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daechwitatamic · 1 year

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III. So I Speak Your Name || KNJ

(banner by @/itaeewon)

Title: My Feet to Follow, and My Heart to Hold (Masterpost)

Rating: NSFW - minors dni

Genre: college!au, roomie!au, angst, s2l, the absolute slowest of burns

Pairing: Namjoon x female reader, unrequited Taehyung x reader

Beta'd by @/kookstempo, @/casuallyimagining, and @/toikiii - thank you endlessly!

Summary: You know a lot about the many types of love thanks to Kim Taehyung. You love him as the only person you see as “family”, you love him as your very best friend, and you love him as the beautiful, funny man he’s become. But when a twist of fate during your senior year has you rooming with his good friend Kim Namjoon, you just might find that you have plenty left to learn about love.

Lesson One: there are such things as a right way and a wrong way to love and to be loved.

You and Namjoon bond over literature and alcohol.

Section Warnings: language, drinking, drinking games, bar scenes, pov switches between OC and Namjoon a few times

WC: 7.5k

The world is mine: blue hill, still silver lake, Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road A gateless garden, and an open path: My feet to follow, and my heart to hold. - Journey | Edna St. Vincent Millay

Tuesday October 9th

On Sundays I visit graveyards, paying my respects to the many words that have died on my lips.

On Sundays I leave flowers commemorating each admission that I struck down before it could reach you.

On Sundays I leave stones atop marble markers to memorialize those that you and I chose to leave unturned.

They say you only exist as long as someone remembers you, so I speak your name like my own Hail Mary full of grace.

You scratch out the last four lines and read it back. Then you change your mind, decide you like them, and add them once again at the bottom.

The final so turns into an and. Then you change it back to so. You sigh in frustration, closing your eyes.

“You sound angry,” someone says, and you nearly leap off the stool in your kitchen. Namjoon stands in the doorway, holding a grocery bag, a carton of eggs sticking out the top.

“Why did I choose a writing degree when I’m so bad at writing?” you ask him plaintively.

It’s a little more honest, a little more personal than you two have been before. It just sort of slips, honestly, your head still a bit stuck in the world of words and phrases instead of in the present.

He smiles ruefully and moves into the kitchen, starting to put away his groceries. “I know that feeling,” he admits. Then, not looking at you, he adds, “I didn’t know you were in the writing program. I did it, too, for undergrad. You have Jemisen?”

“Really?” you ask. “How did we live together for a month and not know that? And yeah, Jemisen.”

Namjoon chuckles lightly, and you catch yourself watching his shoulders move as he reaches high in a cupboard to put a box away. “I guess we don’t talk that much,” he admits. “Are you doing fiction for your thesis?”

“Poetry,” you tell him.

He turns to look at you over his shoulder, clearly surprised.

“Wow,” he says, brows furrowed. “Really?”

You laugh a little at the circular nature of your conversation. “Yes, really,” you say, smiling. “Though I will admit to regretting that decision on more than one occasion.”

“Again,” he says, finally folding up his reusable grocery bag and stashing it between the fridge and the counter, “I know the feeling.”

“Are you doing writing for your grad program too?” you ask, suddenly curious.

He nods, leaning back against the counter. It’s that magical golden hour in the apartment, your favorite, when the outside light comes in orange and glowing. It casts a honey tinge over Namjoon’s skin, a softer brown showing up in his dark hair. There’s something sharp in his gaze suddenly, something that’s not usually there - like he’s honing in on something for the first time.

“Fiction?” you prod. This is more interesting than your poetry homework, for sure.

“Unfortunately,” he jokes. “So, poetry? My buddy did that track, he said it was hard. I thought about it, but I didn’t want to give up on fiction entirely, and I knew I couldn’t handle both. Plus my poetry’s pretty bad.”

“So is mine,” you grumble, eyeing your notebook grumpily.

Namjoon gives a sigh and moves towards his room. “I have class tonight,” he tells you, “but if you want to order extra dinner and leave me the leftovers, I’ll pay you for it.”

“Sure,” you say easily, glancing at the clock. You hadn’t really thought about dinner yet, but you’ll need to soon. “Text me what you want. I’ll probably get our usual.”

It strikes you, suddenly, that you two have a usual. It’s early October, the leaves barely starting to turn. It’s the part of fall where you’re too hot when you walk in the sun, and chilly when you walk through the shadows. You’ve only lived with Namjoon for about a month and a half, and somehow you have a usual takeout order.

It’s strange.

But you don’t hate it.

Namjoon leaves a few minutes later, a brown cross-body bag settled against his lower back. You sit at the breakfast bar, your poetry notebook closed in front of you with your pen marking your page, and wonder about your mysterious roommate. You wonder what his poetry is like, what it would tell you about him if you ever got the chance to see it. You wonder if his fiction writing is what keeps him holed up in his room day in and day out, the lights low.

About an hour later, you text Taehyung to see if he wants to come eat dinner.

“Can’t,” he answers. “Already have plans for dinner. Sry!”

You sink onto the couch, grimacing. “Already have plans” means a date.

The thing is, you know you could ask Taehyung to take you to dinner, and he’d do it. Hell, you could probably even say, “Take me on a date,” and he’d do that, too - wear something nice, spray on a more expensive cologne, open the car door for you and pull out your chair, all that shit. He’d do everything exactly right.

He’d do everything for the sake of irony.

That’s what it boils down to, and you know it in your bones: intention. Taehyung could spend all twenty-four hours treating you exactly how a boyfriend should, but at the end of the day his intention was not romantic, and there was nothing you could do to change that.

You turn on the tv, determined not to waste your night wondering how his is going.

Thursday October 11th

Thursday marks nearly the middle of the month. It’s unseasonably warm when you walk to class, but you carry a jacket, knowing that when you leave the bookstore after your shift, the chill will warrant it.

You have a bullshit class, one that doesn’t apply to your degree concentration, something that the university requires for everyone. The only saving grace is that it’s short.

When it ends, you have some choices. You don’t have to be at the bookstore until three. You could go back to the apartment. It’s certainly enough time. Or you could get lunch on campus and handle any academic errands you had, as it were.

And, you sort of had an academic errand swimming in the back of your mind.

You head to the building that houses the staff offices for the writing and literature professors. They’re all tucked away in a little wing back behind where the classrooms are. You’ve been there a few times over the years - twice to talk to your academic advisor about your upcoming schedules, and once to help a professor carry her armload of papers and her laptop back from the classroom.

You scan the names on each door until you find Jemisen, and knock tentatively. He turns, surprised.

“Y/N,” he says, and then glances at his computer, as if trying to determine if you’d scheduled a meeting and he’d forgotten.

“I wasn’t sure if it was your office hours,” you say quickly, to let him know he hadn’t made a mistake. “But I had a quick question about my last assignment, and I was already over here on campus…”

“Ah,” he says, understanding. “Well, it is my office hours, but it just so happens that I was called into a last-second budget meeting, because how we spend our money is certainly more important than my students’ academic success!” He looks at you, seeming to think belatedly that this little sarcastic rant might have been better staying in his head. “Anyway, I have a TA here who could help you look at it? I trust him implicitly.”

You’re a little uncomfortable with the idea - Professor Jemisen has been reading and working with you on your poetry for over a year; you don’t want to work on it with a stranger.

“Oh,” you say, “I’m not - I could -.”

A body comes around the corner. “I heard TA. Have I been summoned?”

It’s Namjoon.

You want to vanish through the floor.

“I’ll just -,” you start to say, but Professor Jemisen cuts you off, collecting some papers off of his desk and reaching for the jacket he’d placed on a hook beside the door.

“This is Y/N, she’s a senior in my poetry thesis class,” he tells your roommate. “She’s looking for help reworking a stanza on her last submission, right, Y/N?”

You bluster, you struggle to make words. You want to shake your head no, but your body isn’t cooperating.

“I’m happy to help,” Namjoon says to you. “My office is two doors down.”

Professor Jemisen is already through the door, clapping Namjoon on the back in thanks as he goes. This gives you the chance to collect yourself, jump-start your brain again.

“You get your own office as a TA?” you ask wryly, one eyebrow lifting.

Namjoon smiles. There’s something different about him here, an easy confidence you don’t see him exude when he’s just at the apartment.

“Come on,” he says, and you walk out into the narrow corridor. Namjoon closes Professor Jemisen’s door behind you and leads you to his own space.

“To answer your question,” he says, still smiling sort of sheepishly, “no, TA’s do not get their own offices. This one was empty because Bianca - Professor Whyte - retired and they haven’t replaced her yet… I sort of commandeered it. I share it with two other grad students, technically. Just until the university hires someone.”

He sits at the desk and motions for you to take the chair next to it. The office is clean and pretty empty - a tall bookshelf holds only about half a dozen books, taking up just a small section of one lone shelf. There are two small potted plants on the windowsill, and a coffee mug shoved behind the computer monitor. Otherwise, the room seems unowned, devoid of any identifying artifacts.

“This is very weird,” you say, because you have to say it.

“What is?” he asks absently, his eyes on one of the windowsill plants.

“My roommate reading my poetry,” you say flatly. “My roommate workshopping my poetry with me.”

He turns to look at you, surprise and perhaps a touch of hurt flickering across his face. “If you’re uncomfortable, I can ask someone else to work with you, or you can wait for Professor Jemisen. I didn’t realize…”

You sigh inwardly. You hadn’t meant to hurt his feelings. “You don’t think it’s weird?” you challenge, trying to keep your voice light.

He shrugs. “I’m just doing my job. I’m on the clock. But like I said… if you’re uncomfortable, then let’s find a Plan B.”

“You’re Plan B,” you grumble. “We’d need to find Plan C.”

You kind of want to take his offer of walking away. But you’re already here, and you don’t want to hurt his feelings worse and make things weird at home.

“Here,” you say, rummaging in your bag. “Just don’t, like, peer into my soul or anything.”

Namjoon laughs like he’s surprised by this. “It’s poetry,” he says, grabbing a pen and turning to see what you put on the desk. “I don’t think that’s optional.”

You slide your notebook over to him. “Professor Jemisen hated the second stanza,” you say.

He looks at you, eyes wide. “He didn’t say that.”

You chuckle. “No, but it’s still true.”

Namjoon reads the poem to himself silently, lips moving with the words.

On Sundays I leave flowers commemorating each admission that I struck down before it could reach you.

“Okay,” he says finally, “I think you should keep the top line of the stanza the same - to keep the pattern.”

You nod, listening.

He presses his pen against his lips, eyes narrowed as they scan the lines again. “I think the word admission is too chunky,” he says. “In the second line.”

“Confession?” you supply. “Commemorating each confession?”

“That gives you some nice alliteration,” he notes, nodding.

“Does it flow better?” you prompt.

Namjoon repeats the first two lines to himself, under his breath. “On Sundays I leave flowers, commemorating each confession. Yeah, I think it does.”

“I’ll change it,” you decide, and he does it for you, scratching out admission and writing confession next to it in red ink.

“The third line sucks,” you muse, reading over his arm.

“It doesn’t suck,” he says mildly. “What were you trying to say?”

You think about this. “That each admission - confession, whatever - that the speaker didn’t voice…it’s almost like those words were trying to reach their recipient, but the speaker shot them down in flight, you know? Does that make sense?”

Namjoon ticks his head to the side, thinking. “It makes sense,” he assures you. “I’m just thinking about how to say it.”

You both peer at the stanza in silence, thinking.

“You’ve got this imagery of shooting something down mid-flight, like you just said,” he murmurs, eyes on the page, “but in the first stanza, you say the words die on the speaker’s lips, meaning they never get said in the first place. Maybe you need to change the imagery to holding it in instead of stopping it once it’s out?”

You scan the first stanza again, nodding slowly. “Commemorating every confession that suffocated beneath fresh-packed earth,” you say, voice almost a whisper as you listen to how the phrase would sound.

Namjoon chuckles darkly. “Buried alive? Harsh.”

You tap the page, finger on the bottom stanza. “The confessions - the words - are what died and got buried. But then, in the final stanza, she’s saying she keeps him alive by remembering him, but maybe she’s keeping her confessions alive as well. Like, she’s continuing to give them life by continuing to speak life into them. It works on two levels.”

Namjoon nods, letting out a quick, impressed breath almost like a laugh. “That’s good,” he says, sliding your notebook over to you. “Write it down before you forget.”

You scratch out the second stanza and write in the space next to it,

On Sundays I leave flowers commemorating every confession that suffocated beneath six feet of fresh-packed earth.

“I like it better,” you say, reading the whole thing back to yourself.

“It’s definitely better,” he agrees.

You put a hand on the page, ready to slide it completely away from him, to put it back in your bag.

Namjoon places his fingers on the page, just inches from yours. His index finger strokes the last line, where your hand had pressed the pen to the page and placed there, Hail Mary full of grace.

“What would happen if you stopped visiting?” he asks, voice very low. He’s leaning forward, his shoulder close enough to yours that you can feel the heat coming off his body.

“Excuse me?” you snap. This was exactly what you hadn’t wanted - interpretation, application to your real life.

“The speaker,” he corrects quickly, eyes flicking down to the page and then back up to meet yours again. There’s something gentle and coaxing in his voice as he continues. “What would happen if the speaker decided to spend their time elsewhere? Wouldn’t it be better for them to just… let the dead stay dead?”

Goosebumps cover your arms, but you’re also suddenly pissed. “I don’t have an answer to that,” you say firmly. “It’s poetry, it’s not real life.” You slap the notebook shut and toss it into your bag, tugging on the zipper like your life depends on it. You stand, hiking your bag onto your shoulder.

He’s still looking at you contemplatively, leaning back in his chair, long legs stretching under the desk. Then, he seems to snap out of it, and he peers up at you apologetically. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m used to that kind of thinking and response from my grad classes. But you’d already expressed that you weren’t comfortable… I should’ve left that alone.”

You shift from foot to foot, still stinging. “It’s fine,” you tell him. “Thanks for the help. I’ll resubmit this version.”

“Y/N,” he calls, stopping you in the doorway. You pause, turning to look. “Would it make you feel better to see a really personal one of mine?” His smile is rueful, his dimples teasing.

You exhale on a laugh. “Only if I get to question your poor life choices when I’m done,” you say.

He laughs at this. “I accept,” he says seriously, a smile still tugging at his lips. “In exchange for your forgiveness.”

You slap your palm lightly against the wooden doorframe, twice. “It’s a deal,” you say, and disappear down the hallway.

–

He sends you a screenshot two hours later. Before you can enlarge it enough to read anything, he sends, “Good GOD this is bad. Enjoy!”

I love you by pressing my fingertips into soil. Is it too dry? Can it go another day? I love you by pushing ceramic just two inches to the left where the sunlight hits at exactly four pm. I love you by wiping dust from leaves just how I'd wipe tears from cheeks. I love you by admiring each new bloom as it appears.

And when I’m thorn-pricked it doesn’t hurt because my only expectation was for it to grow.

You read it twice, then a third time.

[3:22 PM] You: that is NOT bad omg [3:23 PM] You: i need more context so i can mock your bad decisions [3:23 PM] You: that was the deal 😤 [3:27 PM] Namjoon: haha stop it. [3:28 PM] Namjoon: i cringed so hard when i read it again [3:29 PM] Namjoon: but i hope you actually forgive me now

Friday October 12th

‘-yet with everything left unsaid, still they said goodbye.’

Namjoon pounds twice on his desk in victory as he rereads the last line of the chapter he’d just finished. It’s good, he thinks. It’s actually good, the whole chapter. Not perfect - nothing ever would be - but good enough that he feels excited to send it to the cohort and get some feedback.

There’s a noise from his doorway and he spins in the chair, minimizing the document out of habit.

You smile at him from the door. “It’s going well, huh?” you say, a little playfully.

Namjoon feels something like cold run down his legs. It’s the absolute horror of being known. “What are you talking about?” he asks, voice even.

You fold your arms over your chest like you feel defensive. “You hit the desk when you’re happy about it,” you explain.

Namjoon stares at you, absolutely dumbfounded. He hadn’t realized you even knew he was writing, let alone that you’d been tracking his habits well enough to pick up on little things like that. He’s always kept his writing - and his behavior as a writer - pretty private. The only person who had ever seen behind the curtain, so to speak, was Elyse. And look how that turned out.

Namjoon decides to side-step this. He doesn’t know what to say. Instead, he goes with, “Did you need something?”

He knows it’s cold. He doesn’t even mean to be cold. But something about this interaction has all of his mental alarm bells ringing - telling him that this might be inching towards dangerous territory.

Territory he’s been in before. Territory he clawed his way out of.

“Oh,” you say, a little taken-aback. “Well, yeah. I was trying to see if anyone would be into the idea of a game night this weekend? What do you think?”

Namjoon’s about to answer that he doesn’t mind when his conversation with Yoongi and Hobi floats into his brain. He remembers their bony chins digging into his shoulders as they read your texts and affirmed that, yes, he’d hurt your feelings by leaving last time.

“Game night,” he repeats slowly. “Care to elaborate on the plan?”

This makes you smile again, like you’re pleased that he’s entertaining the idea. “Smaller crowd than last time,” you say. “Game categories up for discussion - could do board games, drinking games, video games… maybe a rotation?”

“A rotation,” Namjoon repeats flatly, not sure if you’re joking.

Your smile widens, eyes crinkling. It had been a joke. “We can decide what we feel like,” you say. “I was thinking maybe Saturday night?”

“Okay,” Namjoon says.

“Okay I can plan it… or okay, you’ll be there?” you ask, chewing lightly on the inside of your cheek.

Namjoon feels himself smile despite himself, despite the alarm bells, despite your dead-on observation of his habits. “I’ll stay,” he promises.

Saturday October 13th

The night actually does rotate. Or, rather, you all start with a board game and it delves soon into drinking games. Namjoon finds himself sitting on the living room floor, a whiskey and soda in his hand, watching across an abandoned game board - pieces still laying sideways, forgotten - as you giggle into Taehyung’s shoulder after being brought down by a very targeted round of Never Have I Ever.

(Never have I ever… worn a bra. …used a curling iron. …put on mascara. …cried to a Hallmark movie. The guys went right down the line, 1-2-3-4-5, you never had a chance.)

“You have to drink, Y/N,” Jungkook says, poking you with his socked foot.

“Get your toe-socks off of me,” you try to snap, but you’re still fighting giggles and you sound as menacing as a puppy.

“I think we need a no-targeting rule,” Yoongi says fairly, watching as you dutifully down your cup and rise to mix yourself a new one. “Or Y/N will end up in the hospital tonight.”

“I am not holding your hair this time,” Taehyung shouts into the kitchen. “Once was enough!”

“It was enough for me, too, believe me,” you answer him seriously, but your mouth twitches. You’re still fighting giggles.

“He’s right,” Jimin speaks up. “No more targeting - not just Y/N, for anyone. It won’t be fun that way.”

“Should we switch games?” Hobi asks. “How about Kings?”

Namjoon groans. “I’m not drunk enough for that.”

“Then get drunker,” Taehyung tells him, nodding towards the kitchen bar - littered with half-full liquor bottles and various mixers - where you’re still standing with your cup.

“I’m working on it,” Namjoon tells him, lifting his nearly-empty cup as proof.

You settle back onto the floor across from him, carefully holding your freshly filled cup so that it doesn’t slosh over the edges. “What’d we decide?”

The game of Kings begins harmlessly - Jungkook picks an 8 and chooses Jimin to drink whenever he drinks, no surprise there. Jimin picks a 4, and everyone slaps the floor - Yoongi is last, so he drinks.

Then Hobi picks a King - make up any rule, any rule at all - and his eyes sparkle with unspilled mischief.

“T-Rex arms!” Taehyung shouts. “T-Rex arms for the rest of the night!”

“Funny accents for the rest of the night!”

“You have to drink every time you say someone’s name!”

“You have to drink every time anyone says ‘what’!”

Everyone shouts their suggestions, but Hobi waves his hands to quiet them.

“If you say someone’s name,” he begins, and everyone leans forward, interested, “they get to tell the group some tea about you.”

Everyone lets out an ooooh of appreciation.

“That’s gonna get messy,” you observe, eyes wide.

The game continues, everyone being careful to tap each other’s knees to get their attention instead of calling their names. But as the hour grows later and the alcohol flows, you all forget to be so careful. When Jimin gets up to grab another drink, Jungkook calls, “Jimin, will you bring me a beer?”

“You said his name!” Nearly the whole circle shrieks it at once, pointing sloppily at Jungkook in accusation.

“Ji- I mean, sir in the kitchen, you get to tell us some tea about Jung- I mean, this one,” Hobi says, correcting himself around a series of belly laughs.

Jimin grins like the cat who ate the canary. “He’s the one who broke his good headphones.” He points at Yoongi to indicate which his he means since he can’t say Yoongi’s name.

“Hyung!” Jungkook cries, betrayal written all over his face and voice.

At the same time, Yoongi’s head whips around to look at his younger friend in accusation. “You owe me money for those! They were my favorite!”

“I told you,” you say, your voice carrying sweetly over the din. “Messy.”

The game continues, pausing when Yoongi misses his turn as he’s too busy looking up how much his headphones cost so he can show Jungkook.

Without thinking, Namjoon lazily says, “You’re up, Yoongi.”

Everyone looks at him, grins growing like predators who have discovered injured prey.

“Oh, damn,” he sighs. Yoongi looks up from his phone, eyes glinting.

“Well,” he says, clearly enjoying his audience and the chance to embarrass his best friend, “when this friend was getting over Elyse, he played Davichi’s Beside Me on repeat for hours at a time, and I know for a fact that he still knows every word.”

Namjoon’s not sure how to name the emotion that surges from his stomach up to his face; mortified, sure. Angry, a little. Everyone around the circle is laughing - Jimin’s even wiping a lone tear from under his eye. Is it funny, from the outside? He guesses it is. He feels a little detached, a little floaty.

“Oh shit, Elyse!” Taehyung sort of shouts, sitting up a little. “I forgot about her!”

“That’s cute,” Namjoon says. “Wish I could.” Even he can hear how bitter he sounds.

“What ever happened with her?” Taehyung asks, more musing than actually directing the question at Namjoon, or anyone.

“Tae!” you scold, elbowing him. “You’re such an insensitive ass, do you know that?”

To his credit, Taehyung looks abashed and backpedals immediately. “I mean - sorry - I’m just curious. Didn’t mean to put you on blast.”

“It’s fine,” Namjoon says, but he’s dying to get out of that room, out of everyone’s sight, away from the fading laughter and from the sideways, searching look you’re giving him. He stands, tries to keep his face passive. “I’m gonna… go pee.”

He slides into the dark of his room and heads for the bathroom. He doesn’t even need to go, he just needs it to look like he left for a reason. Behind him, he can hear Yoongi despite his purposely lowered voice as he says, “She left him back in June. Same shit as always - he loved her way more than she liked him.”

Namjoon wishes he could refute this. Even if he’d been out there to defend himself, he couldn’t. Yoongi knew every detail about Namjoon’s last relationship and the break-up that ended it, and his assessment was right.

Namjoon had liked her - loved her - more than she liked him. His expectations were too high for what she could give him. Sometimes he wondered if she was the problem, or if he was. Were his expectations for a partner too high in general? Was he asking too much, wanting someone to care for him the way he cared for them?

When he comes out of the bathroom, Yoongi is leaning against his desk waiting for him.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts. “The song part is funny - I was thinking about it because you were humming it in the library yesterday. I didn’t think about the… Elyse of it all. I wasn’t trying to make fun of you. Especially in front of…” He trails off. But Namjoon knows where the sentence was going.

He doesn’t even have the oomph to argue it.

“I know,” he says simply. “It’s okay.”

“If we hadn’t been drinking…” Yoongi says, voice a little thoughtful. “I mean, I’m not trying to make excuses. I just would have considered my words a little more carefully.”

“I know,” Namjoon says again, insistent. “It’s okay, hyung. I’m not mad at you. Let’s go back.”

When they return to the group, it seems that in their absence you had organized the board game again and gotten everyone focused. He wasn’t sure if you’d done it on purpose, diverted their attention to rules and set-up so they wouldn’t look too closely at his face as he took his spot again, but he appreciated it regardless.

Taehyung catches his eye, grimaces in apology. Namjoon gives a shrug and a headshake, letting him know they’re alright.

How can he be mad? Are they supposed to pretend his mistakes don’t exist? He can’t impose his own rules on others, it wouldn’t be fair.

Friday October 19th

The week passes in a blur. Namjoon works on his book, workshops for his classmates, goes to class, attends his TA hours, eats, sleeps, walks outside when he can. You exist in orbit around him, sometimes communicating in passing - but only in passing. You spend no time together, have no conversations, share no text messages or meals.

It’s starting to feel safe again, Namjoon thinks. Those alarm bells have quieted down. Now they act more like disgruntled guard dogs who think they saw something in the yard; they keep their narrowed, suspicious eyes on the gate, giving unhappy grumbles now and then.

Of course, the universe never lets him rest for long. On Friday night, Hobi texts him at eight, “Bar! You have two hours to mentally prepare! I will see you there or else!!!”

Namjoon texts back, “you need to calm down with the exclamation points”. But he still turns to eye his open closet, pondering what to wear.

–

Sometimes, Namjoon just watches people. People watching is a thing, right? He catches himself at it all the time - at train stations, on campus, in malls, and here - now - at the bar.

He watches throngs of young women mix onto and away from the dance floor, ebbing and flowing like high and low tide, like they obey the moon too. He watches men his age eye the scene like hawks.

He watches the bartenders hustle from one end to another, hands in constant motion as they exchange money, clutch shakers, wipe out glasses, open beers. He watches the bouncer sweep his gaze over the crowd, like a seaside lifeguard.

He watches Hobi and Yoongi bend their heads together, talking animatedly over something on Hobi’s phone. He watches Jungkook and Jimin dance near the edge of the crowd, peeking surreptitiously over their shoulders to see if any of the girls near them are looking. He watches Jin throw his head back in laughter at whatever the pretty girl before him has said.

He watches you lean forward on your elbows, eyes on Taehyung’s face like they’re magnetically drawn, as he talks to you. You both laugh at something; you finish your drink. Namjoon watches as Taehyung leans over to say something to you, slides off of his barstool, makes his way towards the dark hallway that houses the restrooms. You flag down a bartender, ordering a new drink.

You aren’t watching Taehyung make his way back from the bathroom, but Namjoon is. He watches as Taehyung is intercepted by a beautiful, dark-haired girl who stands only as tall as the middle of his chest. He watches as Taehyung stops in his tracks, a grin slowly growing across his face, starting sly and ending open and friendly. It’s deadly, and Namjoon knows he knows it.

Namjoon sees it happen when the girl cocks her head towards the front entrance, sees it when Taehyung nods and leans down to say something to her before zig-zagging his way through the crowd back to where you sit, waiting for him.

Namjoon sees it when your smile crumples, when you quickly stitch it back together and nod eagerly, when you wave goodbye. He sees it when Taehyung and his date slip out the front door, sees it when you let your head drop to your hands, shoulders heaving with one single deep breath.

When you raise your head again, your eyes meet his.

And he sees it - all of it. He sees the crushing disappointment, the resignation, the acceptance.

He’s moving without making the decision to move, his beer glass cold against his hand as he makes his way to the empty spot next to you.

“Sorry,” he says, not hiding that he’d seen exactly what happened, had witnessed Taehyung abandon you for preferred company.

You give yourself a little shake and give him a tiny smile. “Don’t be,” you say easily. “Good for him - I wish I had half his luck.”

Namjoon wouldn’t say he knows you that well if he was asked, doesn’t think himself an expert on your personality. But he knows it’s bravado. He can just tell.

But he’ll let you save face. He’d want the same.

He struggles to find something to talk to you about. His brain goes empty, like static, the second he relies on it. Finally, as you stir the ice cubes around your drink, trying not to look as dejected as you feel, he asks, “How’s senior thesis going? What are the criteria for poetry students?”

You perk up, sitting up straighter and releasing the plastic straw you’d had pinched between your fingers. “It’s going okay,” you tell him, glancing over sideways at him like you want to make sure he’s actually interested in the answer, not just asking to be polite. “The criteria? It’s half a written portfolio, half an author study.”

“Who’d you pick?” Namjoon asks, taking a sip of his beer and finding it low.

You smile at him mischievously, eyes sparkling a little. “Guess,” you challenge.

He feels himself smile in return. “Rumi,” he shoots out.

Your laugh bursts from you, surprising both of you. “That’s your first guess?” you laugh. “Seriously? Going straight to Rumi?”

“Am I wrong?” he asks, chuckling.

“Yes,” you insist. “Try again.”

He ponders it for a second. “Whitman. Yeats. Eliot.”

“Absolutely not,” you say. “Quit naming dead white dudes.”

Namjoon laughs again. “Poe?”

“Still a dead white dude!”

He stops, thinks again. “Olds,” he finally guesses.

You raise your eyebrows. “Wow, obscure.”

He shrugs. “She seems like your type.”

You laugh at that, a peal of laughter that has you hunching over your drink. “You’re not wrong about that,” you admit.

“I think you need to just tell me,” Namjoon admits.

“Surely you know more poets than that!” you tease accusingly.

“Of course I do,” he allows. “But I think this little game could go on for a very long time.”

You laugh again, and Namjoon feels a smile tug at his lips.

He growls a mental shut up at the part of him that wants to keep making you laugh.

“St Vincent Millay,” you say, caving.

“Wow,” he says, just a bit struck dumb. Because what are the odds you’d pick her? “A favorite.”

You smile at him, eyes crinkling. “You know hers?”

Namjoon is pretty sure he has a copy of Alms stuffed between pages of his favorite notebook, a memento to his post-Elyse days, when he was - yes - listening to Beside Me on repeat and reading every heartbreak poem he could get his hands on, all in the name of feeling understood. All in the name of feeling less alone.

“My heart is what it was before, / a house where people come and go; / But it is winter with your love -” Namjoon quotes from Alms instead of answering.

You keep your eyes on him, steady, as you finish in a quiet voice, “The sashes are beset with snow. Alms? I wrote about that one for my thesis the other day.”

Namjoon catches the bartender’s eye. “If I get a few shots, do you want one?” he asks, looking over at you. You nod, he orders something cinnamony, and then he returns to your earlier conversation. “Alms is one of the only ones of hers I can quote off the top of my head. But it’s… my favorite of hers.”

You give him a sly smile. “I argued in my thesis that Alms is a diss-track.”

Namjoon splutters. “What?” he demands.

You grin, loving this. “It is winter with your love? Like, tell me your lover is cold without telling me your lover is cold. Plus, all those lines in the middle about how she tends her plants in winter? Of course that’s your favorite.”

As the bar-tender pushes filled shot-glasses towards him, Namjoon just stares at you. You have this uncanny way of knowing things about him, and it’s unnerving. Partly because he doesn’t know that much about you, and partly because he hadn’t realized he was so easy to read.

You each take a shot glass, clicking them together before knocking them back. The burn of alcohol in his throat urges him to speak up, to address it.

“You remember how you mentioned that I tend to hit the desk when I'm happy with what I wrote?”

You frown with your whole face, brows and all, not following his line of thought at all. “...Yeah…” you say, voice wavering with uncertainty.

Namjoon looks away, at the wood of the bar beneath his fingers, at the crowd of people shouting their conversations around them, at the empty glasses waiting to be whisked away. “What else do you know?”

He’s not sure what makes him say it. Maybe he’s tired of you dropping these little observations here and there and wants them all out at once.

You trace a whorl in the wood with your pointer finger. Thoughtfully, voice sounding somewhat far away, you tell him, “You pace when you’re stuck. You listen to rap when it’s flowing and classical when it’s not.”

Namjoon lets out a single, shuttering laugh, barely louder than an exhale. “I’m trying to think of a less rude way to ask this, but why - how - do you know this stuff?”

You twist your mouth sideways into the cousin of a smile, self-deprecation written all over your face. “I spend a lot of time in the living room,” you say defensively with a bit of a laugh. “I can’t help but notice. You’re not very secretive.”

That’s the thing. Namjoon thought he was.

You sit in silence for a minute, the loudness of the bar’s music and chatter flowing around you. Then, completely unprompted, you add, “I know that poem you sent me is about your ex.”

Namjoon’s head snaps up, his eyes finding yours. He searches your face for anything unkind, anything mocking. Elyse had made him feel stupid - something he had very little experience with - and he was evading that feeling every second since. But there’s none to be found as you look back at him patiently.

“Y/N,” he says finally, “don’t take this the wrong way, but what the fuck.”

Once you’re sure he isn’t going to get mad or defensive, you relax, shooting him a knowing smirk. “Please,” you protest. “The line about how you can’t get hurt because you had no expectations? A juxtaposition to when you have certain expectations of a partner, and how it hurts when they’re not met. Like expecting someone to love you back, and then they don’t.”

“I think I need to be rescued from this conversation,” Namjoon jokes, pretending to look around for a life-line. “Quit it with the direct shots!”

You shrug innocently. “I’m not making any judgments about it. Just saying I understand the message.”

“How many drinks have you had?” Namjoon demands.

“I don’t know… three or four? Why?”

He can’t say because you’re saying very honest shit and people are usually polite enough to not do that. “You’re just… dropping words like juxtaposition and I…. truly don’t know how to handle it.”

You give him a wide smile, proud and teasing. “Just admit that I have a big, sexy brain.”

If this is the game you want to play, he thinks, he can play it.

“Well,” he counters, “I know that your poem about the graveyard is actually about -” He snaps his mouth shut, sober enough to know a mistake when he’s shin-deep in it, buzzed enough to fail at stopping his gaze from flicking over to where Taehyung and that girl had disappeared through the front door.

He watches - literally watches it happen - as a wall crashes down over your face. The open, teasing expression flattens into dull nothingness, your smile melts into a thin line, your eyes leave his and settle on your hands.

Namjoon opens his mouth to apologize, but the heavy weight of someone’s arm across his shoulders distracts him.

“Are you two talking about poetry?” Hobi asks, voice a touch too loud. “We already have a resident nerd, Y/N, we don’t need another.”

You grasp at the interruption desperately. “Not just any poetry. His poetry.”

Hobi gasps dramatically, clutching at his chest like a wounded man. “He let you read his own poetry? My God.”

Namjoon sits back, allows Hobi and Yoongi to incorporate themselves into the conversation, lets the moment slip away. He zones entirely out of the conversation, lost in his own thoughts, letting the others pick up his slack.

He’s thinking about Alms and thinking about Elyse, thinking about how St Vincent Millay’s line “But it is winter with your love” had rolled around his brain for a solid month as he was wrestling with the insecurity and pain of loving someone who just didn’t feel it too. Elyse hadn’t been cold - at least, not until the very end. Yet, even still, it had never been… enough.

He’s thinking about the way you just noticed things about him, the way you made him feel seen when he was used to feeling the opposite.

He’s thinking, and it’s probably a little fucked up, that Elyse had lived with him for over three months - sharing a bed, even - and had never picked up on his mannerisms this way.

He keys back into the conversation when he notices you signing to close out your card.

“Are you going home?” he asks you, the first words he’s said in a while. Both Yoongi and Hobi turn to look at him, as if they, too, forgot he was sitting there.

“Yeah,” you tell him. You meet his eyes, but your voice is still a little flat. “I was gonna Uber.”

“Wanna share?” he suggests.

You look at your hands again. “You don’t have to leave just because I’m leaving,” you say.

Hobi and Yoongi swivel their heads back and forth in silence, watching this conversation like a table-tennis match.

“I’m ready to go. But I can get my own ride if you’re uncomfortable.”

“No,” you say quickly. “I’m not. That would… that’s fine.”

You say goodbye to the guys and Namjoon follows you through the bar. He’s tempted to reach out a hand and guide you, help you navigate the drunken, dancing crowd. But you aren’t his to protect, and he’s just this minute starting to examine where the urge comes from, what’s blooming here, a tiny bud forming seemingly overnight.

Outside, the silence hits him like the slap of an ocean wave. The night is warm, despite it being late October.

You walk silently towards the curb, phone in your hand. You don’t look back at him.

“Y/N,” he says quietly. You glance over your shoulder, frosty, but you soften almost instantly when you look at him. The apology must be clear as day on his face. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

You sag with a sigh. “No,” you say. “I asked for it. I started it. You’re not supposed to dish it if you can’t take it, or something.”

Namjoon doesn’t agree or disagree, doesn’t shake his head. He just keeps his gaze on you, heavy and serious, and repeats, “I shouldn’t have said that to you.”

You drop your eyes again - he’s noticing you do that when you’re nervous, unsure of your words. Then, eyes on the road instead of on him, you say, “Assuming I was right about… you know, the poem… I’m sorry you went through that.”

Namjoon raises his eyes, up past the bar’s neon sign, up past the yellow-lit apartment windows above it, up past the fire escape and the rusty rooftop structures. He finds stars, glinting and joking from behind swiftly moving wisps of clouds.

“Thanks,” he says. That’s all.

“It’s hard when the people we love…” you trail off, rub your hands up and down your arms as if to ward off chill on a definitively unchilly night. “It’s hard when they disappoint us. For whatever reason.”

“Yeah,” Namjoon says. The Uber pulls up, and you check the license plate against what’s on your phone screen before reaching for the back door. He’s got that same urge again, to reach out and guide you into the car. He shifts his hand into a fist, wills himself to get his shit together. As you slide over to make room for him, he lets one last breath out towards those same stars. “Yeah, it is.”

–

Inside the Uber, you scoot to make room for Namjoon to slide in next to you, folding his long legs in behind the front passenger seat.

The ride begins in silence, except for the driver’s music, which currently plays an advertisement in a language you don’t speak and can’t even identify.

You feel a little dizzy, maybe from the drinks. Maybe from getting vulnerable with your roommate. You lean your head back against the headrest and close your eyes. You can feel the heat from Namjoon’s side, can sense him, solid, less than a foot away.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, to keep the conversation as close to private as possible.

You open your eyes, looking sideways at him. He looks back at you, searchingly. You’re struck for the first time, here in the back of a stranger’s shitty Kia, by how pretty his eyes are - full of warmth and depth, but also something sly, like he constantly knows something you don’t, yet.

Looking at him, you’re tempted to lean against him; the desire comes out of nowhere, comes from the surety you feel that he would feel… safe. Protective. You feel sure he wouldn’t move away.

What is this? you wonder. It’s just a moment, just a fleeting thing that will be gone by the next red light, but as tiny as it is, there’s a voice in your head pointing out that you haven’t felt this kind of anything for anyone in your whole life except Kim Taehyung.

You fold your hands in your lap, turn to look straight ahead through the windshield. You can’t lie to him while looking at him.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m fine.”

<- Prev || Next ->

thank you so much for reading!!!! we're past the set up, stuff is movin!!!! please consider some type of feedback, even just 'loved it!' or a keysmash lets me know it's not hot garbage!

Section IV will post on Friday, February 3rd. I hope to see you there!!!!

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legoflowrs · 9 months

Note

flowers can you some Stan headcanons🤭🤭🤭

HEADCANNONS

Stan Marsh

AGED UP TO 18 PEEPS

cw: drinking, smoking, drugs, abuse, slight nsfw, addiction

a/n: hehe i hope u like this ruby!!! also this is for anon and @wonyoungies-world that also requested stan head cannons <3

also again same with kyle in the regular head cannons style are together but in the relationship ones he’s with reader!

- Ok I have like two versions of Stan in my head. football Stan and emo loser Stan. I love both versions a lot lmao.

- Stan has a shitty relationship with his Dad. He loathes him for moving him away from his friends to tegridy farms. His Dad was very absent in his life so Stan has always felt extremely neglected.

- He absolutely adores Sharon . He’s such a mummas boy. He goes to her for everything.

- Stan is THE bisexual queen lol!

- His closet is just oversized sports tees and baggy jeans.

- I think his family is catholic but he isn’t a religious person at all.

- He had a weird relationship with Shelly growing up but as teenagers Shelly took Stan under her wing because she saw how Randy’s neglect affected him.

- He’s absolutely petrified of turning into Randy.

- Bleaches his hair at 3am drunk one night with Kyle so he looks less like his Dad.

- Bro has been in LOVE with Kyle forever.

- Thinks he’s super slick with it (he’s not).

- Didn’t wanna ruin the friendship.

- They kissed once at a party but didn’t speak about it.

- After they moved to the farm he stopped smoking weed cause it made him angry.

- Has a mullet for a while because Kenny influenced him.

- Saved up his pocket money for a shitty electric guitar and it his pride and joy.

- Loves playing music it’s an escape for him.

- Like I said in the Kenny head cannons, Stan forms a band for the second half of high school.

- Some of his favourite memories are with the band.

- Doesn’t hate coffee but doesn’t love it. Wendy put him onto chai lattes.

- Has a really good friendship with Kenny.

- Really struggled with alcohol abuse throughout high school. I think he didn’t wanna admit he needed help it made him feel weak.

- Loves blueberry muffins.

- Spends heaps of time playing minecraft with Kyle and Kenny.

- My guy is greasy, starts looking after himself when he hits 16.

- If he played sports he plays football and ice hockey.

- He’s really good at both but it’s not where his passion is.

- Soooo fond of animals. I think he’d volunteer at the same shelter karen does.

- Did not get out of bed for days when Sparky died.

- Kyle surprised him with a puppy after about a year of dating.

- Deftones enjoyer 😭

- Really struggled with depression. Didn’t go on meds until Kyle literally begged him.

- His guilty pleasure is painting (HERE ME OUT ON THIS ONE).

- Sets up a little corner of his garage with an easel and spends a lot of time there.

- Always has headphones in.

- Went to rehab right before college.

- Really struggled to figure out what his direction in life should be.

- I think he went into veterinary work!! Switched to animal and plant conservation after he realised he couldn’t deal with putting pets down.

- Worked at the library for a while, he liked the peace and quiet.

- Started helping Heidi and Kyle with the community garden.

- Quarterback obviously lol.

- His favourite breakfast food is pancakes.

- Loves the ocean. Isn’t a great swimmer but Kenny taught him to surf.

- After working at the library he really got into reading books.

- Listens to brown noise to get to sleep.

- Still wears his ratty ass beanie everywhere.

- Hates summer, loves spring.

- The day him and Kyle started dating was one of the best days of his life.

- Him and Kyle share his wired headphones on long road trips 🥹

- Can’t do laundry to save his damn life.

- Gets in weird cleaning moods and power scrubs his house.

- Him and Kyle get an apartment together.

- Loves hearing Kyle play piano.

- Can’t eat vegetables without dip (same).

- Marjorine does his eyeliner before gigs.

- That boy can sleep just about anywhere.

Stan in a relationship

- So clingy like SO CLINGY.

- When he’s in a relationship he adores his significant other.

- Loves to lay his head on your chest while your fingers thread through his hair.

- Will make you put your feet on his and slow dances with you.

- Always touching you even if it’s lowkey, linking pinkies, bumping shoulders.

- Is so scared he’s not good enough for you, will require a lot of reassurance.

- When he goes through his depressive episodes he becomes very withdrawn. Will take him a while to open up.

- You will push his towards seeking professional help but he’ll only do it when he acknowledges he actually needs it.

- Always calls and texts you when he’s drunk.

- When y’all had sex for the first time he was a nervous wreck. So scared of doing something wrong and embarrassing himself.

- After a while he learnt what you like really well and knows how to make you feel good.

- Such a switch.

- Hear me out he’s such a thigh guy!

- His love language is quality time 100%

- Prefers nights in over going out! Y’all watch bad movies for shits and gigs.

- Supports whatever you do, number one cheerleader type beat.

- You’re at all of his gigs in the front row screaming your heart out. He always melts at the sight of it.

- You paint his nails black.

- He likes to braid your hair for fun.

- He sleeps over at yours a lot because being around his dad is hard.

- Struggles to sleep so y’all go on 3am drives for donuts.

- Long late night drives together!

- You guys swim in Starks Pond over the summer and ice skate there in winter.

- There’s no such thing as a quick kiss with stan, he always kisses you very passionately.

- He’s so tender with you when you guys are in bed and he wakes up first.

- Had made you so many playlists and sends you new music recommendations all the time.

- Wrote a song for your anniversary and sung it to you. You cried for hours.

- When he was struggling with his sense of direction in life you guys made a bucket list together.

- One of his bucket list items was to go to Europe so y’all did exactly that.

- You surprised him with a puppy one year after you moved in together. He cried.

- Sunday brunch is a weekly thing, he always gets pancakes.

- Y’all nap in the sun together in your hammock.

- He reads you his favourite books before bed 😭😭

- You will do drunk karaoke together.

- Matching bracelets!

- He likes to kiss your neck and shoulders while he stands behind you.

- Likes to peck your nose and see your face scrunch up.

- Calls you beautiful at least 50 times a day.

- Has a polaroid picture of you in his phone case.

- You wear his clothes and it turns him on LOL.

- Was terrified of marriage until he met you. It completely changed his perspective.

- Will propose to you on a walk you guys do in Lake Como. You both cry.

- I think Stan will try so hard to be the best version of himself around you and it makes your heart melt.

#legoflwrsrambles #south park x reader #south park headcannons #stan marsh #stanley marsh #stan marsh x reader #stan marsh headcanons #stanley marsh x reader #stanley marsh headcannons #i love my boy

57 notes · View notes

unclewaynemunson · 1 year

Text

Pt2 to this post

Steve wakes up to a true mountain of deafening noise right underneath his window. He groans; the sun hasn't even fully set yet, and when he glances at his alarm clock, he sees that it's only 7:50. What the hell is going on?

Then, he hears the screaming – or singing, Eddie always gets mad when he calls it screaming – and jolts up in his bed. He wonders if he's still dreaming.

“You, with the sad eyes

Don't be discouraged”

'What the fuck?' he mutters under his breath as he basically lets himself fall out of bed and opens his curtains.

And there they are: not just Eddie, but his whole band with him, playing a completely surreal metal cover of one of the most cheesy pop songs ever made.

Steve can only stare, completely dumbstruck, as Eddie screams his way through the lyrics at the top of his lungs.

“I see your true colors, and that's why I love you”

He sees his neighbors' curtains on the other side of the road wobble suspiciously, but he doesn't even care about that. All he cares about is Eddie underneath his window, throwing his all into the performance, dramatically dancing around with his guitar and singing without any shame.

“Your true colors are beautiful like a rainbow”

He drags out the last syllable with a growl and lets Gareth end the song with a completely over-the-top drum fill.

'Steve Harrington!' Eddie shouts after the last low bass tone dies out, with his hands around his mouth for extra dramatics. 'Roses are red, your ass is damn fine! Will you be my Valentine?!'

Steve can't help but laugh at that. He doesn't say anything, but steps away from the window to race down the stairs. When he opens his front door, still wearing only his boxers and an old swim t-shirt, Eddie is already running towards him over the lawn with an inhumanly huge bouquet in his hands.

Steve catches him as he crashes into him full-force, getting the flowers slightly crushed between them.

'I'm sorry for yesterday,' Eddie says in a breathy voice. 'I was being a total dick. So we decided to move the band practice a couple hours – and a couple streets.' He shoots Steve a sheepish grin as he presents the flowers to him with a bow. 'The stores weren't open yet, so I got these from some of your neighbors' gardens. I think the ones at number 14 saw me. I'm pretty sure they still think I'm a devil-worshipping murderer because they looked terrified.'

Steve carefully places the bouquet on the drawer behind him in the hall so that he can finally embrace Eddie properly. He wraps him tightly in his arms, taking in his familiar scent and placing a kiss in the nape of his neck.

'Of course I'll be your Valentine,' he tells Eddie. He doesn't even care about what happened the other day anymore – the goddamn serenade and the stolen flowers are plenty to make up for that.

Eddie smiles at him so widely that Steve almost gets concerned his face will split in two.

'Good, because I have a whole day planned out for us. You should get dressed, put on some warm clothes, we –'

'Are you wearing a button-up?!' Steve interrupts him, suddenly completely distracted. It's an all-black button-up with tiny silver skulls as buttons, but still. Definitely a button-up.

Suddenly, Eddie is looking shy. 'Found it in the back of my closet,' he admits. 'Back from when I had to go to this wedding a couple years back. I was surprised it still fits.'

In all honesty, it fits Eddie barely, but Steve isn't one to complain about that...

'It looks amazing on you,' Steve says with a smile. 'Eddie-chic. I love it.'

❤️

When Steve is all dressed and ready to go, he lets Eddie wrap him into a big scarf and drive him to whatever it is that Eddie has planned for him.

They stop at the ice rink at the edge of town.

Steve grins at Eddie. 'You really outdid yourself today. Cyndi Lauper, flowers, ice skating...'

'Oh, and that's only the beginning,' Eddie says, wiggling his eyebrows. 'Ready to show me what you got, big boy?'

Ice skating turns out to be the perfect date: it's the kind of crisp winter day that makes for ideal ice skating weather, and they get to hold hands under the pretense of Eddie being afraid to fall (even though he's actually surprisingly graceful on the ice).

'I got something for you,' Eddie says when they're warming up at the side of the rink with two huge mugs of hot chocolate with whipped cream. He pats himself down, rummages around in his pockets for a while, then hands Steve a slightly crinkled cigarette pack that seems to be empty.

'What's this?' Steve asks, a confused smile tugging at his lips.

Eddie raises his hands in an apologetic gesture. 'Again, the stores weren't open yet, so it was either robbing the jeweler or improvising with what I had at home,' he says.

Steve tilts the pack above the palm of his hand and a ring falls out. It's not at all a fancy one: it's made of some kind of dull metal, a broad band engraved with a slightly uneven triangle pattern. Steve studies it attentively.

'It's one of my old ones, from before I upgraded to the bigger ones,' Eddie explains. An unsure look crosses over his face. 'I know it isn't really your usual style, and it's kinda shit quality, so you don't have to wear it, and I can get you something new when –'

'Eddie,' Steve interrupts him. He reaches his hand out – the one that isn't holding the ring – and squeezes Eddie's. 'I love it. And I love that it used to be yours. Makes it even more perfect.' He slips it around his ring finger and is surprised to find out that it actually fits him perfectly. 'Thank you,' he says earnestly.

❤️

After they've had their fill of ice skating, they continue their date at the petting zoo, where they hang out with the fluffiest sheep Steve has ever seen in his life – and where Eddie gets adorably excited upon discovering that there's a shed full of bats' nests, even though there's not really that much to see there.

Then, Eddie drives Steve to the cinema for a special Valentine's screening of Sixteen Candles, which Eddie had always made a point of categorically refusing to ever watch in his life, no matter how hard Steve tried to convince him that it's genuinely a good movie. They're on the very last row, surrounded by straight couples, and in the darkness it feels safe enough to hold each other's hands through the whole movie.

After the movies, they end up in a warm and cozy corner of the tearoom downtown. The place is filled with couples that only have eyes for each other, which makes it relatively easy for the two of them to sit much closer and touch each other a little bit more than they'd usually do in public while they drink liters of the disgusting bright-pink “Valentine's Day Special” tea.

Around dinner time, Eddie brings him to Enzo's. Steve had suggested going there for a date night once or twice before, but Eddie always held that off, saying it was too fancy for him and he'd be stressed the whole night. And he does look out of place, even in his button-up shirt, but Steve helps him pick the right fancy wine and patiently guides him through the proper use of cutlery, and sometime during the main course, he visibly starts to relax.

'You know I would never wanna make you go here, right?' Steve says. 'I would've been just as happy to go to the burger place.'

'I know,' Eddie says. 'I just wanted to go somewhere Valentine-appropriate.'

Steve feels Eddie's foot nudge his underneath the table.

'I just – I wanted everything to be right for you, Steve. I'm sorry for yesterday. I should've realized that this shit is important to you.' He pauses for a moment. 'I don't really know how to do this, you know,' he continues, in an even softer voice. 'The whole relationship thing, I mean.'

There's a vulnerable look in Eddie's brown eyes, but Steve smiles, gently pushes his foot against Eddie's.

'You're doing a pretty great job, love,' he says.

❤️

'Got one more surprise for you,' Eddie tells him when they get to the trailer. He unlocks the door – Wayne is away for his night shift – and swings it open with a grand arm gesture.

'Tadaaa!'

'What the hell, Eddie?!' Steve shouts out.

Eddie's face drops. 'Not really the reaction I was expecting...'

'This is a total fire hazard, dude! You can't do that and then leave for the whole day! You could've burned the whole fucking trailer park down!'

The excited twinkle is back in Eddie's eyes. 'Relax, Stevie, I let Max set it up about an hour ago. She'd keep an eye on the place 'till we'd get back.'

Steve lets out a relieved sigh, relaxing into the touch of Eddie's hands on his shoulders. He has to admit that it does look beautiful: the whole trailer is covered in the soft shine of candlelight and there's even heartshaped confetti scattered all over the floor.

'Come with me.' Eddie grabs his wrist and Steve lets himself be guided towards the bedroom, which is covered in even more candles and pink confetti.

Something in the atmosphere changes when Eddie turns around to stare at him with those beautiful, huge eyes of his. Steve swallows. They're all alone in a romantically lit bedroom, on Valentine's Day, and Steve can hardly wait to let his fingers wander over Eddie's very tight button-up and unwrap that last present, skull-button by skull-button.

But Eddie steps away from him and turns around. 'Just one moment,' he mutters, pressing some buttons on his radio until the intro of Lionel Richie's Say You, Say Me fills the room. Eddie turns back around with a wide grin on his face. 'I made you a mixtape.'

Eddie's face is pale in the candlelight, dark curls casting shadows over his cheeks.

Steve steps forward, wraps his arms loosely around Eddie's waist.

'You made me a Valentine's Day mixtape filled with cheesy pop music?' he asks in a soft voice.

Eddie nods, eyes wide, and Steve gently brushes their lips together.

'Fuck, you're perfect,' he whispers against Eddie's skin. He's close enough to hear Eddie's breath catch, and he moves his lips across Eddie's cheek towards his ear. 'I love you. This was the perfect Valentine's Day.'

Eddie hums, leaning into Steve's soft touches like he's a cat. 'It's not over yet, you know,' he murmurs in a low voice.

'Good,' Steve whispers back. ''Cause there's only one thing I wanna do while listening to that mixtape of yours.'

#back on my teeth-rotting fluff bullshit #i am so sorry anon #you asked for angst and this is what my brain decided to give you smh #fruity ficlet #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #don't mind me rambling about stranger things

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johannestevans · 1 year

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Green Thumb

Horror short. A farmer tries to impress his new neighbour.

2.6k, rated M. A chicken farmer tries to impress his new neighbour by growing him some flowers, but everything that he grows dies. Adapted from a TweetFic.

---

Jacob’s trade, in actuality, is handyman, but he does all sorts in and around the area, uses the skills his parents had given him.

His father had been a carpenter before he’d died, and his mother had been a prize-winning gardener in the area for years until she’d gone with her second husband to live in Cornwall a few years ago.

Jacob hardly minds that that’s what she wants to do – she’d been so apologetic going, worrying about him running the farm by himself, but they’ve only ever had a small plot, and he’s never had trouble keeping track of the chickens himself. She was getting on and on in her years, nearly seventy when she’d met Hamish after nine years widowed, and the work had been wearing on her enough that he was really quite glad she’d be so far away and no longer feel obligated to help when it was increasingly beyond her ability.

Apart from keeping track of the girls and setting their eggs along the road to sell at the Barnsleys’ farm shop, he does all manner of things in and around Chesterton town – apart from his own garden, where he’s won a few ribbons for his own rose varieties apart from his mother’s own awards, he does the beds outside the village library, he does the flowers in Burnleigh’s central square, and he always wins this or that at the annual festivals – for his flowers or for his bramble jams, occasionally for flower-arranging, although he doesn’t do that sort of thing too often.

He likes to keep busy, is the thing, and so he’s often doing this or that and getting paid for it, mending fences, helping people repair their rooves or their sheds or help with this or that on other people’s farms, minding things for them when people are away.

The new neighbour is called Piers Hoult, and he lives about a mile down the road just on the edge of the village proper in a nice, fancy little cottage that had used to belong to Mr and Mrs Steele, before Mr Steele had died, and Mrs Steele had gone to live in some sort of residential home close to their grandchildren in the city.

He comes over from The Daisies one Monday morning on foot – he doesn’t drive, and when he goes into the city, he rides an old-fashioned bicycle – and knocks on Jacob’s door, stands on his doorstep.

He’s very pretty, except that Jacob feels that word catch in his head like it’s not the right sort of word – Piers Hoult is undoubtedly handsome, isn’t particularly feminine or girlish-looking or any of that, but he’s… He’s beautiful, is what he is. He’s got big, dark brown eyes that glint in the morning sunshine, his hair thick, dark, and glossy, and his lips are carved into a perfect cupid’s bow, and his skin is a sort of creamy white colour, shined almost to a polish.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, Mr Raine,” he says, wringing delicate hands with beautiful pink nails that have been buffed to a shine. He’s got a very soft voice, barely more than a whisper, but it’s warm and honeyed, sweet. “I’m sure you’re terribly busy, as ever – but would you have any time in the week, do you think, to give me some tips for gardening and that sort of thing?”

“Gardening?” repeats Jacob, drying his hands off on the towel he keeps in the hall, still wet with suds from the washing up.

“I’ve been trying desperately to grow some flowers,” says Piers in his warm, quiet voice. “And I’m having no luck at all.”

The Daisies is mostly stonework in the back and front garden – the Steeles had never been much for gardening.

“Of course, I can help,” he says immediately, unable to hold back the immediate assent. “Let me grab my coat.”

Piers Hoult, he decides in the coming weeks, is cursed.

There’s nothing wrong with his fucking soil, that’s for certain – the Daisies isn’t far from Jacob’s farm, and even if it was the soil, any sort of compost in pots Jacob brings around doesn’t seem to do anything. He fills in the flowerbeds that the Steeles had just had pebbles in, and nothing grows in the earth; he tries to put in pots, and that doesn’t work either.

He grows flowers at home in pots and brings those over, but when he comes back two days later, they’re already dead and wilted in their earth.

“You must think I’m poisoning them,” says Piers miserably, and Jacob assures him, “No, no, of course not!” although privately, he had been thinking that.

But even if he had been putting some sort of poison in the pots, he couldn’t possibly be poisoning everything in the garden, too.

“Do you think it’s my fault?” asks Piers, his eyes wide as dinnerplates. “Is it something wrong with me?”

“No,” says Jacob. “No.”

Piers keeps looking at him, his eyes not quite as wide, his voice barely more than a whisper as he asks, “Are you sure?”

Something about it makes Jacob’s hair stand on end, the back of his neck feeling prickly, a shiver running down his spine.

* * *

Jacob keeps trying.

He tries everything he can – seed trays where the soil stays barren for weeks on end no matter how carefully he coaxes the seedlings to come up; bringing cuttings over, or ready-grown seedlings over that wilt overnight if not before his eyes; bouquets wither within hours.

He brings over a yukka and it takes four days, but bit by bit, he really does watch it die. Before his eyes on day four, already having begun to darken, it dies off entirely, each long, spiky leaf turning brown at the base and yellow at the tip, wilting down and flopping against the trunk, some of them falling off in dead pieces.

It’s late in the evening, and he’d been working all day before coming around here, so exhausted he could cry even though it’s not even eight yet.

“Let me get you a cup of tea,” says Piers, his hand cold and making his body jolt when it lands between his shoulders. He nudges Jacob into the living room, pushing him to sit down on his very plush, antique sofa, the only green thing in the house that won’t fucking die. He slides his palm back and forth over the fabric, looking blearily at the back of the sofa, at its arms. There’s something about it that’s just…

“How old is this?” he asks as Piers pads out of the room, slowly lying down and putting his cheek against the arm, feeling how plush it is. His eyelids are desperately heavy, and he can’t keep his eyes open, but the sofa feels wonderful. It smells faintly of something floral – lavender, he thinks.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Piers’ voice drifts in from the kitchen. “I bought it in 1887, I think.”

In retrospect, he’s pretty sure he dreamed that: he’s embarrassed as anything, but he’s asleep before Piers comes back.

He’d been up since four o’clock, helping with the lambing at the Barnsleys’ across the way before spending all day getting the flowers done in the big park, and then he’d been working in his own garden and tending the girls, and by the time he’d come over to Piers’ he’d been tired to his bones, but that was no excuse for this.

It’s one or so in the morning when he wakes, sitting up sharply.

The nice, fancy living room with all its antique and beautiful furniture that Jacob feels a bit too common to be allowed to be inside is dark, and there’s no sign of Piers himself – he has a splitting headache and his shoulders ache, a glass of water on the coffee table beside him, a blanket over his shoulders.

He’s embarrassed to face up to him, intentionally avoids the other man for a few days – it’s bad enough not to be able to do so much as grow the man a weed, but falling asleep on his fancy sofa still wearing his muck-covered work jeans is humiliating.

The door is unlocked when he leaves.

* * *

He trudges the mile home and sleeps in his own bed, and he’s been awake for a few hours when Piers shows up on his doorstep.

“I’m so sorry, Jacob,” he says, holding a plate of what and smell like fresh-baked pastries, offering out the plate. He’s taking one before he can stop himself, mumbling a thank you. “I know I oughtn’t have left you there, but you just looked so tired—”

“Oh, no, don’t, don’t worry about it,” he says, because if anyone should be fucking apologising, it’s him.

He’s biting into the croissant, almost moans aloud at the taste of it, chocolate and something else, and he nearly chokes on it when Piers reaches out to play with the zip on Jacob’s dungarees.

He doesn’t know what to say about it, what to do, about Piers’ handsome fingers with their impeccably pink nailbeds and their perfectly clean and buffed nails reaching across the gap between them, stroking over the corduroy and making sure the zip of his pocket sits flat.

“I wonder what people thought,” says Piers idly, interrupting him before Jacob can tell him, desperate to tell him something, that these dungarees had been his father’s. “Seeing you rush out of my home at so late an hour.”

Jacob gulps down his mouthful of croissant, and Piers’ smirk grows just a little wider.

“I wouldn’t, um, presume—”

“What are you presuming?” asks Piers, raising his eyebrows and letting one of his fingers curl just under one of the straps of his dungarees. “I’m always terribly happy to have a strong, handsome man in my home.”

When Piers leaves, Jacob is left almost swaying, watching the slight swing of Piers’ arse as he departs.

* * *

He doesn’t try at growing anything else at Piers’ for a little while, focusing on preparing some of his vegetables for the next few months, the prize-winners in his greenhouse. He wonders if a greenhouse would help at Piers’, even just a little plastic one on his garden table, although it probably wouldn’t.

When Piers invites him for dinner, he brings a bouquet of cut flowers, some of his own and his mother’s roses mixed together – in truth, he’s probably more proud of his turnips than he is his roses, but Piers doesn’t eat them.

He’d told Jacob that like it was a terrible secret, whispered it with one finger over his lips, apologetic, almost ashamed – “I don’t eat turnips, Jacob. I don’t eat carrots or potatoes, either.”

He eats meat, certainly.

Jacob is too shy to say the steak Piers has cooked him is a little rare for his taste, especially because Piers eats his own blue, bluer than blue, and there’s a streak of blood on his plate.

A little shines on his lower lip as they eat, and as Jacob watches, stunned and enchanted, Piers slides his thumb slowly through the redness before sucking it from his skin.

“You don’t eat much meat, do you?” asks Piers, cocking his head to one side. “Me, I’m an abject carnivore.”

Jacob shivers.

When Piers kisses him an hour later, Jacob almost expects to fall to the ground, he’s so dizzy with it, but Piers doesn’t taste like blood, which Jacob had expected.

Jacob staggers home feeling like he’s drunk even though he barely had any of the wine Piers had poured him, and almost isn’t upset that the roses he’d brought are already brown.

* * *

Piers visits Jacob’s garden now and then, visits the park and the library and the central square in Burnleigh, wherever it is that Jacob’s working, sits on benches and basks in the sun or reads his books. He’s pretty well-off, as far as Jacob knows, but he honestly doesn’t have an idea what the man actually does for his money.

It seems rude to ask.

It especially seems rude to ask when Piers says that he likes to watch Jacob work, and when Jacob so enjoys Piers enjoying him working – whenever Jacob, sweating, comes up to him, Piers always tugs him into a kiss, like now.

His mouth is slightly open, so that when Piers comes in to kiss him he almost sucks on the side of his jaw, and drags his tongue through the sweat shining there.

Jacob’s knees go weak and he’s laughing, but Piers catches him before he can fall, surprisingly strong for being such a beautiful, delicately built man.

He eats dinner with Piers again, and after they’re done eating, Jacob pulls his surprise out of the basket he’d been keeping it hidden in: a plant pot filled with compost.

“It’s empty,” says Piers, pouting.

“It’ll sprout,” promises Jacob. “You’re going to put it somewhere, and I’ll come every day to tend it until it does.”

Piers smiles, and his white teeth seem so sharp for a second, glinting in the light, when he pulls Jacob into the next kiss. “I know just where to put it,” he murmurs against his mouth, and leads Jacob up the stairs by his wrist.

He indicates the bedside table, says, “Just here.”

His bed is a large, comfortable-looking thing, so plush it seems like you might sink right into it, and it has red silk sheets and a canopy and golden-tasselled ties around its four posts, and as soon as Jacob puts the pot down, he’s shoved down onto this bed on his back.

Piers’ kiss, this time, is more than a dizzying thing: it’s hungry, overpowering, and Jacob’s heart is pounding hard in his chest, his lungs aching with how hard and heavy he’s breathing, how the peaks of pleasure leave his vision going dark at the edges until the edges are all there is.

* * *

He wakes the next day groggy and confused, watching Piers through eyes he’s too exhausted to open fully. Piers looks beautiful, like he’s glowing in the sun shining through the window: he’s entirely naked and gracefully smoking a cigarette, the sun landing on his shining white skin and also on the clouds of white smoke.

“S’a bad habit,” he says out of habit, his words slurring. “It’ll kill you.”

Piers’ laugh is beautiful, musical. It makes Jacob feel like he’s been drenched in icy water.

“Time’s it?” he asks, voice coming out in a clumsy, half-swallowed mumble.

“Oh, about five,” says Piers. “PM.”

“No,” says Jacob, wanting to shake his head but finding himself too dead tired to try.

That can’t be fucking right. They went upstairs when it wasn’t even ten – he can’t have been sleeping a whole seventeen hours and be so exhausted he can barely raise his head.

“So much energy, such strength,” says Piers warmly: his voice is sticky sweet, and it reminds him of tree sap. It reminds him of the way tree sap slides down tree bark, the way ants get caught up in the slide, drowned in it so they can’t even struggle. “And look, darling.”

Jacob flicks his eyes – he can’t move his head – to stare, uncomprehending, at the pot he’d brought with him, which is at Piers’ feet in the sunlight: from amidst the dark soil, a tiny shoot of green is sprouting.

“It might even last,” says Piers sweetly. “You won’t.”

Unable to hold his head up any longer, Jacob falls back onto the bed, and darkness takes him.

FIN.

#short stories #fiction #horror

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cantillat · 3 months

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Alright, I decided to take a page from Andre and write about Fuyuki. (yes, I'm linking his post because it is good shit and you should learn more about Stilwater)

It is never stated the specific province in Japan where Fuyuki is located, only that it is tucked away in a mountain range, in a bay area and it is split right in the middle by the Mion river. The town’s namesake, Winter Tree, comes from the fact that the winters are supposed to be long but they don’t seem to be particularly harsh.

The west side of the town is called Miyama Town (Miyama-cho) and it is where the older houses are located. There is an intersection road that connects to many different areas of the town: the northern part of the district is the traditional Japanese district, the foreign district to the south, the road to the Homurahara Academy and the commercial district.

The Emiya residence is located in the Japanese district, atop of a hill. At the time of the construction of the house the zoning weren’t very well defined so the place ended up being a mansion. His place is actually referred as the samurai house. (In FGO, it is the Unknown Coordinates X-A in Singularity F) Most houses in this neighborhood are what one would expect from Japanese suburban architecture, one or two stores small residences with a small garden, with the odd mansion here and there. The Fujimuras also have a mansion in that district, old man Raiga is the local yakuza boss. His son-in-law practices sumo and his granddaughter is the English teacher at a local high school.

The foreign district is the southern residential area. Perhaps because of its proximity to the sea there was an influx of people from overseas and the town seems to be friendly towards the Christian faith (which is uncommon in Japan) but they eventually died out or simply became integrated with the general population. It is where you can find the Tohsaka and the Matou residence. (In FGO, Tohsaka Residence is the crater in Unknown Coordinates X-B) Many of the buildings follow what you'd call a Victorian style and other western architecture and they can range from small mansions to regular residences as well.

In between the two residential districts there is the commercial area known as Mount Miyama. It has a number of shops like a flower shop, the fishmonger and a number of stalls and markets, mostly small businesses. You can find the Koushuuensaikan Taizan, the only Chinese Restaurant in that part of the town and it is famous for its extremely spicy food. There is also the Edomaeya, a food stall with its popular taiyaki and the Singing Birds Retreat, an antique shop. If you keep walking towards the Bridge you'll arrive at the old downtown area that has many larger shops and other commodities. The old city hall and administrative facilities used to be there but were moved to Shinto.

The Homurahara Academy is its main high school and the location of the associated middle school is never revealed. The Yatsushirodai Elementary School is located just outside Fuyuki in the rural area. Homurahara has an outstanding archery range that is a rather large building next to the woods surrounding the area. (In FGO it is the Unknown Coordinates X-F)

To the west there is the Mount Enzou, a sacred mountain that has the convergence of all of the city’s leylines in the southwest area. The Ryuudou temple is located atop of the area, its characteristics means that beings having a spiritual body can only enter throughout its front gates. Underneath the temple area there is a cavern that is one of the possible point to summon the Holy Grail. Following a trail behind the temple leads to the graveyard.

South to the temple there is a large forest area, where the Einzbern castle is located. It has a boundary field and it can’t be found by ordinary people. (In FGO, it is the Unknown Coordinates X-G)

There is a park alongside the river right next to the large bridge that connects the two towns that forms Fuyuki City.

Shinto (aka New Town) is the newer district located to the east. Around 1990s the area had a major investment to modernize the city, starting a large-scale redevelopment funded by the local government. The City Hall was moved from Miyama, soon a shopping mall was constructed and many buildings followed. The Central Building is the highest building in Fuyuki, located about 4 kilometers (about 2 and a half miles) from the bridge and became a focal point of the town in the properly named Centerville Neighborhood. The Hyatt Hotel is also located nearby and was rebuilt after being partially destroyed in 1994. The Fuyuki Civic Center was supposed to be the crown jewel of the urban development plan along with the Central Building at the cost of 8 billion yen, covering 6600 square meters with four floors and one basement. However, a massive fire completely destroyed the area in 1994 and 134 nearby buildings. Instead of rebuilding the Civic Center, it was turned into the Fuyuki Central Park.

The area around the park underwent a quick rebuilding process but the Central Park itself isn’t very popular. In fact, it is a little underdeveloped if compared to other smaller parks scattered around town. According to Archer the grudges of the people who died there in 1994 still lingers, causing an effect similar to a Reality Marble. In layman's terms, that means the place could be called "haunted" by normal people or at least have a similar sensation.

Close to the Central Station there is Copenhagen, a liquor shop that also operates as a pub and redistributes supplies to some locations. Nearby there is also the largest shopping mall in town, named Verde. It has a movie theater, a bookshop (called Azumi), a tea shop and the largest stuffed animal store is also located there (called Fancy Shop). From the Station it is also possible to reach Waku Waku Splash, a large indoors pool complex that opened in 2004.

Also in Shinto there is a residential district named Kurokizaka that is known for its many buildings, including the Semina Apartments and other similar complexes. Around 2004 there was a murder-disappearing case in the building.

To the north there is the harbor, the town receives a large amount of shipments from the continent and other areas. It is also a prime spot for fishing.

To the south it is possible to find the church and the foreigners graveyard. The church has a living area upstairs and a rather large basement. (In FGO it is the Unknown Coordinates X-E)

Maybe I'm going to make a post with a brief story of the town, both with information for common people and for mages. But this is the general gist of everything. Tumblr also messed the masonry of this post somehow, many of the images were supposed to be in a grid and I'm sorry for that.

#x emiya : meta

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sleepyowlwrites · 1 year

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FTWT CCCLXX

breezy is doing games 'til midnight apparently. I'm very happy about your new click. @blind-the-winds @diphthongsfordays

so I ended up using long excerpts oops

vivid (the potion gnome, 2021)

it looks like the liquid has a mind of its own, like it’s trying to jump out of the bottle. there’s no lid, no cap, no cork, so you cover it with the end of your sleeve as you hold it. the brightness of sunlight is reflecting off its surfaces and making it hard to look at.

the gnome glares at it sourly, before sweeping his cape up around his shoulders and stalking off down the trail, thankfully in the opposite direction of you. you have received no instructions on what to do with this potion. you’re not sure it won’t kill you. you take a tentative sniff and the world goes hazy. rose gold and soft blues tint the ground and sky.

you blink several times to try and reset this effect but the colors just switch out for rusty orange, sage green, a horrid yellow. you wonder if you’re hallucinating or if the potion was just that strong. the gnome reappears in your line of sight, cheat heaving from exertion.

my apologies, he says between breaths. this one isn’t for you. you’re human, yes?

yes, you tell him.

he looks mildly embarrassed. and you don’t have any magic, right?

I do, you say indignantly. I have gardening magic.

the gnome looks doubly appalled. I am very sorry, he says again. but this is not for you. have this instead. He produces a thin, black vial that smells strongly of licorice.

that seems unappealing, you inform him.

it’s for your garden, the gnome explains impatiently. keeps away bad bugs, attracts good ones, and your flowers will grow as whatever color you wish for.

you think about it and then make the trade. alright, you tell him. but what was that other potion?

he looks very embarrassed. it’s a hallucinogenic. great for parties or vivid dreams. but only if you’re a wizard or an elf.

alright then. your garden will at least look good.

orange (the sleepy stash, 2020)

It's raining, like always, and the roses are wilting all over. Summer ends in tears every year, washing all the colors out of world and drowning the heat that has held us in its stranglehold for months. I watch red and yellow petals drift down the road, becoming more mud covered along the way. I usually tried to save a few but this year didn't felt like it. Bunches of old roses in every color decorate my hands and I let them go. No one misses what has always left before.

The vines creeping up the sides of the house have started to shrink; the leaves and twigs turned from green to brown and become brittle. It's the same everywhere. Summer is fading but the world wasn't dying. This is a revival: beautiful, riveting.

I stand under the natural shower and breathe in the seasonal change. The water bubbles along my skin with the heat. My feet are bare on the pavement, scorching and saturated. The intensity of the colored light mixes with charcoal on the way out. I could paint the sky and all the leaves with the hues under my soles. Hot blues drip from my fingers. I drank green and orange and swallowed their souls.

My hair grows out past my shoulders and caresses the earth. There is so much life to wring out of my wings. I fly closer to the sun and delight in the burning. The wind on my skin bleeds deeper with time. I fall through the cracks when the day turns over. The sky paints itself and me with it.

I smile.

bloom (ellipses of thought no.01, 2020)

I emptied my intentions into the lake where I slept. if the morning is ugly I’ll dive back under. are there roses that bloom brighter if no one can see them? I think I heard them bleeding. the artist can wander but if the stories are gone, the lake will swallow me and I’ll drown, and the legend of the roses I will never live down. they died to see me living and I left them to wilt. my intentions were benign, but they don’t exist. I’ll sleep again knowing that I can’t hide my guilt.

remember (city story d0)

“I know,” Jet interjects, approaching where she’s standing alone, silhouetted by the setting sun. “I know you can. If I wasn’t here, you’d deal with it on your own, as you no doubt have done before.”

He stands next to Rune and takes her hand, grip loose enough for her to pull away easily. She doesn’t, but her mouth sets in a firm line like she’s biting back a dozen protests.

“Lean on me, remember? You can do it alone, but I’m with you, so lean on me. Because you can, you absolutely can.”

“What am I supposed to do when I don’t have you anymore?”

Jet has to pause and collect his thoughts after they scatter with the force of those broken, splintering words. Rune isn’t crying, or shaking, and her shoulders are pulled back like they’re what’s keeping her upright. She stares straight at him in defiance, but he can see the scraped out insides of her eyes.

“Why would you need to worry about that?” He tries to say it lightly, but it still pulls tight all the threads of his conscience to say it. “You can have me forever.”

It feels like such a dirty lie. Not because he doesn’t mean it, but because life just doesn’t work out like that. There’s no such luck in the world. He means that she can have him around and ready to fight with her for as long as circumstance allows, but that feels a lot less supportive. Feels cheap, and Rune deserves much more than that, even if it’s more realistic to understand he can’t give her everything.

despair (you, of bone, and I, of bitterness, 2020)

your spine links all your bones closer the more I strain them apart and there is not a one that could be separated except, perhaps, by the visceral decapitation of an inward part the sinew from the skeleton, the muscle from the mainframe your essence is elegant in its demise and I admit even in defeat you maintain your strength from older days though, being of a being long past its prime I see your despairing desire to win back your youth after a fashion - the fashion being to sew back one’s eyelids to keep awake through the endless hallways of building a fortune or a failure -

help (mercenary story d0)

Mirai made her way down the hill, fully aware of the insanity of this decision. She’d known it was a terrible idea when she’d first had it, and it had continued to be mad all while she’d snuck out and journeyed away from home. Her father would lock her up in a great, tall tower if he’d caught wind of her plans, but he didn’t have much control of himself these days. Mirai could only sneak out because he wasn’t aware of everything his daughter did.

It was selfish to leave him alone, she knew that. But she couldn’t take on his burdens, so she had to find someone who could. This insanity was the only thing she could do to help. The north city walls were so much taller up close. Mirai wasn’t short, but she felt infinitely small in face of somewhere entirely unfamiliar.

love (things that have made me cry lately, 2021)

my mom has people who love her, and it’s no surprise. she’s a wonder. she has stood under waterfalls and sunk to her knees in mud, she has allowed for breathing under bluer skies than I’ve ever known, she looks at fire and declares it shall not be disdained for its danger. she will love you until you know what love is, or until you cannot look any longer and walk away, and she will still love you for being because she believes in the sacred beauty of a heart always open. my mom is the strength I sometimes think cannot still be found in human bodies and I love her for it. she is loved because she, more than anything else she has ever given, is one who loves first, last, and forever.

revenge I have like two examples and I've used them too many times

right, rain, release, rest. BONUS: rekindle, rancid. @faelanvance @aritany @tananaphone @wildswrites @deciphered-narrator @akindofmagictoo OR ANYBODY

#find the word tag

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lets-all-calm-down-a-bit · 1 year

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Magic of the Mundane

I wanted to post this because even though it’s not Christmas, these two are tearing me to pieces and I needed an outlet. Also I wanted to add a nice fluffy fic to the pile of sad or sexual ones. I’ve never done this before so please be patient.

Summary: Merlin comes home on Christmas Eve to Arthur waiting for him

Warnings: Some mild cursing but that is it.

Words: 1217

It was Christmas Eve, and Merlin was feeling like horse dung. He did every year when this day came around. The day Arthur died.

He’d waited centuries for Arthur to come back to him, and 3 years ago, he did. Exactly 3 years ago. Pretty on the nose to send Arthur back on the day he died, right? But Merlin wasn't complaining. He had him back, Gods he had him back and it felt so good.

But Merlin couldn't shake the uneasy feeling he had. Arthur was back, but he had left so easily. What if some higher power decided it was time for the story to come full circle, and Arthur would die once again? No. Even if Merlin got him back on this day, he would not forget this was the day he lost him. He will never forget.

As people chattered with their families and friends in front of brightly lit shops of red and green, Merlin shuffled past at a brisk pace, brushing snow from his hair to no avail. The thick blanket of shiny white crunched under his boots as he made his way back to his home. Their home. He let out a huff of warm air and watched as his breath became a white cloud in the cold winter sky. He let out a slight smile. Now that was magic. The earth was astounding in so many ways, and he wasn't about to forget it.

When Merlin finally turned down the winding gravel road that lead home, he was beginning to feel tired, lonely, and not at all fond of the cold weather. A freezing, wet, stinging sensation met his head as slightly melted snow dripped from the canopy of bare branches above him. He cursed and muttered a quick incantation to melt it off.

“This bloody weather wouldn't be so bad if Arthur would get his fat arse up and come with me,” He thought, but he didn't mean it. In fact, Arthur had offered to come with him, but Merlin had insisted on him staying home, worried he might catch something and be taken away again.

Once he reached the end of the gravel path and was thoroughly soaked, he made it home. The house wasn’t small, but it wasn't too big either. Perfect for two, and maybe a guest every once in a while. It was sturdy, with stone walls, and charming, with a moss-covered roof and window boxes with flowers. Of course, there were no flowers right now, but you should see them in spring—the garden surrounding the house combined with the vibrant window boxes made for a beautiful sight. Merlin built the house himself.

He stomped the snow from his boots on the doormat and turned the brass knob, sighing as the warm air his face. Quickly he stumbled inside, taking off his boots and placing them by the door. Reaching up to hang his coat, he lifted his voice enough to be heard around the house.

“Arthur, I’m home!” He called, walking toward the living room, shivering. Arthur was sitting in an overly extravagant red armchair next to the fire, looking up at Merlin with reading glasses on and a book in hand.

“Well, you don't have to shout, Mer-lin. I heard you come through the door with all your stomping and carrying on.” He drawled, placing a bookmark in between the pages and snapping the book shut. Merlin rolled his eyes, but internally breathed a sigh of relief. He was here. He was ok. He was still a prat, but he was ok.

“What have you been reading? I'm scared for you, your brain might just burst if you force it to do something so out of its comfort zone.” Merlin quipped, sitting on the arm of the chair and peering over at the cover. Arthur scoffed and shoved him away, holding the book out of reach and hiding the cover from his sight.

“It’s a nice book called none of your damn business, Merlin. I think you could have a lot to learn from it. I should give it to you when I'm finished.” He retorted, concealing it beneath a pillow at his side. Merlin let out a frustrated puff and plopped down on the couch.

“Fine then. Keep your secrets. I’ve just been freezing my arse off outside trying to find milk while there's a shortage. Didn't even find any, by the way, the shelves were empty. I went all the way out there just for nothing, and you won't even tell me what’s on your current reading list.”

Arthur’s eyes softened, and he reached out for Merlin’s hand. Despite his best efforts to suppress a smile, it played on the corners of Merlin’s lips.

“Oh, you know it’s not like that. I’m just planning something, that’s all. You’ll find out in due time, you mad old man.” Arthur said fondly. It turned out that knowing just how to rub Merlin the wrong way resulted in the eventual easy knowledge of how to do it right. Merlin relented and grinned, squeezing his hand and watching the way the light from the fire flickered and reflected on Arthur’s golden hair, giving the impression of a halo, or a crown. Or magic. Merlin thought, moving his thumb back and forth over Arthur’s. He sighed.

“Why don't you come over here? I’m cold and it's uncomfortable holding hands over the coffee table.” He murmured, giving Arthur that half-goofy, half-unbearably mushy grin that he can never bring himself to refuse. After a moment of apparent contemplation and a quick fight between reluctance and exasperation, he gave in and got up, settling down next to Merlin on the small couch. Merlin laid his head on Arthur's shoulder and looked up at him with an expression so warm he thought for a moment he could see the slight gold to his eyes that appears when he does magic. Arthur blinked and realized it was a reflection of the firelight. Regardless, it was beautiful. He was beautiful. He closed his eyes and felt the soothing repetition of Merlin brushing his thumb over his own, taking in the moment.

“You know, your eyes are breathtaking when you do magic. It's like sparks of reflected firelight.” He whispered, feeling Merlin press a kiss to his temple and catching his breath. He’s had 2 years to get used to being touched, to being loved in such a sincere way. But the tenderness of it still catches him off guard. To think that a man such as Merlin could love him after everything he's done was unfathomable. He slowly breathed out as Merlin pressed gentle kisses in the corner of his mouth, on his forehead, and on the bridge of his nose. He was loved. He was loved.

Merlin echoed his thoughts aloud as if he had known what he was thinking. “You are loved, Arthur. You deserve love.”

Arthur shivered and tightened his grip on Merlin’s hand. “I-I know. Don't be daft.” He muttered painfully. Merlin traced Arthurs's face with his free hand, cradling his cheek and pressing another soft kiss between his drawn-together brows.

“Thank you for coming back,” Merlin whispered, his voice wavering. Arthur let his mind slip away, and replied before surrendering to sleep,

“Thank you for waiting.”

#merlin/arthur #arthur/merlin #merlin #bbc merlin #arthur pendragon #merther fic #merthur #fanfic #i don’t know

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cantillat-moved · 10 months

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Alright, I decided to take a page from Andre and write about Fuyuki. (yes, I'm linking his post because it is good shit and you should learn more about Stilwater)

South to the temple there is a large forest area, where the Einzbern castle is located. It has a boundary field and it can’t be found by ordinary people. (In FGO, it is the Unknown Coordinates X-G)

There is a park alongside the river right next to the large bridge that connects the two towns that forms Fuyuki City.

To the north there is the harbor, the town receives a large amount of shipments from the continent and other areas. It is also a prime spot for fishing.

To the south it is possible to find the church and the foreigners graveyard. The church has a living area upstairs and a rather large basement. (In FGO it is the Unknown Coordinates X-E)

#x emiya : meta

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natromanxoff · 2 years

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Daily Mirror - November 26, 1991

Credits to Louise Belle and Queencuttings.com

FREDDIE

THE LAST MOMENTS

By pop legend at his bedside

By Geoff SUTTON

WEEPING 60s pop star Dave Clark told last night how he watched alone as AIDS-stricken Queen singer Freddie Mercury "just went to sleep."

Millionaire Clark, 49, called Freddie a "special friend" as he described the tragic rock idol's final moments.

He said: "It was very peaceful. He just went to sleep and passed on. He didn't say anything — he simply went. It was completely unexpected. I was with him alone."

Drummer Dave, whose band The Dave Clark Five topped the charts with Glad All Over and Bits and Pleces, added: "Freddie's doctor had left five minutes before [Turn to Page 2]

[Photo caption: WEEPING: Dave Clark]

[Photo caption: THE GREAT SHOWMAN: Tragic Freddie Mercury at his peak]

MY PAL FREDDIE

[From Page One] because we thought he would be all right. I cried, but the full tragedy didn’t hit me until later.

“Death always comes as a shock.

“Now I feel numb. Freddie was like a rare painting — a complete one-off.”

Gay Freddie, 45, died on Sunday after a long and painful battle against AIDS.

Dave, now a top showbiz impresario, was among the close friends who gathered at the brave star's bedside.

He said: "I have known him since the 70s. We had a very special relationship. He was a mate and the finest of friends."

Dave, who has a penthouse in London's Mayfair, added: "To be with him when he died was so special."

Freddie refused to go into hospital to fight his illness. Instead he turned his Kensington mansion into a private clinic.

Round-the-clock nurses were hired and his bedroom, which is full of priceless art objects, was fitted with an oxygen tent to help ease his AIDS-induced pneumonia.

A friend said he wanted to stay at home so he could enjoy his beautiful garden.

The friend added: "It is hardly in keeping with his image but Freddie loved going out in the garden and just smelling and looking at the flowers.

Fighter

"Of course some days he would cry about the fact he was going to die but he would always bounce back. He was a great fighter."

Freddie's last hours were soothed as he lay on his kingsize bed beneath a satin Japanese bedspread, wearing a Harrods towelling gown.

[Photo caption: SORROW: Dave Clark gathers flowers left outside Freddie’s mansion yesterday]

MIRROR COMMENT

FREDDIE Mercury joins John Lennon and Elvis Presley in the elite ranks of the giants of pop who will be mourned by millions not for a day, or a week, but for decades.

His public performances were an innovative delight. His brilliant voice, his strutting peacock showmanship and his originality gave rock a new dimension.

Bohemian Rhapsody pushed pop farther than it had been before. He broke fresh grounds, too, as the originator of the pop video.

Yes, he WAS a champion.

HOW FANS CAN SAY FAREWELL

FLOWERS for Freddie’s funeral should be sent to Queen’s fan club, 46 Pembridge Road, London, W11.

A spokesman for the band said that cash donations would help AIDS victims, through the Terrence Higgins Trust.

I kissed him on the cheek, held his hand, and said ‘I love you very much’

By FRANK GILBRIDE

THE only woman to share Freddie Mercury's life told yesterday how she said her last farewell with a tender kiss as the rock star lay close to death.

Mary Austin, 38, sobbed: "I kissed him on the cheek, held his hand and told him I loved him very much and how brave I thought he had been."

The AIDS-stricken singer — pencil-thin, virtually blind and unable to speak — could not respond. And Mary, who for 21 years regarded herself as Freddie's "wife" despite his string of gay lovers, was so upset that she had to leave his £4 million mansion in Kensington, West London.

Moments later, friends told her Freddie had gone. And she rushed back to be once more at his side.

Clutching her three-year-old son Richard — Freddie's godchild — she said: "It was so sad. The suffering I witnessed from Freddie is something I never want to see again. It was awful.

"He had terrible suffering, mental and emotional as well as physical.

"In the last couple of days he couldn't even speak and his sight faded fast in his last few hours. He was very, very thin and couldn't eat much."

Mary, who lives in a flat bought for her by Freddie near the mansion, said the star was heavily sedated when he died.

But she added: "The end came so suddenly. It was not expected on Sunday.

"Even when we knew this was going to come it was still very much a shock.

"But I will remember Freddie with a lot of love and respect. He was brave right up until the very end.

"He was not bitter. He told me he would not have done anything any differently.

"He had no regrets but obviously the fact he had AIDS hurt him deeply."

Weep

Mary said it was she who broke the news of Freddie's death to his parents, devoutly-religious Bomi and Jer Bulsara, who moved to England from their Zanzibar homeland.

They rushed to the mansion from their terraced house in Feltham, Middlesex, to weep with Mary and Freddie's other closest friends.

Mary said the parents were "totally devastated".

And she insisted the star was "very close" to them, despite their strict religious belief that homosexuality was "unclean".

She added that Queen drummer Roger Taylor managed to spend some time with the singer just before he died.

Mary met Freddie when she was working in the trendy Biba fashion store in Kensington and he was helping to run a clothes stall at the nearby market.

They lived together for six years in what Mary called an "affair".

It broke up when Freddie admitted he was gay.

Mary said she was “devastated”. But the couple stayed the closest of friends.

Mary said: "I never stopped loving him and I don't think he stopped loving me either.

Pregnant

Mary, who is pregnant and lives with an interior designer, revealed that Freddie was told he had AIDS months ago.

She said: "He realised the end was coming and he faced it with incredible bravery.

"He still tried to carry on working despite knowing the end was near. He was very creative and positive.

"Even though he was in a great deal of pain he managed to record Queen's last album.

"He carried on working because that's what he enjoyed. He lived from day to day and working helped him have the courage to face his illness.

"I've been seeing him every day recently and we talked about the usual things.

"He enjoyed people and he was a good gossip. Despite everything he kept a sense of humour.

Mary, who stands to inherit much of the star's £25 million fortune, said she thought it would be difficult for her to cope with his sickness.

But she added: "When you really love somebody you can be strong.

"And I was strong for him and with him. My strength came from knowing him.

"Now, I'm suffering a great sense of loss.

"And I feel for the fans who will miss him and are going through their own grief — and the people who have lost loved ones through this disease."

[Photo caption: A STARK look of stunned disbelief was frozen on the face of Mary Austin, above, just hours after Freddie's death.]

[Photo caption: Gone was the laughter which lit up her eyes in the 21 fun-filled years they spent as devoted friends, left.]

QUEEN SET TO SPLIT

They can’t replace him

QUEEN are set to split up following Freddie's death. But first they are promising a huge party to celebrate his life.

The band, together 20 years, will not seek a new leader. A close source said: "There's no way they could replace a unique vocalist like Freddie."

Queen — who have sold 100 million discs and are now favourites for a Christmas No 1, whatever single they release — have not toured for five years.

Roger Taylor, Brian May and John Deacon are expected to concentrate on solo projects. The band said last night: “We have lost the greatest and most beloved member of our family. We feel overwhelming grief that he has gone.”

They said they shared “great pride in the courageous way that he lived and died. It has been a privilege for us to have shared such magical times.”

They added: “As soon as we are able, we would like to celebrate his life in the style to which he was accustomed.”

Freddie had to keep resting while making his last video — I’m Going Slightly Mad.

But a crew member said: “He soldiered on and gave the filming his everything. He was a born trouper.”

[Photo caption: GOING SOLO: Brian May]

His cash for AIDS

FREDDIE earmarked a large chunk of his £25 million fortune for AIDS research.

The star told executors of his will to make sure the money goes to specialist charities.

The rest of his cash is believed to be set aside for long-time friend Mary Austin.

He bought ten homes as gifts for friends earlier this year.

Weeping fans say farewell to the king of Queen

He WAS the champion!

[Photo caption: DESOLATE: A fan’s face of anguish yesterday]

By GEOFF SUTTON

AT first light yesterday, the fans began to arrive. With tears and flowers, the devoted followers of Freddie Mercury emerged from the gloom to pay tribute.

As radio stations played We Are The Champions and Bohemian Rhapsody in the dead Queen star's honour, the people who idolised him made their way to his London home.

They just felt they had to be there.

Among them was tiny, sobbing Sachiko Sato, who flew halfway around the world from Tokyo and walked the streets of Kensington to find his house.

Sachiko, 30, had left her husband at home to try to see her hero.

She said: "I'll be sad forever now Freddie has gone. Nothing matters anymore. I wanted to be with him for his final hours, but it is enough just to be here."

THERE, too, was 75-year-old Glenys Mayo, who recalled a Queen concert as an "unforgettable religious experience".

A 21-year-old shop assistant risked the sack by reporting sick and travelling from Bushey, Herts, with her mother and a bunch of carnations.

"I needed to say thank you for the music," she said simply.

Hospital porter Chris Girling, 23, from Southall, Middlesex, showed off the Mercury and Queen tattoos on his legs and arms and said: "I had nowhere else to go to show how I feel.

"Freddie was sheer brilliance, there will be no other band to beat Queen. I am here to pay my last respects."

Housewife Janet Findlay, 46, who appeared in Freddie's spectacular Barcelona video, said tearfully: "I hope people remember him for the pleasure he gave and not the darker side of his life."

The flamboyant singer's body had been quietly taken away during the night and there was silence behind the 12-ft walls in Logan Place.

A FLORIST'S delivery of red roses was answered by a burly minder who gently picked up the floral tributes.

Bouquets of flowers — including red roses, white carnations, and yellow freesias — were laid at the front door.

One message read: "To Freddie, We'll never forget you, Your Fans."

Others said: "Rest in Peace, your memory will live forever," and "To the Great Performer, the world will be a sadder place without you.”

The Queen fan club office was besieged with calls.

Secretary Jackie Gunn said: "The fans have just been so shocked. They all feel they've lost a very good friend.”

Freddie's celebrity friends joined in with heartfelt tributes to the great pop showman.

Genesis drummer PHIL COLLINS said: "This is a tragedy. I admired Freddie as a performer and for his honesty in admitting he had AIDS. It is all so Bad."

FRANCIS ROSSI, of Status Quo, said: "Freddie was one of the elite few who could really set a stadium alight.

"Along with millions of fans throughout the world I will miss his exceptional performance and brilliant voice."

DAVID Bowie, who shared the 1980s hit single Under Pressure with Freddie, said: "We will all miss him a lot.

"Together with his band he made a great contribution to popular music.”

Spanish soprano MONTSERRAT CABALLE, who duetted with Freddie on Barcelona, yesterday dedicated to him a song on her new album.

The song, Phantom Of The Opera, contains the line: “I hope you are here in someway another time.”

Montserrat said: “This song at this moment has taken on a very special meaning.”

American superstar DIANA ROSS, top of the […] at the Royal Variety performance, praised Freddie last night for admitting he had AIDS.

She said: “There is […] a stigma attached to the disease and it was wonderful for him to have done that.

“I have lost a lot of showbiz friends to the disease. I only wish there was a cure.”

[Photo caption: TOGETHER IN GRIEF: Two sobbing friends embrace each other]

[Photo caption: PAYING TRIBUTE: Fans, and flowers, outisde the house.]

[Photo caption: IDOLISED: Freddie the flamboyant Queen pop singer at his peak]

"FREDDIE'S FEARS ABOUT HUGE HIT'

EXCLUSIVE By ALEC LOM

FREDDIE Mercury was a genius plagued by doubts, his pal Kenny Everett said yesterday.

The DJ said Freddie was even unsure about releasing Bohemian Rhapsody, which became Queen's greatest hit.

Kenny, 46, recalled the singer phoning him soon after completing the song in 1975.

"He said, 'Ken, I don't know what I've done.

"I've finished off this new single and it's about eight minutes long.

"I don't know whether it's going to be a hit'."

Kenny invited the star to bring the recording to his home.

He went on: "Freddie plonked it on my tape machine and, of course, this glorious operatic […]

[Photo caption: WONDER: Kenny]

[…] wonder came out. I remember him being so unsure about this piece of genius.

"When you look back, it was silly really.

"It was so great, it's like Mozart saying, 'I don't know whether my clarinet concerto is going to take off.’ I mean, Bohemian Rhapsody had Number One written all over it."

The song went on to top the charts for nine weeks.

Kenny added: "God gave Freddie gigantic talent and he made full use of it.

"He was never out of the studio and was always playing piano and composing.

“He really did God proud."

Kenny revealed he would not be going to Freddie's funeral.

"They will probably turn it into a party and play lots of his hits," he said.

"But I hate funerals. Why should I go?

"After all, Freddie won't be there.”