. Do you know people this is how almost every porn video start?”

Actually you didn't know shit because you never saw a porn video in your life, i guess It's a curse and blessing at the same time or…maybe you have been cursed by the god of porn because you didn't watch in your entire life a porn video…

“what the fuck.”

You didn't even look at your surroundings but now with the voice that interrupted your thought you notice there is at least 34 people surrounding you.

“Oh, did i talk at loud again my thoughts?”

You said as you look at them. You had a feeling they were done with your shit without even seeing their faces. Well, it's not your fault they chose to be in a cult.

____

“Borther and Sisters, we are reunited in this beutiful demoniacal hour for our sacrifice for our lord-”

Before Alexander could say something else Reader interrupted him

“if i die as a sacrifice can at least die in peace knowing that i died to a hot god or whatever..?

One in the crowd said

“how dare you, you insolent-”

Reader again interrupted

“yeah yeah, “how could i?” but did you forget how your leader captured me? He propose me a one night stand and he knows how I am weak for pretty boys or girls~”

“okay just stop” Alexander said “Can't you be fucking serious for once in your life?! aren't you afraid for you life?!”

“ho you sweet summer child. Bold of you to assume i love my life-”

“would you shut up if i give you a dollar?”

And that actually did shut Reader as she was similing like an idiot with her one dollar that could not even spend, if the sacrifice was a success or she doesn't escape.

But guess what? Did she even try to escape? Nah, will she regret it? Probably but like she said “future problems for future me”

____

As the cult do its ritual, flames, dark shadow and a dark black light come from no where. Reader wasn't a religious type but that didn't mean she didn't believe in supernatural beings, she was pissy because she didn't have any popcorn for this or maybe she should film it but she thoughts that if she publish on YouTube no one could think the video is real but she could always do some buzz!

Reader didn't have an angel or demon on her shoulders. No, she had another version of her but with an expensive suit with expensive glasses that always thinks “mmmh…is it worth it the effort? Is it beneficial with money?”

anyways like every sane person you think, why Reader is thinking about that when she is in an horrible situation ?! Well i don't know Charle, why are we alive when we will die at the end?!

____

Before Reader could lose any other type of sanity (if it even exist) she stopped her thoughts and look what the fuck the cult members summoned, it could be funny if they summoned an instopable force without any morality and kills you but also the memebers…AHAahah…oh fuck..you realise you jinks it.

And guess what? You were right, the thing that they summoned it attacked everything and killed every members that tried to run away, you didn't know how after all you closed your eyes to not be even more traumatized then you are already but you could certainly hear their screams of pain, it feel like hearing souls from hell getting tortured there. It felt like the entity knew exactly how to inflect pain to give the most horrible death possible.

Even when the screaming stopped you open your eyes again after a good minute and you didn't believe what you are just seeing! A fucking furry…?! Actually you have no idea if It's a half wolf but you are sure that his aesthetic is a little too red for your liking and it felt like even if it had a humanoid appearance it was everything but human. That thing had too much of a dark aura to not feel like fleeing like a little bitch but you were lucky because mama didn't raise a bitch so you are going to face him! Wait- actually mama didn't raise anyone. She was a bit-

Plus it's not like you had a choice, you were still tied up.

You waited for your end (even if you didn't want a furry to kill you, i mean the ears could make you laugh if you weren’t in such a horrible situation)

And waited

And still waited until you see that that thing was looking at you curiously, ominously like it was thinking what to do to you.

Well the little human was right for once, the demon was interested in her why she wasn't screaming or trying to escaped, it isn't as fun if the victim already accepted Its end. That completely cuts Alastor appetite.

“sooo…” a voice break the tension “are you gonna kill me? After all normally i was suppose to be the sacrifice…”

Alastor's smile went even wider as he said with enthusiasm “Oh my dear! Actually that was the plan! But you seem more interested alive." Was that a compliment?

“oh…thanks..? I think….?..”

Alastor chuckles as your no longer tied down with a simple gesture of Alastor's hand.

“Well my dear..should you introduce yourself?”

“you know my mom said to not talk to strangers-” you tried to joke but that beast gaze was becoming a little too dark

.....

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #alastor

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senualothbrok · 3 months

Text

Progress

Summary: When you start your studies at Blackstaff Academy, you expect a battle with your demons. But the last thing you expect is to fall in love.

A slow burn, Professor Dekarios x OC journey through mental illness and recovery.

Word count: 10.6k

Trigger warnings: Mental illness, eating disorder, childhood trauma. Please practise self-care.

Disclaimers: Non-18+, angst (with a happy ending), slow burn, hurt/comfort, mental illness and recovery.

AO3 link

The sequel to this fic is Promise

This is progress, you think.

It is your first day at Blackstaff Academy, and you are standing in the entrance hall. Your body rattles with each shallow breath. Your robe hangs off you, limp and heavy. But you have made it. You are here.

You step into the bustling corridor. You can tell immediately that you are older than most of the other apprentices. Many of them look like fresh faced teenagers, giggling and buoyant. Despite the gruelling nights of failed spells and tear-stained scrolls, you cannot make up for all the time you have lost. Your mother never fails to remind you of this, and you will never forget it. It will be at Blackstaff as it has always been. You will remain apart, a stranger. Alone.

Yet, something inside you flickers. And as you step inside the lecture hall, you know: this is progress.

No one seems to notice as you find a seat at the back of the room. You are well-practised, flitting through overlooked corners. It is second nature, to loiter in the shadows while others claim the light. It brings you comfort to remain hidden.

It is the first time you lay eyes on him. Gale Dekarios, Professor of Illusory Magic. The pride of Blackstaff. Once Chosen of Mystra, who defied her order for sacrifice. Former archwizard, who fought alongside the hero of Baldur’s Gate. The stories of him reached even you in your confinement. From the legends, you expect a giant, towering with glory, bubbling with power and mastery. And though he is undeniably handsome, you are surprised at how otherwise unremarkable he seems.

He is robed in a muted violet, his arms clasped behind his back. He stoops ever so slightly, making him look shorter than his average height. Grey threads through his dark and tousled hair. Faint wrinkles frame his brown eyes. And when he speaks, he does not narrow spiteful eyes which demand obedience. He does not dole out proverbs that drip in arrogance. Instead, his words are the passionate dance of an artist in love with his creation. His gestures are lithe and tender, his smiles warm and earnest. Poetry peppers his wit.

He is not like any of the wizards your mother has brought home. He is not what you thought he would be.

Two flaxen-haired girls near you whisper and blush. You see the effect that he has on your peers, and part of you longs to feel something so light, so trivial. You cannot remember the last time you felt such a stirring. And later that day, you notice their envious glares when you are told that Professor Dekarios will also be your personal tutor. You learn that he will be responsible for your well-being during your time at Blackstaff.

You instantly feel a pang of pity for him.

But you brush it away. After all, you are making progress.

-----

It is bitterly cold on the day of your first meeting. He invites you into his office, which envelopes you in its warmth. You are backfooted by the way he beams as you take the seat he offers you, by how enthusiastically he passes you a tray of homemade cookies. You politely decline as always, despite your anxiety that it will offend him. You mother’s warnings and curses still ring in your head every time you choose not to eat or drink as others do. So you are grateful when he shows no hint of annoyance or judgment.

But why would he? He does not know you. To him, you are a normal, healthy apprentice, full of hope and promise. He has no reason to suspect otherwise.

He falls into his chair with a sigh. You look at him across his cluttered desk. It takes a moment to remember that this man is the renowned Gale of Waterdeep. Seeing him up close, you are surprised by his age. It is not that you were expecting an ancient like Elminster of Shadowdale. But you had thought a man of his accomplishments would be much older than you. Instead, there could scarcely be a decade between you.

Then again, the years have not been kind to you. Without your glamour, you could probably be mistaken for his peer.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

Away from the crowd and the lecture hall, his voice is softer, his tone lower. You do not think you have ever seen such a genuine smile from a wizard. It is not difficult for you to return it.

“The pleasure is all mine, Professor. I’m honoured.”

He waves his hand – whether from irritation or awkwardness, you cannot tell.

“There’s no need for all that. The honour is in fact mine.” His gaze is wide and bright. “I fought to have you on my personal tutor list. I was blown away by your application. It’s not every day that an applicant can coherently and wittily refer to Halaster, Elminster, and Calliope in one breath. Nor was I expecting such an eloquent treatise on the beauty of the Weave and the primacy of creativity and imagination in illusory magic.”

You feel unmoored. Your application had been a risk. In a fit of desperate rebellion, you had done away with everything that your mother had insisted on including. All those puffed up platitudes about power, potential, pride – none of that had been yours. In a mad bid for freedom, you had felt a frenzy to show Blackstaff who you truly were, for better or worse.

Your mother was, predictably, furious when she found out. You could not avoid her ire, even when you shut yourself up in your room. You had almost wished you were back at the House of Healing, where she could not burst into you whenever she wanted, for whatever she wanted.

When you were accepted into Blackstaff, your mother spared no time in impressing on you that it was the strings she pulled that had granted you entrance. Your application was paltry, and it was only by her efforts that you had succeeded. You did wonder at this, given her tenuous connections as a distinctly mediocre wizard, her brittle and fading charms. But she persisted, as always, in taking credit for the things that you toiled for. It wore you down, after all these years.

Now, you turn his words over, searching for the hidden blade in them. You wait for the pulling of the rug, the customary insult. But they do not come.

“Your demonstration, too. Truly remarkable.”

You had not realised that he was there, when you conjured a canopy of stars above the examiners. The illusion had collapsed moments too soon. It was a failure. You seethed and ripped at yourself for weeks. You were expecting rejection, and then the tide of punishment that inevitably followed. But instead, you are here, powerless in the face of his praise.

He sees your confusion as you struggle for a response. But he misunderstands its nature.

“I was hiding at the back of the room,” he explains. “It isn’t generally conducive to applicants’ nerves, to have me there with the other examiners.”

He grimaces, as if his fame and reputation pain him.

“I digress. My point is, I think you have an artist’s hand and a poet’s mind, fundamentals in excelling at illusion. And I, for one, am extremely excited to see you progress.”

Sincerity is not unfamiliar to you. Brutally honest lashings about your deficiencies are the backbone of your existence. But the kindness and sincerity in his eyes are so alien that you must battle to regain your centre. He does not move his eyes from you.

“Thank you,” you manage. “Truly, Professor. I’ll do everything I can to make sure I’m worthy of your high regard.”

He tilts his head. He pauses, as if weighing his words carefully.

“Your mother has sent word to me,” he begins. “She’s been at pains to assure me that your time out of education doesn’t in any way detract from your aptitude. That you’re deeply penitent about your failures.”

You almost flinch. You did not realise your mother had spoken to him. You are suddenly seized by panic. What has she told him? What does he know about your past? Does he know about the Darkness?

“She says you’re eager to rid yourself of all shortcomings, and will do anything to fulfil your as yet wasted potential. She says that’s why you’re at Blackstaff.”

A frown creases his brow. His voice hardens.

“In return, I’ve been at pains to assure her that your aptitude is not in question. Your continued resilience in the face of considerable adversity only adds to your exceptional nature.”

He holds your gaze with a candour that suspends your breaths. For an instant, you feel seen, and it terrifies you.

“I’ve been extremely forthright with her. Any more references to penitence and past failures will be promptly rebuffed.”

His brown eyes are firm and gentle at the same time. You have no words, no actions that can capture the singularity of what he has done. You wonder how many times he has accomplished something that no one else has, then spoken of it as though it were nothing. How many times he has extended himself to help a stranger for whom no one else would have cared.

You want to thank him, but you do not know how.

“I’m sure my mother didn’t like that,” you say instead.

He chuckles. “I think the esteemed Professor Dekarios has gone down a notch or two in her estimations. But alas, I’ll survive.”

You share a moment of laughter. It lights a candle deep inside you.

“If I can do it, you definitely can.”

-----

You are accustomed to casting a glamour over yourself when you are in public places. You had started doing it at your mother’s insistence, and continued as you could not bear her shame. Eventually, the tentacles of that shame closed so completely over your heart that you could scarcely look in the mirror without it. It felt impossible to see yourself and keep breathing.

But at Blackstaff, you are surrounded by adept wizards, the cream of the crop. They will be instantly attuned to your glamour. They will see through to your core. It seems a futile waste of energies you could be better applying to your studies, which are your only focus now. And your mother is not around to berate you for failing to maintain the illusion. So you drop the disguise.

It is so hard, but then so easy. You let your dishevelled waves fall freely over your unpainted face. You rub at your kohl-free eyes with reckless abandon. You pick at your chapped, bare lips. You try not to poke and prod at the flesh hidden under your loose robes.

Freedom flutters in your heart, and you cherish it, though you know it is fleeting.

You finish your breakfasts, most of your lunches. You do not skip your dinners. You keep your mirrors uncovered. You only glance, never look. You try and keep your mind occupied when you are not in classes or studying. You promise yourself that one day, if it is in your power, you will pay back the debt that your mother lords over you. She has paid for your studies at Blackstaff, but you are determined to repay her with interest.

So you take a job at as assistant at Serpentil Books and Folios. Despite the jaw-dropping price of the treasures within, your income is meagre. The owner, Mr Serpentil, is gruff and cantankerous. It takes some convincing for him to take you on, but he seems reassured by your credentials as an apprentice at Blackstaff. The shop is dusty and dim, and you must squeeze through overflowing shelves and tight corners to sort through the books, scrolls, maps and other curios that you have never seen before. You can bury yourself in them when there are no customers. Amidst the centuries of knowledge, you are so hidden as to be nothing. It is perfect.

One rainy weekend, you are sorting through tomes at the back of the shop when you hear a voice you recognise. You peek out around the corner of the bookshelf. Your eyes meet a green feline gaze and a shudder of grey wings flecked with gold. A windswept and familiar face follows, eyebrows raised.

You realise that this is the first time he has seen you unglamoured. You wait for confusion, discomfort, displeasure. But there is only joy.

“Aurora,” he exclaims. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“Professor.” You step out, patting the dust off your robe. The thick swirls assault your nose and you sneeze.

“Bless you,” comes a matronly drawl.

You struggle to hide your excitement. This must be Tara the tressym, Professor Dekarios’ companion. Just the other day, you had overheard the second-year apprentices gossiping about her in the corridor. She had been summoned by the Professor when he was but a child. Once, she swiped a snoozing student so hard that she had a scar on her chin for weeks.

He follows your gaze, smiling softly.

“Aurora, may I introduce you to the inimitable, the one and only, Tara. My oldest friend and most faithful companion. I’m sure you’ll have heard some rumours about her. Rest assured that not all of them are true.”

Tara smirks.

Since you were a child, you have dreamed of meeting a tressym. You have never dared, nor had the requisite skill, to summon one on your own. But you are so overjoyed to meet one today that you worry whether your enthusiasm is maybe a little disturbing. You temper yourself.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tara.”

“And Tara, this is Aurora. As her name suggests, she’s a shining light amongst my current cohort of apprentices.”

Praise, so casually given. Devoid of malice, free of conditions. You shift awkwardly. Tara looks you up and down with large, appraising eyes. They are not without warmth.

“It’s lovely to meet you, dear. Do you work in this fine establishment?”

You nod. “I do, when I’m not studying.”

“That’s quite the commitment,” he remarks. “Quite the schedule you’ve set for yourself.”

You detect a hint of concern in his voice. You deflect.

“I just love knowledge so much, I can’t get enough of it.”

He clasps his hands together. “A woman after my own heart.”

As you speak, Tara’s gaze flickers back and forth. You can almost hear the wheels of her mind turning. If it were not an unforgivable intrusion to read her thoughts, you would do so.

“But can I help you with something?” you ask. “Is there something I can help you find?”

“Ah, yes!”

Tara sighs, long and loud, as he retrieves a leaf of parchment from the folds of his robe. He holds it out to you. You squint at a list of twelve, maybe fifteen, esoteric book titles. You marvel silently at the range of his interests – from first edition magical tomes and philosophical treatises to ancient recipe books. Your heart stirs to see a number of sonnet anthologies that you recognise.

“This is quite the list, Professor. Your collection must be a sight to behold.”

He seems to glow with your admiration. “I appreciate that you may not have all of these, but whatever you can find, I’ll take.”

“And any discount you could offer would also be appreciated,” Tara adds.

“Tara!” He spins towards her.

Tara twitches. “Mr Dekarios, man cannot live on books alone. Some of these works are ridiculously overpriced, and this establishment is not known for being kind to one’s purse. I will not allow you to go without bread for a book again, despite your nattering.”

He huffs, embarrassment flushing on his face. He flashes you an apologetic smile. Laughter ripples through you. It comes so naturally. You wonder why that is.

“I’ll do the best I can, Tara. I think there are a few buttons I can press with Mr Serpentil.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Tara chirps.

You turn and make your way to the poetry section. Behind you, you can hear them bickering in hushed tones.

“I have a good feeling about that one,” Tara declares.

You busy yourself with the list, but the flame within you burns a little brighter than before.

-----

You rarely spend your meetings with him discussing your studies. With the exception of the initial divination classes, you have no issues. And between lectures, assignments, demonstrations and your work at the bookshop, you barely have time for the Darkness to take hold. For the first time in years, you sleep deeply and without interruptions.

You have never had a friend. There was never a time or a place. Rarely was there anyone around you who was not a doctor or a nurse, hired help or your mother. Occasionally, there might be a suitor of hers, an ex-husband, a victim. And even at the odd times that you found yourself among peers, you could never let your guard down. You could never show anyone who you were underneath the glamour, the silent shroud. The threat was always too great.

So you do not know how friendship feels, but you wonder whether it feels something like this.

You speak to him without fear. He does not mock or dismiss you. Each time you speak, he is not simply waiting for you to finish. He does not store your words up like arrows to throw back at you later. He listens, and he remembers what you say, even when you forget. You laugh, sometimes with him, other times at him. You do not need to force the smiles which bloom on your face when he is near.

It does not hurt when he gives you guidance and instruction, even when it is firm and comprehensive. There is no punishment shackled to it. The gifts of his wisdom and knowledge come lightly, without the burden of conditions and demands. There is no disgust in his eyes when you tell him where you fall short and what you lack. When he speaks of his passions and you speak of yours, there is a river that flows between you. You can float in it, and you do not drown.

But he is your teacher, not your friend. It is his job to speak to you, to feign patience with your mediocre company. He is paid to take an interest in your pitiful life, so he can mould it into something worthy. You remind yourself of this each time your meetings go on longer than your allotted hour. When you start to share books and discuss them over unscheduled chats in his office. When he appears at the shop increasingly often without a list, browsing the shelves with recommendations and tenuously related anecdotes. When he stays until closing time, and walks back to Blackstaff with you, always matching his pace to yours. You remind yourself again and again.

He Is your professor, and you are his student. He does not know you, not truly. And he is a mystery to you. You are not equals, and never will be. And perhaps it is better this way. No one who saw the full measure of you would have the stomach to remain. Your life is a testament to this fact.

Yet there are times when you wonder. You had been certain that what you had with him was not exceptional. That it must be the same for the other apprentices.

“What’s he like as a personal tutor?”

Sitting in the lecture hall, an auburn-haired apprentice is gossiping with a freckled boy in the row in front of you.

“Professor Dekarios?” The boy wrinkles his nose. “He’s a bore. All he wants to do is talk at length about the syllabus, and all the amazing things I can learn if I focus on the ample opportunities at this illustrious institution. Snore.”

The girl snickers. “Not half as interesting and smooth as he looks, then.” She tuts. “I was expecting some spice and drama. The man lay with a goddess and bested a Netherbrain, and all that he wants to talk about is the curriculum? Disappointing.”

There is a gulf that soon forms between the man you see and the man the other apprentices talk about. And you cannot help but notice how his gaze darts towards yours across the lecture hall with a shared, secret knowledge. Each time a student shows up late, and he thanks them profusely for taking precious time out of their schedule to join him. Each time he begs a pupil to share the pearls of wisdom they are chattering about to their neighbour instead of following the thread of his lecture. You have to stifle a snort each time he delivers his most severe warning of all.

“The orb within me could level this entire city if it detonates. If I hear another one of you say they ‘just haven’t had time’ to practice this week’s spells, I have a very real concern about Waterdeep’s safety.”

Professor Dekarios would no more put an innocent in danger than your mother would embrace you in a genuine outpouring of affection. It is absurd, but the other apprentices fall silent each time he makes this threat. It is a source of endless amusement for you, and you can tell from the glint in his eye that it is for him too.

-----

You are sitting cross-legged, taking stock of all the tomes on the lower bookshelves. Tara is licking at her paw languidly beside you. Behind you, he is surveying the section on histories, making the occasional remark to himself. Mr Serpentil has gone for a meeting, so you can chat freely without repercussions.

“What did you think of Felaar Tanil?” he asks abruptly.

His invitation is a welcome interruption. You have been scribbling long and arduous author names in the half-darkness for hours. You turn to face him.

“I liked his work. Very heroic, very rousing. I think I prefer love poetry, though.”

“You’re a romantic.” He titters.

“I suppose.” You consider a moment, twirling your quill. “It’s hard for me to imagine something that I’ve never experienced. So it fascinates me. Without poetry, love would be a complete and utter mystery to me.”

He arches an eyebrow. “You’ve never been in love?”

A few months ago, you would have been unnerved by such a question. The intimacy of it. The directness. But with him, it does not feel like an intrusion, only a natural topic of conversation. You shake your head.

“Well, certainly not the kind of love that the poets speak of.”

What you know of love is confined to a boy who had insisted you take on the likeness of a different girl every time you touched, and a man who had baulked in the morning when your glamour slipped. A pointless and painful endeavour. Poetry is more than sufficient.

“I have no frame of reference…” You run the feathers of the quill over your cheek. “But I always imagined true love to be something like channelling the Weave. That sense of being fully seen, completely known, held in your lover’s embrace. Souls touching, flowing into each other as one.”

He is staring at you with an intensity that gives you pause.

“What? Have I said something foolish?”

To your relief, he laughs. His soft gaze drifts over your face.

“No, Aurora. I just never thought I would hear that sentiment from the lips of another.” He scratches at his chin. “That, too, is what I once thought love was.”

Tara hums. She has been so quiet you thought she had fallen asleep.

“Mr Dekarios knows full well that there’s a difference between the love of a mortal and the love of a goddess, Weave or no.” Her face is stern, but her voice is tender. “To be loved for who you are and not the magic you command becomes a tad more complicated when the Weave is involved.”

He is frowning now, lost in thought. You are not sure you understand what has passed between them, but it is not your place to ask. You turn back to the parchment and tomes.

“Aurora,” Tara asks after a while. “When do you finish at Blackstaff?”

A strange change of subject, but you answer nonetheless.

“In a year and a half. Assuming I pass my exams.”

Tara grizzles.

“Is there any chance you could complete your studies sooner?”

“Tara!” His voice is sharp, flustered.

Tara ignores him.

“Only that Mr Dekarios is quite-”

He is a flurry at the corner of your vision. His hand darts out to drag Tara away into a corner. There is a clamber of claws and wings, a cacophony of meows and muffled hissing. When they return, he is pink-cheeked, Tara smug but silent. You want to know what she would have said, but it is as though the conversation never happened.

You do not see Tara at the bookshop again.

-----

One afternoon, you stop by his office to return a book on Githyanki psionics. The door is ajar, and you nudge it open. He is sitting at his desk with his face buried in his hands, breathing heavily.

“Professor? Are you well?”

He looks up, and you are struck by the exhaustion in his sunken features. When his eyes meet yours, his face lifts and brightens. You tell yourself it is a trick of the light.

“All the better for your visit.” He runs his hands through his hair. “Come in, please. Close the door behind you, if you would.”

You enter with uncertain steps. You place the book on his desk. He nods in acknowledgment.

“Have a seat, Aurora.”

You lower yourself into your usual seat opposite him. You are troubled by the shadows on his brow. For the first time, you have a desire to be closer.

“Is something the matter, Professor?”

His smile is so weary. “Nothing new. Which makes it all the more taxing.”

You know that truth better than most. And perhaps you are not quite friends, but you reach out to him anyway. You feel a cord tethering you to him that you find hard to break.

“A problem shared is a problem halved,” you offer.

His eyes glisten like the earth after rain as he regards you.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve shared my troubles with anyone but Tara.”

His words are heavy with longing and loss. You realise, all of a sudden, that he is lonely. You recognise the devastating weight of that emptiness. It is the air you breathe.

You do not need to tell him. You do not know how, but you can tell he senses it.

“It wears you down,” he starts. “In the morning, the pupils demand to know how you could have betrayed Mystra. Not once, but twice. Mad for power, they say, fanatical with ambition. Then in the afternoon, they question your weakness. You could have seized the power and become a god. You gave all of that up for this? What a waste. What a disappointment.”

He has never told you directly about his dealings with Mystra or the defeat of the Absolute. But you know enough from the legends, the rumours, Volo’s second-rate autobiography. You have heard enough to imagine the burden of being Mystra’s Chosen, the trappings of a compulsion to seek ever greater heights. You know the anguish of being discarded like a used lover, and being mocked for giving up an ambition that would destroy you.

“It’s never enough.”

Those three broken words. Your anthem.

You do not stop to think about whether it is improper. All you can think of is the quivering of his voice as he bares his soul to you. It is a mirror from which you do not look away. You can endure your own suffering. But for someone like him to carry the same load – you cannot bear it.

In your confinement, what you had most wanted was a hand to hold. That is the yearning you remember now, as you take hold of his hand across the desk.

“You aren’t like them.”

His fingers tremble under yours. You cannot read the expression on his face.

“They’ll never understand. They’ll never understand what was done to you, what you lost. Your goodness. Your kindness. The depth of your sacrifice. They’re not capable of it.”

Your words are as jumbled as your thoughts, but they flow out of you like the tide breaking against the shore.

“You’re not like the other wizards. You’re…singular. There’s no one like you. There never will be.”

His gaze is a whirlpool. You are aware of his slender fingers interlacing with yours. You do not know what to do with the burning in your chest, the heat that travels up your neck. You jerk your hand back, your breath catching. Your legs straighten of their own accord. They carry you to the door without warning.

“Aurora…”

He is standing. There is panic in his voice, frozen in his face.

You look away. You cannot process what has just happened. You have no frame of reference for it.

“I’ll see you later, Professor,” you murmur as you leave.

-----

“Have you never felt the lure of power?” he asks.

You are reflecting together on Elminster’s musings about Karsus’ folly. He is in a sombre mood today, plagued by something that you cannot see. Over steepled fingers, he stares into a mass of scrolls on his desk.

Since your last encounter, he has avoided looking you in the eye. There is a strain between you now, like a coiled band tightening. You cannot understand what has happened. You cannot lose what you have. So you force yourself not to think of it. You pretend it never was.

“Not truly,” you admit.

He seems disappointed by your answer. You do not wish to mislead him. It is not quite the whole truth. You decide you can show him this part of yourself now. After what he has told you, it is safe.

“My father left us when I was a child. He took my brother with him. They were necromancers. I think my father dabbled in divination too. My mother was furious when they left. Not because she loved them, or cared about our family, but because she missed out. All of that power at their fingertips. All the things they could do. Instead she was left with me, an ugly duckling stuck in her own dreams, with no assets except a penchant for illusion. Imagine her disappointment. What a burden to bear.”

A burst of laughter overtakes you. It is perversely funny, to think about your life this way.

“Still, I wouldn’t change it. I’ve had enough power-obsessed tyrants for a lifetime. The story’s always the same. People never change. Wizards certainly don’t. I never wanted to be like them, and I never will. Even if I spend the rest of my life conjuring fickle, beautiful illusions that no one sees. Even if I’m a failure, a husk of wasted potential. Even if I’m never enough.”

You do not tell him about the one thing you would change. You would be rid of the Darkness and its clutches. You would be free. A vain hope.

“Aurora.”

He is watching you now. There is no more fear and tautness. He does not turn away when you return his gaze. It holds you, deep and full. There is a heat in it which stokes the flame inside you. You cannot ignore it. You do not know how you will ever ignore it again.

“Would you believe me if I told you you’re extraordinary, just the way you are?”

You would not. But a fire is blazing through you. It aches to say yes to him. For him.

You smile. “I can try, Professor.”

“Please.” He takes a shaky breath. “Call me Gale.”

-----

It begins as it always does. Missed breakfasts. Half-eaten dinners. Coverings on mirrors, and sleepless nights. You fight the shadows as they come. You resist the urge to restore your glamour. You take your meals in the dining hall. And for a while, you think you are making progress.

There are times now when you sit with him in silence. You look at each other across his desk, or between dusty bookshelves, and the feeling that swells inside you has no equal. It is sharp and wet and red, and when you look away, it is like a rending. An absence.

But you are terrified. You are distressed by the thoughts that take you unawares. The bristles on his jawline. The dark dip of his cupid’s bow. The stray strands of brown hair that fall over his eyes as they float over your mouth. The tingling of his fingers intertwined with yours. You flee, but the thoughts haunt you, bringing others in their trail.

When you were with him before, you did not dwell on the hoarse timbre of your voice. You did not worry over the wrongness that permeates every part of your body. You were not paralysed by the things you could not prove to him. You did not stand before him cowed by the ways in which you fall short.

It had been different with him. But now, everything has changed.

The shadows loom over you, and you struggle to outpace them. You arrive late to his class for the second time. You try to be discreet, lurking at the back of the lecture hall, but he catches your eye regardless. He does not make his usual terse announcement disguised as a jest, and you do not know why you warrant special treatment.

When the class is over, she approaches him with a question. You recognise her from your divination class. She is immaculate, outspoken, often called on for demonstrations. A natural talent. Her golden hair is set in elaborate braids which accentuate her high cheekbones. She bites her lip, widening her sapphire eyes as she listens to him. He is grinning, laughing, and you watch her throw back her shoulders in a confident display of the masterpiece that is her supple form.

You leave the lecture hall.

You cannot rise from bed on the morning of your next meeting. It is the first day at Blackstaff that you take no meals. You stare and stare into the mirror, pressing your fingernails into your soft cheeks, the bulge of your arms, your misshapen thighs. You lie on the floor, seeking out the points of your bones through your rubbery skin, crying when you cannot feel them.

But you persist. You must. You rise the next day. You go through the motions of your routine. You cannot miss another class or another meeting with him. But you miss breakfast. You are trapped between the mirror and the door, harrowed by your own reflection. You are desperate, tormented. You must leave the room. But you cannot as you are. You are a travesty.

So you do what needs to be done. You cast your glamour.

------

“Aurora?”

You stare at him.

“Are you alright?”

You are walking back to Blackstaff from the bookshop. He is holding the crook of your arm. As you come to yourself, you feel the firm grasp of his fingers. You register concern in his eyes.

“Do you need to sit down?”

You are not sure. There is a throb in your head as the spots in your vision recede. You struggle to hold onto the images before you.

“What happened?”

He frowns. “We were walking along and you stumbled.”

It has begun, you think.

“Did I faint?”

“You looked like you were about to.”

You nod. You move your arm away from his touch. He steps back reluctantly.

“I’m alright, Professor.”

You cannot bring yourself to call him Gale. It would be an admission. A miscalculation. Something lurches in his gaze. You cannot identify it.

“You don’t look well. And recently, you haven’t been yourself.”

You shake your head. You muster your most reassuring tone.

“I’m just tired. There’s no need to worry.”

“Aurora.”

There is earnestness in his every look, kindness in his every word. It hurts you. You look down at your feet.

“Over the past weeks, I’ve noticed something wrong. I’ve not wanted to raise it-”

The walls of dread spring up within you. Your reply is well-practised.

“I apologise for the slippage in my attendance, but I assure you-”

“I’m not talking about that.”

There is an urgency in his voice. Something in the twist of his features tells you that he knows. You must end this conversation now, before it is too late. But his next question winds you.

“Why have you recast your glamour?”

You cannot speak. You knew he would have noticed, but you had not expected him to mention it. Shame and terror chokes you.

He has drawn closer. He searches your face.

“Did you think you needed to? Do you believe you need to hide yourself?”

You turn away. “Please, Professor-”

“You don’t need it.”

You need him to stop.

“Please-”

“You’re beautiful, just the way you are.”

Something wrenches inside you. You cannot bear the tenderness in his gaze, the hidden things which he cannot see. You cannot manage a polite goodbye. You retreat.

-----

You cannot face him after this. You struggle to face anyone. It is a small mercy that the semester draws to a close.

You can feel the Darkness in your pores now. The shadows wrap around you like a cloak. It is only a matter of time before you are no more.

You have been at Blackstaff for a year. A year of progress. A year without a word from your mother. A year of not-quite-friendship with a man who has no equal. Soon, she will descend on you with her lashes of scorn and I-told-you-so’s. Soon, you will be back where you started, and it will be like none of this ever happened. Like his footsteps never graced the ruins of your life. You are mourning already.

When the end of year ball comes, your confinement has all but begun. You leave your room only for your shifts at the bookshop. It takes almost all of your energy to maintain your glamour and a semblance of composure. You yearn for more than mouthfuls of fruit and water, more than disturbed fits of sleep. But that yearning is fading as the Darkness sinks its tendrils into you.

You wind through the thrumming crowds celebrating in the courtyard. The apprentices are draped in their finery, with drinks in hand and delirious grins. It is early evening and the ball will soon be underway. You see the girl from your divination class, blonde curls bouncing, arrayed in a form-fitting gown of emerald splendour. You are a stooped scarecrow amidst a rainbow of frills, lace, velvet, and silk. You hide your face as you pick up the pace, already breathless.

Mr Serpentil had frowned when you offered to work on the night of the legendary Blackstaff ball. But when you assured him there would be no tomfoolery, he did not push further. Annual inventory and stock take is not a task for the light hearted, and he would rather be at the Yawning Portal than coated in dust and cobwebs.

It is a struggle to climb ladders and catalogue tomes, scrolls and maps, with only a sputtering candle to light your way. A few times, you almost fall, or you must wait, doubled over, for a dizzy spell to pass. But you cannot bear the sights and sounds of frolicking apprentices basking in their beauty, enjoying a freedom that you would be deluded to dream of. So you flee from Blackstaff to the darkness of the bookshop, where all that surrounds you is the scent of book dust and a solitude that has no significance.

You are alone, and soon, you will be no more.

You are vaguely aware of the passing of time; two hours, and then three. You ward off the false promise of sleep. Then there is a tapping. You ignore it at first. It is a figment of your longing, a mirage formed by your hope. But it becomes a rattling, then a knocking. You step out from behind the bookshelves. Your breath hitches when you open the door.

He stands before you. His earth-brown eyes burn with a warmth that spreads from your core to the tips of your fingers. In the dimness, he glows in purple velvet, his hair falling around his face like vines. His chest heaves, his lips part. His fingers ripple like waves.

“Professor,” you say. It is almost a whisper.

For a while, you simply stare at each other. You let yourself linger on every line, every dip and curve. You breathe in the scent of sandalwood and scrolls that swirls around him whenever he is near. You must learn it all now, before you lose it all later.

“Why…” You struggle for words. “The ball…”

He is shaking ever so slightly.

“I needed to see you.”

He opens his mouth, closes it. His hands flutter. He looks away and back at you. He starts and stops. You have never seen him in such a state. There is pain, desperation. Need. You are afraid.

He sees it immediately.

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, backing away. “This was… foolish. Inappropriate. I should never have…” He grimaces. “This was a mistake, Aurora. I’m sorry. I’ll leave you in peace.”

He turns. His gait is jolting, laboured. He is receding from you into the night.

Maybe it is because you want to feel something that is not hunger and fear. Or maybe there is still an ember inside you that will not be snuffed out. A flame that he ignited, that you do not wish to die.

“Gale,” you call out.

His name rolls off your tongue like it is a secret part of yourself. Your hand reaches for his.

“Don’t go.”

When he turns back to face you, the cloud has lifted from his features. A smile has broken on his lips. You have never seen anything so beautiful before.

-----

“It’s very dark in here.”

With a flick of his wrist, he conjures four floating orbs that hover around you. You are embarrassed that you have not done this, but it would be beyond your limited energies. You do not want to admit this to him.

You gesture towards a small nook you have carved out amongst a clutter of books and scrolls.

“This is a very poor alternative to the Blackstaff ball.”

He chuckles. “Not to me. I’d rather be sandwiched between these bookshelves than between drunk apprentices bragging about cantrips you can use in the bedroom.”

You raise your eyebrows. “The conversation I have to offer is much less scintillating, I’m afraid.”

Your fingers are still prickling where the two of you have touched. An ache grows within you is from the closeness of him. You struggle to break his gaze when his eyes meet yours.

“I beg to differ,” he rasps.

You clear a space on the floor for him. He lowers himself beside you with a groan, rubbing at his knees and his back. It is so strange to see the famed Professor Dekarios in a dust-streaked doublet, cramped and cross legged on a bookshop floor. Yet to have him here beside you tonight feels as familiar as a memory.

“I think I might need to do more stretches if we’re to keep meeting like this.”

You laugh. It radiates in his eyes.

There are many things that lie unspoken between you. But tonight, they are like a canopy of stars. They are there, and you need not cling to them, nor hide from their reach. You lean your head back against a bookshelf. You want to remember this moment, when you have nothing left.

“I haven’t been very good company lately.”

You are not sure if it is an apology or a confession. He tilts his head.

“Not so. I would take your company over any other. Every day. Any time.”

The back of his hand flickers against yours from where they rest, side by side. He clears his throat.

“Sometimes, I forget that you’re…”

He trails off. You recognise the look in his eyes as something like hunger, but not the type that defines the order of your days. It is a starvation of sorts, searching for release as his gaze flits across your burning cheeks, the quivering of your lips. You can hear the drum of your heart beat, chasing his laboured breaths.

Your eyelids flutter. You feel faint, but it is not what you are used to. It is like you are drunk, drifting towards each other in a stupor. You feel the caress of his nose against yours, the ghost of his breath on your mouth. His forehead presses against yours, his hair tingles on your skin. You draw together and apart, struggling against the tide.

“Can’t,” he murmurs.

You wrench away. You are panting, lost. You are not sure if your glamour is still in place. You press your hand to your mouth, your stomach lurching as you stand.

He stands with you, bereft, frenzied. And as you stare at him in silence, you wonder how you will survive the Darkness when you have bathed in his light.

-----

You refuse to see him at first. The nurse tells you each time he visits. He comes the day after your admission, then twice a week, at the times of your allotted meetings. He leaves books and letters. He passes messages via your doctor. But you cannot bring yourself to face him. Not after everything that has passed.

You cannot understand why he persists. ‘Because it is his job,’ the Darkness replies. ‘Because if you fail, it reflects badly on him.’ So, in a lucid moment, you ask the nurse to send a message back to Blackstaff. They can send you the materials. You will study. You will not fall behind.

It is futile, and you know it. The Darkness consumes you whole. Nothing but bones remains.

“You should see him,” the nurse says after three weeks.

You know Nurse Mona well. She has been at the House of Healing since you were a teenager. You have seen more of her than your father and brother combined. Life is a series of facts for her, with no room for ambiguity.

“It’s clear he cares deeply about you.”

You bury your face into your pillow. “That’s the problem.”

She takes you by the shoulders. She can be gruff, and you flinch as she turns you to face her. Tears are gathering in your eyes.

“I don’t want him to see me like this.”

She shakes her head, sighing.

“He already knows you’re here, and he keeps coming back. Why don’t you give him a chance?”

-----

You sit in the visiting room. It is cold and colourless, but it cannot temper the warmth of his bronzed skin and searching eyes. Across the table, he looks out of place. You feel ashamed to have brought him to such a void.

Gone is your glamour and your billowing robe, the walls behind which you have hidden. You battle against the feeling of your tunic and skirt laying snug against your skin. It is necessary, they say, to accept your form. You struggle to meet his eyes, not to cover your unglamoured face. You know its every bloated blemish, and the knowledge is an agony. You stand before the mirror with Nurse Mona every morning, sobbing at what stares back at you. You sit with her at every meal, tearing yourself apart.

They tell you this is progress. But you do not believe them.

“You don’t need to come here, Professor,” you begin. “You have better things to do.”

You do not know why your voice comes out strained and harsh. You do not wish to sound ungrateful.

“I’m sorry.” You look down at your hands. “I didn’t want it to come to this.”

He makes a strangled sound. There is anguish in his eyes when he looks at you. You cannot bear it. Not the pity. Not the burden of your suffering. You cannot inflict this on a man you hold so dear.

“Please.” You stand. “You don’t need to visit.”

His eyes widen. You had missed them so desperately – their brightness, their gentleness. You look away.

“Aurora-”

The promises spill out of you instinctively. Anything to get him away from this place, away from you.

“I’ll get back to my assignments as quickly as I can, and I’ll come back as soon as-”

“Listen to me-”

“-I can get cleared by the doctors-”

“Aurora-”

“-and I should be back in time for exams-”

“I don’t care about all that!”

You flinch. You have never heard him raise his voice. He stands unsteadily and crosses over to you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His voice is a broken plea. Part of you yearns to reach out to him, to give him the shattered pieces of your heart. But that part of you is smothered in the Darkness. You do not know whether it will survive.

“There’s a lot about me that you don’t know.”

He lays a hand on your arm. “I know you well enough to-”

You pull away. “You don’t.”

You gesture around you, to your face, your belly.

“This is me. Damaged beyond repair. Worthless. Wasted potential.”

He is shaking his head furiously. You scoff.

“You’ve known me for scarcely a year in my three decades of sorry existence. Years upon years of this and much worse than this. And you think just because we shared of a moment of…” You grimace. “You think that because of that moment, you know me?”

You turn away from him.

“This is all I am. It’s all I’ve ever been.”

You expect him to remain silent, leave the room and never return. That is what you had hoped for. It is what you know. No one has ever seen you as you are and chosen to remain.

But he does not.

“This isn’t who you are.”

His certainty stirs an ember within you. You stare at him.

“At times when you can’t see it, I’ll be there to remind you.”

Your chest heaves. You cannot understand the miracle of this man and why he is here with you in the Darkness. All at once, you remember how it felt to be warmed by his flame.

He looks down, then back up.

“What’s between us…”

He inhales sharply.

“The…affection… that lies between us. Is it genuine? Have I misunderstood…”

Doubt quivers in his voice. You had thought it was clear, that you had failed to hide it. Suddenly, you realise that he, too, has been afraid. You cannot allow it.

“Gale,” you breathe. “You are singular. To me, you’re…”

You cannot find the words. But you do not need to. His eyes glimmer. He takes your hand. Slowly, gently, he presses it to his heart.

“Then do your worst. You can hurl insults at me. You can shout and scream curses to drive me away. You can refuse to see me when I visit, ignore my letters and messages. Do what you will. But I’m not going anywhere.”

Hot tears cloud your vision. When he takes you in his arms, you do not fight it. You do not worry over whether your frame is too soft or too hard under his touch. You do not think of your messy waves as he nestles his nose into your hair. You lean into his chest and weep.

-----

When she comes, he and Tara are already with you. As usual, she appears in your room without warning. All the better to backfoot and humiliate you.

Her hair is more red than auburn this time, her lips plumper, her cheekbones more jagged. You had forgotten how obscene her cleavage was, set against her petite frame. She leans over to plant air kisses around your ears, shrinking from touch, as though it still disgusts her.

You brace yourself. It is not difficult to maintain your composure with her, even when she twists the knife. Decades of practice and conditioning have prepared you for little more than this.

When you glance at him and Tara, though, you can see that they are not so inclined.

“Professor Dekarios.” She holds her hand out to him. “It’s lovely to meet you in person at last, after our lengthy and… lively… correspondence.”

His handshake is brisk, his jaw clenched.

“I must say, I’m very surprised to see you here. I’d heard rumours about your devotion to your studies and teaching, but this goes well beyond the demands of the job, surely.”

She arches an eyebrow, scanning the room.

“The nurses tell me that you often keep my daughter company as she…convalesces.” She narrows her eyes. “My daughter isn’t a rare talent who needs a special kind of nurturing. Neither are her…charms… so remarkable as to warrant special attention. Unless…”

She purses her mauve lips as she examines him from head to toe.

“I suppose when you’re accustomed to five course banquets, you might sometimes enjoy a nibble from a market stall.”

He bristles.

“Don’t worry, Professor.” Her teeth flash. “I can be very discreet.”

She lays a red-nailed hand on his arm. He jerks away.

“Madam.” His voice is so low it is almost a growl. “If you’re insinuating that there’s anything improper going on between me and your daughter-”

Her laughter is like nails on a chalk board.

“Oh? Am I to believe that you’re here with my errant daughter for her fine company alone?”

“Mother.” You stare at her. “Please give it a rest. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

She smirks. “Darling, to say the pot is calling the kettle black doesn’t even come close. Just look at yourself.” Her powdered face twists. “I should have known you’d disgrace yourself again. I don’t know why I bother.”

His brow darkens. Tara’s wings twitch.

“Your daughter is kind, wise, and intelligent.” His fingertips spark. “She’s exceptional in her resilience, magical aptitude, and good character. If she hadn’t been systematically poisoned by the rhetoric of those far inferior to her, she wouldn’t be facing these obstacles.”

It takes a moment for your mother to register what has been said. She is visibly shaken. She is not used to being challenged, much less on the subject of your welfare. No one has ever cared enough. A vein pulses on her temple.

“Are you suggesting that I-”

He keeps his voice level. “I’m not suggesting, Madam. I’m observing.”

Her alabaster cheeks turn crimson. A part of you is terrified at the onslaught that is coming. You fight the instinct to hide from her rage.

“How dare you-”

Tara’s wings dart out like shields as she hisses. Your mother gasps.

“Gods! You vile creature. I’ll file a complaint. I’ll destroy you, you cast off-”

His eyes glint with a sideways smile.

“Feel free to do your worst, Madam. I’ve faced down much more formidable foes than your good self and lived to tell the tale.”

She seethes. “I’m taking Aurora out of Blackstaff immediately.”

“Aurora is an adult, who can choose whether or not she wants to continue at Blackstaff. And I believe she has no intention of dropping out.”

He glances at you.

You shake your head. “I do not.”

“Then I’ll stop paying –“

“Her fees are already paid up, I’m afraid.” He shrugs.

She is shouting now. “You ungrateful-“

“That’s quite enough, Madam,” Tara drawls. “There’s no need to disgrace yourself any more than you already have. You can either leave quietly with your dignity intact, or I’ll summon a nurse to escort you off these delightful premises. Failing that, I could summon a portal to drop you in the middle of nowhere. Which would you prefer?”

After your mother has left, you gaze at him across the room. You are not entirely sure what he is bickering with Tara about. His face is flushed as he laughs at her. When he meets your eyes, a burst of lightning blazes through you. It takes all your strength not to bound over, take his face in your hands and kiss him.

-----

You had always fought the Darkness alone. You never wondered how it would be to do so with someone at your side. Not an observer, pointing out your failures at every turn, but a friend. A companion.

It is not easier, but it is different. When the Darkness comes, you have a hand to hold, and someone to hold out a flame. Someone who sees who you are and does not look away.

You miss months of classes, but he brings you notes and study plans. When you are able, he gives you lessons and demonstrations. It is impossible at first. So much of your mind has been consumed, so much of your energy lost. But together you wait until you are ready. When your feet are back on solid ground, and you can roam beyond the reflection that you see in the mirror. And when you can channel the Weave again, it is like recovering a lost part of your soul.

You are too far behind to reach the goals that you set for yourself when you first started at Blackstaff. It would be folly to expect top marks in your exams. It will be a challenge enough to pass them. He tells you this, again and again. It is still a battle to accept that this is enough, but it is a fight that you feel you may win. You are beginning to think those goals were never yours, anyway.

When you withdraw from him, or push him away, he waits. You are baffled by how he waits, even when your fear subsumes your hope. You learn from Tara that he has amassed a collection of books about the Darkness which he has digested from cover to cover. He has sought out the leading healers and medics to discuss how to overcome it. Sometimes, when you think of all this, you cry.

There are limits to his understanding. He is an avid cook, a passionate gourmand. He aches to share this with you. That he cannot causes him unspoken sorrow. In the later stages, when meals become easier, he brings you homemade treats. He has good intentions, but they lead to disastrous results. You promise him that you will try, and you will keep trying. That is more than enough for him.

You often sit in silence, looking at each other. A bond like yours does not need words to express it. You have a frame of reference to understand that now.

-----

“Oh.”

Your blurred vision is clearing. You lift your head.

“Did I fall asleep?”

You are curled up in an armchair. He sits facing you, smiling as you wake.

“Gods, I’m so sorry,” you yawn.

He chuckles. “There’s no need for apologies. I’m well aware of the effect my ramblings have on people.”

“No.” You straighten. “I’m so sorry, Gale. My sleep at the moment, it’s-”

“There’s no need.” He watches as you rub the mist from your eyes. “Besides, it’s quite marvellous, watching you sleep.”

“Gods.” You cover your face with your hands. “What did I do? Did I say something?”

He titters. “You did no such thing.”

You groan.

“You truly didn’t. You just slept peacefully. A wonderful, beautiful sight.”

You shift, fussing at the creases on your skirt.

“You see beauty in strange places.”

He tilts his head. “I see beauty where it’s brightest.”

It is not an easy subject for you. You know he senses it. Perhaps he feels that you are ready. You are not sure if you are.

“I think you believe that beauty is an alignment of facial features and limbs. A collection of aesthetically pleasing curves and angles. That’s what most people mistake beauty to be.”

You frown. “What is it, if not that?”

He leans forward. Passion surges in his every word.

“An alignment of the soul,” he breathes. “A fullness of character. Virtue. Goodness. Heart. No one who witnesses true beauty can live on unchanged.”

You sit quietly for a long while. He holds you with his gaze, gentle, boundless.

“I think I’ve seen it,” you say at last.

He brushes away the tear that slides down your cheek. “As have I.”

----

It is your last day at Blackstaff.

You are sitting in the courtyard, watching the wind whistling through the trees. You have just received your results. Never before have you received such a scattering of marks, some almost acceptable, others dangerously low. But you have done it. You have passed all of your exams.

Your highest mark is in Illusion. Perhaps that is predictable, given your interest and his assistance. Yet it still gives you joy, pure and true. It is a labour of love, with its own reward. But that is not the only reason why you feel so proud.

You close your eyes and listen to the fragile rhythm of your heart. You have made it. You are still here.

“I wondered where you were.”

You open your eyes. You had not heard or sensed his approach. He is a vision in deep blue, glowing in the sun. His robe swirls around him as he sits beside you on the bench.

“Canapes and cloying wizards aren’t really my cup of tea.”

He hums. “I don’t blame you. I did my rounds and made my escape as soon as I had the chance. I only hope no one comes searching for me. I’ve given a speech or two already.”

You chuckle. Birdsong caresses your ears. The smell of freshly cut grass and sandalwood fills your lungs. Your soul is full of light. In this moment, you are at peace.

He laces his finger through yours.

“I don’t think I need to say it, but I’m so very proud of you.”

You are smiling as you gaze at him. This man who has seen you as you are and does not find you wanting. This man who does not need magic to read your thoughts or feel your yearning. Your truest friend. The other part of your soul. The meaning of love.

“So what’s next for you? You’re free as a bird, the world’s your oyster, so on and so forth.”

His eyes dance, his hands are a flurry.

“Infinite possibilities,” you sigh. “The sky’s the limit.”

“Etcetera etcetera.”

“Well.” You pause. “I think…”

A stray leaf flies into his hair. You untangle it with your fingers and blow it back into the wind. He watches you, rapt, like you have made a miracle.

“I think I’d like to try one of your cookies.”

His laugh is a caress. “That can be arranged.”

You turn his hand over, tracing your thumb over the lines of his palm. His breathing stills for a while.

“Is there anything more you’d like to do with your newfound freedom?”

You bite your lip. You press his hand against your cheek, savouring its warmth.

You do not need to tell him. He already knows. It blooms on his features, smouldering in his eyes. You have never felt more certain about anything. You are no longer afraid.

You do not care if anyone can see. You fall into him as he draws your face to his. When your lips meet, it is as though they have touched before. Your tongues find each other’s in a dizzying flurry of wet heat. You are lost in his sweetness and musk, the softness of his hands, the roughness of his beard. You melt into each other in a stupor of halting breaths.

“Move in with me,” he whispers.

You do not need to answer.

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

Read the sequel: Promise

Author's note: If you've made it to the end of this fic, thank you so much for reading. I am so grateful, and I hope you enjoyed it and got something out of it. This is the first time I've felt so vulnerable posting a fic - I'm not sure if this story will mean anything to anyone out there, and I know it's a hard read. But I had to get it out, and I hope it gives you something. Please, if you can, leave me a comment, it would be so special to hear from you.

If you liked this fic, you can check out my other work here.

#gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #bg3 gale #bg3 fanfiction #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction #gale fanfic #gale fic #bg3 gale fic #gale romance #professor gale x oc #gale x oc #bg3 fic #baldurs gate 3 fic #professor dekarios x oc

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da-birb-writes-sometimes · 9 months

Note

Hi hello yes for the event jahdjsjd. Jamil with the prompt 6 carnival fun?? Please?? With (🌄🍓☄️)?

Do with this request what you will,, I'll love the writing anyway <33333333333

Carnival Fun; Jamil Viper

Content; Fluff, gender-neutral reader, mutual pining

Word Count; 650+

AN; I hope you enjoy your Jamil and the direction I took this in! Jamil deserves to have some fun, and so do you! As a reminder, do not put my work — or others for that matter — into AI as it steals. Link to Masterlist

To say that you weren’t a bit surprised that Jamil had agreed to join you to the local summer carnival would be a lie. But much to your surprise, and his own, he had agreed to your invitation… well also was basically forced to take a day off work and he had “nothing better to do”, his words, not yours.

Yes, he was clutching onto the railing of every single ride, he protested a little but still went on them. And you could have sworn that besides the hissed curse words and snippets of praying, you could hear the tiniest bit of laughter over the sound of children and adults screaming. He didn’t leave the park even after he was chased around by a hornet that wanted some of his food. Jamil had even won you the 'so ugly it's cute' snake plush from that basketball game. He even reluctantly shared some of that overpriced snow cone with the strawberry syrup; it was a tad too sweet for him, you seemed to enjoy it so he decided to give it a shot.

“I’m surprised that you came,” you hummed, shovelling a spoon of the sweet treat into your mouth.

Jamil took his spoon and got a small scoop of the shaved ice. “Why wouldn’t I? You invited me.” I like spending time with you. “Today was… enjoyable I guess.”

You rolled your eyes at him, “Aw, come on, Jamil, admit that you had a little bit of fun, it won’t hurt ya.” Even when you were waiting in line for over an hour, he stuck with you. “You deserve to have some fun, to let loose. You work yourself too hard.”

Jamil raised a brow and looked at you. The setting sun cast warm light on your face, and he quickly looked away. “Fine, I had fun today,” he relented. “And thank you for thinking of me. Despite the screaming children, it was fun. And I suppose I will try to let loose.”

“Don’t forget about the hornet that chased you arou-” You stopped talking and stifled a coughed-out laugh at the face he was giving you for bringing up that incident again. He had to rip your phone out of your hands to delete the video you took, he didn’t need Kalim to see that or everyone else working at the Al-Asim estate for that matter. “I mean, I’m glad that you had fun. I like spending time with you.”

Jamil looked back to your face, and he saw the orange sun reflected in your eyes. “I like spending time with you too,” he offered you a small smile.

The way the setting sun backlit Jamil made him look ethereal, glowing even, and you paused and just looked at him in silence for a few moments before snapping out of it. “If you want we can come back another time, maybe I’ll even be able to beat you at that basketball game!”

He let out a single chuckle, he was being a lot more relaxed with you and he couldn’t place when he had started doing so. He felt like he could be himself, and not the Jamil that everyone expected him to be. “I doubt it, you missed every single shot, no wonder you didn’t join the Basketball Club. If you want to come back, there’s a festival happening in August at the estate for the meteor shower if you wanted to go again-”

“Are you asking me on a date?” You asked, looking at him with wonder and teasing.

Jamil hummed, “If I were to do so, would you accept?”

“Yeah, if you were asking, I would always say yes,” you said.

He gave you a smile, a genuine smile, a window into the true Jamil. “Well then, would you like to go on a date… with me?”

You reached your hand across the table, palm facing up, “I’d love to.”

Jamil looked down at your hand and then back up to your face, placing his hand in yours. “Then it’s a date.”

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ahundredtimesover · 1 year

Text

Untitled | KNJ

Pairing: Namjoon x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: idolverse (no explicit mentions of BTS), strangers au; angst, smut

Warnings: foul language, inexplicit smut (making out, non-descriptive penetrative sex) (18+)

Word count: 16k

Summary: For years as a sculptor, you felt detached from your own work - unable to title them, describe them, name the most basic emotions that artists should be in tune with. A chance encounter with a man one winter night finds you in a journey of finding your own meaning. And as you slowly discover what it means to create and to feel, you find out that this might also be what pulls both of you far apart.

A/N1: It’s been tough being on a writing slump and not being able to come up with something new, but then Indigo happened. I’ve been so into Closer and been wanting to write something that would encapsulate the song’s emotions, but the more I listened to NJ talk about his album (especially Yun), the more I got to reflect on so many other things. So here we are. This was a quick write (and an experiment, too!) filled with my own ramblings and questions that only one Kim Namjoon would prompt me to have. Please enjoy.

A/N2: I’m not an artist, but I’m fascinated by them and what they create (Van Gogh’s Digital Art Exhibition in the LUME, Melbourne from last September just blew my away). In another life, I probably would’ve been a collector. But the essence of humanity in my professional work links to my own appreciation of art in that sense. All the things that I wonder about life and the essence of being human are reflected here. I’ve taken from Namjoon’s reflections and insights as well, and once again, I was reminded of his brilliance and his heart.

2020, early winter

A little boy with a bucket painting stars in the sky.

That’s what this season’s artwork on the side of the building is. Just this fall, it was a girl raising a paper airplane on this exact spot; in the summer, it was another kid on a swing, and in spring, it was a child with an opened suitcase, their toys falling out and drifting into a stream.

Lost childhood, perhaps. That’s what happens when the world stands still, Namjoon thinks. He’d written a song about it - the things we lost during the time when time froze, and maybe just like these paintings, life continued to go on. The yearning remains, though, and he can see it on the piece that he’s been looking at for minutes now.

Maybe the artist is young, mourning their own youth that slipped from their fingers. Maybe it’s someone a little older, mourning it for others. Maybe it’s just a person who’s trying to understand the situation through a child’s eyes - with innocence, confusion, trust. Maybe it’s—

The sound of footsteps disrupts Namjoon’s thoughts. It’s 2AM and he’s a little surprised that someone is in the area at this time. It’s a busy street during the day and the crowd falls away early. It’s completely deserted by this hour; it’s why he likes taking this route from the office to his apartment. He’s always liked walking home regardless of the distance, but it’s at night when he feels most free, and it’s become something he looks forward to everyday.

He’s about to turn away when he notices a figure run up to the small building where the painting he was just admiring is. The individual lays their bag on the floor and retrieves a paintbrush and a pail, seemingly about to continue their work that Namjoon didn’t even realize was still unfinished.

“Fuck,” the voice curses out. “Fuck fuck fucking shit. Why do I always forget my hot packs!”

The person removes their mask and blows into their cupped hands, rubbing them after in hopes of sustaining the heat from the friction.

“Just a bit more,” they continue, gloved hand now pointing ripples by the boy’s legs as he stands in a body of water. “Just a bit more.”

As chattering teeth and the blowing of air on hands continue, Namjoon decides to make himself known. The stranger is clearly trying to finish their work - and he’s curious to see this all unfold, finding amusement in watching an artist in action - but the cold air is quite uncomfortable.

“Hey,” he says, as the figure stops their movements. “I’m not a creep, I promise. I was just looking at your work but you’re freezing and I… I’ve got some extra hot packs with me.”

You slowly turn around with furrowed brows. This is the first time you’ve come across another person during the early mornings you paint on this specific building. You’ve gotten used to the emptiness of this street at this time, but somehow, hearing this man’s deep, rough voice is giving you comfort. Especially since he’s offering something you need.

“Sure, that would be great,” you say, blowing into your hands again.

He slowly walks forward - clad in a thick hoodie and beanie, his mask covering half of his face. He looks familiar, but you don’t have much time to place where you know him from. You take the hot packs he offers, squeeze one with your free hand while the other continues on with the piece that you want to finish tonight.

“Will it take much longer?” He asks, his voice kind. “I didn’t know it was unfinished and it’s quite interesting to see an artist complete their work. So, uh, can I watch?”

You turn towards him. On a normal day, you’d turn him away. You’re not too keen on anyone on your ass while you finish something, but he doesn’t seem like a creep and he was kind enough to give you hot packs at a time like this, so you nod.

It doesn’t take long. It’s just some ripples and a few strokes left anyway; you were freezing too much last night so you put off the final details for tonight. And then the last bit. You sign your name on the bottom corner, and a gasp leaves the stranger’s mouth.

“Wait, you’re Blue…” he says, the realization dawning on him. “

“Surprise,” you reply, standing up from your squatting position.

“I mean, I figured since you’ve been painting children and their lost youth this past year but… the man in the rain, the distorted face on the mirror, the hand on the neck… those were you, too.”

Namjoon can’t believe he’s finally face-to-face with the artist whose work has been haunting him since he first came across one on an electric post 3 years ago.

They were in other parts of the city. He remembers seeing them on walls and buildings during his walks home or when he was in the car, and then some weeks later, they were gone, either replaced with a new piece of work or just painted over, as if it never existed. He’d seen the signature a few times, and seeing it again reminded him that it was you, too. The one who’d created those masterpieces that got him thinking, feeling, wondering.

“You have a good memory,” you simply smile at him, realizing at this point that you’ve left your mask off. You put it back on and take in his domineering form. “Those were years ago; I’ve almost forgotten about them.”

“I haven’t. I mean, sort of.”

“Good. That was the point,” you reply. “I mean, sort of.”

“The point being? That I find something that speaks to me and then the next minute, they’re gone?” He says, quite defensive. It bothered him for a time that he never got to see those pieces again.

“What did they make you feel?”

“Desolate? Alone? Confused? Desperate?”

“Then you forgot about them, didn’t you?”

“The paintings, sort of. Not the feeling, though,” he frowns. “I still think about them but… I think I’ve forgotten exactly what they look like. Is that what you wanted?”

“Pretty much,” you hum, starting to pack your things. “The stuff I leave on for a few weeks are mostly sad, and I paint over them because I don’t want people to dwell on them. I want people… to forget, to move on.”

“But they don’t, not really. I’m sure they’ve taken photos if it spoke to them so much. At least I did, but then I deleted them because…”

“Because you got over the sadness,” you smirk, knowing that somehow, he proved your point, and he lets out a chuckle at the realization. “It may be on their phones but it’s not the real thing. The image may be distorted, the colors different, the strokes a lot smoother. It’s not the same.”

“They should be preserved,” he voices out. “It’s art. Those things are meant to be immortalized, no matter how they make people feel.”

“Not always,” you counter. “At least for me, I make those to forget. The feelings fade once the art does. I created them that way.”

“Hmm,” Namjoon hums, taking this time to observe you, as you’d rendered him speechless.

There’s this softness in your eyes that contrasts the words you say. He doesn’t want to imagine what you might’ve gone through to create hauntingly beautiful pieces inspired by feelings you want to forget.

Whatever those are, he truly does wish you’ve let those go. He knows he has. But he still disagrees - he doesn’t think art ever fades. Perhaps feelings do, but he’s come to learn that visual art is eternal.

“So how long will you keep this up?” He asks, wondering when he’d see you again; the allure and intrigue from your words makes him want to know more.

“Until the next season,” you say, picking up your bag now. “It’s been a tough year and I hope the spring brings more hope.”

“But you also don’t want them to dwell on this… the loss of childhood, of youth,” he continues. “You want them to move on from this, focus on what’s to be gained after losing something important.”

“You’re a fast learner,” you wink, and Namjoon surprises himself by the way his heart jumps at the sight. “You must be a genius or something. Or an artist yourself.”

“Neither,” he lies. “I mean, I’m barely anything, really.”

“I doubt it. A guy like you being affected by all this means you’re something, whatever it is.”

There’s something validating about your words, and he smiles behind his mask, something you see, as you smile back.

It’s odd, feeling a sense of connection with a stranger like this, something he’s never really experienced, most times because he’s always wary of who he meets, especially at this time of the night. But you don’t seem to know who he is. And if you do, you don’t seem to mind or want to make a deal out of it, something that he appreciates.

There’s comfort in your smile, and he wants to discover what other things cause it. There’s a dearth of experience in your words, and he wants to know more. There’s a tenderness in your eyes that he wants to mirror; he wishes he can give comfort to someone just by looking at them.

Maybe it’s the cold breeze. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s the end of the year and he’s spending it alone again. Maybe it’s spending an entire day cooped up in his studio only to go home to an empty apartment. Maybe it’s knowing what a year it was and what’s about to come. He didn’t think that a stranger in a yellow puff jacket who cursed so crisply would be the one to make his walk back home not feel so lonely. That the woman who’d casually painted some ripples and splashes on the wall was the one who’d make him feel a little less alone.

“So, uh, do you usually paint at the start or end of the season?” He wonders.

“Are you trying to ask when you’re gonna see me again?” You look at him with an arched brow.

“Maybe,” Namjoon chuckles. He’s also just trying to delay your departure, seeing as you seem to be ready to leave.

He doesn’t want to ask your name, not ready himself to share who he is. But perhaps the next meeting won’t be as serendipitous as this.

“It depends,” you tease. “But maybe I’ll see you again, either here, or elsewhere.”

“I hope it’s soon,” he confesses. He’s being bold, but his eyes light up when you reply.

“I hope so, too.”

Namjoon walks the opposite direction of where you are headed, turning back once to look at you, and catching your eyes when he does.

Winter passes. His busy schedule doesn’t permit him to take this route for a while, and it’s mid-spring when he sees a new painting that’s been completed - a young girl looking through a glass window to a world outside, her fingers holding onto the latch as she readies to open it. A small smile forms on his face; he at least sees something of you, even if it isn’t you.

The next time he’s able to pass by, it’s the end of summer, and all he sees is a gray wall - empty, undisturbed, as if there was nothing there to begin with.

2021, autumn

The bell rings as Namjoon enters the building, an art gallery that he’s been frequenting the past few months. There are new pieces, he’s been told, and one of the curators that he’s become friends with informed him that some of the artists are in town.

He nods in greeting at familiar faces - employees, artists, casual visitors. He walks around, taking in the new paintings and sculptures displayed. As he turns towards one of the smaller rooms, a piece catches his eye.

It’s something he’d seen before, a piece of ceramic sculpted in such a way that it looks like a flower in one angle, a seashell in another. And, dare he say, a vulva from a little farther away.

He reads the label. Untitled 56, Samantha Lee.

Namjoon goes through the photos on his phone, knowing it was a trip to LA over 2 years ago where he’d encountered something similar.

And there it is. Untitled 48, Samantha Lee.

He took the photo from an angle that looked like flowers, thinking about the simplicity and beauty, the choice of colors, and how they hung on the wall as part of the installation. It was one of many pieces he documented, but was the only one he didn’t get much story from. There was no description, no background. He wasn’t quite sure what to feel.

“Find something that interests you?”

Mr. Hong is one of the founders of this gallery, and he spends much of his time getting to know the regular visitors and the artists. He’s definitely someone who knows when something strikes Namjoon, like right now.

“Samantha Lee,” Namjoon responds. “Are they a local artist? I think I saw their work in LA some time ago.”

“Ah, yes Ms., uh, Ms. Lee. She’s a local and has her pieces displayed in several galleries. She’s here, actually,” Mr. Hong excitedly shares, noting how important it is for the Kim Namjoon to meet one of the artists. “She was supposed to come yesterday but decided to drop by today instead. Would you like to meet her?”

“Ah, that would be great,” Namjoon smiles back. “If she is fine with that, of course.”

Mr. Hong is never sure if the said artist is, but Namjoon is a special guest, he thinks, so the older man nods. “I’ll lead you to her.”

Namjoon is led up a small flight of stairs and out to a patio with more installations displayed. He spots several people outside, and he tries to determine which one of them is the artist he wants to meet, perhaps ask why she’d untitled all her pieces, and why there’s nothing of her at all that she chooses to share.

He stops in front of two women as instructed by Mr. Hong.

“He’s a fucking asshole, that’s what he is,” a familiar voice spits out. “The next time he harasses you, I’m going to impale his dick with my heels and—”

“Ehem,” Mr. Hong clears his throat, prompting both women to look at him. “Ms. Lee, one of our patrons would like to meet you.”

He shares a look with the woman before she nods and smiles. She turns to Namjoon where he’s met with familiar tender eyes, eyes he’s been yearning to see since that cold winter night.

“Blue?” He asks, surprised.

“My favorite color, yes. How did you know?”

You look at the man in front of you, tall and broad with caramel skin and a smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts. You’ve seen this smile before. Even behind a mask, you could tell it’s him, the man who’d saved your ass that one cold winter night with his extra hot packs and his calming voice.

You thought you’d see him again, seeing as he seemed to want to, but he never came that spring. You even left a small, ridiculous note at the corner where your signature usually is, asking when he’d come, thinking he’d communicate with you there. But the response never came.

The universe is tricky sometimes. You passed up on coming to the gallery yesterday because you felt dizzy when you woke up. And of all days that your winter night man visits, it’s the one where you’re here.

“I just figured,” Namjoon smiles, picking up your hints. “It’s one of mine, too.”

“Perhaps we should talk about the complexities of the color, then,” you smile back, nodding towards one of the sections in the large patio.

You lead him there, leaving Mr. Hong and his warning gaze and your assistant, whose smirk and teasing laughter makes you glare at her.

“I’m guessing they don’t know about you being Blue?” Namjoon asks, feeling a little jittery standing next to you again and being able to see your face much more clearly, your hair tied loosely in a bun and your clothes a nice fit for the cool weather.

“Minji does. She helps me find materials,” you respond. “Mr. Hong doesn’t. He’s not much of a fan of street art.”

“That’s a bummer, especially since one of the artists creates amazing pieces on buildings and posts and then signs them, then abandons them, and leaves spectators like me to wonder where they’d gone,” Namjoon replies, hoping you don’t find offense with his tiny jab.

Your chuckle tells him you don’t. “You never came.”

“I didn’t know when to,” he defends. “Well, more like, I stopped having the time. That place is so far from where I live and I only walk from my office because I like that time alone and I haven’t had that, but then I came back in the summer but you—”

“You don’t have to explain,” you assure him. “That was a chance meeting and I didn’t really expect I’d see you again in the same spot weeks later.”

“Did you expect to see me this time?”

“Oh, not at all,” you shake your head. “Why are you even here?”

“Why are people ever in art galleries?” He counters. “To check out the art. Maybe chance upon the artists if they’re here.”

“I guess,” you shrug, turning a corner to a small maze of an installation. “You wouldn’t have known it was me, though.”

“I didn’t. I was staring at Untitled 56 and realized I took a photo of Untitled 48,” he reveals, earning him a shocked look from you. “It was in LACMA. I saw it a while back. The name rang a bell because I don’t know anything about you. You leave so much to the imagination, Ms. Lee. There’s nothing about y—”

“It’s Han,” you correct him, feeling comfortable now. “I mean, Han ___. Samantha Lee is another pseudonym. Or like a stage name. You know, like you?”

You bite your lip at the slip-up, not wanting him to be uncomfortable at the thought that you clearly know who he is. But he just nods, affirming that he now knows that you know who he is, but he smiles right after, his eyes turning into the smallest, prettiest crescents and his dimples framing his strong-featured face that makes him even more handsome.

“I suppose you’re right,” he hums. “But why blue? And why Samantha Lee?”

“It’s the simpler version of my favorite color. Aegean blue is too complicated to sign every time,” you chuckle. “And Samantha Lee… Well, she was my roommate back in college and she once told me she wanted to be famous and the only way that could happen is if I used her name as a pseudonym. I had a crush on her so I agreed.”

There’s a long pause before Namjoon realizes that you’re not joking, and he comments that it’s interesting but he doesn’t ask again.

“I’m Kim Namjoon, by the way,” he reaches out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” you say, internally melting at the feel of his warm and large hand. “So why did you take a photo of Untitled 48?”

“It looked like a clam.”

At this, you burst into laughter.

“I don’t mean it in a bad way, just to be clear!” He insists. “It was beautifully made. It was of a neutral color but it somehow stood out the most to me in that section. And it was the 48th; I wondered why they didn't have titles. And your 56th, which looks like—”

“A vulva,” you snort.

“Yes,” he chuckles, “and a flower, yeah - something I’ve been into lately. And well, it was interesting. And seeing your piece here reminded me of that,” he goes on. “And I just wanted to know… why.”

“Why what?” You furrow your brows at him.

“Why those pieces? Why are they untitled? What prompted you to create them that way?”

“We’d probably have to tour the gallery 4 more times if you want to know,” you chuckle.

“I have time.”

“Do you?” You ask, eyeing the phone in his pocket that's been vibrating for the last 5 minutes.

He smiles shyly and excuses himself. When he returns, he has a disappointed look on his face. “Turns out, I don’t have time. But I want to. I… uh, will you be here again anytime this week?”

“I will. I’m just not sure when.”

There’s something alluring with these coincidental meetups. Somehow you want more of those, perhaps to let the universe tell you that you’re meant to constantly meet this man whose time you know you’ll never have enough of, even if he makes it for you.

“Let me see you again?”

“You will.”

You catch his eyes when he turns back as he walks away. There’s a sparkle in them, and you’re afraid to want to see it once more.

The walk to the site of the lost youth is a long one, but not knowing when you’d see the tall man with the prettiest smile again, you head there.

Your last piece was of a child at the brink of freedom, about to take the step outside the cage she’d been in for the past year and a half. You painted over it once autumn started; maybe the next time you’d paint over a building, you’re no longer yearning for lost things. Maybe you’d paint something about finding something new.

“I’m gonna start believing in a higher power if we continue meeting like this.”

The raspy voice is familiar, and you turn around to see Namjoon, clad in a hoodie and a baseball cap, leaning against one of the streetlights across the empty wall of the building you’d been staring at. It’s been 2 days since you saw him at the gallery, about 7 months since the first time you’d encountered him here. You’re unsure what this all means.

“Maybe you should,” you head towards him. “I missed the last bus so I decided to walk home. I’m still far away but this is on the way. Why are you here?”

“Stayed up at the studio,” he replies. “I’m incredibly exhausted but I don’t know, I got the energy for the long walk. Then there you were.”

“There I was, appearing so suddenly again, yeah?” You chuckle, leaning on the opposite side of the pole.

Namjoon merely hums before he nods towards the direction of his apartment. “I’m heading there.”

“Me, too.”

With his hands in his hoodie pockets and yours crossed against your chest, you try to match his long strides.

“Painting came first,” you say, as if answering the question that he’s been thinking of asking. “Painting was everything. We had so many pieces in our home, and it’s as if they spoke to me. I mean, in a not creepy way, it felt like all of my parents’ own pieces spoke to me. And they always told me I wasn’t good enough.”

Namjoon turns to look at you with empathy in his eyes. He lets you speak, and he finds out that both your parents are the artists he’d been researching lately. Your father is a classical painter, and your mother does contemporary. He can’t imagine living in gigantic shadows like that.

“When I was 15, my parents pulled strings to get some of my pieces displayed with theirs,” you sigh, recalling the mixed emotions then. “It was exciting at first, but the patrons wouldn’t mention my name unless they mentioned my parents’. And then one of my favorite pieces that I made was sold to a man who wanted it as a decoration in his summer home’s living room.”

Namjoon slows his walk and you match his pace. You meet his comforting eyes, and there’s that warmth you feel from, technically, a stranger that you didn’t expect.

“I made that piece at a time when I was frustrated living in my parents’ shadows,” you continue. “Someone once told me that art is meant to be shared, that there’s humanity in the community we create when it’s shared, that the meaning deepens when others make their own. That piece had so much of me in there; I felt like the meaning of that piece was stripped away from me the moment that stranger took home that canvas for a select few to look at. It wasn’t mine anymore, it was his; it was theirs. I stopped painting after that.”

There’s a certain kind of pain in giving up something that matters deeply to you, in losing meaning in the thing that’s given your life meaning for most of your life. Namjoon knows a bit about that pain. Many times, he’d found himself questioning all that he does, what he stands for, and what the world expects him to be.

He sees that pain in your eyes, of losing a part of you as the art stopped meaning what you wanted it to. But he doesn’t think that all is lost.

“But your street art,” he reminds you. “That’s still you. That still has meaning. And that’s something that you share.”

“That’s Blue, though,” you manage a smile. “She’s just a part of me.”

“She’s still you,” he insists. “Can you tell me about her?”

And so you tell him - how you argued with your parents about quitting painting, how you were going to turn down the scholarship in a prestigious art university to take up sociology instead, so they shipped you to a foreign country to fend for yourself, and that’s when you learned what loneliness felt like. But that’s also when you learned about people in their rawest sense, what it meant to struggle to survive, what it meant to lose something that mattered, because you studied them - you studied how humans grieved and how they persisted. You studied how they lived and how they died.

“Blue wants meaning, and she still struggles in finding it,” you explain.

“Does she?” Namjoon questions. “I’m in my late 20s but your lost youth series resonated with me. All those paintings of the man in the rain, the distorted face… they’ve inspired me in ways I can’t explain. That’s meaning, ___. That matters.”

No one outside of Minji knows all these versions of you. Except Namjoon, the brightest star you never thought you’d ever meet. Hearing him speak about your work this way makes you feel something - a first in a long time.

“Thanks, I guess,” you say shyly.

“It’s a shame they’re not displayed in galleries and museums, though.”

“I don’t want them to,” you say, surprising him. “People intend to go to museums, but they pass these streets out of necessity. I want them to stop and look, to feel, to think for a few seconds before they go back to their routinary walk. And then I remove them, so they can forget what pain and sadness feel like.”

“Looks like you found your meaning, then,” Namjoon smiles, comforted by the fact that someone as talented as you had found purpose again, something he relates with at a deeper level than he imagined.

“The painter in me did,” you reply. “The sculptor, not so much. “

“Untitled,” he hums.

“Yeah. I don’t think I can name something I understand, or at least, feel,” you say.

“That’s a lot of untitled works for you to not understand what you do,” he chuckles.

“I’m prolific because there’s not much of me I lose when I create them,” you explain. “I just sit in my stool, craft something, then call it a day. Not to brag or anything, but it comes easy. They’re shallow pieces, Namjoon. They don’t even deserve to be in galleries but Mr. Hong insists they do for some reason. I wish this version of me, Samantha Lee, understood why it matters, why someone like him would believe in my pieces, why a Kim Namjoon would think that 48 stood out to him enough to keep a photo.”

Namjoon processes your words. As an artist himself, he believes in the meaning of the pieces that he creates, whether it’s a song or a poem or an album or a concert. There’s effort put into them even if it’s something created in 30 minutes. Your pieces are beautiful, and he wants to explore more - you and your meaning, you and your value.

“Then why do you keep making them? What about it makes you keep sculpting?”

“The feel of the clay on my skin, the way my fingers get to mold and create the details,” you explain. “I get to touch it. I don’t get to do that with painting, you know? It’s the paintbrush and the canvas I feel but with sculpting, I get to mix the materials, I get to shape it, hold it.”

“There’s that intimacy,” he offers.

“Yeah. And it’s addictive because it’s closeness I’ve never felt before.” You turn to him before speaking the next words. “It's an intimacy I’ve never experienced before with anyone or anything.”

“Isn’t that your meaning, then?” He questions. “The piece itself might not have a story on its own but all these untitled works, the process of creating, of it being easy because you can’t get enough of the intimacy you get from creating… that’s meaning. That desire for closeness, for meaning… that’s meaning.”

No one’s ever put it that way for you, probably because you’ve never let yourself be this honest with someone about your art. All your friends aren’t artists because you wanted that world separate, you didn’t want to have to talk about it feeling as insecure and lost as you are.

But Namjoon - he’s one of your generation’s greatest artists. He weaves words and sounds so beautifully to create masterpieces that people consume and hold so closely. He understands.

“I’ve made songs that took me 30 minutes,” he shares. “But I’ve also made songs that took me to dark places, that broke me as I wrote them. But once they came out, once I’ve shared them to others who’ve shared what it meant to them… slowly, I started becoming whole again. Isn’t that an artist’s burden? To break to create, to feel whole after that, and then to break all over again?”

“You are truly one of a kind, Kim Namjoon,” you tell him. “I’ve lived with artists my whole life and they never let me understand art in that way.”

“I’m still figuring it all out,” he shrugs. “I still feel lost sometimes, but I think it’s natural to feel that way, to be unsure or confused. I guess what matters is that we’re still walking on some road to somewhere, even if we don’t know where we’re heading.”

“Is that where you are right now?” You wonder. “On a road to somewhere you don’t quite know yet?”

More than you know, he wants to say. He’s in this period of experimentation, of figuring out his signature style, of figuring out who he is and what he means to his teammates, to the industry, to the world.

“Sort of,” he shrugs. “It’s hard sometimes. Walks like this give me a reprieve. Consuming other people’s art lets me understand things a bit more.”

“Yeah, I get it. I mean, conversing with strangers gives me time to breathe, too.”

“Ooh, so I’m still a stranger, huh?” He chuckles, shyly looking at you. “Our third unplanned meeting, an hour of walking home… and I’m still a stranger.”

“What would you want to be, then?” You turn to him, a little teasing smile on your face.

“A friend, for starters.”

“My nighttime friend?”

“Not just,” he shakes his head. “I would like to see you again, actually. And I don’t want to put this up to chance this time. Like, something planned or—”

“And how exactly would that work?”

“I, uh…” he thinks. “I’d invite you to my apartment. And you can invite me to yours?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to get to know you more, if that’s okay.”

“Are you always this bold?” You giggle, not missing the way your cheeks start to feel warm at the mention of visiting each other’s homes and him wanting to get to know you.

He’s obviously handsome - you’ve known of him since his band made it to your TV screens, being young men who were around your age, singing songs that resonate so deeply with you. But he’s more than that, as you’re learning. There’s this passion for creating that's refreshing, something you seem to lack.

“Not always,” he looks away, the dips in his cheeks something you’re sure you won’t get enough of.

“You should be. It makes a girl flustered but it makes it so difficult for her to say no,” you smirk. Sometimes, you also don’t know where your own boldness comes from.

“You? Flustered? That’s quite hard to believe,” he teases.

“That’s true. But it happens, believe it or not, when a gorgeous, brilliant man asks me over.”

Your heart stops for what feels like a minute, but his sweet, child-like laughter melts away your worry.

“Did I make you uncomfortable?” You ask.

“Surprisingly, no,” he replies. “I appreciate your honesty. About everything. I hope we can give that to each other.”

“Okay then, your turn,” you challenge.

“Hearing you curse was kinda hot.”

You try to hold off your laughter, your defense to your true reaction, which is to smile like an idiot and feel like floating.

“That’s interesting. I would’ve thought it’s something to do with my looks or my talent, you know?” You arch an eyebrow teasingly.

“It is. I think you’re beautiful. And I’m usually a forgetful person but I haven’t forgotten your sweet smile since I first saw it last winter,” he says, catching you off guard. “And your talent… there’s a reason why I have 48 saved on my phone, and why I sought out your street art these past years. I want to know what intimacy in art is like for you. I guess I’ve sort of lost that in creating my own.”

“Intimacy,” you repeat. “I think we both lack it in certain ways.”

“Maybe we’ll find it,” he says more confidently now, holding your gaze as your eyes trace his face.

“Maybe we will,” you respond, feeling your whole body warm with embers of fire.

He insists on taking you home, another 20-minute walk away from his. But you claim to enjoy that time on your own, assuring him that you do this all the time and the streets are safe.

“Let me know when you get home safely?” He asks, and you give him your phone for him to input his number.

“I will.”

It’s 30 minutes later when you do. It’s 1AM, but you and Namjoon spend the next 2 hours talking some more - about his songs and your pieces, about his plants and your collection of wind chimes.

You didn’t expect to make him laugh as much as you did, and he said he didn’t expect you to think his ramblings are adorable and amusing. You most definitely didn’t expect your heart to beat as fast as it did when he told you, in his deep, raspy voice, that he’s glad he took that long walk that winter, that he visited the art gallery when he did, that the hopeless romantic in him pushed him to go to the place you first met.

“I think I’m crazy but somehow I feel like I’ve known you for so long,” he muses.

“I feel the same way,” you assure him, as you hug your pillow and slowly surrender to sleep.

“Good,” he hums. “That’s all I wanted to know. Good night, ___. And I’ll see you soon.”

2021, winter

There’s a warmth in Namjoon’s home that’s hard to replicate. Filled with his favorite art pieces of all forms, he said he curated it to reflect his emotions just as much as his tastes. It’s clean and well-organized, with books on shelves and stacks on the floor, and an entire area full of liquor - his new interest, he’d said.

He’s had you over several times already; the first one, barely a week after that long walk home. You both spent hours that day talking about his favorite artists, and it wasn’t enough, as he asked you back the next day.

You often talk about your childhood, one that you weren’t always comfortable sharing, but being with him makes it easy.

It’s easy when he looks into your eyes when you speak, as if he’s telling you that he knows you say more than words. It’s easy when he’s got his own stories to share - stories of vulnerability and honesty, of fear and confusion. It’s easy when he still stutters over words sometimes and then gets lost in his own ramblings, then he chuckles when he realizes he’s talked so much, and you tell him that it’s okay because his voice is calming and his thoughts are a breath of fresh air.

It’s easy when his presence is comforting, when his anecdotes about his friends and family make you laugh until your insides hurt. It’s easy when he makes you feel like you can question everything about your art and your purpose and your abilities but he never makes you feel like a failure. It’s easy when he smiles and laughs nervously, when he’s funny without meaning to, and when he makes sure you’re comfortable by always having your preferred tea and biscuits next to the wine you once said is your favorite.

The only time it gets hard is when he stands a little too close as you look up at a painting or a book on a shelf. You could feel the heat from his body; a slight movement and you’d be touching, mere cloths in between you. It’s hard when his arm brushes the slightest bit against yours. It’s hard when he gazes at you when there’s silence, and it’s like he’s studying your face before you call him out and he apologizes because he “can’t stop looking at pretty things.”

It’s hard when he hugs you goodbye and he wishes you a safe ride home. It’s hard when he sends you a message right after, saying he wishes you both had more time.

Being attracted to Namjoon is hard; being attached to him is torture.

“You’re looking for him again,” Minji states the obvious as you walk around the gallery, your eyes darting to the door every time the bell rings.

“No I’m not,” you deny. “He just got back from his trip abroad and he’s tired. He won’t be coming here.”

“Doesn’t mean you wish he would,” she smirks. “But why rendezvous here? You guys go to each other’s houses. And no one goes to your house… aside from me.”

“We can’t exactly see each other in public, you know?” You glare at her. “But… I don’t know, it’s nice to see him look around and talk about what he sees. I feel like I learn more from him. And that’s weird, isn’t it? This is my field. The arts have been my entire life, but I’m learning more about it from him.”

“What is it about him?” She wonders.

She doesn’t say that she’s noticed more life in your eyes since he came into your life. She doesn’t say that she’s noted that you take more time creating pieces, seemingly savoring the process unlike the way you used to. She doesn’t mention the smile that she hasn’t seen in all the years that she’s known you.

“Passion is sexy, you know?” You giggle. “He has so much of it, it’s inspiring.”

“Is that all?” Minji smirks.

“He’s also fucking gorgeous. I try not to ogle him but I think he’s noticed. Fuck me.”

“Maybe he wants to.”

“Shut up. Don’t make me hope.”

“You do that to yourself,” she laughs. “Keep denying that you don’t want to see him or want anything more with him and let’s see how you do.”

The truth is, you know. You know that you’d fall hard if you let yourself go like that, but it’s human to know danger and then still want it, isn’t it?

The vibration from your phone ringing surprises you.

“Hey,” Namjoon’s voice booms on the other end.

“Hey,” you reply. “How was your trip?”

“Good. I just got home. We had to stop by the office for a bit. My place is a mess and we have something again in the afternoon,” he huffs, sounding incredibly tired. “Can I come over tonight?”

You almost drop the flute of champagne you’re holding. He’s been to your house twice, but this is the first time he’s specifically asked to come over, especially considering that he just arrived from a trip abroad.

“Of course,” you hum. “Any dinner preferences?”

“Your cooking,” he says simply. “But wait for me, okay? I’ll let you know when I’m on the way.”

“Okay,” you say, before dropping the call, unable to hide the wide smile that forms on your face, to your assistant’s amusement.

“Why don’t you try to let go this time?” She advises. “Maybe you’ll find the intimacy you’ve been longing for.”

Namjoon overestimates your cooking abilities. Truly, all you know to do is prepare ramyun and fry anything. But, compared to him, he’s said you’re chef level. “The guys” don’t even want him near the kitchen, he tells you all the time.

But instant noodles and pork belly seem enough for him, as he eats with his mouth closed and hums in satisfaction. You take the time to savor the way he looks. A few weeks without him has started to feel like months.

“It was overwhelming,” he finally says.

He knew the moment he landed that he wanted to see you. There’s comfort in your presence that he’s begun to accept, and being with you allows him to be honest, to feel real, to feel human.

“It was great to be able to perform again, to hear the cheers and the sounds and everything. It was also terrifying,” he continues. “I was nervous and excited, I was scared and elated. I felt so fulfilled and satisfied but I also felt like it wasn’t enough.”

“That’s a lot of conflicting emotions,” you hum.

“Are they? Conflicting, I mean.”

“It depends, I guess. They seem up and down to me. Does it bother you?”

“That I felt all that, all at once?”

You nod in response.

“It used to,” he admits. “At the start of all this, I thought, I can’t be scared. Six other guys and an entire company are looking to me to succeed. I have to be strong and confident. And then, an industry is waiting for me to fail. And then, my own country is letting me - us - represent an entire generation, it’s asking me to carry on this cultural wave. It never ends. And I used to think I couldn’t be scared, that not wanting all this anymore means I’m ungrateful.”

“But you aren’t,” you try to assure him. You can’t imagine the burden he feels, leading a group that feels all kinds of pressure. “I’ve heard you talk about your art and your poetry and your brothers and your fans. You’re easily the most passionate, hardworking, and appreciative person I know. I don’t think you’ll ever run out of things to give.”

“It’s tiring,” he sighs.

“I’m sure. But you’re honest about it. You’ve always been. Doesn’t honesty unburden you, even just a little bit? Doesn’t it leave you space to feel more, to be more?”

Namjoon hums. For someone who claims to not know much about feeling, you seem to know what to say to make him stop and think, to remind him of why he does what he does. And why ultimately, he’s always going to love it.

“It does,” he finally says, sitting up straight to take a better look at you in your linen pants and soft sweater. “Do you do that, then? Unburden yourself by being honest?”

“I’m not good at doing that,” you chuckle. “If you don’t know by now, I say a lot of seemingly profound things that I don’t necessarily live by.”

“Why not?”

“Honesty scares me. Being vulnerable scares me. I don’t know how to return it.”

“Has anybody ever been all that to you?” He wonders, feeling the tension build a little.

“Once” you say, standing from the dining table and heading to the large window that overlooks your garden. “And I ran away.”

“Is that why you sculpt, then?” Namjoon asks, walking towards you. “Because you don’t know what to do with intimacy so you do it with your art? You want to hold and touch what you walk away from? You don’t give it a name because you don’t want to define it? Because you’re scared that if you do, you’ll realize that you actually want it - the closeness, the warm body, the rawness that you can only get from being with someone else.”

You look up at him, towering over you. He came from a short filming, donned in a white, buttoned polo with his long sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You can see the darkness of his hazelnut eyes and the stubble on his chin. You spot the beauty mark on his neck and the smoothness of his skin, especially on his chest, as he leaves 2 buttons undone.

“Reading me now, Kim Namjoon?” You cock an eyebrow, trying to break the tension that’s built up in the last few minutes.

“I’m trying, because I want to get to know you more, find out what you’re afraid of and ease it somehow,” he admits. “Because I feel the same way. I’m honest but I’m scared, yet with you, I’m honest but I’m brave. I feel like I’m brave. I don’t know what it is, but ever since I met you, I just wanted…” he glances at your lips then meets your eyes again. “I just wanted to know more, to feel more. To understand what it’s like to be intimate with someone who doesn’t know much about it like me. I want to figure it out. With you.”

“How?”

One word is all you get to verbalize, as you feel him come closer, the heat of his body intensifying with every second. You’re backed up against the window, the distance between you and him decreasing and decreasing.

His eyes are boring into you, and you bravely gaze at him back. You mirror his desire, as you lick your lips when he glances at them again. Your chest is heaving as is his, and your heart races even more when he breathes out your name.

You palm his chest, and for a brief moment of uncertainty in his eyes at the thought of you stopping him, you instead grip the cloth that covers him, and you slowly pull him in.

His lips are soft. And the way he gently presses against you is tender, comforting, like he wants to savor it and go slow. He angles his head the same time his hand reaches for your waist, and you feel the slightest wetness from his tongue.

You grant him entrance, and the second you do, he takes control, tightening his hold on your body as he cages you, his one arm now propped up against the window. You moan into each other as tongues and teeth clash, and you can’t help your hand that travels to pull on the ends of his hair, brushing your fingers against the nape of his neck right after.

It’s a little sloppy, needy, but there’s still gentleness in there. It’s in the way he cups your cheek, caressing it with his large fingers and letting it slide down your chest, back to your waist. It’s in the way he smiles into the kiss when you moan your pleasure; you can almost feel his dimples as he does. It’s in the way that he asks for more, not with dominance but with care, with understanding, with caution.

You both pull away to catch some air, lips swollen and wet, but your smiles say you enjoyed it. The way your bodies haven’t completely detached from each other shows that.

“Would you let me stay the night?” He asks softly, as if it’s a request he’s afraid to ask.

“Yes,” you breathe out. “Be with me tonight.”

Underneath the covers of your bed, you lay in his arm while your fingers trace patterns on his taut chest. You can hear his heartbeat still drumming, and you can feel the care in the way he caresses your cheek, your arm, your waist.

“I don’t know what I can give you, Namjoon,” you admit. “I don’t know how to be as honest and vulnerable as you. I don’t know how to share parts of me that I don’t understand. I don’t know what I can do to ease all your worries and concerns. I—”

“Just give me moments,” he interjects. “Nights like this, days at our homes, afternoons at the galleries, hours on the phone… I just want to feel something that I can actually touch, that I can savor. And I want it to be you, the one I get to hold and taste and kiss.”

He leans forward again, and you capture his mouth in yours. There’s no need to do more - much as you’re wet and he’s definitely hard, but neither one of you is rushing, neither one wants to scare the other.

He’s hot, the kind that burns. That’s how it is with people as passionate as he is - their touch can light a fire on your skin, and you won’t be able to stop it.

“I can give you moments,” you whisper. “Just tell me.”

2022, spring

You can count the moments with 2 hands.

Namjoon stayed with his parents over the holidays but he videocalled you everyday. You both went to a few galleries outside the capital but did so separately, spending hours after that talking about the pieces over the phone.

You’ve come to appreciate your world much more deeply with his commentaries and reflections, and with you, he said he’d gotten to breathe a little longer, laugh a little louder, and feel a little more human.

He stayed over your place 4 more times; you stayed over at his thrice. You debated over movies and recommended each other books. It was common to spend the day wrapped up in each other on the couch while you both read separately. He made you listen to a few songs he’s been working on - some of which were inspired by your many conversations and your own musings, and you’d showed him sketches of your upcoming planned series on sculpted landscapes.

It’s freeing, being able to share about your world with someone else like this, and being part of someone else’s, too. Whatever it is you both have is freeing - kisses included, which never went beyond what you first did. Despite the obvious desire to do more, neither of you ever tried, perhaps knowing what it would entail. There’s distance between you and him but there also isn’t. There’s enough comfort and intimacy that you’ve only scratched the surface of, but this seems to be just enough.

“I have the weekend off,” he pants over the phone. It’s 11PM and they’ve just finished rehearsals for an upcoming series of concerts abroad. “Do you want to do something?”

“A trip to my parents’ summer home?” You wonder out loud. The spring air has come and you love going to the lake at this time. “It’s by the mountains and it’s really private. The estate is like their personal art museum with their works and others’. I visit every year. But if—”

“Yes, a hundred times yes,” he huffs. “That’s fucking amazing.”

“I know I got you at the art museum bit,” you laugh.

“You got me at the really private bit, actually,” he says seriously, causing your heart to race. “And the art of course. And you. Always you.”

“Alright, Casanova,” you tease. “Just make sure I don’t get in trouble for taking you somewhere weeks before you leave.”

“We’re alright,” he responds. “I can’t wait.”

It’s a 3-hour drive to the estate by the mountains. In the far future, your parents want to open it up for private viewing, and so you want to make sure that your art lover more-than-but-not-really-friend gets a first peek.

You spend the entire ride talking about a hundred topics, going off tangent when he rambles again, and you’re the one who circles him back to the original discussion. You hum tunes while he sings songs, and when you find private spots, you take the risk and take photos.

You make it to the estate in the late morning, and as you expected, Namjoon’s jaw drops.

The fountain at the front is an art piece itself. The front door was shipped from Indonesia, and the furniture are a beautiful curation of pieces from all over the world that were gifted to or bought by your parents.

You watch him gently trace the carvings and the details. You’re in awe as he absorbs the sculptures and paintings as you tour him around. And you melt every time he turns to you with the biggest smile on his face, like he’s discovering a secret that only both of you know. It’s breathtaking and absolutely precious.

“Keep looking at me like that,” he says, as he catches you marvel at him. “I like it when you look at me like you want me.”

“Don’t fluster me,” you say, turning away.

“You’re not denying it,” he counters, walking closer to you.

“I would be a liar if I did.”

“That’s good to know,” he hums, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I know I only asked for moments but can this weekend be filled with that?”

He looks nervous, like you’d turn him down.

“I… it’s been tough, dealing with a lot of things,” he continues. He’s mentioned some difficulties lately, and you know there’s not much you can do about it. Except, maybe this. “I just want something to hold onto, like being here with you, experiencing all these art pieces, being close…”

He cups your cheek and gives you that look that you’ve become familiar with, his request for intimacy that you both continue to explore.

“Okay,” you respond, taking his hand and kissing it. “Okay.”

You eat lunch, explore the east wing of the property, and at mid-afternoon, you convince him to swim on the lake with you.

“Isn’t it freezing?” He asks worriedly.

“That’s the fun part of it,” you insist. “There’s a hot tub we can stay at after.”

Namjoon gives in. It’s easy to, with a smile like yours that makes his heart race every time. Especially when you come out in your blue swimsuit, shaping your curves and all other parts of your body that makes his own react. He can’t help but marvel at you, even as you tease.

“Hey, big guy, eyes up,” you smirk.

He blushes when you giggle, but he does tease back, removing his shirt to reveal his body that he’s been working so hard on. He does flex a little to give you a taste of your own medicine, and it works.

“Hey, eyes up,” he chuckles.

You feel a shiver when his finger tilts your chin up, and you do the childish thing and bite it before you run to the lake and dive in. Namjoon follows, canonballing and then swimming over to chase you.

You haven’t swam here in years. You merely used to watch the sun rise and then gaze at the sky and imagined doing all this with someone else. You didn’t really think you’d end up here with Kim Namjoon, but here you are.

Namjoon pulls you to him as you swim close, and you both float in the water with your arms around his chest and his arms around your waist. You’re obviously both drenched, and that just leaves so little to the imagination, especially with the cold water a little more overwhelming than you expected.

His hair is swept back, with beads of water lining his face and sliding down his neck and his chest. He’s broad and incredibly built. It’s unfair that his body looks as amazing as his face.

“Does Minji know you’re here with me?” He asks.

“Yes, teased me nonstop until I picked you up. What about the guys?”

“They do. They insist we are a couple.”

“And?”

“And I said that we aren’t,” he says cautiously. “We’re friends who spend a lot of time together and cuddle, and uh, sometimes do a little more.”

“What a complicated way to say we’re friends with benefits,” you laugh.

“I don’t see it that way, though,” he furrows his brows. “I don’t want to reduce what we are to each other to just benefits or something sexual or shallow. Do you see it that way?”

“No,” you say. “I… I’ve come to understand art a lot more because of you. I’ve come to appreciate what I do. That’s not just some benefit.”

“And I… can’t even explain all that you do for me,” he says. “We’re more than that. Less than lovers, but more than friends. And our moments shape this, whatever name we call it.”

“Untitled,” you wonder out loud. “Sometimes artists name their pieces as such when they can’t find a better descriptor.”

“So 58 sculptures in, and you still can’t find a better descriptor?” He teases.

“Shut up,” you smack his hard chest. “I titled them that way because I didn’t have a meaning for them. I just created them. But then I met this man, tall and built with a sexy brain, and he made me realize that the meaning is in the creation, too. So 58 works, 58 times I experienced intimacy, the only times I do.”

“Ah, so what about us?” He nudges you with his nose. “Aren’t we intimate?”

“It’s a different kind, I guess,” you say. You’re not my creation and you’re not mine, you choose not to say. “You don’t break. You’re the one that breaks other things.”

You pass it off as a joke, and he buys it. You don’t want to think much about what you and Namjoon aren’t; you just want to think about what you both are - something that may or may not be fleeting, but something beautiful nonetheless.

The sun shines a little too bright, and you take the chance to get out of the water and into the dock to soak up its heat. Namjoon follows and you both lay that way, just next to each other, catching your breaths.

“Are you feeling a little better?” You ask, wondering if he still carried over all his concerns here.

“Yes. It’s exhilarating,” he responds. “It’s nice to feel this way for a change.”

“I’m sure you’ve felt this way before, too.”

“Not this way,” he turns to you. “It’s different, I guess. It makes me think of all the other emotions I have yet to feel, the ones I’ve felt only briefly before, and the ones that I’ll never feel. I think life’s too short for a person to experience all kinds of emotions. I was it wasn’t.”

“Are humans built for that?” You question. “To feel every possible thing out there? To feel every variation of pain and sadness and joy and elation and pleasure and desire?”

Namjoon thinks. Surely, being able to have emotions and to truly feel is what makes us humans and what makes us different from animals. It’s what marks our humanity, regardless of what emotion that may be. But are humans really capable of feeling everything without breaking? Without it being too much?

“Maybe not,” he finally responds.

You think, too. You’ve often wondered why you were so scared to be vulnerable, to take risks, to love. You thought once that feeling things is overwhelming - what do you do with them? How do you handle them when they get too much? When you become too happy or too sad or too scared or too excited?

You think maybe because like all things in this world, you can never have emotions. You feel them, but you can’t own them, they can’t be yours. Like your art. You can create them but they stop being yours once you share them. Like music, as Namjoon has told you, it stops being his the moment he releases it for others to consume. And it’s scary to not have that permanence; it’s scary to not have that assurance that you’ll always have that joy or that excitement or that elation. And in some way, it’s also scary to know that you won’t always have that pain or that sadness.

“Maybe humans are only built to try to feel everything,” Namjoon states, having thought about your question and his years-long quest of figuring himself out. “But we aren’t meant to achieve it. Maybe our life is about just feeling bits and pieces of it, sometimes longer than others, but we can’t feel it all, and definitely not all at once. It’s like truth; we spend our life seeking and trying to live it, but we might never be able to. Still, we have to keep trying.”

“Hmm,” is all you manage to say. “Do couples have deep conversations like this?” You laugh this time, needing his thoughts to linger a little longer.

“They should,” he laughs. “But it’s enough for me that I have someone like you to make me question things. It reminds me that I have more to discover, to feel.”

To feel.

Sometimes Namjoon makes it seem so easy to just do that. He’s able to name what he feels, unlike you. You wish it was easy, like saying that the cold water on your skin is refreshing, like the sun’s heat is comforting, like the clouds in the sky are soft.

You don’t notice your hand reaching up, wanting to just touch them because you want something concrete, something more real than what your imagination says that clouds feel like. But instead, you feel rough, warm fingers interlocking with yours.

“If you want to feel something concrete, I’m here, you know?” Namjoon says, thumbing your hand to let him know he’s right next to you. Somehow he just knew what you were doing, what you were wishing for.

“But this is what couples do,” you tease, yet tightening your hold nonetheless.

“Friends hold hands,” he smirks.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. They kiss, too,” he hums, lifting himself up only to hover over you, catching you by surprise, but your desire trumps that, as the view of him - damp and natural-looking - makes your insides twist in circles.

“Hmm, like this?” You peck his lips, then his nose, teasing him.

“Sometimes. Other times it’s deeper. You know, like this.”

He dives in, and you welcome him immediately, your mouth already slightly open for your tongue to entangle with his. It’s long and deep, as how your kisses always are, and you feel him shift above you, fixing his position with his arms caging your head for support. He angles his mouth so he can have more of you and control how far he goes, how hard, and how fast.

Your fingers, whose spaces were filled by his just minutes ago, ghost over his neck. They trail down to his chest, gingerly passing by his pecs and his abs, the tips now resting on his hips.

“Fuck,” he moans in your mouth, and you immediately know why he does, feeling his length getting harder by the second.

It prompts him to grind on you, and you meet him halfway.

“Fuck, Joon,” you whine once his lips detach from yours, only to meet your neck when he sucks then licks over the sting. “Fuck.”

He hums in satisfaction at the sounds you make, going south now as he teases by giving tender kisses on the exposed part of your breasts before biting your nipple over your suit.The obscene sound you make turns him on, especially when you pull his hips harder against yours.

“Oh fuck, baby, yeah,” he groans in your ear now, and you might as well have just come from the way he said those words.

And then you remember where you are - in the outdoors, in your parents’ summer home. Private as it may be, you’re still exposed, and you remind him of the fact before he slows down and agrees that you can’t be doing this out here.

“I’m sorry I got carried away,” he says shyly now, as if he didn’t just devour you with his skillful mouth.

“Yeah, this is totally your fault,” you tease.

He chases you back to the house where you both spend another hour in the hot tub, just talking like normal friends, as if you didn’t almost just cross a line. But it’s like that with Namjoon, you’ve come to realize. Everything is easy, everything is natural, like you can just forget that he isn’t him and you aren’t you.

You spend the rest of the day looking at all the pieces on the first floor, with you sharing as much about them that you can remember. You both sleep that night with his head on your chest and his arms around you.

He sleeps soundly, snoring even. And as you comb his hair, you think of how close you were to wanting so much more in the lake earlier. You think of how much you wanted his lips on your mouth, all over your body, and you wanted it everyday. With the way he held you close and breathed desperately on your skin, you had a feeling that so did he.

Living in this dream-like state with him feels surreal, several months in. Because that’s what he is - a dream. Here’s a man grounded by his principles despite the fame that seems to shackle him, yet constantly propels him to new heights; a man whose search for truth and humanity shows you that he just wants to be a good person, and a person who does good.

Beyond his unmatched talent and gift with words, beyond his strikingly stunning looks, is a man who cares deeply, who feels deeply, who submits himself to what he commits to, whether it’s his music, his brothers, his plants, or his interest in art and nature and even whiskey. You have a feeling he’d do the same to whoever he plans to be with. You don’t know if it’s you, and the more you find yourself wanting him, the more you wish it isn’t you.

Namjoon is a dream, and you know at one point, you’re going to have to wake up.

The gallery is buzzing, as it always is when there’s a new exhibition. You’re excited for this, too, as the featured artist is one you admire.

Namjoon admires her as well, which is why he’s here, dressed in a black long-sleeved buttoned top, looking immaculate as per usual. He has a busy schedule but he made time, knowing how special this event is.

The room holds its breath when he enters; as a well-known lover of art, everyone has come to expect him to be a guest in exhibitions and various art shows. He bows at the other patrons and artists present, and they fawn over him, being the famous man that he is.

You don’t think you’ll ever get used to this side of him. You’re used to him rambling, making jokes he doesn’t realize are funny, and being lost in his own thoughts. You’re used to him in his natural environment - in his home full of books and paintings, and in his studio, which you’ve seen dozens of times through your phone screen. He fits right in here, though - he can easily follow on with the conversations, whether it’s about business or culture or literature. He can charm anyone with his smile and his good looks, and too many times, guests awe at his presence, finding out that he’s much more commanding and handsome off the screen.

You hide a smile as he glances in your direction. You’ve agreed not to talk much today; there are too many people around and any kind of interaction might be grounds for rumors that neither of you are ready to face, at least that’s what you think. You and Namjoon don’t really discuss those things. You always see him in your periphery, though, and perhaps just like you, he just wants to be where you are, even if no pleasantries or conversations are shared.

But Mr. Hong pulls him aside to introduce to Ms. Suh, and you can see from afar how Namjoon is fanboying over the artist whose work he’s very interested in.

It’s nice to see him in his element like this, too. Here, though still a celebrity in the eyes of everyone else, he’s a spectator. He’s told you several times how his trips to these places have made him think about the kind of legacy he wants to leave with his music, with his poetry. And how pieces in museums and galleries are timeless, permanent; they live on regardless, and each person is free to make their own meanings. You know he wanted to comfort you then.

You become involved in your own conversations until someone barrels inside the gallery and makes a scene, of all days. The slightly inebriated man is familiar; perhaps a patron you’ve seen before, but he comes in and starts yelling at the staff, going on about something you can’t understand.

Not wanting to be part of the scene and be involved in something you don’t know how to handle, you slowly step away, that is, until you see him storm towards the room where your art pieces are. He seems to be targeting someone as he looks around, but the security gets to him first and he flails his arms around, eventually knocking over Untitled 56, and the cracking sound rings in the entire building.

“You knocked over a precious piece, you bastard!” You hear Mr. Hong yelling.

You start walking slowly to where you see the shards of ceramic have fallen on the floor, and you’re unsure what you feel. Is it loss? It doesn’t seem like it. Is it anger? Perhaps not.

“It’s just some useless flower anyway,” the raucous man answers.

Shame. You think that’s it, maybe that’s the feeling. Insecurity, sadness. It’s all of that yet nothing at all.

You stand there over your broken piece, the one you created while the rain was pouring and you’d just finished a bottle of wine by yourself because you could. Everyone seems to be as shocked as you, especially with the man finally contained and led out the building. You look up to take your eyes away from the scene, but you see Namjoon’s instead - anger filling his, sympathy, care, all at once.

You shake your head once, instructing him not to say or do anything. And he follows, loosening his clenched fist and stepping away to the back of the crowd. You instruct the staff to sweep the broken piece away, not wanting to see how fragile and temporary your creation is. All that had been reduced to shards and pitiful looks of the crowd.

You don’t really want to be here.

You’re filled with emotions you can’t name. You’re afraid to feel them all, so you cower on your couch and cry to yourself.

It’s just a piece of useless flower. It’s the 56th of untitled works that you couldn’t name yourself because you didn’t know what they meant, what they symbolized, yet it hurts you this much that it’s gone. Hurt. Is that it? You’re still not sure.

The banging of your front door startles you. It’s 9PM and it’s been 4 hours since the incident. Minji offered to tell you the whole story but you didn’t really mind. You wonder if it’s her this time, wanting to know how you’re doing.

But it’s Namjoon, panting on your doorway when you open it. And the first thing you think to do is bury yourself in his arms.

It’s immediate, the catharsis of being in his hold. It’s like you’re enveloped in a warm, protective blanket that you don’t want to get out of. He embraces you tightly, letting you cry on his chest as you try to make sense of what you’re feeling.

“I’ve got you,” he says in your ear so that the words don’t get lost in the sound of your sobs. “I’ve got you. Don’t tear yourself. I’m here with you.”

You don’t know for how long you both stand there, but it’s long enough for the tears to stop falling. When you’ve calmed down, Namjoon tilts your chin up to face him.

“Hey,” he greets with a soft smile. “I’m sorry I couldn’t follow you right away. I wanted so badly to punch that man.”

The shift of emotions is immediate, as you see his furrowed brows.

“He didn’t have a right to be there and to ruin what you worked hard for. I asked Mr. Hong to look into him and I’m so sorry, ___. That piece… that piece is–”

“A useless flower,” you shake your head.

“Please don’t listen to him. Listen to me,” Namjoon insists. “You know what I feel about it. That piece led me to you.”

“And now it’s gone.”

The thought hits you hard. That piece led you to each other, and temporary as it is, it’s now broken. Maybe art isn’t timeless, you think. It can burn, it can break, just like all things. Just like emotions. Just like what you and Namjoon have.

“It may be but look what it did for us,” he challenges your thoughts. “A broken piece won’t change us, it won’t erase us.”

Tonight, this is what you want to hear. And with his fingers tracing your cheek, you think that tonight, he is what you want to feel.

You pull him close and crash your mouth onto his. It’s fervent, desperate, wanting. There’s this need in you, this animalistic desire that has you wanting him to prove you wrong again - that some things can be touched and felt and that they’ll stay and won't break, that emotions can be just as real and tangible, that they matter and that it’s worth it. You want him to prove it to you with his mouth, his words, his touch, his body.

He answers back, inhaling you completely, his tongue working on yours right away, doing that dance you’ve both memorized by now. Your moans are loud and needy. You want all of him, all over you, and with the way he groans your name and curses as you grind against him, you think he feels the same.

You’re in a haze, falling into hypnosis as you feel his hands all over you. You guide them to your clothed breasts, down your waist where he sneaks underneath. His touch burns so deliciously, and it’s what prompts you to unbutton his clothes, to feel him bare and naked, his skin against yours - raw, vulnerable, honest.

Things you don’t know how to be.

You pull away, feeling as if you’ve been snapped out of the spell.

And then you’re crying, as you look at Namjoon with his top undone, looking at you curiously before he’s walking towards you in concern.

“No,” you almost scream. “I’m sorry, I– I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t supposed to. We’re not supposed to do this. We’re just… we’re just something that’s temporary and–”

“No,” he replies, surprising you. “Don’t be sorry, please. I wanted it, I still do. I want you. Fuck what we said about being just friends. I want more. I–”

“You don’t mean that,” you insist, not wanting to hear his words.

It should comfort you, shouldn’t it? You’ve known long ago that you’ve fallen for him, but you made yourself believe that all things are temporary, and this one time you wanted something permanent with him, you got scared out of your mind.

“I do,” he counters. “Fuck it, all I wanted to do earlier was hold you in my arms. Fuck the other people around who’d see. I just wanted to be with you. Is that what friends do? Is that what they feel? I have to be honest, right? We said we’d be that to each other. I want you, ___. I want to be with you.”

“I can’t, Joon. I can’t,” you sob.

“Be honest with me this once. Do you want me?”

“Yes, so fucking much.”

“Then why can’t you be with me? Why are you making it so hard for yourself, for us?” He yells.

“I–” you start, but you don’t know how to continue. You cover your face with your hands and fall onto the floor.

You don’t think you’ve ever cried this hard, and you’re unsure exactly what you’re crying over.

“Hey,” Namjoon softens, leaning down next to you as he tries to free your face. “I’m not mad, I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. I can’t even… I can’t even say what I want to say because I don’t know. I don’t–” you sniff. “I don’t know what I feel, what I want. I–”

“It’s okay,” he says, taking you in his arms again. “It’s okay. We can talk about it tomorrow. Just get some rest.”

He calms you down again and leads you to your room. He waits as you wash up and then he tucks you in bed.

“I’ll come over in the morning, okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper. You watch him eye your lips, and then he looks away.

Namjoon comes over the next day with a basket of pastries and coffee. He knows enough that you won’t have energy to prepare anything to eat.

You can’t imagine losing all this, but that’s what’s about to happen.

You’d been so close to giving in to him, so close to letting yourself be vulnerable to him, but doing so in flesh isn’t all there is to it. You can make love to him, bare your body to him that way but you wouldn’t be able to do it with your soul or your heart.

What does being raw and honest mean? You don’t know. He deserves someone who knows.

“I still don’t know what I can give you,” you tell him as you both sit across from each other in the seating area in your garden. “Months later, I should know but I don’t. Even just moments, I… can’t. They make me want you more and I can’t. I don’t know exactly what I want - with myself, with my art, with you. I don’t know what to give.”

“You act like you’re the only one unsure,” he says softly. “I don’t know if what I can give you is enough. I mean, with what I do? It’s tough, and I don’t know if it would be fair. But I want you. I don’t know how the arrangements would be but I want you.”

“At least you know what you can give, even as you shine as bright as you do, you know yourself and what you can give me, what you can give us. I don’t.”

“But what if we try?”

“That’s unfair to you, Joon,” you insist. “You put your all into everything, and this - us - won’t be any different. But that just means that falling short would break you, and I can’t have that. And then there’s me who can’t give much of herself to anything - not my craft, not my friends, not myself. And you matter too much to only get the barest parts of me. I don’t want to be with you that way.”

Namjoon sighs. It’s not an easy thing to accept. It’s something he understands - all he’s ever known to do was to give his all to everything he wants to keep. If that’s not something you’re ready to do yourself, he can’t fault you for it.

It hurts so fucking much, though. He’s learned in the course of these months of knowing you that you’re another one of those he wants to keep, that he wants more of, that he wants to learn inside and out - you’re also the first person to ever be that for him. For you to slip away like this is a kind of pain that he doesn’t know how to get over.

“Continue to be raw and honest in everything that you do, okay? Live,” you say, and he nods in reply. “Don’t stop yourself from seeing other people, from finding someone else,” you add.

You can’t even be honest with this. You hope he’ll always want you, but you don’t let yourself be selfish with him, not this time.

“I won't” is what he answers.

It breaks your heart all over again and you let it. You deserve it. Who walks away from someone they want, especially when they want you back? Someone afraid like you, someone who doesn’t trust herself enough like you, someone who wants permanence so bad that she lets slip away the one person who’s made her feel it.

You give a half smile and he smiles back.

Namjoon gets up from his seat. “I’ll see you around, okay?”

“Okay.”

It’s a month later when one of the museums you frequent launches a new installation. A tall man catches your attention. He looks at you and smiles, his hazelnut eyes gazing at you the way they used to.

He nods in acknowledgement and so do you.

And that’s the last time you see him in a long time.

2022, winter

You stare at the package in your hands - white, with words of comfort. He’s finally completed it, you think. A piece of himself he’s been working the last 4 years on, and it looks just like how he described it to you all those months ago.

You don’t know if you’ll listen to it. You haven’t heard his voice in so long. You’re afraid you’ll break if you do.

Perhaps just one time, to get it off your system. That might be enough.

You open it, unsure when you’ll unpack this obviously beautifully curated work of art. But the note at the top leaves you no room to ignore it.

Nothing’s changed for me. Let’s find ourselves. And then let’s find each other. I’ll just be here. But please, stay where you are.

Namjoon

You let one tear fall and then leave the package on the top shelf of your closet.

Your bedroom door opens.

“Are you all packed?” Minji asks.

“Yes, I’m all good,” you smile.

She helps you with your luggage, down the stairs and into the van waiting for you.

“That’s a lot of stuff,” she hums, holding back her tears. “How long will you be away for?”

“Until I find myself.”

“That might be a long time.”

“It will.”

2025, winter

Namjoon has been to several galleries in New York, but this particular one is a place he’s never been to. It overlooks Central Park, towering at the 30th floor like the other buildings in the city. But it’s 3 floors and he thinks it’s stunning. It’s not overly grand, but it’s also not as simple and natural like the others he’s been to.

He may say it’s not entirely his vibe, but there’s a reason why he’s here.

Some patrons recognize him and greet him. He bows in response, engaging in small talk when he needs to, but stepping away to get to the exhibition he flew here to see.

It’s nothing like what he expected, although years later, he doesn’t know what to expect anymore.

The first thing is, well, it’s titled. There’s a year and a description, too.

2023, swing in the summer home

The piece is beautiful, made in clay and metal. It’s familiar, too. He’s seen this on a lake house by the mountains, over 3 years ago.

2023, the piece that lost its meaning

It’s a painting, but one placed atop a sculpted frame hanging on a wall in what seems like a living room. This scene feels familiar as well.

2024, lost youth

A group of children look up at a plane, with opened suitcases and toys on the floor. The nostalgia hits him.

The rest of the sculptures are new to him. There’s one about a lady in red, one of a neighbor, one of a woman with an umbrella and clouds, aptly titled, what am i hiding from? Further down the room, the emotions become more pointed, straightforward, and a lot more focused.

2023, coward

2024, i truly was sorry

2025, is this what regret feels like?

2025, i hope you knew i lied

2025, maybe someday

Someone from the outside who knows nothing about the artist might think that the pieces are a little over the place, although one can tell from the titles that they tell a story. The sculptures are made from the same materials - clay and metal, all free standing and in similar sizes. Each caption holds a narration, and all Namjoon can read are words describing emotions, of states of being - innocence, anger, confusion, fear, loss, regret, loneliness, pain, hope, and few more.

There’s not much about joy or intimacy, though, and the thought saddens him. He had hoped that by this time, you already knew how those felt.

“So, what do you think?”

Namjoon didn’t think he’d ever hear that voice again. He’d cry if he could, especially as he turns to his side and finds you, dressed in a classy, aegean blue satin dress. Your smile is one he’s missed so much, and he wishes he could frame this moment, just so he doesn’t forget. He almost did, and he hated himself when he took so long to remember how you sounded like, how you looked like.

“Nothing like I imagined,” Namjoon replies. “In a good way.”

“I scrapped previous works and experimented with these ones. It took me years to complete,” you explain. “I almost stopped at one point, wondering if anybody would ever get it but then I figured, it didn’t matter. It’s a good thing that lifestyle magazine reached out for a feature. I think that was Mr. Hong pulling some strings. At least I got to say that for years, I didn’t know what I was doing, who I was, but now I do.”

“That’s how I knew about it, actually,” Namjoon hums. “It was in the art gallery because he was giving it away for free. It said your exhibition was here, so I flew in.”

“Oh,” you say, surprised. “I thought you had a show or filming.”

“Nah,” Namjoon sighs. “I came here for you. Otherwise I wouldn’t know where to find you, or how else to see you. You stopped… you stopped showing up. You just disappeared.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.”

It’s all you can say, really. You didn’t expect to see him here, but when you saw a familiar face enter through the doors, your heart stopped. You had a feeling Mr. Hong had told Namjoon about your exhibition - your first in 4 years. But nothing would have prepared you for this - seeing him again after you walked away from the one good thing you found in your life. You watched him from afar as he went through each of your pieces, perhaps savoring them, remembering them.

“Have you been well?” He asks, the concern still overpowering everything.

“I have.”

“You seem to have lost someone,” he says, nodding towards one of the pieces. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“She was my neighbor when I spent 8 months in Sweden,” you share. “She took care of me but then she passed away due to an accident. It was hard for a while.”

“I–” Namjoon reaches out his hand - for comfort, perhaps - but he brings it down. “I wish I knew.”

“It’s okay. And I’m okay. It’s been a year, but I wouldn’t have finished all this without her.”

You’d forgotten how silence sounded like with Namjoon, and you want to remember what it was like. You remember a lot of things, actually, like his laughter, his voice, his smile, the feel of his lips on yours, and many others.

“How long are you here for?” You finally ask, as you both walk side-by-side past the rest of the artworks inside, with a bit of distance between you.

“I’m here for 3 more days.”

“I stay at the hotel next to the building,” you say, being bold. “I leave here in 2 hours.”

You fumble for your room key and discreetly hand it over to him. “3802, if you want to. I have more to say, and I– uh, shit. If you’re seeing someone, forget what I said.”

“I’m not,” he answers. “I’ll be there.”

Namjoon watches the city from your full-wall window, wondering when you’d decide to finally speak beyond a greeting. It’s been 10 minutes since he arrived at your suite with the key you gave him, and you haven’t said anything since then.

“The buildings aren’t the same here,” you finally say. “I’ve been here for 3 months and the sounds of the cars are too loud, there’s too much smoke, people don’t smile… I don’t have anyone here.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I decided to finish some of my pieces in the city. I’ve been staying at one of my parents’ apartments not far from here.”

“And where were you before that?”

“Puerto Rico, Greece, Sweden,” you answer.

“When I said to find ourselves, I didn’t think you’d actually leave, and then not tell me about it,” he laments. “I knew it was stupid to wish you’d stay close. You weren’t in any of the places where I used to see you, where we used to go. I… I asked around but they said you haven’t visited in so long.”

“I couldn’t stay,” you try to explain. “I couldn’t because it just meant waiting for you to come even if I was the one who walked away. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to find myself in a place where I’d always be looking for you, and so I had to go. I’m so sorry, Joon. I–”

You drop the hand that reaches out to him, unsure if your touch would still be welcome. You clench your fist to stop yourself from doing it again, but he notices. He notices and takes your hand, uncurls it so he can hold it properly.

“How was it being away?”

“It was good. Hard. Terrifying,” you share. “I experienced a lot of new, fun things. I learned a lot. Made a lot of mistakes, too. I met so many people. I–”

“Were you with anyone?” he asks, turning away briefly.

“No, I… I couldn’t bring myself to,” you answer nervously. “And you?”

“No one since you. There was a reason why I asked you to stay right there, so that I knew where to find you.”

“You still found me, 3 years later, on the other side of the world.”

“I had to know if anything’s changed for you. I had to know if you made it, if you found what you were looking for. I had to know if you were happy. But you didn’t create it. There was no piece for it.”

“I found what I was looking for,” you say, looking into his eyes, glancing at his fingers that are softly exploring yours. “I realized that I could only gain whatever permanence I was looking for if I learned to let them go. Because if they come back, they stay. I walked away from you then, and I had to lose myself to all the emotions that I was so scared to feel. And I felt a lot of them, Joon. I felt a lot of things. I was going to go back home after this. But you came to me first. You’re the one always finding me. That hasn’t changed.”

“I suppose it hasn’t,” he cracks a smile. “Did I take too long?”

“You were right on time,” you say. “I would’ve come for you in a few days though. But I’m glad you’re here so that I can tell you that I can finally have this. I can finally give you everything without being scared, without it breaking me, without it ruining the ones I love.”

“Is that what you feel for me?”

“Yes. I guess I did then. I still do now.”’

There’s uncertainty in your voice, perhaps due to the fear of him no longer returning what you feel.

“I found myself, too,” he says. “I figured out what I wanted to do for myself, what more I can give, what more I desired. And I guess you’re right. That permanence can come from losing something and then having them back. And then having them stay. So many times then I regretted that I wasn’t more honest. That I was denying what I felt for you because I was scared of losing what little of a normal life I was afforded. I wished I told you much earlier, but I guess things happen when they do, right?”

“Right, but you can also say them again now.”

“That I want you close, holding my hand, tracing my skin, kissing me? That I want all that everyday?” He smiles, as he pulls you towards him and places your hand on his chest. “That I want everything from you? That I haven’t stopped thinking of you, wishing for you?”

“Yes,” you say, sighing into the kiss you’ve missed too much.

There’s that tenderness you expected, but the desire is unlike the times before. There’s more confidence now, more security in the way his mouth moves against yours. It’s as if he knows that he’ll always have this. That this time, he’s loving you in more than words, and that you’ve come back, and that you’ll stay.

Namjoon presses you against the wall, lets his lips trace down your neck and your chest. He undresses you, remarks that he’s starting to believe in a higher being who created a body like yours, and then proceeds to mouth more praises down your thighs and in between them.

He takes you slowly, amorously. He watches your face contort in pure pleasure, and you mention needing to add a piece for this, too. The way he goes in and out of you is out of this world, and you never want it to end.

You’d think it’s the intimacy you didn’t know how to feel. But it’s more than that. In fact, you find that in being with Namjoon, the intimacy is in everything - the way he holds your hand, the way he wraps his arm around you, the way he lets you bite his arm and tickle him just for fun. It’s in the way he kisses your forehead before he kisses your lips.

It’s in your bike rides together and watching the river whenever you catch a glimpse of it. It’s in your moments of calm - reading books, writing songs, sketching.

It’s in the deep, tender way that he says he loves you.

You don’t have a piece for this yet. Perhaps it’s another series altogether. Perhaps it’ll require an installation.

Or maybe, this is the one emotion you don’t need to put into art, the one that you’ll keep for yourself to hold onto because no clay and metal mixture, no tangible piece, could ever describe what this love and intimacy feels like.

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spaceisout · 1 year

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𝙨𝙚𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙩 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 // 𝙠𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙤 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙖𝙢𝙞

Pairing: keigo takami x f!reader

Words: 2.589

Summary: being married young was never in either of your plans, more or less being married to a hero and a quirkless human. still, it made an interesting switch to your lives, one you might not regret.

Warning(s): angst, fluff, slight cursing

A/n: this is a mini series that i have in mind, i hope you like it and any feedback is appreciated thank you!

Links: donate to the author, masterlist (coming soon), series list (coming soon),

Taglist: @alligator-person

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1 ◁ II ▷ 3

Keigo woke up in a bed tangled in sheets, a yawn escaped from his mouth as he was slowly waking up. His eyes focused on the ceiling, blinking the tiredness off from them.

Turning his head he looked at the clock on his nightstand that read, 7:01 AM.

"Crap..." he muttered sitting up from his messy bed, "Endeavor is going to get there soon..." He groaned fully stretching his wings, feeling too lazy and tired to head to the agency.

After minutes of fighting his external tiredness, he finally woke up and got himself ready for work.

"That's strange...."

Walking over to the door, he opened it but there was no noise coming from any room of your penthouse. Peeking his head out he looked both ways for any sign of you, but there was none.

"(name)?" he called out to you, no answer.

Quietly he stepped towards your room and gently opened the door, "(name) are you awake?" Keigo whispered.

Your room was actually tighty compared to his own, your bed was made and still no sign of you. It was weird seeing you had told him you were given some days off because you two got married, so why weren't you anywhere?

A slight feeling of panic wanted to rise inside of him. "Keep calm, hawks if something had happened you would have been contacted already."

And behold he was right, there was a note on the coffee table with your handwriting.

"Sorry for not waiting for you I had to take off this morning." He read out loud, "The school contacted me that a teacher called in sick and asked me to cover for them. I hope you get to enjoy your morning before you leave for your agency. See you later at home, (name)."

Faintly smiling he placed the note back down, "I'm glad I just hope next time you let me know, gees."

His phone then vibrated, accepting the call he spoke.

"Hey, you should have told me before you left-"

"I'm already at your agency and you're nowhere to be seen? Where are you? I thought you'd be here by now, Hawks."

"Endeavor!" he mentally cursed, forgetting he was expecting him today. "I'm already on my way, a uh villain took some time to catch. But I am a few minutes away."

Endeavor sighed, "Whatever, just get here already."

With that the call ended and Keigo quickly put on the rest of his hero costume and flew out the window feeling a little less worried about his wife.

―

"Mrs. (last name)!" you felt a pair of tiny arms wrap themselves around your legs. "I thought you were on vacation."

Smiling you crouched down to their height, "One of our teachers didn't feel too good today and I came to help cover their class."

"So you won't be back tomorrow?" they pouted.

"I'm not sure, Suzuki." you answered, "I did get some days off thanks to our principle."

"B-but aren't you.. happy here with us instead?"

You nodded, softly smiling. "I'm always happy to see you guys."

"Then stay, Mrs. (last name)!" Sato exclaimed running up from behind Suzuki.

"Sato!" you retorted, "I'm so happy to see you back again, how are you feeling?"

She gave you a thumbs up, smiling widely. "I told you I would get better quickly!"

"That you did."

"Where's your husband?" she asked standing next to Suzuki. "Is he coming by to meet us?"

"W-well... right now he is quite busy."

"He shouldn't be too busy to meet us!" Sato crossed her arms in front of her chest, frowning. "He does know about us, right?!"

"Of course!" you exclaimed, ruffling both their heads lovingly. "He knows you guys are very important to me."

The sound of the bell got their attention.

"We should get going then, we'll see you at lunch Mrs. (last name)!" She yelled hugging your neck tightly while Suzuki gave you a side hug. You wrapped both your arms around them, hugging them back. "I'll make sure to tell the others."

"Yeah... they will be happy to see you." Suzuki added.

You kissed the top of their heads and let them go, "Off you go kiddos. I don't want you two to be late."

"Bye, Mrs. (last name)!" they yelled waving at you, you waved back and watched as they made their way towards your classroom.

"(name)!"

"Oof." your body moved back as you felt a weight on top of you.

"You should be on your honeymoon!"

"He's actually busy so we're at home for the mean time, Mio."

"Are you serious?" she pulled away, shocked. "He should have taken you to at least somewhere away from Kyushu!"

"I told him it was okay." you assured her, "We can always go somewhere else."

"Nope!" she retorted shaking her head, "I need to have a talk with this mysterious husband of yours, I mean come on? It's your honeymoon!"

"Trust me he understands and is aware of it."

"Doesn't seem like it." she furrowed her eyebrows, "Are you sure he is not holding you against your will? Do you really love him? Does he love you? Is he nice to you?!"

You raised your hands, "Mio calm down. I wouldn't have gotten married if my parents did not trust him. You know how aware they are about who gets close to me."

"True." She bit her lip, then sighed. "Okay, I trust you then."

"Thank you."

"Can I see like... at least a picture of him?"

"Nope."

Mio groaned in frustration, as much as she respected your private life husband's she still wanted to know. You did feel bad that you couldn't let her know, but it was for his and your own safety.

―

"You are aware of what is going on I assume?" Endeavor spoke.

"Yeah, as far as I can tell there hasn't been any recent movement." Keigo rested his elbows on the desk, resting his chin on his open palm. "Which is a big worry on our part."

"The police has been trying to track down any leads from the past to see if they had a plan made without us noticing."

"Even if they did, they most likely have a plan ahead from what we might think." Keigo explained, "They're a group of unpredictable villains... it won't be long enough until they show up again."

"Are you still thinking about what happened?"

"Yeah..." He leaned back looking down at his desk.

"If it hadn't been for you we couldn't have known what the league had been planning." Endeavor leaned forward looking at him. "You didn't know how it would turn out in the end. We all did our best."

"I don't want there to be a repeat of last time, not again." He sternly spoke. "They don't care about losing anything. Their minds are already made up but for the rest of us... it's nothing like that. Everyone is barely going back to normality, some are still suffering."

"No one else deserves to wallow in pain again."

"How are you adjusting to your new house?" Keigo asked.

The flame hero looked away, not knowing how to answer his friends question. It had been something in his mind for a long time but with society split into two, he hasn't been able to truly sit down and feel everything.

"I don't know yet." He honestly answered. "I'm glad to see that my family is whole again, in a new place where no bad memories are attached to it."

"But?"

Endeavor stayed quiet for a moment, hoping to looked deep inside and see the answer he's been looking for.

"It's now really settling in that I can't go back and erase the hurt I've caused. The stuff I did to them... they shouldn't have gone through with it. And now..." he continued, "I'm living in a house too big for only myself."

"I understand how you felt― feel I mean." Keigo corrected himself, "It's a lonely world... but you have s chance to make things right and you have been. Not everyone thinks twice to fix things, yet you already did."

"I suppose it's going to take some time."

"You have time, go slowly." He said, "Don't rush something that needs a couple of steps in between for it to fully become complete."

"You're younger than me and yet here you are giving me life advice." Endeavor looked at him. "It's strange."

"What?" Keigo chuckled, "Come on what's so strange about me giving you advice? I can be a good person to go to, you just sometimes happen to think otherwise."

The corner of his lips slightly lifted upwards, "Yeah."

A knock at his door interrupted the conversation.

"Come in!" Keigo called out.

His assistant then walked in, "Hello, Endeavor sir. Hawks there is someone waiting for you in the meeting room."

"Thank you, I'll be there in a minute!"

She excused herself, leaving them both alone again.

"By the way I heard that you were in Miyagi? A couple of heroes kept asking me if I was there with you."

"I was vising some old friends." Keigo answered standing up from his chair.

"In Miyagi?"

"Yeah I've gone there a couple of times during my vacation and I liked it." He teasingly smiled at him, "Don't worry you're still my favorite Endeavor."

"As if I care..." he muttered.

"Come on Endeavor you know I still love you." Keigo went around his desk to hug him but Endeavor stretched his arm out stopping him from doing so.

He pouted, "You're so mean!"

―

After school was when things got a bit busier than you had thought. All the teachers had made a plan to meet up and discuss the upcoming sports festival for the students. It would be a small event held for all grades, their parents would be invited of course to come and cheer them on.

"I think an obstacle course could be fun!" Mio exclaimed looking at everyone. "We can set up a few tunnels and curves that they would have to go around."

"That's an excellent idea." The principle smiled, "We can even set up a stand on the side with snacks and drinks for all of them to enjoy."

"Are parents going to participate?" A teacher asked.

"For the time being I think it would be best if they watch and interact with them during their breaks since it will be a big event for everyone."

"Understood."

"Does anyone else want to pitch in an idea or have any questions?" The principle asked looking around the room.

You knew that it would be impossible to get any heroes to show up and cheer them on. From what you heard your kiddos loved Hawks along with Best Jeanist, Endeavor, and Midnight.

But if you asked him personally there was going to be a chance that he would say no.

Still, your students have been wanting to meet them for awhile now and it could inspire them.

Raising your hand you took the risk, "I understand this event is already big as it is but... well is there a possibility that we can ask a hero to come as a guest? Our kids would appreciate it... even after all that's happened. I know they're looking for an inspiration and let them know that things will be okay."

Everyone murmured around them, some agreeing to the idea that it would be beneficial to get more sponsored events and earn money for the school.

"Things have been a bit difficult for all of us," she said. "I can see why you want to get them involved to cheer them up. Still given the circumstance, some heroes want to stay put for the mean time so they don't cause any attention from the villains."

"That's true..." you agreed, "Sorry for asking I should have thought twice about it."

"Don't worry I know you meant well."

"Talking about pro heroes," another colleague of yours spoke leaning forward to look at you. "How was your wedding?! We've been dying to know."

Your cheeks turned red. "A―Akane, it went well I don't really know what else to say."

"Don't even try I've been asking the same thing since she came back." Mio added.

"Ladies, I'm sure she has a reason to not want to talk about it." The principle said.

"She's right, it's something private. (Name) will talk when she wants to." Your friend said as he looked at you. "Her husband will show and present himself to all of us, when he's ready of course."

"Thank you, Hizashi." You softly smiled his way, he gave you a smile in return.

"I think she's right, though." he said looking at everyone, "Maybe we can get a hero to come by and show up at the event. Even during these hard times our students need some cheering up as well."

"Yeah but who?" Mio questioned leaning against you.

"What about Best Jeanist?" Hizashi asked.

"My students love him." You smiled remembering how they liked drawing him each time during their free time.

"I know." His eyes lit up, "I saw all those drawings you have of him on the wall. He seems to be like the most popular hero."

"Yeah." You chuckled, "All of them are fascinated with him after he came back. They asked me if I ever met Best Jeanist but I told them no."

Your phone started to ring, you looked down at the caller ID and saw it was Keigo.

"Sorry, excuse me." You sheepishly smiled getting up from your seat and walking out of the staff room.

"Hey is everything alright?" Keigo asked as he stopped at the top of a building.

"Y―yeah! Why do you ask?"

"I got home and saw the lights were still turned off. I thought you'd be there by now since school ends at two."

"A meeting came up all of a sudden after school, I was only aware of it until I was almost out the door." You explained, "I didn't think it'd run this late."

"Do you want me to come get you? I shouldn't be too far away from your school―"

"No, it's okay." you said, "Plus I wouldn't want to put you in a risky spot in case if someone saw you close by the school.

"I can still meet you halfway at least."

"Keigo, it's okay." You reassured him. "I've gone home alone plenty of times before. I'm sure if I take a taxi nothing bad is going to happen."

"But (name)."

"I'm going to be just fine, stop worrying too much."

A warm feeling rose inside of you knowing he was concerned about your safety. All this time you thought it'd be the type of traditional marriage where you two wouldn't talk unless it was necessary but he was proving you wrong, and you were really liking it.

"(name)!" Hizashi called out to you, "The principle said we'd continue tomorrow with the meeting, it's already getting late."

You nodded at his direction, "Okay, thank you for letting me know."

"I can walk you home if you'd like." He suggested.

Before you could answer him, your husband quickly grabbed your attention with his question.

"Who's that?" Keigo questioned feeling a tad bit of jealousy.

"He's a friend." you answered and gave a sign to Hizashi to give you a minute. "I've known him for a while now."

"And you're going to accept his offer?"

"He lives in a few blocks away from us―"

"You're not answering my question... are you going to walk home with him?"

You bit your lip as you couldn't help but ask. "Does it... does it bother you?..."

Keigo's lips parted getting ready to reject that ridiculous idea when he realized that it did in fact bother him.

"No, it's fine." He faintly smiled, "If you trust him then there's no reason for me to worry about it."

"Are you sure―"

"Yeah I'll see you back at home okay?"

"Wait I thought... you were at home already." you asked.

"I was but I left something at the office." he explained, "I shouldn't take too long, I'll meet you there."

"Oh, alright. Be careful then okay?"

"Yeah.. you too."

It gave you a mixed feeling with the way he hung up on you. There was no way he had even felt any emotion of jealousy, you two got married on a deal after all. Why would it bother him if you went home with a friend? Or was it because you shot his offer down and heard when Hizashi asked you?

"(name)?"

"Huh?" you turned around to see him standing in front of you. "Hey... sorry I spaced out. Did you say something?"

"Is everything alright?" He asked handing you your bag.

"Y―yeah I was on the phone with my husband." you responded. "He was asking me if I was okay since I usually go home early after work."

"He was worried that's understandable." Hizashi said walking towards the exit beside him. "If I had a wonderful wife like you hell I'd be worried."

Chuckling your face flushed, "I'm sure your future wife will be even better than me."

Looking down at you he added, "I don't know it's hard nowadays to even find the perfect someone."

"Who knows maybe when you least expect it you will end up finding her."

A small smile formed on his lips, "Maybe I already did."

Hizashi has always admired you for how passionate you are for helping your students. You enjoyed your work and there was nothing you wouldn't do for them. Although you could find another job somewhere else with better pay you stayed. And he's seen his fair share of people leaving, except you.

Friends, was the word he used to describe the relationship between you two. Although there are times where he wished there was a smidge of hope that it would change. Now that you're married he realized you two might be better off how you are now, still there was hope inside of him.

"How's your husband if you don't mind me asking?" He asked as you walked passed a stand of your (favorite food) food.

"He's... kind." You answered earning a chuckle from him. "What?" You asked looking up at him.

"You― I was surprised by your choice of word is all. I thought maybe you would say amazing or―or handsome."

"R―right well he ―he is!" you exclaimed feeling nervous as you tried to sound convincing. "He's the best of the best! Also a good person and if he wasn't people wouldn't like him."

"But that's what they think right?" Hizashi questioned not fully believing you. "I want to know what you, think of him."

"What I think of... him?" you asked looking straight ahead of you already forgetting the food stand that had caught your attention.

"I mean you decided to marry him, only four months into your relationship." He pointed out, "Knowing you if you did not trust or had feelings for him you would not have said yes to his proposal."

It was actually more complicated than that. This marriage was a deal, to help out your parents during their hard time. In exchange you had offered yourself while their situation was being handled by Keigo in secret.

You didn't think he'd accept it and say no but to your surprise he did agree. At first you were weary about him, whether you could fully trust him. Slowly but surely you two began to talk and you started to ease yourself when being next to him. Yet there was stuff you did not know about him like he did not know about you.

"I'm still learning stuff about him, that you are right about." You crossed your arms in front of your chest, feeling the night getting colder. "I got married knowing some stuff about him, heck I sometimes get worried that it might not work."

"And you are still willing to try and make things work huh?"

"Yeah..." you continued smiling small. "I decided to do this because I wanted to. I want to know what it's like to share your life with someone else other than your family or people you personally know."

"You're something else you know." Hizashi said smiling up towards the sky.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," he looked down at you with the warmest smile. "He's lucky to have you and I hope however this marriage goes it doesn't change you."

"I wouldn't ever think about changing."

After parting ways from your long time friend you made your way towards your home. The building shined bright in all the lights that were used by strangers to finish or start their day. People passed by the building along with cars on the side of the street.

Taking your key out you unlocked the door and greeted the receptionist at the front desk with a quick hello and picked up any mail that was left for you during the day.

When the elevator stopped at your floor, you put in the key once again to unlock it. As you stepped inside you noticed the lights were turned on in the kitchen while the rest was surrounded by darkness.

"Keigo?..." you called out approaching the kitchen. "Are you home?"

When you got to the living room you placed your bag and key along with the mail down on the table and chair. Slowly you walked over to the kitchen but there was no one there.

You sigh turning around to walk out and turn off the light when you saw a plate of food covered in a transparent plastic wrap on the table. Walking over to it you saw a small note next to it.

I realized you weren't going to come home soon so I made some food! I hope you like it, see you later at home, (name).

"Keigo..." you mumbled unwrapping the plate of food.

Your vision started to become blurry, you wiped away the tears that were starting to form. It wasn't the plate of food that was getting you so worked up, your parents did it so many times for you in the past. It was the fact that he decided to be thoughtful about your well being and making sure you ate something.

As emotional as you were, being thoughtful was one of the things that you appreciated so much from someone. Keigo could have just stayed quiet about eating but instead he made sure to leave some food for you too. He may still be a stranger in some ways but he had a good heart that was obvious.

The clock currently read 10:37 PM. Keigo could feel his muscles getting sore from the fight between three villains that made themselves know near his agency. They weren't too tough to handle but one of them had a strength quirk.

His feet were basically dragging him at this point to get to bed and sleep, but he knew he had to at least shower. As he entered his home his mind went to you, wondering if you were already asleep.

Walking towards the living room to get to his room, he saw you curled up on the edge of the brown couch asleep. His hand reached out to wake you up but stopped himself from doing so. He's never seen someone sleep so peacefully in his life before.

Yet there you were, sleeping away without a worry. Even then his eyes couldn't stop looking at you. The light coming in through the large window made its way to your figure, making you shine brighter than you already did.

He could have said no the moment you made the offer but he took it instead. If anyone else knew about his reason they would have described him as being selfish. For someone who has been through hell, he thought it would make his life a little less stressful by having someone around, someone to come home to.

Would you think about him the same way if you ever found out?

"Keigo?..." you mumbled half asleep. "You're back..."

"Hey, sorry I came home so late." he softly spoke crouching down in front of you as you sat up. "Did you fall asleep waiting for me?"

"Mhm," you rubbed your eyes trying to wake yourself up. "I―I wanted to wait for you... tell you the food was delicious."

"Really?" he breathed out in relief. "Now I can sleep soundly knowing you enjoyed it."

You chuckled quietly, "I'm glad to ease your worries."

Without thinking he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, "We should get you to bed, it's already late."

"Yeah... y―you need to rest as well."

Keigo stood back up straight, extending his hand out to you. Accepting his hand you got up from the couch, holding onto his hand tightly.

He couldn't help but look down at you as you both walked towards your individual rooms. There was just something adorable about you when you were sleepy.

Your body suddenly leaned in towards him making him blush. You closed your eyes, smiling as you felt his body heat radiating through his coat onto you.

"Keigo?..."

"Hm?"

"Welcome, home."

His gaze softened, feeling his muscles relax and forgetting about his flustered face. Those two simple words made him feel like he was safe, despite all the chaos that occurred.

He smiled with closed eyes, "I'm home."

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pockykierra · 26 days

Text

Chapter Four of Saying The Quiet Part Aloud is out!!

Thank you for your patience! With this chapter being at 12,500 words, it was definitely a doozy to write, and especially to edit. Hopefully the next one will come a little sooner (no promises, but a person can dream haha)

Also with this chapter, a piece of art I commissioned from a dear friend! I hope everyone loves it as much as I do, I’m SO hyped about it. Make sure to read the authors notes to get the artists links!!

A sneak peek of the first bit below the cut!

Aziraphale had never liked the phrase “to see the light.”

In the grand scheme of things, it was an odd thing to have a strong opinion about - but he had his reasons. For one, projected a level of nonunderstanding he had never thought himself to have. He was not a people person (he couldn’t be, even if he wanted to), nor did he believe himself to be attractive or particularly funny, and he certainly wasn’t getting any younger. But if there was one constant in Aziraphale’s life, one thing he was always sure about - it was that, above all else, he was smart. That, he was sure of. So what point was there in “seeing the light” when he already knew where the light was coming from, when it would arrive, and what it would bring?

It also reminded him of his mother.

The pious woman she had always been, when Aziraphale was a child, she taught him common phrases and idioms that originated from scripture. And Aziraphale - young, eager to learn, and full of faith - had listened with eyes and ears wide open, soaking up every lesson like a sponge. Her lessons were still so clear in his mind she might as well have been sitting there beside him. He could still hear her gentle but firm voice and the careful way her thin fingers flipped through scritta, searching endlessly for that next verse. To that day, he could recall the lesson on the idiom in question with little difficulty.

””See the light,” Aziraphale. God is the creator of light, and so He is light. To see it is to see God himself and accept his truth.”

Well, Aziraphale was no longer religious; whatever ‘light of God’s truth’ that had been there had long since faded. All that remained was a deep, aching bitterness and the question of ‘why?’. If God was true and real, why had He given Aziraphale an ability that cursed him to a life of loneliness? Why hadn’t He given a way to turn it off or to do away with it? Why him?

Yet another reason to hate that saying.

But sometimes, a phrase was apt, even if not enjoyed. And unfortunately, there was no better one.

Aziraphale had seen the light.

And the light was that there was no ‘moving along’ from Crowley.

Aziraphale stared at his ceiling, cursed with another night of tossing and turning as he pondered this revelation. It had haunted him since - Aziraphale’s head lazed to the side, eyes squinting against the beam of his phone as he turned it on - nearly twelve hours ago. He had sat in his office, trying to think of anything but Crowley and failing miserably. Not even all the new and exciting flavors he had discovered at lunch could pull his focus away.

No, all he could think of was Crowley.

It was near the end of the work day when he had been smacked in the face with the realization and the horrible truth of it all. And the truth was that there was nothing he could do to stop what was happening. Crowley was rooted firmly in his brain, and that was that. Trying to remove him, forget him, or ignore everything that had happened between them would be impossible.

There was no going back.

#good omens #good omens 2 #crowley #good omens season 2 #aziraphale #good omens fanfiction #fanfiction #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #ineffable idiots #anthony j crowley #pkfanfics

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imabeautifulbutterfly · 13 days

Text

Not Ready - Part Three

Summary: Making your way back to the Marauder with Hunter and Omega

A/N: Hello lovelies,

In case you didn't realize, I should probably mention this is all set in the time of Season 1 but I'm sure you guys realized that. Also had a half day today because half our patients cancelled, love days like that, got a lot of stuff done and still had an evening to relax.

Love oo.

Italics - flashback

Warnings: Angst, irritations, yelling, lack of trust, fluff, running, evading capture, forehead kiss, feelings of guilt, fear, guilt, feelings of cowardice, I think that's it. Let me know if I miss anything.

Previous -> Next

AO3 Link | OS & MS Master List | Main Master List

Now that you thought about it, those moments of you yelling at him probably weren’t the most productive moments between the two of you. You reached out and grabbed Omega’s hand when she slipped, as the three of you made your way back to the Marauder as quickly as you could, “You okay, M?”

“Yeah, my foot just slipped.” You watched as her whole body twitched, she was nervous. You kneeled down in front of her, while Hunter took a chance to scout out the way ahead.

“Look at me sweetie,” you tucked her hair behind her ear, something you’d done numerous times. She slowly met your eyes, the two of you had gotten closer ever since you joined. In a way, she was the daughter you always wished you could’ve had. She had your love and devotion, without even a second thought. All you wanted was to protect her, and make sure she was loved and cared for, you cursed your heart. It wasn’t supposed to get attached, that was the agreement you had made when you initially went on the run, it was safer for everyone. You let out a soft sigh, as you offered her a reassuring smile, “It’s going to be okay, love. I promise.”

“I know. It’s just … do you think Crosshair is okay? What if he’s hurt?”

“M, it’ll be okay. If he’s hurt, he’s got people to look out for him. It’s us we should be worried about, we still have a myriad of stormtroopers to avoid.” She nodded, not quite able to forget about Crosshair, you pressed a kiss to her forehead, “It’ll be alright.” You held out your hand to her, “Come on, sweetie.”

Hunter hated how much his eyes kept following you, it didn’t matter that half the time, you argued with each other, or that you frustrated him so much sometimes all he wanted to do was shut you up with his lips pressed against yours. However, watching you with Omega, how motherly and kind you were to her and the others, even if you couldn’t stand him, you certainly were able to get along with everyone else. Sometimes the way you acted, reminded him of a rancor, fiercely loyal and protective of those it loved, but ready to destroy anyone who even dared to hurt you or those you loved. Maybe that’s why things had always been difficult between you two? Because he put you in danger from the word ‘go’.

He let out a sigh, whatever thoughts or desires were confusingly roaming around his heart, weren’t likely to come to fruition. You both needed to keep your distances, and focus on the one thing that mattered the most to the both of you, Omega.

“We should keep moving” he called down to you and Omega. You nodded and helped Omega up the slope.

You watched as Hunter held out his hand for Omega helping her along the way. Despite his faults, of which he had many … okay maybe not that many, maybe a few. Okay, one. He had one fault. He thought he was always right. And sometimes he was … but a lot of times, he wasn’t. However, there was one thing that always pulled at your heartstrings no matter how annoyed you two were at each other, and that was how he looked after Omega.

Everyone was asleep, as you sat in the cockpit. You tried to sleep, but running into the two sisters who were actively fighting the Empire, made you begin to question everything. Here they were putting themselves in jeopardy, to do something to help the galaxy. Meanwhile, all you’d ever done was hurt it, and now you were trying to actively hide from the Empire like a coward.

You rubbed your forehead letting out a sigh, when you heard shuffling behind you. You turned to see Hunter tucking Omega in, making sure Lula was close to her. After having to run away from Wrecker when his chip activated, you weren’t surprised to see her fall asleep as quickly as she did, the stress and adrenaline from the day definitely wearing her thin. You watched as he brushed Omega’s hair off her forehead, making sure she wasn’t having trouble sleeping. You let out a sigh, why did he have to be so sweet? Why did he have to do things that made your heart flutter?

You turned away, shutting down the feelings that were trying to brew. You closed your eyes, resting your head against the headrest. You weren’t meant for a life filled with love, sweetness, and comfort. It was never in the cards for you, and you weren’t ready for how your heart kept pulling and clenching. It was time to seriously think about leaving, you were getting too comfortable and too attached.

“You alright?”

Hunter saw how meeting the two sisters threw you, it wasn’t just them though. It was hearing Rex’s account about what happened to his brothers, the chips that were in the clones brains; then the Jedi cruiser on Bracca, or more specifically the lab on the cruiser that made you uncomfortable. Something about being in a lab made you jumpy, made you nervous, he could smell your anxiety the moment you saw the lab.

“Hmmm?” You turned to look at Hunter, not quite hearing his question.

“Are you okay?” Hunter took a seat in the chair directly behind yours, leaning forward resting his elbows on his knees, his bandana covering the patch on the side of his head, as his eyes found yours.

“Why do you care?” You followed his movement leaning forward, resting your own elbows on your knees. You didn’t mean for your words to come out as rude as it sounded. It was a genuine question on your behalf, why would he care about you after all the hassle you gave him.

“You’re part of this crew, of course I’m gonna care regardless of how much you irritate me,” he smirked, “and you do irritate me.” You were thrown off by the fact he cared … the fact that anyone cared.

Hunter wasn’t blind, he could see something was bothering you, ”Butterfly, I … I don’t know what’s got you so shaken, but you can talk to me.”

“You’re better off not knowing.”

“What if I want to know?” He leaned closer, his fingers gently brushing against your own, almost by accident.

“Hunter, you can’t help me, and when you do one day find out what’s going on, you may not want me around anymore, and I’ll accept that. But not today, I - I don’t want to talk about it.”

He took a deep breath, as he reached his hand forward tucking your hair behind your ear, it always seemed to be unruly, sticking out the side of your head or clinging to your cheek, “You don’t have to be so strong all the time.”

“It’s not about being strong…” you leaned away from his hand, not wanting your heart to thump any harder or hope for more than it was. You let out a sigh, “Never mind, I should go rest.” You stood walking away from him burying the warm sensation in your heart deep down. As you walked past him, he reached out and grabbed your hand, holding it softly in his hand, getting you to look at him one more time.

“We’ve all done things we might not be proud of, doesn’t mean you’re alone. We’re here for you.”

You took in a deep breath as you looked at him, giving his hand a squeeze, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

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podcastkevin · 6 months

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Hello, hope you're having a good day/night

I was wondering if I could request BAU Team x Male read who's immortal (He likes Hotch but is afraid of what would happen if he or anyone really found out about his secret)

I was thinking what if on a case the unsub was killing people who looked similar to reader but left behind images of a man from different eras and they all look strikingly the same to reader. But before they can do anything seeing as its obvious the Unsub for some reason is fixed on reader, the Unsub captures reader.

Maybe sends a video or a stream of torturing reader and talking about I'll prove that he can't dye.

Maybe reader's origins come from the medieval era? His view on immortality is it's a curse. You can 'dye' over and over but you always come back you don't forget anything.

Would the team be worried? Would the team still except him?

My first request and honestly it’s nerve wracking, I hope this turns out how you imagine. This is my first time writing using M/n 😅

I added that reader can be wounded like a normal human but can’t actually d1e, he is immortal. I’m sorry if the ending was a bit rough, I was struggling on how to finish it off.

⚠️: Torture, kidnapping, murder but can’t die, stalker activity, usual criminal minds stuff, Not a warning but Hotch is adorable 😂 I did have M/n and Hotch end up together at the end…

H/C: Hair Color | H/L: Hair Length

S/C: Skin color | N/n: Nickname

“This is SSA L/N, I’m currently unavailable…”

The message taunts him. M/n always answers his phone when it’s one of them, it’s rare for him to not answer.

After pulling his phone away when the message ends, he stares at his phone. Hotch debates whether or not he should call him a fifth time. This cycle only started because the male was late, he’s never late, and definitely never by an hour, he was growing worried.

A knock at his door has him looking up, JJ standing there with files in her arms. “There’s a case.” “Is it important?” “It’s been going on for years…” “How are we just now hearing about it?” “It’s just now becoming apparent.”

“The Hillbert family has now made its self known. It first started off, unbelievably, in the 1800’s.” JJ started. “You’re joking.” Derek scoffs with an amused smile. “Not at all…This family, for generations, has had history of stalking, insanity, and a little while later, murdering.” “Why are they now making themselves known?” “That we don’t know. They’re going after older victims, late twenties it seems, H/L H/C, S/C, and recently photos have been appearing next to the victims along with “Freak” Carved into their stomachs.”

“What are the photos?” “Um, the ones that have been found so far-“ “Put them on the screen.” Hotch interrupts and JJ does so. “Wait, the victims look like M/n…” Reid points out after staring at them for a moment before looking at the photos left at the crime scene. “So do the photos…” He stands up and gets closer, looking at all the details. “This one looks like film from a flash camera from the eighteen-hundreds…this one looks to be from a disposable camera…and this one seems to be printed out, guys all these pictures are from different moments in time.”

It was pictures of what looked like M/n, the later times are him posing, seeming like it was a voluntary photo taken by a Hillbert descendant and while the photos age, they become more stalker like, candid photos of M/n sitting outside a shop or sitting in a park. They’ve never seen a stalker like this before. “I think M/n is in danger.”

Suddenly a link appears. “Garcia.” The analyst already had her computer open and the link appeared on her laptop too, she clicked it and it appeared on the big screen as well.

—-Hours before—-

M/n usually woke up early, he liked the early morning when the sun has barely risen and he can relax as he walks to work, undisturbed by the loud hustle and bustle of a normal morning with cars driving by and people cluttering the sidewalk.

He liked this moment of normality, imagining his life as a normal human. He’s glad he has the BAU and the people he’s met but he fears the end, when they all leave him and he’s still there, cursed to never leave and watch those he’s grown attached to slip through his fingers.

He’s so distracted in his daydream that he doesn’t realize he’s being shot then dragged down an alley way. He clutching his side, looking up at his attacker only to be met with the barrel of a gun. “No where to go now, L/n. After decades, I finally got you. My dad would be so proud of me to know that I caught the freak, M/n L/n, that drove my family mad.” The gun cocks and M/n tried not to look afraid. “Don’t worry…You’ll come back. You always do.” He says with a wicked smile and pulls the trigger, the world going dark for M/n as George removes and pockets his badge, gun, and phone before dragging him to the van across the street, throwing him in the back.

The link opens and George Hilbert greets them with a smile. “Hello everyone.” It’s a video, the only lighting source coming from a window and a poor lamp in front of his face behind the camera. “You may or may not have figured out that my family seems to have an obsession with a certain someone.” He steps aside and reveals M/n, chained to a chair, his shirt missing as his head leans back against the chair. “For years…” George starts, “My family has been following M/n here. You may be wondering why. Well, it’s because we know about a little secret that he has. It all started with my ancestor Albert Hilbert, long ago, he was a friend of M/n’s and he continued to be a family friend for ages. Kinda weird, huh? The more my family saw that M/n would live and look the same while many of them died, the more my family grew to insanity. How can someone live for years upon years and never change? Never die like the average human?”

He suddenly draws a knife and plunges it into M/n’s stomach, the male groaning as he doubles over the best he could over George’s arm. He pulls the knife out, watching as M/n struggles. “He must not be able to survive if I…do this-” He stabbed him in the chest, right at his heart and the team flinches, most of them with tears in their eyes as they watch. “Right? Or…” He pulls a gun out and aims it at his head, wordlessly pulling the trigger making Garcia, JJ, Emily, and Hotch flinch.

The video ends but oddly enough, another link comes up, this time a live link. “Hello again. Decided to make it live, to show in real time that this man is a freak, a monster living his best life at not being able to die.” “I-It…It’s n-not a g-good thing…” “Oh look, He lives!!” George cheers sarcastically.

“Go on, M/n. Tell your buddies who you really are.” He shakes his head, “I don’t have anything to tell them.” “You lying motherfucker.” He stabs him again, in the stomach. “You literally came back to life after I stabbed you in the heart and shot you in the head. How can you sit-“ He twists the knife, “There and lie about being immortal? Huh? It’s the best power anyone can wish for.” “It’s a curse! I-It’s n-not good…” “How?” “I g-get t-to live…Wh-While others die…I can nev-never kill my self…when I do, I just c-come back…as if I fell asleep in-instead of dying…”

The team was conflicted. How could he never tell them about this? There was confusion and shock but no anger. They were just worried for him now.

“I-I found him…” Garcia mutters as she watches M/n fold over himself. Although he can’t die, he still feels the pain. The knife George has suddenly enters his shoulder and the blade twists. “Where is he?” Hotch asks immediately but he doesn’t let her answer. “Just send me the location, I’m going to get him.” “W-Wait, Hotch-“ But he was already running out the door before Derek could stop him.

When the team caught up to Hotch with the swat team and ambulance, George stood cuffed to his porch but Hotch was no where in sight. They took George away and the team walked into the house to look for their boss.

After Hotch found him in the basement, he unchained M/n and helped him to the floor, holding his head on his lap. M/n was weak, he had a lot of wounds and he was constantly in and out of consciousness.

“I’m sorry, Hotch…” The male hushed him, just brushing his hair out of the way. “C-Can I tell you something?” “Yeah, just stay awake.” “I’m not going anywhere…I can’t…” Hotch resisted the urge to laugh but his smiles. “I’ve been like this for centuries…Cursed for as long as I could remember…my time alive, I’ve only had three partners…I don’t want to see them die while I get to live…” “Why are you tell me this?” “C-Cause I-I don’t want to live…while eventually you have to die…” Hotch sighs, leaning down to rest his forehead against M/n’s, shushing him quietly as he tried to stop him from crying. “It’s okay…” “I-I’m sorry, Hotch…” He sobbed.

“M/n, use my name…it’s okay, N/N…I don’t care.” M/n opened his eyes, tears blurring his vision as he looked into Aaron’s eyes and the amount of care he saw in them made him break and he reached up, wrapping his arm around Aaron’s neck as the other male wrapped an arm around M/n’s shoulders, a hand cradling the back of his head, and the other wrapping around his lower back, hugging him tightly but not too tight to aggravate the wounds that still ooze blood but neither of them seem to care. Aaron kisses the top of M/n’s head and he pulls back. “I-I’m gonna pass out…” He mutters, slumping into Aaron who never let him go. “You’ll wake up, right?” M/n smiled up at him, bumping his forehead into Aaron’s again. “Always.” and he goes limp slightly, almost as if he fell asleep.

He picked him up, walking past Derek and the others and took him outside to the paramedics. He’s never felt this way since Haley, it was weird, but seeing M/n in that position he can’t even care enough to process M/n and his ability, He’s just glad he has him now.

This is the longest M/n has been out, or at least it feels like it’s been awhile.

He groans, the scratchy hospital blankets uncomfortably against his hands but he’s distracted by the soft fabric that covers the rest of him. His eyes fluffed open and he groans, the artificial hospital lights are off but the blinds are open to let in the sun.

He looks around, Reid is sleeping on the couch in front of windows, Derek laying opposite the young genius and hilariously cuddling with Reid’s leg making him chuckle. He looks down, noticing the comfy clothing on him instead of the hospital gown. To his left, Aaron was resting his head on his arms, free of a suit but instead in a t-shirt. It was odd for M/n to see him not wearing a suit. Aaron was holding his hand, and if M/n strained his neck, he could see Aaron wasn’t asleep but watching his own hand, his thumb slowly moving over M/n’s knuckles.

M/n tightens his hand over Aaron’s and he looks up, smiling softly and standing up to kiss his forehead. “Hi…” His voice was dry and rough, Aaron walks away to get a cup of water and help M/n take slow sips. “The nurses and doctors that helped you are shocked you’re not dead…” He smirks, chuckling at the memory of the nurses jaws dropping when they saw the stab wound to his heart and the bullet wound in his head, but a clear heart beat.

“Aar?” He hums, sitting back down and taking M/n’s hand. “Are you sure…that we could be a thing?” “Yeah…” “I’m not sure I can live through-“ “Don’t think about it.” He smiles. “Just live in the moment, don’t think of the future. You have me now, okay?” M/n nods, his head relaxing onto his pillow as he stares at Aaron with a soft look on his face.

“Why are you staring?” M/n smiles. “I have a secret.” “More than being immortal since the fourteen hundreds?” M/n’s jaw drops. “The kid did some research.” He says casually with a smile. “U-Um, no, I have a different secret. Come here.” Aaron stands again, still holding M/n’s hand as he got closer. “Closer.” He rolls his eyes with a smile and leaned closer.

M/n hesitantly reached up, his hand resting on the side of his face as he pulled him down and kissed him. It was a quick peck but they smiled, Aaron resting his forehead head against M/n’s with a bigger smile as the male giggles.

“Y’all done being cute? I’d like to say hi to my friend.” They look over to see Derek sitting up before getting up to walk over the the hospital bed. “You looked comfortable hugging Reid’s foot. Kind of upset I didn’t get a picture.” M/n raises his arms to hug Derek who chuckles. “Don’t worry, I got a couple.” Aaron mentions and Derek groans. “I won’t live that down.” He says, dragging another chair over to start talking to M/n.

He’s surprised the team isn’t freaked out or upset. Later on, they expressed that what M/n had was cool and Reid and a couple others wouldn’t stop asking him questions about different times the male lived in. After they found out, M/n tried to use his curse for good but them team always denied his attempts of being a human target during dangerous cases. Just because he’s immortal doesn’t mean he can always sacrifice himself.

Jack adores M/n making Aaron’s heart swell whenever he sees the two interacting or even when the two fall asleep during movie night. The both of them lived in the moment, enjoying each other and ignoring the inevitable because right now they have each other, and that’s all M/n cares about.

…………I hope this is okay…

I actually did enjoy writing this and I hope it’s to your liking. This is my first request and typing something from someone else’s idea and honestly I was nervous while writing this cause I wanted to put enough details to make it acceptable.

I also love Aaron a lot and may have projected a little bit of adoration that me, myself, has towards him.

#Kevin's Query #criminal minds x male reader #Aaron Hotchner x male reader #immortal male reader #x male reader #criminal minds fic

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nishayuro · 7 months

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The way I loved you - Bakugo Katsuki

Collection: Spotify playlist song prompts

Genre: Angst, Hurt/No comfort

GN! Reader

A/N:okay so the way I do these is I spin a wheel for songs, for fandom then character. and when the way i loved you came out and MHA got chosen as the fandom I was like, “omg what if bakugo…” and iT WENT TO BAKUGO’S SDFGHJ THIS IS FATE

Synopsis: You’re happy, you’re with the perfect guy, you’re living the ideal romance that everyone dreams of. But why do you still long to be in his arms?

“He says everything I need to hear, and it's like I couldn't ask for anything better”

Perfect. Ideal. Came out of a fairytale. These are all words that people describe when they see you with your partner, and you can’t even deny.

It’s true, he’s charming, intelligent, strong, loving, caring, loyal, and all these other perfect qualities. You feel like you’ve hit the jackpot.

“Love?” a voice calls out, you snap out of your thoughts and look towards the man in front of you, your boyfriend of 2 years. “oh , yeah sorry just got lost in thought” you said, giving him a smile.

“Hmm, penny for your thoughts?” he grinned, holding out a hand towards you. “Just thinking of how perfect you are” you admitted, a smile adoring your face.

“Oh? Well, you, my dear, are more perfect than one could ever hope to be. How’d I get lucky to even pull you? I have no idea, "he teased, linking his arms with yours. “Let’s go, we don’t want to be late for our date” you say, pulling him out the door. “Oh and by the way, you look wonderful tonight” he says, pressing a kiss on your hand.

“And he says, "You look beautiful tonight" And I feel perfectly fine”

The drive to the restaurant was quick, both of you joking to each other on the way. When you got there, he got out of the car to open your side, escorting you out. “Wow, what a gentleman~” you teased. “Only the best for my love,” he replied. You both walk towards the entrance, hand in hand. As he confirmed your reservations with the receptionist, your eyes scanned the place.

Big glass windows lined the walls, giving a wonderful view of the city lights. The ceiling was lined with fancy chandeliers, illuminating the room with a wondrous glow. You're thinking about how well the lighting will be for your pictures later on. A waiter leads you both to a table near the sides, a bit secluded but still gives a great view of the whole room.

He pulls out your chair, sitting you down before he sits down himself. As you ordered your food, you both decided to indulge in conversation, like how your parents are inviting him over for a birthday party, or how your brother was asking him if he’d like to join them in a basketball match next week.

This is the romance you’ve dreamt of since young. This is the life you’ve always wanted. But why, as you move your gaze to the table behind him, do your eyes hold a sense of sorrow and longing?

“But I miss screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain, And it's 2 a.m. and I'm cursing your name”

Your relationship with Katsuki Bakugo was one you’d call imperfect. He was loud, brash, and arrogant. He’d often be late to dates, coming home late at night and leaving early in the morning, and forgetting important dates because of the nature of his job as a hero. As much as you tried to understand him, it was just too much.

You couldn’t live like that anymore, living with uncertainty, living like he’s not even part of your life. Soon, one fight turned into two, two turned into three, and three turned into a screaming fest at 2 am.

“Holy shit, Katsuki! Is it so much to ask for you to make just a bit of time for me?!” you screamed, tears threatening to fall. “Do I look like I can?! Hero work is already stressful enough, I don’t even get an ounce of rest before I’m called back again!” he shouts back, annoyance visible in his voice.

You pace the room, tears running down your face. “Why are we still even in a relationship then?! I can’t live like this anymore, Katsuki! I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t live like you don’t even exist in my life…” you cried, grabbing a jacket and leaving through the front door of his apartment.

“You're so in love that you act insane, And that's the way I loved you”

“Y/N! Wait!” Katsuki shouted, running after you, rain pouring down like it's insulting him. “Y/N, please!” he shouts, catching up to you and encasing you in his arms. “Please, don’t go…” He whispers, eyes looking into yours. And even though Katsuki was loud, brash and arrogant, you still loved him. He was still your Katsuki. So in a moment of weakness, your lips connected with his.

You pulled away to catch your breath, looking him in the eye. As much as you loved the man in front of you, you still can’t see yourself living that life, not even with him.

“I’m sorry, Kats. But I really can’t anymore. I love you, but this is goodbye.” You declared, placing one last kiss on his lips before turning back and walking away. He stared at your retreating figure, his own tears mixing in with the rain, weeping with him for the end of his 3 years with you.

“He can't see the smile I'm faking, And my heart's not breaking”

His bright red eyes caught your (e/c) coloured own. He was… on a date? You looked at the person he was with, and your heart clenched. Why are you feeling this? You’re on a date of your own. “Honey, you good?” your partner asked, concern evident in his face. “I’m fine, just got distracted by the decoration” you lie, you feel guilty. It's been years, and he’s still lingering in your heart.

You tried to ignore Katsuki at the other table, your partner making that a little easier. A waiter comes to your table and places down a dish in front of you, “Oh, we didn’t order dessert yet.” You said, motioning to the dish. “No, I actually did.” Your boyfriend interrupted, a smile on his face.

The waiter opens the lid and you see a cake with a drawing of a ring. Oh fuck. You thought, your boyfriend got down on one knee, a box in hand. Your eyes widen, looking around, you spot those same red eyes, wide as well and staring back at you.

Your boyfriend went on with his proposal speech, while your mind was running a mile a minute. You love him, but you’re conflicted… “Y/N, will you make me the happiest man and marry me?” and there it is, the question.

“And I never knew I could feel that much, And that's the way I loved you”

You looked at him, still in shock. Your eyes drifted to the back, Katsuki was no longer looking at you or the scene, he had his full attention towards his date. And you realized, even if your heart still yearned for him. You will never go back, you can’t go back.

You looked towards your boyfriend, a smile plastered on your face. This was your dream life, you’re living your fantasies. You have what you wanted, even if it wasn’t him.

“Yes, Eijiro… Yes.” You answered.

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#my hero academia #boku no hero academia #my hero academia fic #bakugo katsuki #bakugo x reader #bakugo katsuki x you #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugo angst #mha x reader #nisha's playlist collection #Spotify

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verai-marcel · 6 months

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Rough and Tumble (BG3 Fanfic, Astarion x GN!Reader / Halsin x GN!Reader, 18+)

Of course. Of course it was bound to happen. Me? Write smut for a new fandom? You knew I couldn't stay away.

Summary: You thought Astarion had rejected you, so you went elsewhere for pleasure. Turns out, you just hadn’t piqued his interest yet.

Author’s Notes: Have I beaten the game? No, when I wrote this fic, I was barely in the middle of Act 2. Am I romancing either Astarion or Halsin in my save file? Nope, I went for Gale. Am I making shit up about these characters just because I want to get railed by both? Fuck yes, absolutely. Buckle in for some wild, made-up characterization, all because I want to write super horny fanfic. (And because certain people have bullied me into writing this…) For the timeline, this takes place during the tiefling party in Act I, but forget the real timeline of character romances and just play along. Also, if you’re not familiar with my writing, I try to be as vague as possible about reader description in my gender neutral fics so that anyone can enjoy them. However, I do have a size kink in this one, so imagine you’re a smaller hero this time around.

Tags: gender neutral reader, halsin x reader, size kink, rough sex, doggy style, gentle dom, some after care, astarion x reader, humiliation, degradation, name calling, sloppy seconds, cock gagging

Word Count: 4,545

AO3 Link is here, sweetheart.

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

“It’s not you, you understand, it’s me.” A pause. “I have standards.”

Having been shut down so brutally, you shrugged and walked away, unwilling to partake in any further conversation with the infuriatingly attractive vampire.

It’s not like you even said anything about sleeping with him. He just kept talking, like he does, as if he didn’t want to listen to you. You wondered why you had let him bite you the first time, and the second, and the third time. You cursed your weakness to his not-so-subtle glances.

He’d look over at you, his lips twitching as if he was stopping himself from saying something. So you would ask if he was hungry. And he’d give you this look. ‘No no, I’m fine,’ he’d say, looking away and frowning, making it apparent that he was not fine. You, in your infinite dumbassery, would immediately cave in and offer up your neck. Was it your need to take care of anyone you took under your wing? Was it your stupid bleeding heart?

You knew your little motley crew only shared one thing in common: a need to get the tadpole out of your skulls. But if anything brought people together, it was facing a common obstacle.

Except that not everyone shared your need to do the greater good. You had been making a name for yourself as an honorable mercenary, taking only the jobs that aligned with your sense of morality. Not everyone liked that, especially with the number of assassins that had been sent after you. But that was before you were taken captive aboard the mind flayer ship. Wrong place, wrong time.

Nothing you could do about that now. Face forward and carry on, that has always been your way. There was no reason to change that.

You found yourself walking towards Halsin, standing tall on the outskirts of the camp. He was quietly enjoying himself, a mug in his large hand. He called out your name gently as you approached.

“You do not look as cheerful as I expected on a night like this,” he said, his eyes roving over your face. “What is the matter?”

You sighed. “It’s nothing.”

“It must be something if it is making you frown so.” He stepped closer and put a hand on your shoulder. “Come, let us walk for a bit. Nature will bring perspective.”

You followed him quietly away from camp, away from the crowd and into the forest. Soon, only the peaceful sound of the trees rustling in the wind and insects chirping into the night surrounded you, the party far away. Halsin’s hand wandered from your shoulder to your back, his thumb rubbing slow circles. It was a soothing feeling, and you leaned into him, grateful for his warmth, even if you didn’t need it on this balmy summer night.

“I don’t know what goes on in his head,” you blather suddenly. “I thought he was coming onto me, but then he wasn’t, and while I was trying to figure out what he wanted, he said I was below his standards…”

You hadn't realized that you had stopped walking until you felt Halsin’s touch on your temples, gently massaging your headache away.

“Sounds like he didn’t know what to do with a gift like you,” he said casually.

Your eyes darted up to meet his. You were surprised, but pleasantly so, by the veneration in his gaze. A slight shift, and he was closer to you than he had ever come, the heat from his body radiating like a warm campfire. Cozy and safe, you had a sudden urge to lay your head on his chest and cuddle up to the big druid.

His fingers slowly traced the curve of your ears. “If there is anything, anything at all, that I can do for you, I will gladly do so.”

I want you to crush me—

You shook your head. “I’m alright. I just needed… this.” Leaning your head against his chest, you took a deep breath. He smelled of the forest, of the earth, of nature itself. Your nose twitched. There was a hint of something more, something primal in his scent that stirred you.

Halsin called out your name again. You looked up, and he looked at you with concern this time.

“I’m alright,” you repeated. You thought back to what he said. “What do you mean, didn’t know what to do with me?”

He smiled. “Perhaps he is flustered. Internally, of course. Gods forbid he show it. So he pushed you away once he felt conflicted.”

“Conflicted about what?”

“About manipulating you, of course.”

You frowned.

Halsin touched the two most recent little scars on your neck. Astarion had a tendency to bite a different spot every time, to prevent permanent scarring, he had said.

“I’m not…” you trailed off. Yes, you knew he had manipulated you into letting him bite you the first and second time. The third time… part of you had wanted it too. That time, he had snuck into your bedroll, holding you from behind. You could feel his fangs skim across the skin of your shoulder before he bit into the soft flesh behind your clavicle. His hand was wrapped around your mouth, stifling your groan as he fed, and much to your shame, you had felt the beginning of pleasure warming your lower body. You broke away from him before he could finish, turning back to him to apologize. But he was already getting up, walking away without a single word. You had caught him giving you one last look, a regretful frown, and you had assumed that he lamented having his meal cut short.

“Alright, maybe he is a little manipulative," you conceded. "But I know that."

"And yet you keep giving into him," Halsin said, without any judgment.

You hung your head. "Yes."

Halsin tipped your chin with two fingers until you were looking up at him. His smile was understanding and tender. "It's alright to care for someone and give into their needs, as long as you take care of your own as well."

You blinked. "But I want…" Trailing off, your cheeks warmed with embarrassment. Like it or not, you had been thrust into the role of the unwilling leader of this ragtag band. What you needed didn’t exactly align with what the team needed from you. What the others needed you to be was a commander, controlling the situation ahead of you.

But what you wanted, needed, was someone to command you, just for a little while, so you didn’t have to constantly think three steps ahead. You looked up at Halsin and felt a sense of trust. He was older, wiser, and most importantly, willing.

"Go on," he coaxed.

Swallowing, you pushed down your fear and spoke your true desires. "I want to let someone else be in control, just for a little while. I want…" You paused, taking a deep breath, drawing in the courage to continue. "I need to be fucked. Not made love to, not a gentle roll in the sack. I need something… more."

Looking up, you saw a desirous glow in Halsin's gaze. He considered your vague request for a moment before giving you a soft smile. "Is this something you'd like me to do for you?"

You thought of the large druid holding you down, his hands around your wrists beside your head as he fucked you from behind like a wild animal, growling into your ear. His voice rumbled through your body. Take all of me, little one. Give me your pleasure until it overwhelms your luscious body.

You blinked and the mental image vanished, but not the desire. "Yes," you answered breathlessly. "Please."

Halsin gently stroked your cheek. “Of course.” He leaned in, nuzzling your temple with his nose. He softly whispered, “if I get too rough, say ‘honey wine’, and I’ll stop.” He pulled away to look you in the eyes. “Understand?”

“Yes sir,” you said.

He gave you one last tender smile before he straightened his stance and took a step back. “Good,” he said in his arch druid voice, powerful, commanding. “Now, strip for me.”

You swallowed and began to take off all of your clothes at a languid pace, letting him enjoy the moment as each article of clothing came off your body. He circled around you, a small smile on his lips as his eyes roved up and down your body.

As you finally stepped out of your underwear and kicked it aside, you felt strangely free. Anyone could walk up and find you two. Yet he was fully clothed, while you were naked to the elements.

And it felt good.

Halsin placed his fingers on your belly and walked around you, his touch leaving a warm trail along your skin. When he was behind you, he stopped. His hand splayed across your lower abdomen and pulled you close.

You gasped at the feeling of his bulge against your bare ass. His leather breeches rubbed against your skin. His chest, though covered in his druid clothes, was warm and comforting. And because he towered over you, he could easily kiss the top of your head.

Taking one of your hands with his free one, he brought your fingers to his lips and kissed them.

“Show me how you pleasure yourself,” he said, letting go of your hand. He kept you tight against his chest.

With your hands, you began to touch yourself how you liked, teasing yourself at first before pleasuring yourself, harder and faster, until you were panting, your head lolling back against his shoulder. Your knees were beginning to wobble, and you grabbed his thigh for support. Gods, he was like a tree trunk, thick and solid. Your moans were growing louder, and you covered your own mouth in shame as you continued to touch yourself. Your hand was slick from your arousal, the wet sounds echoing around you. Just a little more…

“Stop.”

You whined, but did as he bade.

He suddenly let you go, and you nearly fell to your knees if not for him grabbing your arm and keeping you upright. You could hear him undoing the laces of his breeches.

Then you felt him rest his shaft against the curve of your ass. He pulled on your hand and wrapped it around him, smearing the slick from your palm.

“That’s it. Stroke me.” His voice had taken on a deeper timbre. The voice of command.

You did as he said, running your hand up and down his cock. It was hot, hard as iron, yet felt like velvet to the touch. And so girthy as well. You could not wait to take him inside of you.

So focused on pleasuring him, you barely noticed when he began to prepare you, one finger slicked up and sliding in and out of you. He added a second, and a third, all the while caressing your body with his other hand, his lips never far from your skin. You stroked him faster, gripped him harder, but he touched your wrist and slowed you down.

“Patience, little one,” he murmured. “Don’t end this before we begin.”

You nodded.

“Good.” He placed a hand on your back and gently bent you over. “Hands behind your back. Grip your forearms.”

You did so, and he grabbed your arms like the reins of a horse. He pulled his fingers from you, and you whimpered, but soon they were replaced by the tip of his cock.

Halsin grunted, and his hips shot forward, filling you full of him in one hard stroke.

Before you could scream, his hand was over your mouth.

“You don’t want everyone knowing how well you submit, do you?” he asked.

You shook your head.

“Good. I’m going to let go of your mouth now. But stay quiet.” He gripped your arms with both hands now and began to move his hips. The first few strokes were slow and steady as he gauged how well you were opening up to his invasion. Then he sped up, dominating you with his strength, his hips slapping against your ass.

You couldn’t help yourself, you moaned and whimpered with each thrust.

“Can’t stay quiet, can you?” he gritted out, slowing his pistoning. Pulling out of you, he waved his hand and a soft bed of moss appeared on the ground. “On your hands and knees.”

As soon as you fell into position, he climbed over you, his chest against your back, one arm wrapped around your shoulder. He stuffed his cock inside of you once more with a deep growl, almost… bear-like?

You turned your head to look back at him.

His eyes were glowing a fiery yellow, a feral snarl on his face.

“Halsin,” you whispered in awe, lust, tinged with a bit of fear.

He picked up on it immediately, the caring elf that he was. He took a breath, and the glow in his eyes began to fade.

“No, no!” you panicked, grabbing onto him and clutching at him like he was a life preserver in an icy cold ocean. You didn’t want him to go easy on you, didn’t want him to simmer down just because you were a little bit shocked. You wanted all of him, all that he could give. “Take me, please!”

The glow stopped fading. “Take you, little one?”

“Yes, please,” you begged. “Please.”

His only response was a low growl as his eyes glowed once more and his hips moved in a measured rhythm, his pace steadily increasing until you could barely draw a breath between each stroke.

“Such a good little lover,” he murmured. His lips caressed the shell of your ear as he rutted into you, the dichotomy of his soft moans to his hard thrusts making you lose yourself to this heavenly euphoria. The fevered trance of being fucked without having to think about anything at all was so freeing. You devolved into a mass of writhing and moaning, unable to control your volume any longer. The coil of desire within you was growing tighter, wound up with every thrust, every low, beastly grunt that Halsin gave.

You felt your hands and arms buckle, and you sank your chest into the soft moss beneath you, your ass still up in the air. The cool vegetation against your skin contrasted with the heat from the druid pounding into you from behind.

“Touch yourself,” he commanded. “Finish what you started before.”

Gleefully you reached down and stroked yourself eagerly, your body tensing as the ecstasy built higher and higher. You clenched around Halsin’s thick cock, and he rumbled with satisfaction. He sped up, driving himself into your body with wild abandon.

Your climax ran through you like lightning. One moment, you were at the top of the mountain. The next, you were free falling, pleasure guiding your wings as you soared with rapture. You spasmed below the large man, crying out into his arm. He held you tighter as he fucked you through your orgasm until your knees gave way and you collapsed onto the ground.

You felt like a blissful ooze, boneless and relaxed, but Halsin was speeding up, his breath hitching, his moans becoming deeper, more… animalistic.

“Do you want my seed within you?” he asked in nearly a growl.

“Fuck yes,” you breathed, excited by the prospect. “Give me every last drop.”

He roared and pinned you to the ground, his hips jerking against your backside as he poured his essence into you. With one last push, he stayed inside of you for as long as he could, keeping part of his weight off you with one arm so he didn’t crush you. But the warmth, the comfort of his body felt so very nice. Like he was shielding you from the rest of the world for just this one moment, and you desperately needed it.

Halsin groaned, and he pulled away from you. Turning over, you looked to see him holding his arms, taking a deep breath.

“Halsin?”

“It’s alright. When my blood runs hot, my wildform… is harder to control.” He backed away. “I need to run around for a bit, until I’ve calmed down.” He looked up at you. “But I will wait until you are ready to return.”

You smiled. He was kind, thinking that you, an adventurer in your own right, savior of the grove, needed a guard. But it was sweet of him to be so considerate. “I’ll be alright.” You reached up and touched his arm. “Go, run wild. I’ll see you back in camp.”

You watched as Halsin transformed. No matter how many times you saw his bear form, it always took your breath away. The power, the pure might behind that fur. You had seen him tear goblins limb from limb with that power. But right now, he gently nuzzled your face before bounding away, his mighty roar echoing in the night. He exuded elation as he loped into the forest, and you couldn’t help but chuckle. It was cute.

Walking back to your pile of clothes, you leaned over to pick them up. Just as your hand gripped the fabric, you sensed something, or someone, in the trees. You let go of your clothes and grabbed a pebble nearby. With effortless speed, you flung the pebble into a nearby tree.

“Ouch. What was that for?”

“Get down here, Astarion.”

The pale elf gracefully leapt down from the tree and casually sauntered towards you. The only thing giving away his nonchalant look was the fact that the front of his pants looked a bit stretched.

He gave you a withering look as his gaze wandered up and down your naked body. He paid particular attention to the trail of Halsin’s seed dripping down your thighs.

“I never took you to be so… docile,” he said, a sly smirk on his lips. “Who knew you had it in you.”

You crossed your arms. “Had what in me?”

“Well, another man’s seed, for one.” He chuckled at his own comment. “But I was more impressed by your… willingness… to submit.”

His eyes flashed with a beguiling look and he stepped closer. Standing your ground, you ignored the flush of heat in your nether region as you stared back at him defiantly, until he was face to face with you. Damn his height, forcing you to tilt your head up.

“You should have told me what you needed, darling,” he purred. “I would have indulged you… for a price.”

You glared at him.

“Come now, don’t be offended. You’ve already given yourself to me for free. It would be gauche of me not to return the favor.”

Blood. He wanted to feed. The small puncture marks on your neck pulsed. And so did lower parts of you. But your annoyance with him made its way to your mouth first.

“I thought you had standards, Astarion.”

“Oh, but I do. However, I don’t mind lowering them for a little fun.”

You seethed for a moment. “Did it occur to you that maybe you’re below my standards?”

His eyes widened a bit at your vicious banter. Then he smiled knowingly and your stomach dropped. You knew from his look that he had something on you. He leaned in until his lips were a mere breath away from yours. “You think I didn’t notice the scent of your arousal the last time I bit you?”

You swallowed. Shit, he knew.

His eyes glanced down at his last bite mark. “You’ve already proven yourself to be my little fang slut. Why don’t you become my whore as well? I’ll pay for my meal with your pleasure.”

You should have been offended. Insulted. Outraged.

However, your body, relaxed after having been thoroughly fucked, betrayed you in the worst way. You flushed with carnal heat, your eyes dilated, and your breath hitched. And Astarion picked up on every last iota of your reaction.

“Well, looks like your body is much more honest,” he said in a low voice. His eyes glanced down at your lips for a moment before meeting your gaze. His lips grazed yours, so light that you barely felt it.

“Kneel.” His command, in a voice so low that you felt it as a rumble from his lips to yours.

You obeyed immediately, your eyes remaining locked with his.

He patted your head condescendingly. “Good little pet,” he purred. With one hand, he deftly freed himself from his pants.

As you began to lean forward, he tutted at you. “Stay still.”

You froze.

He smirked, a little bit of fang showing as he placed his hand on your head and tilted it up slightly. “Give me your hand,” he commanded, holding out his.

You put your smaller hand in his, and he placed it at the base of his cock. It grew slightly from your touch.

“Open your mouth,” he said softly. When you did so, he guided your head to him until you had engulfed him.

“Now you may move,” he said magnanimously, and you began to pleasure him as best as you could with your limited knowledge. Your eyes went up to his for a moment before you closed them, savoring the feeling of him growing larger and harder in your mouth.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes shot open again and you looked up at him. He gazed at you fondly, similar to how one would look at a beloved pet.

Then he shoved his cock down your throat.

You gagged and tried to push away, but the hand holding your head in place would not budge. Your eyes watered and you began to choke a bit.

“Relax your throat, darling. Breathe through your nose.”

You did as he said, and began to feel a bit better, but it was still difficult, controlling your gag reflex. Soon he released you, and you coughed, bringing your hand to your throat.

“Not ready for that, I suppose,” he said as he caressed your head and looked down at you, appraising you with one long look. His eyes lingered between your legs and his nostrils flared. You turned your head away, knowing that he could smell how aroused you were, and felt a bit of shame well up in your chest.

He held his hand out to you, as if to help you stand. You didn’t question why he wanted you to do so, you just took his hand and stood, somewhat shakily.

Leisurely, he circled around you until he was behind you. His hand went up to your throat, gently stroking it up and down, slowly, a whisper of a caress punctuated by moments of pressure in your most vulnerable points. He stepped forward, his chest to your back, and took a deep breath at your neck. He let his lips linger on your skin where your blood, sped up by his touch, lay closest to the skin.

“I can feel your pulse against my lips,” he murmured against your neck. “For some reason, I keep coming back to you.” His other hand caressed your bare backside for a moment before you felt him nudging himself between your legs. He pushed slightly, spreading you open. Your body accepted him easily, as if it was waiting for him.

“My filthy little pet,” he teased. “Any normal being would be resting by now.” He slid further inside of you, making you gasp. “But you’re anything but normal, are you?”

You wanted to snap back at him, but then he gripped your hip, anchoring you in place as he pushed himself into you, all the way to the hilt. Your voice cracked, your comeback dying on your lips. You could only let out a wordless cry of surrender.

Astarion’s dark chuckle filled your ears. “Who would have guessed?” He pulled his hips back, leaving only the head inside, just to tease you. “The hero of the grove.”

He slammed back into you, chasing away your breath once more. “You’re just a deviant, aren’t you?” His words were punctuated by his thrusts, reducing you to nothing more than a quivering mess, slave to his touch.

Your mind began to blank, and though the logical part of you screamed to keep your wits about you, another part of you screamed back: you were tired. You just wanted to be. And the pleasure he was giving you, despite his cruel words, or perhaps, because of them, was overwhelmingly good.

The grip on your throat tightened just a bit. Not enough to hurt, but enough to let you know that he was in command. He could end you with one snap. You were foolish to let him have you in such a compromising position.

The light scrap of his fangs on your skin made you gasp, your heart rate skyrocketing. Instinctively, your body knew he was a predator, and you were his prey. His tongue flicked out to lick your pulse. He trapped your arms behind your back, his arm looped at your elbows, forcing you to arch your back.

“How will your blood taste, tinged with ecstasy, I wonder,” he mused, his voice deeper than you’d ever heard him. He gripped your jaw and forced you to look up at him, His eyes, scarlet like the blood moon and twice as hypnotizing, were dilated with need.

“Come for me, pet.”

You had no choice. You simply did as he wanted, moving your hips shamelessly, sinking down on his cock over and over until you began to feel your climax spinning towards you.

Just as that blissful tide came rising up within you, a sharp pain came down on your neck. Your brain, addled with so many things, couldn’t handle it. The sting melted into the euphoria until you couldn’t tell one from the other.

“Astarion!” you cried, whether to beg for mercy or to beg for more, you weren’t sure.

His hips slammed into you harder and you felt him empty himself inside of you, just as he moaned against your neck.

You felt yourself falling, and wondered if it was you, or the afterglow.

Slowly, too slowly, you realized it was your body, and you braced for impact.

But it never came.

With a surprising amount of strength, Astarion held you, carefully letting you sit down on the ground. He knelt down with you, and without thinking, you leaned your head against his shoulder.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

He froze for a moment before awkwardly patting your back.

That was… strangely not like him, you thought. Looking up at him, you were met with a curious expression on his face.

“Astarion?”

He blinked, and the expression was gone, replaced by his usual rakish smirk. You felt a little sad that he had put his mask back on.

“Darling. We’ll have to try that again sometime,” he said, licking the corner of his lips to catch the last drop of your blood.

You cocked your head. “Was… was it that good?”

“I’m not sure,” he said mischievously. “I’ll need another…taste… to find out.”

You closed your eyes and smiled. You knew what he meant.

I’d like to do this again.

“Any time,” you replied.

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End Notes: Throughout my writing this, I ended up doing a tiny bit of research (and by research, I mean I looked up the sex scenes on pornhub), so I hope this was at least somewhat hot for some of you. Thanks for reading!

#bg3 #bg3 fanfic #nsft #astarion x GN!Reader #Halsin x GN!Reader #astarion #halsin #lemon fanfic #writing #astarion x tav #halsin x tav

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