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5eraphim · 7 months

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could you write something about Scout with a breeding kink please?? i don't usually see a lot of fics like that when involving him, also maybe some angst too and slight yandere aspects?? only if you're comfortable ofc!! my friend recommended your blog to me :3 ((if they're reading this, i want them to know that i think they're smelly.))

it's spooky season so i'm answering this for werewolf!scout from the monster mash au. (this is a little drabble i wrote about werewolf scout's backstory, you don't really need to read all of it, but for context- scout and reader were childhood friends, but after reader moved away scout seizes the opportunity to get back with "the one that got away") now he's forced reader to live as his mate. not much difference from human scout tbh, it's just spiced with a bit of tetro and full-moon-intensified-horniness, the emotional core/angst of the story is more about his issues regarding family/loyalty/responsibility. i hope that's all good with you, thank you so much for the request!

Title: Puppy Eyes

Character: Scout 🐇 (Team Fortress 2)

Rating: X (MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! GO PLAY OUTSIDE!)

Content Warnings: dubcon, breeding kink, yandere, tetro (mild), full moon horniness, mating press, AFAB reader, exophilia, fingering, dirty talk, abandonment issues/daddy issues scout, scout drinks reader's sweat? if that's anything?

Word Count: 3.5k

MASTER LIST

TIP JAR

"I never wanted to kill. I am not naturally evil.

Such things I do, just to make myself attractive to you.

Have I failed?" Morrisey, The Last of the Famous International Playboys

(post 2/31 of my version of kinktober where i write whatever i want for every day of october <3)

"I-I know it's a lot- but fuck! C'mon, stay with me, just a lil more!" How many times had you heard that line tonight? You already lost count. It was so late out, the summer night sky crystal-clear as the full moon and starlight pooled through the open windows bright enough to illuminate the entire room. But you didn't want to see; all you wanted to do was bury your head under the pillows and sleep, despite knowing there was a significant chance you wouldn't get more than a wink of sleep tonight.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon! I-I'm almost there! Keep goin'!" Scout continued to try and push you on. His voice had gone hoarse and sounded winded, but he was close. You could feel his knot building, a sensation even now after so many rounds you couldn't determine to be sickening or erotic. Even if you tried to tell yourself it was gross, you'd already come twice feeling Scout grinding it against you, forcing you to lay on your belly under him with your knees bent while he humped you with his briefs still on. He was excited and wanted nothing more than to get right to pounding you into the floor, but even he couldn't entirely ignore his anxiety. It was your first night with him as a wolf, and if he messed up tonight, he knew it would take ages to make it up to you.

It was the first full moon the two of you spent under the same roof, and you knew it would be a rough night, but you had no idea Scout could be so insatiable. Scout was a braggart and a liar. When he told you about all the dirty things he fantasized about doing to you under the full moon, you thought he was trying to get a rise out of you. Needless to say, the countless hickies spotting your neck, shoulders, and tits, the bruises on your thighs and hips, and the ungodly overstimulation going on between your legs were more than enough to convince you Scout was being dead serious. Even before that, usually, Scout liked to dirty talk while he undressed you, liked to watch you get embarrassed and turned on, completely unable to hide it. But not tonight. As soon as Scout locked the door behind himself coming home, he practically jumped you, dragging you to the heaping pile of pillows and blankets in the middle of the bedroom floor you called a bed.

You'd be lying if you said it wasn't more than a little erotic to see someone so animalistic and primally lustful towards you. And though you weren't about to admit it, Scout didn't look half-bad in his wolf form. Even as a wolf, he was pretty lean, with a shaggy, deceptively soft blonde pelt and, of course, his big blue puppy eyes. Bright, excited eyes that lit up when you praised him, gave him attention, wound your fingers through his hair, anything- he couldn't get enough!

On the other hand, you were starting to fade fast and needed a break. Not only to replenish your energy, but you desperately needed to grab a towel and clean up a little. It was the full moon, and there was nothing on Scout's mind other than coming inside you, but given how many loads he was shooting off, you were physically incapable of keeping all of them inside. Resulting in sticky smears coating your back, thighs, and arms.

"Hang on, just- Jesus, Scout, will you let me get up? I just wanna wipe off a little sweat."You turned your back on Scout, about to head from the "bed" to the bathroom to grab a towel, when two clawed hands grabbed your arms from behind, keeping you in place, "I can help!"

Before you could even ask what he meant by that, you felt the long flat of his tongue dragged over the back of your neck, collecting the wetness in his mouth before lapping his tongue out again to catch more. The feeling was terrible, but accompanied by the sound of "dog slorping" directly by your ear, made you cower forward to avoid another lick. "Scout, that's disgusting!"

"What? You taste amazing!" Completely uninhibited by your visible repulsion, he tried to lean forward for more while you struggled.

You shouted, "Stop it!" Louder than you intended, and with a heavy sigh, he loosened his grip on your arms, allowing you to slip away, pulling away from the bed in the process, trying to ignore the light scent of dog breath clinging to your back. Scout sat back on the bed, pouting and fidgeting restlessly, visibly unhappy to see you resisting his advances. "Not tryna gross ya out-, y'know I can't help it!"

He was right, and it was tough to stay mad at him when he gave you puppy eyes, but you were too physically exhausted to let him pull you back right back into bed.

A voice in the back of your head scolded you for having any kind of sympathy for the monster who held you captive and insisted the two of you were meant to be mates. This wasn't close to a healthy relationship, but Scout wasn't human. How could you expect him to know how to treat you like one?

Hugging your arms around your naked body, you stepped back, "Let's just take 10, alright? Just let me get some fresh air, maybe something to drink?"

And in the blink of an eye, Scout's ears perked up again, his tail swishing against the blankets on the floor, "You wanna snack break?"

Nodding, you smiled a little, "Yeah, I'm just gonna take a step outside, alright? I'll meet up with you right after."

He nodded, standing until he was towing over you. As he passed by to leave the bedroom, he put a paw-like hand on your shoulder, "Don't make me come getcha, alight?"

Swallowing a lump in your throat, you made a noise of affirmation, watching him head over to the kitchen while you pulled a loose blanket around your naked body before stepping outside to the fire escape and sitting to look up at the sky.

It felt nice to step away from the dank and musky-scented apartment, even if it was just for a few minutes. Everything leading up to tonight felt so overwhelming and confusing. You knew the first full moon you spent with Scout would be rough. And by God was it ever. You could already tell your poor, overstimulated body would be incredibly sore by morning, assuming you could get any sleep tonight, that was.

For about a month now, you were living like this, but counting the days as they passed while in captivity was difficult. The only measure of time you had at your disposal was the phases of the moon and its effect on Scout. Though it wasn't all awful, there were always those rare evenings he would offer to spend out with you. Sitting outside alone, you thought back to one specific evening out with Scout. The night he took you out to meet his mother.

Honestly, you never thought you'd hold much sympathy for the mother of the man who was planning on keeping you as his "mate." Forcing you into captivity with the final intention to make you into a monster like himself. You only agreed to meet up with him at his Ma's place for dinner because you wanted any excuse to get out of Scout's apartment. You'd bargained with him, agreeing to meet him at his mother's place for a few hours of freedom before dinner.

You never thought he'd grant you independence like this, but something about promising to willingly go with him to meet his Ma made his entire face light up with excitement.

During those few precious moments away from Scout, you didn't even think to try and run away. It was impossible to try and escape a master predator who could track you down in a matter of minutes, and even if you could get away, what was to stop him from hurting your loved ones to get back at you for the betrayal? Instead, you simply enjoyed some fresh air, went for a long walk, and mentally psyched yourself for dinner.

The walk to Ma's house felt nostalgic in a melancholic way. You could remember racing over to Scout's house as kids, how his Ma said the door was always open for you. She was beautiful, always kind, and made you feel at home. You couldn't understand why you never saw her husband around. But you knew better than to bring something like that up, especially whenever Scout was around.

When you showed up, you expected to see Scout open the door to greet you. But when you knocked on the front door, you heard someone from inside calling out, "It's open!"

Timidly, you creaked the door open, still unable to shake the feeling you were dreaming of childhood and would wake up any moment. Tiptoeing your way inside, you heard an old black and white television set playing some old British thriller, the sound just as muffled by static as you remembered. The flat was less cluttered than you remembered but maintained the warmth and coziness you never forgot.

When your eyes met Scout's Ma, you momentarily forgot the resentment you expected to feel for her, overcome by the joy of seeing an old family friend after so long. She smiled at you, her face and figure softened by years, but she was just as stunning and distinguished as you remembered, nothing less than radiant. You watched her walk from the kitchen to greet you with a warm hug, welcoming you with parental affection as though you were one of her own. For just a moment, you held onto her, suddenly choked up, realizing you could now meet her at eye level.

She pulled away gently, "Good to see ya again."

Taking a slight step back, you cleared your throat, "I apologize; I must be a bit early. I thought Scout would be here by now." You felt a touch awkward, trying to figure out what to do in the absence of Scout.

She turned to walk back to the kitchen, talking to you from over her shoulder. "He was. I sent him out for an errand run. I didn't want the boy smothering ya as soon as I walked in. Can ya come help me set the table?"

You followed her through the kitchen, "You sent him out?"

Scout's Ma chuckled, making you freeze up a little, taken aback by how eerily similar Scout sounded when he laughed, "He's been talkin' my ear off all damn day. I just wanted a lil peace and quiet. Can ya blame me?"

Walking into the kitchen, you could see the small but delicious-smelling meal she prepared for the three of you to share already laid out on the table. You tried to force yourself not to stare and focus on helping her finish setting up. Still, Ma could notice you were distracted, staring off into space, caught up in your own memories. She grinned, "My boy cleaned up the place before you got in. Bless his heart, I ain't ever seen him so determined to clean all his life."

You bit down on your lower lip, unsure how to respond, keeping your gaze fixed on your hands as you laid the silverware down. Did she know about Scout keeping you like a prisoner for nearly a month now? Did she have any idea how dangerous her son really was? You had no idea. "I never thought he'd bother with that sort of thing."

You could see Scout's Ma looking up at you from your peripheral vision, but you didn't have the resolve to meet her eye. "He cares about ya. He's always cared more than he wanted anyone to know."

"So she does know?" You wondered, somewhat confident she knew much more than she was letting on. Looking at her cautiously, you took a seat. "I'm not sure I believe that. Scout's never been the "caring" type… No offense."

She had an odd, far-off look on her face as she nodded, taking a seat by you. "I understand why you'd think that. But he's been through so much; it's not easy for him to love. Not without fear."

Your brow creased, "I don't think I understand."

She sighed through her nose, looking past you, out the window to the street beyond. "When Scout was a little boy- Every day I told him I loved him. Every day, I patched up that boy's scrapes and made sure he made it home safe every night. And he'll always be my little boy... But I can only do so much for him, y'know?"

Trying your best not to sound nosy, you responded, "What do you mean by that?"

Ma's jaw tightened slightly, her piercing eyes finally meeting yours, "I couldn't make his father stay, for one thing… And I sure as hell couldn't stop him from getting into trouble."

"So she does know…" You thought, though, for some reason, you couldn't bring yourself to hate her as you thought you would. Scout's Ma couldn't control the guy any more than you could. You tried to lighten the mood a little, offering a weak smile, "Scout's a grown man now. He can handle himself just fine."

She folded her hands across her lap, sitting back in her seat a little, as though deep in thought, and trying to choose her words as carefully as possible. "Scout's a man now, but when his father left- I don't think he ever came back from that."

Leaning forward a little, you rest your hands on the table, "I thought he never knew his father?"

She nodded, "That's what he always said. I think it was the easiest way for him to cope with the disappearance."

You were about to express your condolences, feeling quite overwhelmed with the new information, but she continued, "I can still remember how he would pretend to go to sleep, waiting to see his father again… I never had the heart to tell Scout his father was never coming back… And to be honest, without you, I think he would still be waiting."

Stiffening slightly, you asked, "What do you mean?"

Finally, she was able to look you in the eye again, appearing much less lost in her own thoughts, "I don't know how to put this, but I think the day he stopped waiting, that was when he made up his mind to become the father he never had."

You seriously hated how much sense that made.

Scout's Ma reached across the table, squeezing your hand with hers in a gesture of sympathy. "And there was something about the look on his face when he told me you were back in town… I think he always wanted it to be you."

You nodded. As much as you were terrified by Scout's obsession with you, the idea he'd felt this way since childhood never even occurred to you. She continued, "Believe me, I've seen him chase plenty of girls- but it was nothin' more than foolin' around, you know? Like he was waitin' for you to come back. It's like he always believed you two were meant to be."

Ever since that night, you could not get that one phrase out of your head, "As though it were meant to be…" Even now, the mere thought of it pulled at your heartstrings, doubting you had any chance to escape your destiny. Slipping back inside, you let the blanket fall from your shoulders as you sat back on the little blanket pile by Scout while he shotgunned Bonk with one hand, holding a protein bar in the other.

Scout allowed you to settle by his side before wrapping an arm around you to pull you closer. Eating seemed to mellow him somewhat, and he wasn't nearly as grabby with you as you nestled into his soft pelt.

The wholesomeness of the moment didn't last long. As soon as Scout finished his drink, he tossed the can aside, nuzzling closer, looking at you with expectant eyes, "So you wanna…"

You met his eye, "I think I can do one more round…"

That incentive was all he needed before he was back on top, smearing your neck and chest with messy, open-mouthed kisses while he fumbled for a moment, trying to re-find his position against your body. With a bit more force than he intended, Scout pushed you back down on your back, lifting your legs with his arms. Scout got properly situated between your legs, practically shivering with excitement. "Alrighty then! One more round- gotta make it count!"

Feeling that all too familiar swelling at the base of his cock, you winced as he sunk his claws into where he was holding you up by your thighs.

For a moment, he was distracted, groping the soft skin of your thighs with his fingers, making you moan, trying to recapture his attention, "Scout- c'mon please-" A little breathy plea and sleepy bedroom eyes were all it took before Scout could feel his blood rushing straight to his cock, making it throb while his mouth began to salivate.

"God, you look hot as fuck like that!" He was already aligned to penetrate, and you felt your oversensitive nerves forced against his overheated body. "I will never get sick of seein' ya like this- Ya drive me fuckin crazy, y'know that?"

"Scout, just a little more; I can take it!" You tried to keep urging him on, but as soon as he began pushing inside, you felt your head rolling back as you forced yourself to stay nice and pliable for him. A task easier said than done. But even horny out of his mind, Scout could see you were trying your best to hang on for him and make the last round count.

You were so good to him like that. Scout was so proud to finally call you his girl that he could hardly take it. "I'm gonna make you real proud, I promise! I'm gonna give ya a baby, a-and more! Fuck, we'll have our own pack goin' in no time!"

It was harder to follow along with what he was saying as he picked up speed, his words getting muffled by his growling and wild panting. While you felt your body being used like a toy in his crushing grip. His feral lust and size made your head spin, and as he continued to grind himself against your clit you felt another intense pressure building at the base of your spine. A pleasure which you tried desperately to ride out but hardly could on account of being unable to move against the monster above, but even without being able to stimulate yourself, once you felt his knot building up deep inside, making you come just a few intense thrusts before Scout. Forcing the two of you to remain connected until the swelling went down entirely, Scout took this opportunity to lap apologetically at some of the more intense bitemarks and bruising left on your neck.

You thought you could finally relax when you felt him finally pull out, only to be caught off guard by the feeling of his clumsy fingers trying to force the comeback inside of you without accidentally tearing you apart with his claws. Though, given the night you just endured, you doubted a few more lacerations would mean anything at this point.

By now, your mind and body felt like two entirely different entities. You could feel a kind of queasiness of being overly filled by Scout, feeling so full you felt paralyzed from the navel down. You wouldn't be surprised if your body was rubbed bright red after hours of overstimulation, though you took immense comfort knowing the long night of passion was coming to a close. Now that Scout agreed to concede for the night, you weren't too scared to snuggle up closer to share body heat for fear of getting roped into "just one more round."

Scout was too tuckered out to think of asking for any more, and he felt more spent than ever before, the sensation as exhausting as it was euphoric. He watched your limp body latch onto his chest, grinning like an idiot, feeling your fingers getting lost in the dense fur of his pelt. Better than making love under a full moon after dreaming of this his entire life, being able to hold you close made his heart swell. Scout felt so protective to keep you close like this. Cradling you, his baby, while you held a baby of your own, or so he liked to think.

Even though he knew you were probably already asleep by this point, Scout pressed his forehead to the top of your head, whispering, "Ma loves ya, and she's been on my back asking' about grandkids… I'm not tryna pressure you or nothin', but- I mean, I just wanna say- you're gonna fit in perfect with the rest of the family. I know it."

Even if you couldn't hear him say it, to say all that out loud while holding you close felt like a dream come true, and he knew there was nothing he wouldn't do to protect this dream.

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theoscout · 2 months

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I just realised that this song is like THE MOST PERFECT SONG EVER for a Something Wicked This Way Comes animatic!! OH MY GOD.

Every freakin' line of this masterpiece can be interpreted to relate to something from the novel. I'm going to put my stuff under the cut because the full lyrics are there too

One October just came around Just to shake the sky and move the ground Just to strongly insist the wind should up and change And it knocked down walls and bridges too And it reached more people than we knew And it left with nothing really Left the same

This entire first part is, without doubt, referring to the Dark Carnival. It appeared suddenly one October, and with it, an entire fairground with rides and tents and circuses and everything. In the movie, there was even a scrapped scene where the train ended up morphing into a bunch of tents. TBH I wished they had kept that, because it would be more supernatural that way.

Also the 'reached more people than we knew' part can be connected to the victims of the Dark Carnival in the past, and how they were all there but their names were lost to time and their souls were lost to the carnival.

You called it the reckoning And your voice came through unquestioning You said the universe is trembling Don't ya know, don't ya know?

I'm going to make this part about the lightning rod salesman who warns the kids about October stuff. This definately feels like one of the kids recalling how he spoke to them. This feels like how I MYSELF recall him speaking!

Cause you felt it coming long before I walked you through your own front door And I spent just a one night on your floor For a few nights in a row

I'm going to make this part about Jim and Will. We know they're neighbours and they stay at each other's houses often, and they've been friends for a long time, so this part could be about Will noticing something's off with Jim's mental health. Jim is depressed or has self image issues which makes him want to grow up faster, and this part reflects how the dark carnival preyed off problems he already had rather than inciting them when they arrived.

Change ain't so sudden It just hides as it's coming Is this change or fruition Of some hope and ambition? Is this all repercussions? Was this grown out of something That we cursed, that we prayed for That we knew we could wait for?

This part is about the desires of the people that the dark carnival preys upon. I'd start this part with Jim to carry on from the previous verse, wanting to grow up, before going on to people like Mrs Foley wanting to be young again and stuff like that.

I headcanon Jim as being black, the source material repeatedly refers to him as being 'dark' but doesn't specify how. Bradbury's statements on how Jim had seen too much of the horrors of the world despite being a child would fit here too- as a black person in the 1960s it's possible he was subjected to racist bullying which made him want to grow up faster, even though it'd take years out of his lifespan.

I would personally like to insert some dramatic irony into the 'we knew we could wait for' part of the song by relating it to Mr Holloway's fear of getting too old to play with his son.

You named it the reckoning In your perfect notebook lettering One October leveling All we knew And you felt it coming long before I kissed you on that dancing floor And you held me loose and I made sure To hold tight on you

Ok, IDK about the 'kissed' part but maybe something something Will x Jim? Jokes aside, and this leads into headcanon territory, Will could see that Jim wanted

If the first part of the animatic was about

Oh, I'm holding Oh, I'm holding tight on you I'm holding tight on you Girl, I'm holding tight on you Oh, oh I'm holding tight on you Girl, I'm holding tight on you

I'm going to ignore the 'girl' part because not all songs are perfect. But this perfectly reflects the end of the novel where Mr Holloway and Will save Jim from death

And it also reflects how Mr Holloway was able to overcome the dust witch and Mr Dark by holding onto his happy memories.

#something wicked this way comes #music #this has been on loop for me now can you tell

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morifinwes · 3 years

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wangxian fic rec list!

aka in which i read fics, write some recs down for aamna and share them!! they're all wangxian fics and uhh @yibobibo i hope you'll like them!!

modern

wolf devours playboy bunny by @greenteafiend (5K, werewolf!lwj, getting together, idk if anyone needs to know that but there's nudity just not uhh explicit)

Lan Zhan has wanted Wei Ying as long as he has known him, and the worst part is that he thinks Wei Ying could want him back.

Too bad he could never in good conscience let himself go there—Wei Ying has a debilitating fear of all things canine, and once a month, Lan Zhan is the exact, precise thing that Wei Ying’s nightmares are made of.

Aka, Lan Zhan is a werewolf.

between the lines by @jywait (19K gaming au!!!, i'm always down for a good gaming au, lwj is the best aksks he's such a good boy)

☆yilingpatriarch☆: pls...give me some face, help me fight these monsters...I'm gonna die

Bluetooth: no.

"You have died." The screen said, and Wei Wuxian threw his hands up in frustration.

resonant frequencies by chinxe (15K, college au, fake dating au, tw mention of cheating but it's brief and no one was cheated on i promise)

In which Wei Wuxian decides that the best way to deal with being in love with Lan Wangji is to pretend to date him for three weeks.

It goes about as well as can be expected.

drift compatible by windoworwhatever (5K, poetry, fluff, drunkji, getting together, college au)

"It was just a fact of life. The sky was blue, university stipends for graduate students working in TA positions barely covered rent, bisexuals cuffed their jeans, Lan Wangji had a massive crush on Wei Wuxian, and spent his time pining and writing research papers about gay subtexts in ancient poetry."

Lan Wangji is in love with Wei Wuxian, and everybody knows, except Wei Wuxian.

the bunny next door by detailsinthefabric (43K, this is mostly fluff and very light angst, and they were neighbors!!!, rabbits!!, aka wangxian's bunny children, this is... so cute i just have to rec it)

Lan Wangji did not know what he was doing. He did not know what he was going to say. He was frozen in place, puzzling over the situation. Maybe he had made the man uncomfortable, which is why he wanted to leave? But his tone had still been so friendly—maybe…

“Would…” he paused, swallowed, forced the last words to come out of his suddenly parched mouth, “would you let me pet him?”

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

Lan Wangji, who doesn't know how to socialize and whose icy demeanor scares everyone away, lets down all his defenses when he meets the bunny next door...oh, and also its owner, Wei Wuxian.

leading tone by silencemostofall (32K, everyone is a music student? or something like that akskk, curse fic, tw panic attacks, tw child abuse, small scene of drunkji, wwx has low self esteem, bro this was so painful to read)

The first time you touch someone you're fated to love, you leave a mark on their skin. If they will love you in return, they'll mark you where you touched them. The deeper the color, the deeper the connection.

Wei Ying has no marks at all.

public places, private thoughts by leahelisabeth (for the love of camelot) ( 8K, cherry magic au, getting together with like... immediate upgrade to fiance status, the author is wrong i crave good wangxian cherry magic aus even tho i haven't even watched cherry magic)

Wei Wuxian had heard the story of course. It had made its rounds through his high school and followed him into his college days. He didn’t think there was any possibility it was true. Virginity was a social construct, invented by creepy old men to exercise dominance over women. The idea that a simple lack of sexual activity before the age of thirty could give one magical powers was absolutely ludicrous.

Wei Wuxian believed this until the morning of his thirtieth birthday.

AKA the Wangxian Cherry Magic AU that absolutely nobody asked for.

i'd be all right (if i could see you) by @thirtysixsavefiles (16K, this was nice, i read this at 6am but it was cute, (while writing this post i must admit i don't remember anything but 6am-me said it's good))

The younger Lan brother is something of an enigma on campus; while Lan Xichen can sometimes be seen in the company of other graduate students or conducting a seminar, Lan Wangji appears to spend all his time in class or in the library. He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t smoke. He doesn’t attend social events. He doesn’t do anything for fun, as far as Wei Wuxian can tell, and it’s driving Wei Wuxian just a little bit up the wall.

Or, Wei Wuxian convinces Lan Wangji to come to a house party, and then they're assigned to the same group project. Wei Wuxian tries his best, but he is not in possession of all the facts.

axe on leg by itszero (4K, i still don't get why wwx did that but it was nice seeing him jealous for once, jealous!wwx, lwj i love you....)

Wei Wuxian pressed his face into his pillow and screamed. He paused to take a few deep breaths, partially hindered by the pillow, and listened to the sounds of Nie Huaisang slurping his iced coffee, from his seat on Wei Wuxian's desk chair.

Having caught his breath, he resumed his screaming and did not stop at the sound of his dorm room door opening.

"What's wrong with him?" He heard his brother, Jiang Cheng, ask.

The slurping stopped. "He's an idiot."

"He's always been an idiot. Why is he bothered about it now?"

"He forced Lan Wangji to go on a date," Nie Huaisang replied, shaking the ice cubes in his drink.

"Okay and…?"

"With someone else." The slurping resumed.

Wei Wuxian, in all his glorious dumbassery, convinces his boyfriend to go on a date with someone else.

these two most powerful by @stiltonbasket (4K, amnesia, wangxian with children!!!, aksksk this was adorable, dadji!!)

When Lan Wangji went to bed last night, he was alone in a tiny guest room with nothing but the howling of the wind in the mountains and his own lonely thoughts for company.

But when he opened his eyes in the morning, Wei Ying was asleep beside him.

(In which Lan Wangji loses twenty years' worth of memories after a night-hunt gone wrong, and his life as a doting father and husband continues without a hitch somehow.)

good things come to those who wait [but i ain't in a patient phase] by @cerlunas (4K, getting together, pining lwj)

Lan Wangji can't take it anymore.

“I love you”, he says, and god, it feels terrifying. “I’ve been in love with you for a long time.”

“Lan Zhan…” Wei Wuxian starts, but Lan Wangji doesn’t want to hear it.

He grabs his cup and drinks everything. He doesn’t know what face Wei Wuxian is making at him right now, and it’s okay.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian repeats louder, but it’s too late. He is already falling asleep.

Or, even after 13 years, Lan Wangji is still in love with his best friend. Maybe it's time to open up.

wei ying, will you marry m- oh my god he swallowed the ring! by selene210 (2K, marriage proposals, crack, marriage proposals but.. they go wrong)

“A ring?”

And indeed it was. The ring Lan Wangji was going to propose to Wei Ying with. That the man had now choked on.

“You swallowed it.”

“It was in my soufflé! Why did you put a ring in my soufflé Lan Zhan- oh. oh”

of glittery valentine's cards by @soft-fics (3K, valentine's day, this was adorable aksk, a-yuan best boy!!)

Lan Zhan didn't want to know what his best friend had planned for Valentine's Day; his heart would simply not be able to handle it. When his son tells him that he made Wei Ying a Valentine's Day card, though, Lan Zhan decided to bring it over anyway.

of coffee and white tea by @soft-fics (9K, fluff, lwj doesn't like coffee, wwx buys him coffee, then they switch drinks, again and again and again, the staff ships it lmao, tbh jc shouldn't have done that like wtf)

For the fourth time this week a stranger orders him a cup of coffee. Lan Wangji wonders how exactly to tell this man to stop ordering him coffee he doesn't even like. Turns out, buying the other white tea and switching drinks is not the best way to go about it

canon setting

on the importance of restraint (or lack thereof) by nixthothou (4K, in which sizhui snaps, i love that boy, no like seriously he's the best boy)

Lan Sizhui does not usually find himself in the company of Sect Leader Jiang.

Suffice to say, Lan Sizhui's feelings toward him are conflicted.

lan wangji is wei wuxian's baby by lilycs (3K, i was craving fluff while reading this, lwj my beloved, drunk!lwj)

Lan Wangji gets drunk from barely a cup of alcohol, becoming a whiny baby and asking his husband for cuddles.

one of our own by glitteringmoonlight (8K, wei wuxian & lan sect, 5+1 things, in which they learn to love him, they're all part of the wwx protection squad lead by lwj, wangxian isn't the focus but !!! THIS)

Times change, but some people remain the same.

The Lans are nothing, if not aware of this.

For one of their own, they will stand against the world.

Or, 5 times the Lans defended Wei Wuxian, and the 1 time he was there to see it happen.

so why not crack your skull when the mind swells by @greenteafiend (13K, love curse, post cql canon, curses, getting together, fluff, so much fluff, lwj tries to talk about his emotions!, lwj pov)

Lan Wangji detects the curse trying to curl through his heart meridians like smoke. A love curse, then. It must have been cast remotely somehow to have found him in his bed in Cloud Recesses. No matter. Lan Wangji crushes it easily, enveloping it in his spiritual energy, and then squeezing. Curse averted, Lan Wangji closes his eyes and goes back to sleep. He thinks no more of it.

Two days later, Wei Wuxian arrives in Cloud Recesses.

Or, Wei Wuxian is cursed to feel terrible pain when he and Lan Wangji aren’t touching.

i started from the bottom / now i'm rich by x_los (57K, time travel, fix it, jealous lwj, crack treated serious, god this is so good tho, wwx/wrh & wwx/jgs but like as a joke and it doesn't really happen, but it has its purpose!!)

“First, you get the money. Then you get the power, respect - hos come last.”

Wen Qing traps Wei Wuxian in the Demon Slaughtering Cave, but Wei Wuxian isn’t interested in being the beneficiary of the Wen Remnants’ noble sacrifice. His efforts to free himself accidentally send him back to the beginning of the Sunshot Campaign. Coreless but armed with demonic cultivation, knowledge of the future and his wits, Wei Wuxian takes advantage of this opportunity to come out on top of both the war and its aftermath—before either has a chance to happen—by marrying and swiftly burying the cultivation world’s worst men.

Lan Wangji is confused, hurt, and uncomfortably aroused by Wei Wuxian’s improbably elaborate series of Sect-themed bridal negligees.

lead me on through by mrsronweasley (55K, they're in love your honor, arranged marriage but they don't know to whom, basically wwx & lwj want to practice kissing which then goes beyond kissing but not the whole way y'know, lxc the best wingman tho)

"Who do you think your betrothed is?" Wei Wuxian asks, sprawling out in front of Lan Zhan and enjoying the prim thinning of his lips at the question. He shouldn't be sprawling—they're in the library, for one, and Lan Zhan is studying, for another—but he can't help himself. Wei Wuxian is a sprawler.

"I do not believe this to be of importance," Lan Zhan responds, without turning his gaze away from his book.

"What!" Wei Wuxian sits up. "How can you say that? Of course it's important! This is the person you'll be with for the rest of your life, Lan Zhan."

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shycoconutt · 3 years

Text

I Found My Light (Kakashi x Reader)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

A/n: Sound the alarms! It’s my first ever writing post! I’ve had this written for a while tbh, and I feel like I’m ready to start getting into this.

Summary: A late-night walk turns into a rekindled friendship.

Word Count: 2300

Warnings: fem!reader, SFW (but might not be later lol)

You opened your eyes for what seemed like the thousandth time tonight. Staring at the white ceiling, you sighed. Sleep seemed to evade you recently, a side effect of the recent dreariness of your life. You found yourself living the same days over and over again. Because of this, the line between day and night started to fade.

The moon was full tonight, you noticed as it shined brightly through your open window. It was the perfect temperature out, warm but chilly enough to feel comfortable wrapped in your blankets. You love listening to the occasional sounds that occurred outside, the noise of leaves rustling in the wind being your favorite.

Your gaze left the moon and landed back on your ceiling. Why is something as simple as sleeping so hard? Gods, all you wanted was an escape. With a huff, you pushed the covers off of you and sat up from your lying position. Trying to force yourself to sleep would do more harm than good right now.

You make your way to your dresser and pull out your favorite pair of black joggers. You love them because they are tight on your ankles, loose on your legs, and have a cinched band at the waist. They are perfect for any lazy day. You slip them on over your underwear, you never go to bed with pants on, and exchange your sleep shirt for a cropped black hoodie made from the same soft, elastic material as your pants.

You turn to face your large standing mirror in the corner of the room to assess your appearance. The all-black look was your favorite, especially since it will help you blend into the night. Your hair was a mess, so you decided to put it up in a loose bun on the top of your head and pull out some strands to frame your face. It felt good to not look so polished and put together. Your jonin uniform was not the most comfortable piece of clothing, especially with the way it hit your figure.

You walked out of your bedroom and across the kitchen to the front door of your apartment. One foot after the other, you slide into your sandals and grab the key to your apartment hanging on the hook next to you. With that, you leave your apartment and head out into the night.

You walked the streets of Konoha at a gingerly pace. It was probably around 3 a.m. at this point, and there wasn’t a single soul on the street with you. You make your way past the line of shops on the main street, including your favorite bakery where you'd treat yourself to a lemon square after coming back from a long mission. You thought about that lemon square a lot when you were out risking your life, embarrassingly enough.

A couple of turns later and you found yourself heading towards your favorite place in all of Konoha, a little area of woods towards the perimeter that contained this amazing koi pond. Although it was nighttime and the fish wouldn’t be as active, you still want to check to see if you can watch any. To your surprise, your favorite koi, who you nicknamed “Nishi'', was out and swimming around by himself. You sit criss-cross in the grass and watch as he glides through the calm water, almost putting you in trance. Nishi didn’t look or act like the others; He was black with white, almost silver-looking spots and he was less frantic in nature. You sway from side to side as you watch him, thinking to yourself about how you would like to be more like Nishi.

“You look cute watching the koi.” You heard a soft, yet unwavering voice declare behind you.

“Holy sh-” You almost jump out of your pants at the unexpected presence. Surprised, you quickly turn your head around to see who’s voice that could possibly be. To your disbelief, there lies a figure perched up by a tree a couple yards away from you. Their feet were crossed, legs extended, one hand in the pocket of their pants, the other holding up what looks like a copy of Icha-Icha, head turned towards you, and wild hair moving with each passing breeze. How did I not notice him?

“Oh I’m sorry (y/n), I didn’t mean to startle you. I figured you knew I was here because you walked right past me.” He brought his hand up to scratch the back of his head and let out a small chuckle. “Guess I should have made my presence known right away.”

Still in disbelief, you get up and slowly make your way towards the figure, stepping into the shadow of the tree to see him more clearly. As you approached you immediately recognized the silver-haired jonin.

“Kakashi?” You say confused. “What are you doing out here? It’s late.”

“I could ask you the same thing.” He states, closing his book and setting it down next to him on the grass. He looked different. He looked… quite hot actually. The jonin uniform you usually saw him in was traded for a pair of comfortable-looking grey sweatpants and a tight, black tank top that connected to his mask. He wasn’t wearing his headband either, just keeping his left sharingan eye shut in a permanent wink. As you observed him, you couldn’t help but notice that he was doing the same to you.

“I suppose you're right.” You smirk and let out a small chuckle. “I couldn’t sleep so I figured that if I was up I should take a walk around the village to clear my head. This is my favorite spot, so I guess I just naturally ended up here.” You exclaimed, still standing in front of him.

“It looks like you and I are having the same issue,” he states plainly, “I came out here a little while ago after tossing in my bed for an hour. I hate trying to force myself to sleep; It’s a battle I never seem to win.” His eyes averted your gaze and moved to his now empty hands in his lap. You couldn’t help but notice a hint of pain in his voice and it tugged at your heartstrings.

You know about the things Kakashi has been through, as it was pretty common knowledge to all jonin in your mutual age group. You were pretty close with his friends, Gai, Kurenai, and Asuma, but Kakashi always seemed to keep everyone at an arm’s length. He also was an Anbu for ten years, which didn’t help the disconnect either. Fortunately, he was relieved from his Anbu position a couple weeks ago, and gradually you have been seeing him a bit more here and there. Though, this is the first time you are able to have a conversation with him in what seems like forever.

“Well,” you sighed, “I guess we have lost the battle together. We must be pretty shitty jonin.” You stated flatly.

Kakashi squinted his eyes and you both laughed. You couldn’t help but take a mental picture of his face at this moment. You really enjoy seeing him happy, as it makes you happy too.

You can’t kid yourself, having a chance to talk with Kakashi alone feels like such a treat. Little genin (y/n) would be ecstatic right now. Of course you had a crush on him back then, who didn’t?

“You’ve always had a natural talent for connecting with people,” Kakashi mused, “I haven’t talked to you since we were teenagers, and here I am laughing with you like we’re long-time friends.”

You could feel your eyebrows furrow at that statement. Yeah sure, you weren’t at his apartment every week for Sunday brunch, but you did have a history.

“Kakashi,” you started, “You are my long-time friend. Just because we drifted apart doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. To be honest, I was relieved when I found out you were no longer going to be a member of the Anbu. It wasn’t good for you.” You stepped closer and sat down next to him, leaning back on the tree stump. The grass felt cool under you, sending a small shiver up your body.

“I suppose you’re right,” Kakashi stated, quoting your words from earlier. “It amazes me that none of you gave up on me. I feel like I am undeserving of everyone’s effort.” You were baffled by his honesty; Kakashi wasn’t known to be much of an open book. It upsets you so much that he feels this way as you couldn’t imagine not caring about him or any of your other comrades in the village. The faces of your closest friends flashed through your mind and you grimaced at the thought of losing them.

Not knowing if you should, you felt compelled to reach over and hold Kakashi’s hand in yours. It's cold compared to the warmth spreading from your fingertips. Hmm, I wonder how long he has been out here. Giving his hand a small squeeze, you look at him in his onyx eye. “Trust me, Kakashi. You are deserving. You are deserving of a great life and people who care about you. I know the world may seem dark, but I promise that a light is always glowing. No matter how small or dim, it’s there.”

You stare at each other in silence for a moment before he changes the position of his hand and intertwines his fingers in yours. The change was small, but it ignites a feeling in your stomach you couldn’t describe. Slowly, you felt your cheeks flush and you turned your face to look towards the sky in hopes he wouldn’t notice. You knew this action was him telling you that he accepts your words, and thanks you for them.

You spent the next hour sitting under the tree together, you looking up at the stars and him looking at you. Your intertwined hands fell between your bodies, resting on the cool grass. You felt him start to graze the back of your hand with his thumb, sending a tingling sensation up your arm. It felt so good to be touched by him, even in such an innocent manner.

A strong breeze ran through the air and hit you suddenly. You began to shiver at the quick change in temperature, realizing that you should have dressed warmer if you were going to be out this long. Yet, you couldn’t have anticipated the situation you are currently in.

“Are you cold?” Kakashi questioned with a hint of concern.

“Yeah a little bit,” you answered honestly, “but I don’t want to go back home. I’m not really tired yet.” Truthfully, you didn’t want this little moment of shared bliss to end. You started to feel like you found your escape, and you refused to be torn away from it so soon.

“Neither do I,” he confessed, “Come here.” He released his hand from yours and slid his position higher up on the side of the tree. He then spread his legs and patted the ground in between, inviting you to sit.

You felt your face get hot again, as the position he was offering you was a very intimate gesture. There was absolutely no way you could refuse his offer. One, because you were freezing and, two, young (y/n) would never forgive you.

You got up and sat down carefully between his thighs, leaning until your back met his chest. He then wrapped both of his arms around you, one around your shoulders and the other around your waist with his hand resting on your stomach. The outsides of your legs met the insides of his and you felt an immediate warmth there. Lastly, your head tilted back and rested upon his left shoulder, with his face nuzzled against your temple. You both fit together like two pieces of a puzzle, no part of you feeling any discomfort against his strong body. Engulfed in his smell and warmth, for the first time in a while you felt completely relaxed.

“Thank you, Kakashi.” You looked up at him with a warm smile.

“Anytime.” He breathed, voice muffled by your hair. You wondered if he truly meant that. I mean, after all, this is the first time you have interacted in a while. Yet, the connection you felt towards him was unquestionable.

Does he feel the way I feel?

“Hey,” you began, “are you tired at all?”

He flexed his arms and held you closer to his chest. “Not really,” he answered, “I’m enjoying this moment too much to be tired.” You smiled, and there was a pause.

“Isn’t this odd?” you questioned again.

“What? You and I snuggled under a tree in a random corner of the village alone at 4 a.m. after we haven’t interacted with each other in years?” he questioned sarcastically, “Not at all.”

“Kakashi!,” you laughed, gently nudging your elbow into his ribs as he laughed along with you.

“Yeah it’s a little odd,” he answered honestly, “but I’m not going to question it. I found my light, and now I’m enjoying it.” He nuzzled his face into your hair and breathed deeply.

Completely and utterly relaxed, you let yourself succumb to the heaviness of your eyelids. Truthfully, this has felt like the longest day in the world and you are happy to end it this way. The sound of Kakashi’s breathing and the rise and fall of his chest acted as your personal sleep machine. It’s priceless.

Before you completely drift off, you swear you could feel the soft, pillowiness of Kakashi’s lips graze the skin of your temple, a soft hum escaping from them.

“Goodnight, (y/n)”

~~~

Queue Hilary Duff’s “What Dreams Are Made Of”. This kind of feels like the beginning of something. Should I continue? Idk if my writing is even good. If you read this, PLEASE let me know if you have any feedback. Again, this is my first story and I would greatly appreciate any feedback, advice, suggestions, etc.! I can’t believe I’m uploading, ah! - Klara

#kakashi #kakashi hatake #kakashi fanfic #kakashi fanfiction #kakashi x reader #hatake kakashi #kakashi fluff #kakashi imagine #naruto fanfiction #kakashi x you #kakashi x y/n #kakashi one shot #kakashi x yn #kakashi sensei #i found my light

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wistfulrat · 3 years

Text

a 4-part rec list of my fave drarry fics - the thrillers, dramas, soft bois, and wankbanks getting me through 2020′s shitstorm

[the soft boi list is here and truly i’m not surprised this rec is going to be the longest bc if there’s one thing a bitch is going to do, it’s yearn.

as always! if you love a fic, follow the authors, leave kudos & comments, send them nice msgs bc free art is still labor xoxo]

part 3: soft bois

mood: for when I need respite, a balm to the all-consuming shittiness of life

includes: fluff, comfort, low-stakes, slow-burn fics. a wistful look, a rainy morning, an unexpected grace, a stupidly disarming joke. i could live inside these fics. the smallness of human lives removed from the site of that which hurts & irreparably changes. the story-equivalent of a deep breath after a long day. pregnant silences & pensive mundanity & shy smiles. banter with bite but without the cruelty. the color lavender. weirdly whimsical. soft fics are not necessarily conflict-averse (no drarry fic rly can be, considering the context) but, they offer the reader a generous distance from the initial harm. they’re the quiet cleaning up after a storm. sometimes healing is an exacting surgical knife and other times it’s a slow scabbing. you read these fics to be reassured that the way forward is not always ruthless. and honestly?? they deserve a semblance of peace godDAMmit.

The Way Down by @letteredlettered - 65k - T “and I thought that if someone talked to you as though you were a human being you might—maybe you could act like one” --the way i think about this line daily. the characterization of draco in this fic is one my favorites bc he’s earnest and neurotic and tired of harry’s shit. which is to say, he cares so so much. and harry doesn’t know what to do with that bc he’s got a monster in his chest and lives as a recluse. but they both humanize each other in ways no one else can. “you’re just a person” has to be some kind of drarry ethics of belonging and it makes me CRY. -

Little Deaths and How to Avoid Them by @greaseonmymouth and dustmouth - 96k - T “Maybe it’s not about deserving it? Maybe you just get to have it anyway. . .I’m allowing myself to want something and to let myself have it and to fight for it.” --harry runs a daycare and also works at a library. draco spends a lot of time in said library. they bond over sci-fi books and therapy anecdotes and quiet philosophical conversations held over cafeteria soup. and harry’s struggling to understand his asexuality. draco’s learning how to live with anxiety and depression. they both want to be deserving of love. incredible fic with beautiful art by dustmouth. -

Open for Repairs by @drarrytrash - 35k - T “A few leaves rustle in the gutter and the muggle world pays no mind to them, to two lost boys holding on for dear life.” --all of their fics feel exactly like this. like you’ve been allowed to look at something private, tender, unexpected. draco, known abba fan, is a repairman in the muggle world & harry can’t stop breaking thrifted things in order to see him? say less, i'm thERE. also “I think I have a crush on you” goddddd - other faves by them: Counting Down By Ten - 2k - T: draco’s stepped outside of the party for a smoke. harry follows him bc of course he does. i could read this 100 times and not get tired of it. - Clouds That Veil the Midnight Moon - 36k - E: FUCKING HILARIOUS I CACKLED THROUGH THE WHOLE THING. draco’s wolfy problem and harry helping him and harry being flustered by how much he likes draco and draco’s hot heroic moment. shutup it’s perfect. “He almost asks if Draco ever gets tired of being a miserable complaining shit all the time, but he knows that he, personally, never ever gets tired of being a miserable complaining shit.” and “It’s the traumas,” Harry says gravely” --lines that live rent free in my head -

Harry Potter and the Future He Doesn't Really Want, Thanks by seefin - 70k - E “That was the only logical thing to do here, wasn’t it? It was the next step, it was the end of hurting each other and the beginning of the exact opposite.” --harry lives with luna and neville and also he dreams about the future sometimes? and he keeps running into draco. draco thinks this is sus as hell, until he doesn’t. feat. taxi rides, museums, cinemas, rooftop conversations beneath a lunar eclipse, mid-sex innocuous banter, draco and harry discussing nicki minaj. this fic charmed my ass off. seefin writes the most effortlessly hilarious dialogues. i smiled at my phone like an idiot at least 7 times. - other faves by them: Wild - 93k - E: “he liked feeling needed, for the things that he was needed for back at the house in Ireland. For cooking and gardening and driving. Easy things.” --this shit makes me cry it’s so good. harry lives in Ireland with these three brilliant, hilarious, wandless witches and draco’s a potions student who's come to study under one of the housemates and the boys have so much shit to work through but their love becomes so tender and honest. draco yells at harry a lot and harry lets him and they both keep each other grounded in something real and fuCK. - Divination for Dickheads - 7k - G: “I’m terrible at having crushes. I’ve never played anything cool a day in my life.” -- oh harry, we knOW. a bus ride, a fortune teller, an aquarium birthday party. god i love this fic. -

Modern Love by @tackytigerfic - 61k - E “But we’ve worked so hard at this, haven’t we? Yeah, I know it’s a horror to have to talk about it, but fuck it. We’re friends now, but it took so long to get here. Have you ever had to work so hard at something before?" --the steady blossoming of their friendship in this fic is so goddamn beautiful i want to yell. it’s draco and harry learning to trust each other and the whole thing unfolds so slowly, in this whimsical mix of london streets, wizarding politics, church halls feat. a Hot vicar, and a magical antique shop owner who’s married to literal poseidon?? goD the environment of this fic. immaculate. [also there’s a tender shower scene that makes me cry every single fucking time so if you read this fic pls dm me so we can be embarrassing about it together tbh] -

Nice Things by aideomai - 22k - M “He kept waiting for the weird shock of touch to not knock him clean out of his head, leave him quiet and warm and happy.” --8th year. harry forms an unlikely friendship with draco that begins with smoking weed on a windowsill. harry is touch-starved and draco touches him like he touches all his close friends - like it’s easy. the quiet affection in this fic, the way harry burrows himself into touch bc he’s been without it for his entire life. reading this is like being held. -

Running On Air by @tinyhistory - 74k - T “do you remember when we were eleven?” --alexa play coldplay’s the scientist it’s sad girl hours and we’re about to fucking yearn. you’ve seen this fic rec on every drarry list under the sun and i'm here to be redundant. the hype is so goddamn real. this story is a lyrical masterpiece held together by lines that act as refrains that will rattle around your brain until you die, probably. draco’s been missing for 3yrs. harry goes to find him. it’s their odyssey of homecoming. -

Title of Their Sex Tape by @cibeewastaken - 12k - T “But Draco, Draco was everything but boring. Draco made sitting in the rain watching an empty house fun.” --auror partners pining and draco being eccentric and harry being very earnestly gay about draco’s eccentricities!! god this fic is so genuinely fun skskd feat. undercover missions, murderous faeries, a book heist, a stunning navy dress, harry’s eyelashes. -

How We Throw Our Shadows Down by @thistle-verse - 14k - T “Draco is about to say something else— to thank Potter for what he’d done, however poorly— but Harry is smiling at him again, and it’s so soft and perfect that Draco holds in any inadequate words, lest he spoil it.” --draco collects tea cozies and of course harry has the one he wants. the sad and tender gays are at it again feat. conversations in the rain at a train station, melancholy Blaise, muggle photos, wizarding e-bay, the Dursleys. -

Helix by Saras_Girl - 92k - E “Draco sighs in his sleep and Harry clings on to consciousness, needing to hold on, to give this tiny, insignificant moment the attention it deserves” --I think maybe you can describe every soft Saras_Girl story as giving tiny, insignificant moments the attention they deserve. like, this is an 8th year fic about snails and it’s full of whimsy, grief, compassion, and easy humor. an absolute must-read author in this genre if you want languorous, episodic fics full of distinct OCs and affectionate creatures. - other faves by them: Light up the Night Sky - 98k - M “Draco, sometimes you make my head feel like soup” --the one where harry is a fireworks artist and has a pet chameleon named ken. draco is on the wizarding arts council. they both pine like hell. - Headlights in the Snow - 71k - M “they stare at each other in silence, Harry’s heart beating so loud in his chest that he thinks the biddies must be able to hear it over the sound of their card game.” --the one where draco drives the knight bus and carts around the biddy club, a group of rambunctious old ladies who knit and drink tea and gossip. harry can’t help but fall in love with the everything about this. -

Follow the Water by @xanthippe74 - 38k - T “Harry’s heavy thoughts lift at the sight, like dark clouds blown away from the sun by the wind. The tent doesn’t feel so cramped and stifling now. It feels cozy. And safe. It’s the same feeling that Harry gets when he’s at the Burrow for Sunday roasts, when a group of people who care for each other deeply are crammed into too-small a space.” --harry wanders to the lovegood house on a sunday afternoon. he’s baffled to see that luna’s taken pansy, greg, and draco under her wing. what follows is a summer of forest walks, scavenger hunts, gardening, water fights, odd cakes, faerie rings, and picnics. so many picnics. i love the pace of this fic, the innocent return to childhood things, the way luna brings out the best in all her friends. reluctantly soft slytherins are just *chefs kiss*!! -

Going Postal (A 125pg comic) by dustmouth - T what. a. beautiful. ass. comic. the wizarding fashion, the textures, the character design!! harry travels a lot for his job as a resourcer. draco works in the regulations dept. they pine like a bunch of lovesick idiots via field report notes. god i love dustmouth’s art. -

All the Earnest Young Men by @tepre - 29k - E “Draco is twenty-seven layers of personality wrapped up in drama and humour, and a wit so sharp it still stings when he doesn’t see it coming. But there is something below that, too. Something that makes Harry ache just looking at him.” --the way i would lay down my little life for tepre’s characterization of draco, whom invented the word earnest. he’s a magical art theory expert and portraits are disappearing all over London and harry’s the auror assigned to this case. and well. they’re both so very avoidant about how gay they are for each other and it’s like!! shutup and kiss!! which they do in fact, shutup and kiss. -

Trenches by sara_holmes - 3k - M “Somewhere in the distant part of his mind that hasn't frozen solid, he thinks that maybe he and Draco are about to become more than auror partners, smoking buddies, wine-mates and co-inhabitants of a snow filled trench somewhere in western Scotland.” --the plot line here is literally “it’s cold and i need a fucking cigarette” but let me tell you how I never tire of the shared loaded-silences of two emotionally repressed gays. -

The Years Before Love by lomonaaeren - 13k - M “That’s one of the meanings of peace, he thinks, as Hermione hugs him...That he can do things slowly, softly, without worrying that they won’t be there tomorrow.” --andromeda taking harry under her wing and harry finding solace in teddy. narcissa and draco showing up and the tentative relationships that slowly develop in the quiet calm of andromeda’s house. found families and kisses in the snow and special xmas gifts ugh what’s not to love -

The Moon Looks Lovely Tonight by Omi_Ohmy - 35k - M “I want this to be a house where people are welcome, where they don’t have to be any one way or another” --in which harry collects lost things--owls, best friends, inept bakers, potions experimenters--and turns the mausoleum that is grimmauld place into a home. feat. your fave drarry tropes like shared-beds and reluctant waltzing partners. -

[part 1: thrillers | part 2: dramas | part 3: soft bois | part 4: wankbanks]

#drarry fic rec #drarry fic #soft drarry #OK FINE I RAMBLED BUT WHAT DID WE EXPECT #alexa play futile devices

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rat-typewriter · 3 years

Text

Blue - Andrew x fem!reader

A/N: Thanks to @cyberlifeangel for waiting so patiently for this request! I really enjoyed writing it!! This is edited - however it was edited by me whilst very sleepy so it may have some rubbish spelling/grammar/writing tbh!!

Summary: you and Andrew go on a late night adventure to do some stargazing

The stars faintly glowed in the cloudless night sky and you shivered as the cold wind brushed against your neck. You weren't really prepared for the weather - since you were asleep not that long beforehand. You were only wearing an old t-shirt (that you had stolen from Andrew) and a jacket you had grabbed out of your wardrobe.

Twenty minutes earlier you had been awoken by the ringing of your phone on your bedside table. Groggily, you sat up and tried to make out the caller ID.

Andrew.

You answered without a second thought; you couldn't help but worry, was he alright?

'Hey.' You whispered into the darkness. 'Everything okay?'

'Oh! Uh - yeah! Everything's fine.' He replied. You could almost hear the awkward smile rising to his face. 'Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you, it's weird to call this late.'

'You can call me any time, Andy - I'm always happy to talk to you.'

You smiled with relief and there was a pause in the conversation. For a moment you sat in the darkness and as you listened to the sound of his breathing - you could almost imagine that he was there beside you.

He broke the silence with a slightly awkward, but endearing laugh and you grinned. 'Did you need anything or-?' you asked gently.

'Uh, I'm about to go out and - y'know, if you'd like - you could come too?'

Without a second thought you agreed and stumbled out of bed.

The drive itself was short, but it took you out of town and into a more rural area. He pulled in at the end of a tree-lined road, and stepped out into the darkness. Only once you had gotten out of the car, did you realise that October nights were - in fact - fairly cold.

Andrew - who seemed to be feeling the cold as well - wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you into his side. Breathing in his scent, you tucked your head beneath his chin and felt at ease.

'Look,' He whispered into your hair. 'Stars.'

You followed his gaze, up into the night sky. It was filled with stars. You had never seen the stars look like this- the bright lights of the city normally reducing the stars to a feeble glow.

But this was different.

Countless stars shone against the huge black sky and suddenly you understood ancient civilisations' obsession with space. It was big and it was dark - but it was beautiful.

For a little while, the two of you just stood there - gazing up into the darkness. You could feel Andrew's breathing beside you and you glanced at him. Even in the dim moonlight, as you watched his calm face, you couldn't help but feel the adoration rising in your chest.

Suddenly he turned and looked at you, before blurting out, 'What's your favourite colour?'

'What?' You laughed - taken aback by the sudden question.

He laughed as well. 'Sorry - I guess I just realised that I didn't know.' he said with a shrug.

You pondered the question for a moment, watching the reflections of the stars in his eyes.

'I don't really know.' You replied. 'What about you?'

'Fair enough,' He smiled. 'I've always liked blue, I guess.'

Blue was never quite the same after that. Suddenly, the skies and the oceans and your favourite scarf were all a little piece of Andrew. They reminded you of the boy you loved.

#little hope #Dark Pictures Anthology #dark anthology #dark pictures little hope #dark anthology x reader #dark pictures #little hope x reader #andrew #little hope andrew #andrew little hope #andrew x reader #little hope andrew x reader

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junghelioseok · 3 years

Text

novae.

↳ what is grief, if not love persevering?

◇ hoseok x reader ◇ angst | fluff(?) | time traveler!au ◇ 1.8k [1/1]

notes: a polaris drabble, so please read that beforehand. summary is from wandavision, which i haven’t seen, but that line is everything and i got inspired! also, i am so not kidding about the angst!!! be warned!!! (and i’m not saying that you should listen to blue side while reading this but i’m also not not saying that, so....... do what you want 🤷🏻‍♀️)

warnings: not super edited bc i couldn’t handle it tbh, dealing with death and loss, i’m pretty sure this is the angst you were all afraid would be in polaris so sorry but there’s some cute stuff too i swear

You said goodbye to your husband yesterday. One final goodbye as you scattered his ashes to the wind, watching as they disappeared into the flurry of dry brown leaves spiraling into the river.

There’d been a wake, of course. Last week, at a modest little place on the outskirts of the city where you and your husband had made your home. You'd watched people come and go—friends and family and those acquaintances you never really knew but who all seemed to know your husband one way or another. They flowed on through, a seemingly never ending stream of dark-clothed mourners with good intentions and well-meaning words on their lips.

Thank you for coming, became your mantra after the first dozen or so. Yes, I'm fine. Sure, you can bring a casserole by the house tomorrow.

You really ought to put the casseroles in the fridge. They sit on the kitchen counter in a colorful array of dishes, wrapped in saran wrap and flecked with condensation from being packed up when they were still warm. You can see them from your seat at the dining table, as you tear your gaze away from the window it’s tucked against and prop your chin in your open palm.

The last of your family left yesterday, boarding flights and climbing into cars to return to their own lives. Your friends and neighbors offered their final condolences, before falling back into their own habits and routines. With their departure, you’re alone for the first time in what feels like forever, doing your best to pick up the pieces of your life. And though you have no more tears left to cry, there’s a rift in your heart that refuses to mend, the jagged edges of it digging into your lungs and ribs.

The house is cold without him by your side. That's what it is, now—a house, because you can no longer bear to call it home even if it doesn’t look any different than it did two weeks ago. The things that surround you—the worn couch and the novelty mugs and the patch of imperfect paint on the living room wall—they belong to you. The memories that well up when you look at them, they belong to you.

But they belong to him, too.

Your late husband’s presence lingers in everything around you. There's the faint dip in the couch cushion from decades of use—years of Netflix binges and late night cuddles and the occasional romp when the two of you couldn’t quite make it all the way to the bedroom. There’s the goofy cartoon sun that decorates your favorite mug—the very first one he'd gifted you all those years ago when you first started dating. There’s the memory of the laughter that creased his face when he accidentally leaned against the wet paint in the living room, his white t-shirt muddied with streaks of green. You'd fixed it, of course—done your best with the leftover paint scraped out of the bottom of the can. Doesn't have to be perfect though, he'd said with paint on his cheek. I think it's nice. Gives the place a little more character, you know?

Heaving a sigh, you push back from the table and wearily rise to your feet to put the casseroles away. But your fingertips have only just brushed one of the several ceramic platters lining the counter when there’s a sudden, loud thump from the living room.

“Damn it,” a voice says, and you freeze in your tracks, your heart skipping several beats. Your hearing isn’t what it used to be, but you’d recognize that voice anywhere.

“Hoseo—” you begin, but the second syllable gets caught in your throat. Your husband walks through the doorway with a curious little smile, and your eyes well up with tears that you didn’t even know you had left.

“Hey, beautiful,” he says, coming to a stop before you and brushing a thumb across your cheek fondly. Then his expression sobers, as he takes in your misty gaze and the countless casseroles on the counter. “What’s wrong?”

This Hoseok is in his mid-forties, at most—several decades younger than you are in the present. There’s the barest glint of silver around his temples, a smattering of salt beginning to overtake the pepper of his hair, and you blink rapidly as your throat begins to well with emotion again.

“Hoseok,” you breathe. “Nothing’s wrong. You’re here.”

“I’m here,” he confirms. His palm caresses your cheek, and you lean into the touch as he pulls you close and into the warmth of his chest.

It’s been years since you last saw a Hoseok that wasn’t your own—a Hoseok that came from a time that wasn’t your present. Once the two of you moved in together in your twenties, Hoseok’s travels through time tapered off. The last time you’d seen him was about six years ago, when an eighteen year old Hoseok stumbled into the backyard while you were planting peonies and your Hoseok was at the grocery store. You’d offered him milk and cookies, and he’d been all too happy to accept. You remember that he’d been stressed about final exams, at the time.

And now, here he is again, older and wiser and thankfully not scratched up from appearing in the middle of your rose bushes. Pulling back from the embrace, you take in his face once more, your gaze roving across the wrinkles of laughter around his eyes and the familiar freckle above his lip. His hair, upon closer inspection, is damp, and gingerly, you reach up to trail your fingers through it.

“Rain?” you ask. “Or shower?”

“Shower,” Hoseok replies with a smile, intercepting your hand and pressing a warm kiss to your frail knuckles. “Seriously, I just barely managed to get dressed before I found myself here.”

A laugh bubbles up in your chest, escaping into the open air and easing the tightness in your throat. “It’s good to see you,” you murmur, smiling when he laces your fingers together and gives your hand a squeeze. “It’s so, so good to see you, Hobi.”

Hoseok chuckles and bumps his forehead gently against yours. “It’s good to see you too, babe.”

You laugh again at the term of endearment, smacking his chest weakly with your free hand. “Babe? I’m old enough to be your grandmother.”

“And yet, you’re as pretty as you’ve ever been,” he replies with a grin. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

Slowly, your smile fades. You think of the casseroles, and the jar of ashes you’d scattered to the wind. You think of the little spoonful of ashes you’d saved, that now hangs heavy in a locket in the hollow of your throat. “Hobi, I—”

You trail off, and Hoseok’s expression softens. “It’s me, right? I’m… gone?”

“You—” Sniffing, you bury your face into his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his citrusy shampoo melding with the vaguely floral laundry detergent you both favor. Underneath it all is something that is distinctly Hoseok, something warm and comfortable and inviting, and you sniffle again when he reaches up to stroke along your back.

“It’s okay, baby,” he whispers into your hair, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. “You can let it out. You’ve been so strong, but you can let it all out now. It’s okay.”

“I don’t know what to do, Hobi,” you mumble into the sky blue cotton of his t-shirt, whisper-soft. “I don’t… I don’t think I know how to live without you.”

And it’s true. You’ve known Hoseok since you were eight years old—ever since he appeared in the middle of your garage and knocked over a can full of paintbrushes. You moved in together at twenty-four, got engaged two years later, and haven’t looked back since. You’ve given decades of your life and all of your love to Hoseok, and he’s done the same. And now all that you have left of him is a locket full of his ashes and a house filled to the brim with memories both good and bad.

“Were we happy?”

You blink, twice in rapid succession, before looking up into his achingly familiar face. His eyes are soft and his smile is tender, and you blink again slowly before answering. “Of course we were.”

Hoseok’s smile widens. He touches your cheek again gently, the pad of his thumb brushing the delicate skin just beneath your right eye. “And we had decades of happiness, didn’t we?”

“A lifetime’s worth,” you agree in a whisper. “But I’m selfish, Hobi. I want more. I want you.”

“You have me,” Hoseok replies, and your eyes flutter shut when he reaches up to cup your face in his hands, his touch delicate and light as if you’re something to be treasured. “I’ve been yours since we were kids, and I’ll be yours until the universe ends and the stars die out. You couldn’t get rid of me, even if you tried.”

The sound that escapes you is part laugh, part choked sob, and when you speak again, your voice is small. “I know. You’re right, and I know that. But—” and here your throat closes up, and you have to clear it twice just to continue on. “I just miss you, Hobi. I miss you so much. Between the wake and everyone coming into town, it just feels like… it feels like I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye.”

“Say it now, then,” he says easily, and you suck in a shaky breath.

“Really?”

“Really.”

So, you do. You tell him everything you never got a chance to say—from the stupid jokes you never got to crack, to how happy you are to have met him all those decades ago. Hoseok listens to you ramble on with a tender smile and his fingers twined with yours, and when you fall silent again, he utters four simple little words that somehow still manage to make your breach catch and your heart sing.

“I love you too.”

You nod, and blink back a fresh wave of tears. “Will I see you again?”

“I don’t know,” he answers, and you know he’s telling the truth because he’s incapable of lying. “I hope so. But even if you don’t, I know you’ll be okay. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met, and you’re going to be fine. I know it.”

Hoseok stiffens, then, and you know it’s time for him to go. “I love you,” you repeat, whispering the words into his chest as if you can force them past the material of his shirt and imprint them into his very skin. “Goodbye, Hobi.”

Your husband squeezes your hand, planting twin kisses onto your eyelids one onto your lips. “Goodbye, {Name}.

And then he’s gone, leaving you alone once more.

#hoseok #hoseok scenarios #hoseok x reader #bts scenarios #hoseok x you #jhope #jhope scenarios #jung hoseok #bts #kpop scenarios #bts fanfic #bts fic #hoseok angst #bts angst #hoseok fluff #bts fluff #lia writes

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shatouto · 3 years

Note

“surprise surprise bitch you took a perfectly good boy and now he had trauma, obi-wan is gonna un-fall him and helps him speak again and you, sidious, will die” this is gold shatou and what’s more I bet this is exactly what is going through obi-wan’s head verbatim; baby vader flinches away from electricity maybe and obi-wan immediately goes “hey do you want me to kill sheev for you because I could totally do that”

oh. oh my god. oh my goddd

tbh i don't even know where we are in the timeline with mute baby vader but i really do love this image of vader being around obi-wan in a peaceful enough setting for obi-wan to see him come in contact with his trauma triggers and flinch. like just:

(cw for... trauma response? idek what to tag, just. yknow. standard sith stuff)

Obi-Wan glances around. There is nothing but dilapidated machinery and rusty droid parts scattered about. The walls are all bare duracrete and bricks, and there's a large hole in the roof, a great black pool that is the starless sky. The warehouse must have been abandoned for a long time, by the look of it. It matters not; Republic aid should come in time, following the signal he has sent out, and all there is to do is wait. He gives the bond in his hand a light tug - some may say it's far too gentle for the likes of his... companion.

The Sith beside him is practically seething in silence, febrile golden eyes fixed on him in a gaze as sharp as a bone splinter. He doesn't speak; he never does. Not that Obi-Wan knows of, at least.

"Vader, aren't you?"

Vader glowers, eyes narrowing, tugging at the glossy scar that runs over his brow and eye corner. He yanks at his Force-inhibiting cuffs, which only results in them digging into his wrists hard enough to wrangle from Vader a pained growl. Obi-Wan sighs. He has long theorized that Vader cannot speak, and if so... Not only does it complicate matters logistically, but it also makes him feel really quite terrible, for many reasons.

"Don't try it, please. Sit down and rest your feet if you will. We have been walking for quite some time."

Predictably, Vader ignores every single word he says. He stands opposite from Obi-Wan in the moldy, dusty air, as far away as the bonds allow, and stares at him, wary and murderous. Obi-Wan only regards him with tired eyes. Pity is never a desirable thing, but what else is there to feel toward this tormented creature of hate?

Silence stretches between them for an eon and a half, charged with less-than-gentle intents. And then, all of a sudden, light flashes.

It comes from above. Lightning tears across the darkness of the night, followed by a great rumble. Wind whirls through the holes and cracks in the half-ruined warehouse, carrying with it the smell of a coming storm. Another flash of lightning, another crack of thunder, then the first pitter patter of rain - but nature is not what catches Obi-Wan's attention anymore.

The bonds that tether Vader to him tugs frantically, tossing around as if it's tied to a terrified nexu on the other side. Harsh, teeth-gritting sighs are all that can be heard. Boot soles scrape against the ground. In the darkness and the beginning of rainfall, all he can see is Vader's sharp movements, almost manic in their repetition.

"Vader," Obi-Wan begins. With this much tugging, Force knows how tight the cuffs have gotten. He steps up to shorten the distance and hopefully loosen the bond, but it seems the sound of his footstep only agitates the Sith even more. "Please stop doing that. You're going to injure your—"

Earth-shaking thunders cut off his words almost at the same time lightning illuminates the entire scene.

When it quiets, all quiets - including the Sith.

Vader's looming silhouette has collapsed to half its height. He's sitting on the ground, Obi-Wan realizes with a pang, with his legs pulled to his chest and his face pressed to his knees. It's too dark to see how badly he's shaking, but he is shaking, for a fact. Obi-Wan waits for a few moments, his lips in a tense line, before taking a step forward. The rain slides cool against his skin and he pays it no mind.

"Vader."

The Sith makes no sound. Obi-Wan ventures forward in another step, and another, and finally is able to crouch beside him. Tentatively, he places a hand on Vader's shoulder.

The most ill-timed lightning in the history of the universe cracks across the sky.

The thunder that follows isn't half as deafening as Vader's quiet, terrified, Please, Master, no.

Vader doesn't even flinch under his hand, a stark and deeply concerning contrast to the frantic attempts at escape earlier. Everything clicks into place in the most gut-churning manner. Darksiders do have much use for Force lightning, don't they? Punishment by electrocution is not at all a far fetched notion. And yet, a deep disquiet and a sudden, roaring sense of injustice still rise in Obi-Wan's chest. Because he knows now that the Sith truly cannot speak.

Only the broken child within Vader can.

#mute baby vader #oh no it is becoming a tag is it #maragny #ask #honey it's 3am time to woobify some fictional war criminals #obikin #vaderwan???#god if i tag that it won't even show up on my own blog bc i have the tag muted

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babuis · 3 years

Text

Who Needs Memories? [Chilumi] - 1

Genre: Long Fic

Word Count: 2.2k

Synopsis: Lumine is not naive. Through her thousands of years living, she should know better. Should have learned better. She knew better then to trust someone who threw her insecurities into her face. So why was she here, standing in the room of the person who betrayed her while wanting to give him another chance?

Events from before the Golden House between Childe and Lumine to the unreleased future.

A/n: I’m deciding on whether I want to pursue this as a long fic in my google docs. Tbh I can really only write for Genshin when I’m in this strange, dreamy, longing mood where I wish to leave everything behind and enter the world of Genshin- it just feels so inviting and like home for some reason.

Pulled this out of my ass Bcs I’m in that mood rn. Sadness makes me poetic (but I’m not sad? Genshin gets me in a very dreamy mood)

So imma test it out by seeing how it’s received. Should I make this into a longer series?

Story starts before golden house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lumine couldn't go back to sleep.

This wasn't a new development. Since arriving in Teyvat, she had fallen victim to many sleepless nights or sleeps that were interrupted by night terrors she couldn't quite remember until much later when it was no longer important. Sometimes when she did sleep, her dreams would be filled with fragments of memories from the thousands of years she lived with her brother from world to world before all of this that refused to leave her mind.

Tonight she had dreamed about the time when they weren't in a particular world, but rather the period in between where they simply existed in the clouds.

Lumine and Aether sat on a large cloud, staring into the expanse before them. They sat with their knees hugged to their chest, feeling the last rays of the sun brush over them before nightfall.

"Hey Aether?'

"Hm?"

Lumine sighed as she lay lazily on her back. Her body sunk into the soft pillows of cloud ever so slightly and she stared up into the infinite abyss of the sky above their heads.

"Do you ever wonder what else is out there?' she questioned him, reaching her hand up, "We've been to so many worlds already. Will there be a point where we no longer learn new things?"

Aether scoffed lightly, turning his head to look at his twin, "We've been alive for thousands of years, have you yet to come to a world and not learn anything?"

"No," Lumine admitted, "But you said it yourself, we're so old already. What if one day..."

Aether sighed again, shifting to face his sister fully, "Don't worry about it. Worlds may be similar to each other. We may just arrive in them to fight a little, but there' always been subtle differences that make each special."

"Hmm," Lumine hummed, closing her eyes as a chill brushed over her body, "Do you think mom ever got bored?"

"Bored? She had twins."

Lumine chuckled lightly, "Yea, she did, didn't she?"

They didn't speak after that. Soon the vibrant colors of the sunset turned into the cool night sky and millions of stars twinkled around them, each representing a new world. Lumine shuddered slightly, wondering if her fears were silly. With so many worlds, surely there would be new things to see. A new purpose to have.

"We should go to that one next," Aether said, pointing to the brightest star to their left, "Burning up real bright."

Lumine nodded, shielding her eyes a bit from the light, "Sure is."

Aether lay down, settling beside her, "Go to sleep, Lumi," he said softly, "we got a new world ahead of that."

"Hmm," she hummed again, closing her eyes.

Soon, her brother's breathes turned steady as he fell asleep. She gave him one last peek before she too, succumbed to slumber.

Even if they explored all the worlds there were and learned everything there was to know, she would be okay just as long as she had Aether by her side to navigate her life with her.

And then he was gone.

Lumine shuddered as the wind blew towards her from the water. It seemed to be particularly cold in Liyue that night on the harbor. She sat on the wooden dock, letting her slender legs hang over the edge. The stars shined above her, much like they had in her dream.

Except this time she was sitting on the hard dock instead of the fluffy clouds and she was alone.

Her hair tickled her cheek as she dejectedly thought about Aether. They had come to this world, the brightest one to their left, together, only to be separated. They had never separated before and the anxious heaviness that took permanent hold of her chest became heavier as she remembered her dream.

I miss you Aether.

This world had been shockingly new from the rest of the ones she had visited. With it's divisions between the archons and people, it seemed like this world was made up of multiple ones with a complexity that she kept getting dragged into.

It was something her past self would have marveled excitedly at- there was just so much to learn. But without Aether, without her rock through it all, it almost seemed meaningless. Her only purpose now, was to find him.

Perhaps this is what she got for wishing for a new purpose in life. If she could go back and take it all back, she would.

"Hey girlie, it's dangerous for you to be so lost in thought this late at night. A bad man could come and sweep you away."

Ah, Childe.

Lumine turned her head to see the blue eyes ginger standing behind her, a mischievous glint in his eye as he looked down at her. She licked her lips, turning away from him.

"What do you want, Fatui?" she asked harshly, "If you push me in the water, I'll blast you all the way to the stone forest."

Childe raised his hands up in surrender, a throaty chuckle making its way out of his mouth, "No need to be so hostile, I thought we shared a more intimate relationship than that."

"I'm warning you," Lumine said again, pulling her knees up to her chest.

Childe took a seat beside her, looking into the distance where she was, "I would never, girlie. I'm a bad man but I wouldn't push an unsuspecting lady into the water."

"Sure you wouldn't, Fatui," Lumine said with disdain.

"I wouldn't," he repeated, "What are you looking at? Actually, what are you doing up so late? It's well past your bed time."

Lumine snorted, "You're not older than me."

"I'll have you know I'm a young adult," Childe protested.

Lumine gave him a wry smile, "As am I."

"You don't look a day older 18," Childe hmphed, "Pray tell, Ojou-chan, how old are you really?"

Lumine finally glanced at the ginger who was staring at her with curious eyes, "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I would, actually," he said, not looking away.

'You wouldn't even be able to fathom it if you tried,' Lumine thought to herself, 'nor is it safe for me to tell you.'

Childe stared at Lumine some more, refusing to be the first to look away. Her golden eyes burned with something he couldn't quite place, but were at the same time quite hardened. Her lips were pressed into a thin line and her eyebrows were softly furrowed into a stern looking pout.

'How cute,' he mused to himself, 'too bad you're just a pawn in Tsaritsa's game.'

"You don't trust me," he settled on saying, his mouth quirking to the side.

Lumine finally looked away, making Childe celebrate internally, 'ha! I win!'

"Why should I?" she muttered.

"I get it, La Signora gave you a bad impression," Childe said, "But like I said, I don't particularly like her either. I'm the black sheep of the Harbingers you know, we're not all like her."

Lumine didn't say anything. If she learned anything from her extensive existence, it was to not trust a man like Childe.

"Fine, then answer this for me since you're unwilling to share," Childe caved, "What are you doing up so late?"

Lumine shrugged, "It's not late. If I'm correct, it's a new day."

"Fine smart ass," Childe sassed her, "What are you doing up so early?"

"I guess I'm an early bird then," Lumine said vaguely, not wanting to mention her lack of sleep.

"Great answer."

The two sat in silence again, the breeze blowing even harder. Lumine shivered again at the wind's caress which prompted Childe to shrug off his jacket to give to the blonde. Lumine noticed and put her hand up to stop him hurriedly, not wanting to create even more debt to the Harbinger.

"You're cold," Childe insisted, "Take it."

Lumine frowned, "No, you're cold. You take it."

"Ojou-chan," he said, exasperated, "I'm from Snezhnaya, a bit of wind isn't going to kill me."

Lumine raised an eyebrow, "I use Anemo powers, a little bit of wind isn't going to kill me either."

"But it'll make you sick."

"No it won't."

"Yes it will."

"No it won't."

"Yes it will."

"No it won't."

She knew it wouldn't. It had been a very long time since Lumine had gotten sick, the last time being in a world with giant man eating beings. The only reason for her sickness, of course, wasn't her health, but the disgusting stench of dead bodies.

Lumine stubbornly stood up and started walking down the dock back towards the center of the town where she was staying. She was done with this conversation- done with him. However, Childe seemed to have other plans as he followed the petite girl down the paved road.

"Stop following me," came Lumine's cutting words, not even bothering to look back.

'Charming,' Childe thought as he ignored her words, "It's dangerous for a pretty girl to roam around the town in the dark."

Lumine simply rolled her eyes, coming to a halt in front of a random building, "I'm not in danger of the Milleleth anymore, and I'm sure I could handle some petty thieves if I did a dragon."

"Ah, that's right. I'm talking to the Hero of Mondstadt here," Child said teasingly, 'and the biggest pain in the ass to Tsaritsa.'

Lumine gave him an unimpressed look, "I suppose that's right, so as you can see, I can handle myself."

'If anything, you're the biggest threat in this town,' she thought distastfully.

"Alright then, Ojou-chan, I'm off-"

Before he could finish his goodbye, he was cut off by a large growl emitting from Lumine's stomach. For the first time that night, Lumine lost her composure and blushed a bright red and her body burned hotter than the sun despite the chilly morning air. Childe paused, blinking twice, before busting out into laughter that caused the girl to further lose composure.

'Damn this near mortal body!' Lumine cursed, 'I never had to eat this often before!'

"Hahaha!" he laughed heartily, clutching his sides, "Did you perhaps eat the dragon to defeat it?" he teased her.

Lumine growled, "Shut up," she said hotly.

"Say, why don't I take you and Paimon to get some food then?" Childe suggested, "I'm sure you're hungry and you wouldn't turn down free food when you lack Mora."

Lumine grumbled quietly to herself, knowing he was right. She had very little Mora left thanks to Paimon spending so much on food and she was admittedly hungry. Hunger was a foreign concept to her body up until recently, and she detested the very idea of it.

"Don't be stubborn Ojou-chan," Childe persisted, "I did afterall, save you from the Millelith didn't I?"

Lumine begrudgingly nodded her head, "Fine," she said quietly, "Let me get Paimon first."

And so they walked side by side to her inn- that he helped he book- to fetch Paimon and go eat. They walked leisurely, as if they weren't two people that were on drastically different sides. They walked as if they were acquaintances- as if they were friends to the unknowing eye.

Lumine knew she shouldn't. She should have stopped all interaction after that one time he helped her out by clearing her name. Shouldn't have accepted the help nor the Mora from him- no matter how broke she was. She could have found a way or slept on the outskirts of the town. She shouldn't be accepting his invitation to eat.

What was wrong with her?

Teyvat had proved to be full of surprises, her behavior being one of them. It had been months since she woke up from her slumber. When was the last time she had stayed in one place for so long? Fought off monsters for other people rather than the thrill of the fight?

It didn't matter, Lumine supposed. What mattered was finding her brother and what happened after that would be a future Lumine problem. What else was there to do after finding her brother? What was the purpose of her world hopping?

Lumine no longer remembered.

As they neared the inn where she left Paimon, she could hear the floating girl's shrill and angry voice scolding her for leaving. Paimon's voice only turned more sour when she saw the Fatui next to her.

"Lumine!" the pixie exclaimed, "You can't leave to go rendezvous with the enemy!"

Lumine gave the little girl an unimpressed look, "I did no such thing, he's cashing in a favor."

"A favor?" Childe interrupted, "Considering I'm paying for your food, I'd say I'm doing a service and you know owe me a favor."

Paimon looked angry for a second, "Lumine! You can't just- wait, did Paimon just hear you say food?"

"Sure did little one," Childe grinned, "Come on, it's my treat."

And just like that, Paimon's anger disappeared at the promise of something warm to fill her stomach. Constellations materialized around her floating body as she followed the ginger to a restaurant he claimed that he knew 'they would just love.'

Lumine lingered at the steps of the inn, staring up into the sky that was now painted with the vibrant colors of the sunrise.

What was the purpose of her life?

Lumine basked in the warmth of the sun and found comfort in the lack of visible stars in the sky.

Lumine didn't remember.

Perhaps she never knew.

62 notes · View notes

yeoldontknow · 4 years

Text

Ciperion: 1/2

Author: @yeoldontknow as part of the Anchors & Arrows collaboration with @imdifferentshadesofpurple Pairing: Jaebeom x Reader (oc; female) Genre: fantasy!au; shipwreck au; jaebeom is a fisherman; romance; angst; elements of horror; ghosts; eventual smut Summary: Everyone on the Isle Indolon knows the story of Ciperon, though none believe it is true. Over centuries, the tale of the long lost ghost ship on the high seas has become little more than urban legend. In his youth, Jaebeom always thought the story was heartbreaking, and he did his best to avoid it - the same way he avoids the missionaries that have taken occupation on the island. On the anniversary of Ciperion’s ill-fated port date, you wash up on sea, and only you have the answers he’s always been seeking. If only you could remember who you are. Rating (this part): PG-13 Warnings (this part): angst; shipwrecks; references to head trauma; jaebeom does CPR; jaebeom rescuing an unconcious woman; allusions to sexual assault but it didnt happen, he just is protective and misinterprets everything; anxiety; ptsd; vomiting; ghost stories; graphic depictions of violence; mentions of blood; non-major character death; themes of horror; lots of grief; memory loss; jb doesnt really know what to do with himself; mentions of becoming a widow; it sounds really sad but i promise its not that bad; tbh oc is a really great sport Word Count: 17.5K

Three hundred miles off the emerald coast of Isle Indolon, Second Mate Ansil Green looks up at the shimmering night of the dark sky and feels a chill of apprehension burrow deep within his bones.

There are only three days left to their journey, and for five months he has charted each with meticulous accuracy. It is easy to rely on the stars, he thinks. Their steadfast illumination and the reassurance found in their seasonal rotation have brought him immeasurable comfort throughout his life, and not once, not even on nights when storms threaten to eat their way through the ship’s bowsprit, have they ever led him astray.

In the berthing hull, the missionaries say their prayers with tightly clasped hands, while others read their scrolls in preparation for new lectures once they reach the shore. Back in Indolon, Ansil’s wife and two children anxiously await his triumphant return, and everyone, every crew member and stow away rat, is eager to breach land. Even now, he can see it clearly - his wife’s pretty eyes as she laughs, small crescent moons that remind him of the night sky; the youthful, almost violent laughter of his sons as they play in the fields; the creaking if their iron bed frame as he rocks between her thighs, not unlike the ship as she rocks against the sea.

Tonight, he wonders if these simple treasures have fallen too far out of reach, if they have slipped, imperceptibly, out of his grasp.

Because tonight, the stars are wrong.

Gripping the mahogany banister, he leans against the side and cranes his neck, angling his view slightly to the right in the hopes of correcting the pattern. Something about this is terribly wrong, wrong enough that the deepening doubt bites at him, heating his skin like a fever. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he does his best to swallow this worry, attempts, rather meekly, to focus on the light flapping of the mainsail above him, on its rhythmic and soothing white noise that often helps him drift, hazily, through sleepless nights. Now, it offers him little comfort, the wind that moves the ship rustling through his hair, stroking against the shell of his ear, carrying whispers of splintered wood and rocky shores blackened by sea water mixing with spilled blood.

Heavy footsteps make their approach from behind, the purposeful strides and confident gait of Captain Grier L’Allante causing the heels of his boots to shatter the false sense of peace. Ansil does not move to greet his Captain, and while this would be considered an insult on any other crew ship, he supposes Grier has become used to his flippant and yet focused attitude when the stars are out, decades of manning ships alongside one another having reduced the rules of propriety almost entirely non-existent. Keeping his gaze on the sky, he feels Grier come to stand beside him, the heat of his closeness full of pride and awe; admiring the vastness of the sea before him, he exudes an energy that puts a sour taste in the back of Ansil’s throat.

How he hates to ruin the evening.

‘We’re going in the wrong direction,’ he announces, feeling Grier stiffen rather than deflate entirely.

His captain hums in consideration, never one to give over to fear or uncertainty. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Look at the stars.’ Ansil corrects his posture and regards his friend with pleading eyes. It is, perhaps, the first time he has ever shown signs of fear with his captain, but Grier maintains his composure and presses his lips into a thin line. ‘They’re at the wrong angle by about twenty-six degrees,’ he continues to explain.

Pointing up at the constellation Cassiopeia, he gestures a long straight line back behind him, back towards the foresail, in the direction of Hydra. Turning once again to look at Grier, he waits for some kind of flicker of emotion to pass over his features, and when nothing comes, he simply sighs, pressing his friend for more.

‘This distance shouldn’t be this wide,’ he offers grimly, straightening his posture to stand at his full height. ‘Did we turn?’

‘No.’ Grier barks his reply with forceful authority, though, behind his eyes there is a storm brewing, a brief flash of concern that placates Ansil. ‘I helm this ship myself, and you know in your heart we haven’t turned. You said straight on until dawn, and the wind is steady at four knots to the South-West. We’re still on course.’

In unison, they turn back to the sky, and Ansil tightens his grip on the railing. ‘There’s something bad about this. I can feel it.’

Grier chuckles amicably. ‘What you’re feeling is five months staring at the same bloody lights in the sky.’ His gaze falls on Ansil’s profile, and he can feel him regarding his features with probing scrutiny. ‘You didn’t even take a woman at the last port,’ he states, nudging his shoulder with a force that makes Ansil lean to the side.

‘They’re not precisely the same,’ he admonishes with a laugh. Grier regards him expectantly, but all Ansil can manage is a sigh of longing. He’d love to laugh at this kind of crude joke, and normally he would, but three days is somehow longer than five insurmountable months, the ability to count them transmuting the number into something brutal. ‘And you know I’d never do that to Mala.’

Taking off his hat, Grier runs a hand through the greasy black strands of his hair, grimacing through his laugh. ‘Too loyal for your own good.’

This is something Ansil can tease him about, and he offers his friend an impish grin, taking his own opportunity to nudge Greir’s shoulder roughly, revealing his hidden strength. ‘And your prick is too slippery for your health.’

It’s childish, the way they punch their fists into one another’s arms, the jovial nature of this making him feel as though they are teenagers once again. At once, he is nineteen and Grier has just convinced him to come out to sea, to stow away on his father’s vessel, and they are laughing at the reckless foolishness of this idea. But they are smiling, already hungry for the adventure, already wanting the spray from the waves and the salt that shall never leave their skin. They are young and they are hopeful, and now, even after the bloodshed and the violence and the horror they have seen among the ocean, he thinks they have never been quite as dangerous as they were then.

‘You need rest, mate,’ Grier advises once they’ve settled back against the railing. They look out over the ocean, the water as black as the night it reflects, light of the moon illuminating the peaks of waves and casting shadows behind them as long as the sea is wide. Releasing a deep sigh through the flare of his nostrils, he suddenly becomes alarmingly serious. ‘Otherwise, it’s scurvy.’

A beat of silence passes between them, a pregnant pause in which neither one of them breathes, the word hanging heavily between them both, unwilling to be touched. Until, they erupt into laughter, Ansil leaning against the railing to steady himself atop the wet baseboards. A wave hits the side of the ship and sprays gently against his cheeks, cooling his skin and for a moment, he is grounded in the happiness of this. For a moment, the sky is clear and he can see Grier’s warm, too kind smile; can see the way the ship is heading home, steadfast and unyielding in her journey.

For a moment, there is peace.

Calming his breath, he runs a hand over his face and nods. ‘What I would give for a peach.’

Ansil waits for the inevitable hum of commiseration, a sound of companionship in the memory of the juicy ripeness of Indolon peaches - the yellow of their fruit so moist it would leave their hands sticky for days. He can almost taste the burst of flavor in his mouth, tongue wet in desperation for something other than the salt and brine of oysters and trout, and finds the only consolation for this hunger is that they shall arrive in time for the peak season.

Ansil waits for Grier, but the sound never comes, his captain watching the waves beyond the ship with lips parted in pale shock. Knotting his brow, Ansil takes his time turning to look where Grier’s focus rests, the tendrils of dread rising once more within his belly. The fear in him feels almost inhuman, taking full control of his joints as they stiffen, keeping him rigid and held firmly in place. Grier continues looking out to sea, blood rushing away from his cheeks, likely retreating within to service more important pieces in preparation of survival.

When Ansil finally gathers his strength, he swallows thickly, and looks out to the water. He has lived through war - a great many battles on Naval ships both larger and smaller than this. He has seen dying men beg for both life and death, the fear in their eyes making it unclear which they crave more. He has seen waves rise taller than the ships he crews, seeking an immortal companion for her enduring loneliness.

But he has never seen fog overtake the earth quite like this, or with such wrath.

It comes from nowhere and everywhere all at once, swallowing both sea and sky as it crawls across the horizon. From its center, an ethereal light seems to glow, a beacon to herald the nothingness that surrounds them, but even this light too is a half formed shadow, the core of its rays smeared across miles as it spreads within the clouds. The blood in his ears in unrelenting, the rush of his blood to his thunderous heart making his head begin to hurt as he watches it spread. Has anything ever been so fast?

The fog works quickly to cover everything in sight, racing towards the ship at a speed he simply cannot comprehend. When he was young, and newly appointed to Third Mate Naval Officer, he sailed aboard the Cygnus, the fastest ship Indolon had ever produced - reaching a record breaking thirteen knots in the correct wind conditions. Somehow, this fog is so much faster, ravenous for absolutely everything it touches as the waves begin to still beneath its touch.

The wind ceases.

The waves still, cannibalised by the fog.

And as he looks to Grier, their eyes mirroring the horror they find in each other, he realizes the ship has come to a full stop.

It is when the fog touches the boat that he hears it, the anguished screaming of men beneath their feet. Even at war, he has never heard such terror as this. The sound is born from men suddenly learning that they will die, this death an ambush to the unsuspecting and therefore all the more gruesome in its wake. He regards his feet with a disgust that taints his numbness, the abjection of this noise releasing a myriad of feelings within his veins - the urge to run, the urge to scream, a tightness in his throat so painful he fears he may suffocate on the size of it, and the overwhelming desire to cry. Yet, it seems his body cannot decide upon any of these, and so settles on none, rendering him absolutely and completely silent.

They stand above the berthing hull, listening to the missionaries burst to life for one extraordinary moment before their echoes die one by one, their last breath a wail of anguish. As Ansil takes in a long, slow inhale to steady his growing panic, he can smell the acrid stench of blood and piss wafting up between the boards, bile rising to the back of his throat. The silence that befalls them in the aftermath is threatening, an eerie calm that raises gooseflesh along his skin. Bones brittle and mouth dry, he simply stares at Grier and takes in every detail he can, unfailingly certain this is the last time they will see one another.

In the distant horizon a tall mast looms beyond the mist, the main mast taller than that of their vessel. The crow’s nest is empty, and if he focuses long enough he has the passing sensation he could look right through the wood into an empty, eternal void.

‘It can’t be,’ he whispers, reminding himself it is just a legend and that legends are buried in the past.

They are buried.

His voice carries no echo, the atmosphere around them tight enough his voice lives and dies before him, reaching nowhere else but his own ears. Grier does not even react, does not make any movement at all, save for the shifting of his attention to the world behind Ansil, eyes trained on something that makes his adam’s apple bob in the effort of swallowing his trepidation.

A bead of sweat glides down Ansil’s spine, and he can feel an angry shadow looming behind him. Burning like hellfire, he waits for the scent of his own flesh bubbling beneath his chemise to reach his nose, readying for immolation. Death comes slowly for people like him, he supposes. It likes to take its time weighing the worth of his soul and the value of his existence. He has made love and he has made life, but he has taken far more than he has created, and so he suspects this slow conquering of his person is deserved - retribution for the bloodstains etched into his palms.

‘Ciperion,’ Grier says, eyes widening in sudden, terrible realization.

It is the last thing Ansil sees and hears before cold hands wrap around his jaw, pressing fingers into his mouth and pulling until the pain in his bones, his skin, his muscles is so great the world turns black.

Standing on the old oak dock behind his home, Jaebeom stares out at the open sea and knows that, today, the water is ruthless.

He can feel the rage beneath her waves, the violent and unforgiving aggression of the current guiding the water as it rolls up against the edge of the dock, shaking its legs as if testing the foundation’s strength. The first light of morning is unable to penetrate the intense cloud cover along the horizon, their peaks and valleys tinged with red shadows behind the murky green and black. Awake far too early to begin his descent to the jetty, he balls his fists in the pockets of his linen coat and eyes the gathering storm with suspicion.

Once again, he’s been brought out.

Pulled from his feather bed by some unseen force, it has become a habit for him to spend his early hours on the dock, overtaken by a profound sense of longing. Rooting himself to the wood, he has grown used to the passage of time that drifts beyond him, and finds that he is unencumbered by these lost moments. It’s been happening more often as late, his sleep interrupted by the desire to see and to know, an endless stream of questions burning at the back of his mind that chase the sleep from his limbs. But, always, the words are garbled, the thoughts unclear.

It is worse today - somehow, he knows this with all of his being. Even as he stands, completely alone and unseen, he feels naked all the way down to his nerves. Narrowing his eyes, he peers at the water, unblinking, taking hold of the ache within his chest. Something is missing, has been lost. Or, perhaps, it was taken from him, the intense longing in his chest delivering him a nostalgia too great to be expressed or understood. If he looks long enough, he can almost envision it emerging from the horizon, precariously balanced as though hanging on a thread.

But the image never fully forms, never reveals its nature, and he is left bereft, hissing a sigh of frustration between his teeth.

Gulls pass overhead, making way for the Southern shore. Their calls are the music of the morning, a siren song that only serves to mire him deep within his thoughts, and he blinks several times as he rolls his shoulders back, trying, and failing, to collect himself. The current sends a rough breeze through the thin fabric of his chemise, the uncharacteristically cool summer air nipping at his skin, and he bristles though he does not shiver. Digging his nails into his palm, he struggles to gather the will to leave, every bone in his body telling him he must wait.

Each morning Jaebeom finds himself in this position, looking out to the open water and waiting - wanting to write love letters, wanting to write odes, often wanting to simply cry or curse the tide for what it has taken, but he remains mute, dumbfounded, lingering expectantly for an answer that will not come. And he is angry, muttering to himself that he must leave, that there is no purpose here, but the thought of missing it only serves to aggravate his insistence on keeping still, on looking and looking harder.

‘Come on,’ he mumbles, as if willing a response from the sea.

When nothing comes, the muscles in his arms and thighs tense as he presses himself into the dock. ‘Show me,’ he hisses, emphatically.

Immediately he feels terribly silly, not even certain to whom he is speaking. It is not the first time he has made these demands, not the first time he has called out to the sea as if it would even deign to reply. The answering silence and empty air should neither surprise nor disappoint him, but as his posture curls and his chest deflates, he finds both of these things happen in quick succession. Something is out there, something beyond the place the light touches, and he thinks what frustrates him most is the endless unknowing.

Voices along the shore break his concentration, a group of missionaries walking side by side, barefoot in the warm sand as they talk, sometimes laugh, amongst one another. The sound of their chatter breaks the magic of this hour, an unwelcome interruption to the morning solitude. At once he returns to himself, hands in his pockets relaxing out of the fists he’s been holding, and suddenly he feels rather neutral about his position on the dock, about the ocean, and the thick clouds overhead.

The town has started to wake, the missionaries commencing their morning walk a sign that he is late - terribly late, and the time it will take him to prepare his sails and his nets will likely cause him to miss the golden fishing hour. Closing his eyes, he hangs his head and sighs, certain he will lose the best crabs of the day.

Briskly walking along the shore to the jetty, he keeps a wide berth from the missionaries as he passes. Jaebeom keeps his eyes trained on the rocky jut of the shoreline, keeping his posture rigid in the effort of not being overtaken by the staggering sense of unease that gradually drops his feet to his stomach with each step he takes. He’s certain they must feel this, must feel the crushing weight of his discomfort, and he furrows his brow, swallows thickly, and grits his teeth as he prepares for conversation.

‘Good day,’ they chime in unison, bowing their heads in greeting. The steely chill in their voices makes him shiver. ‘May Deus keep you.’

Jaebeom simply nods politely, but says nothing, finding no solace in their words. On instinct, his attention diverts to the slotted diamond shaped symbols on their rosaries, a sense of nausea rising in his stomach. Lifting his gaze to their faces, he focuses on their features - their eyes, their well practiced smiles, their royal blue square hats - but all the while, he battles against himself, soul willing him with all its might to look, once more, at the rosaries.

Quickening his steps, he hurries past them, releasing a breath he did not know he had been holding. Running a hand through his hair, he chastises himself sheepishly for his disrespectful behavior. He’s old enough now, nearly thirty and well past the age of childish anxiety, to know they are harmless, it is harmless, but still he feels a rattle in his bones even after they have disappeared from view. He remembers the monthly service ceremony - his mother, her pleading eyes, and his frightened distress as she brought him along. Long into the night, he would be plagued with the memory of their long faces and their empty expressions, the fear and hatred in him making him feel sick with fever.

Eventually, he grew out of this level of anguish but still his maturity and his logical reasoning do not serve as a comfort. In the numerous missionaries that occupy Indolon, he finds no refuge, no joy, somehow more sure now, in his old age, than ever of their wrongness.

His schrooning boat is docked at the base of the rocky cliff side, just below the lighthouse and pushed far away from the crowded wharf. As he makes his approach, he feels the eyes of other fishermen bore into his spine, their judgement of him, his lack of a First Mate, a crew, and his placement of his boat always deeply felt at this hour of the morning. But he does not mind.

Since he was small, Jaebeom’s understanding of the sea, of her nature and her cruelty, has kept him at a great distance from his peers. As a child, he preferred to listen - to listen to the ocean and to watch it change, finding a deep affinity in her tumultuous loneliness. This kind of loving relationship, he thinks, has developed into a skill that keeps his family well paid, a roof over his head, and the bellies of many full. Maintaining a crew would simply distract him, his mind less on the water and more on the work of his members.

And while he, too, might have agreed the placement of his boat against the rocks is reckless at best, it is placed where he would catch crabs as a child with his father - the best location to spot their lavender and purple shells as they eat the moss along the stones. And just below, the bright vermillion of the king crabs glittering as they sink to the ocean floor.

Stepping onto his boat, he sheds his linen jacket and cranes his head back to observe the large mast, its mainsail tied neatly at the base with a strong sailor’s knot. Rolling up his sleeves, he lets the sea breeze kiss his warm skin, heated and dewy with moisture from his walk, and watches light behind the clouds do its best to illuminate the land below. The rains will likely start soon, the hours left in the day for adequate fishing conditions dwindling, and so he hoists himself up on the shroud, untying the sail in quick, easy motions.

Climbing up the iron ladder connected to the mast, he reaches for the rope at the center of the sail and latches his fingers, giving one large tug to set the sail free. It flaps loosely in the wind, releasing itself to its full length, and as he makes his way down in the cover of its shadow, he looks out to the lighthouse, admiring the way the tall grass is somehow more viridescent beneath the grey skies as it reaches upwards, asking for rain. Autumn is nestled in the branches of the trees, the peak summer season soon to give way to the burning gold of autumn, but as he regards the lighthouse field he finds it difficult to imagine the world any other way than this. It’s as though the earth has always been green, always been bright, too alive to ever fully be witnessed.

As he takes in the splendor of the earth, letting pleasure root itself against his ribs, he notices, rather curiously, a pile of cloth discarded amongst the rocks. Strewn carelessly across the sharp incline, the ivory cloth has been yellowed and torn, resting long forgotten in the shallows. Narrowing his eyes, he steps off the shroud and leans over the edge of his boat, glad that it is still tied to the fender and not drifting away with the sudden displacement of his weight. As he continues to look, the ivory gives way to the vitality of flesh and long limbs, and his mouth runs dry.

‘By Deus,’ he whispers, the dread in his veins restricting the volume of his voice. ‘It’s a person.’

Limbs moving of their own accord, Jaebeom is carried back to the dock, hands working quickly to remove his boots. Gaze unwavering, he keeps his eyes on the body, transfixed and horrified, afraid of letting his eyes wander for fear of it disappearing altogether. His heart beats like thunder against his sternum, warring with too many emotions and unable to allow any one a victor. Behind the worry, the confusion, the terror, a curious sense of relief is building, a calm that would almost have him believe he is not in the process of coming undone.

If he focuses on it, he gets the sense that this is what he has been waiting for - not just in the morning before the dawn breaks, not just in the crash of waves against his boat and their icy waters demanding his spirit, but for always. In this moment, the hollowed sensation in his heart, the sense of something long absent, is scabbing over with each breath he takes.

Barefoot, he moves at a slow run, something like grief and hope mixing in his blood and putting a swell in the joints of his fingers. Jaebeom stifles these feelings, grounds himself in the reality that someone might be hurt, might be in need, and reminds himself, dutifully, that it is not the time to be carried away with his emotions. Still, there is a tingle at the base of his neck, an urgency that goes beyond humanitarianism, pushing him forward with exhilaration.

'Help.'

A female voice is carried on the wind, musical in its cadence and pleasurable in the way it sings its request. The ocean spray delivers it to him at the same moment the water bursts over the rocks, the sea mist rising up against his cheeks before retreating through the crevices in the earth, cooling the flush beneath his skin. Inside him, it burrows, reaching down and deep to nestle in the long empty caverns of his heart. As he moves over the rocks, carefully placing his feet to maintain his balance, he strains to hear it once more, certain it is a woman he is racing to help and she is begging to be saved.

'Help heal.'

'I'm coming,' he calls out, voice as shaky as his legs and echoing over the ocean’s roar.

He does his best not to cut his toes on the angular shards that have been eroded over years of rough sea water, but with each step he takes the water rises over the rocks with an aggression bordering on feral, demanding all of him within its foam. With each rush of water, he has the feeling it is reaching for his ankles, hands desperate to clutch at his person and drag him down, and down.

Yet, the closer he gets, the more he feels as though he could weep - from joy, from desperation, from loss - and this alone is enough to make him want to rush, pushing through the erratic rhythm of his heart and beyond the lump in his chest that makes each inhale ache. Now, with a clear vision of the body, it is as though you have been spit from the ocean’s mouth, cast out for your transgressions and all the corrupted ways you have disappointed the ocean. There is tragedy in the way you are draped over the rocks, body poised at woeful angles for having displeased the gods. Now, you have been forced to greet the horror of your retribution.

Only a few rocks away, Jaebeom allows himself a brief pause and takes you in, letting his eyes take their time in their discovery of your person. Hugging himself, he suddenly feels conflicted, as though he is learning your shapes while still becoming reacquainted with something long missed. This state of being is a paradox, and in the full emptiness of it, he has the passing sensation that he is learning the essence of love, and little else.

Shaking himself free from his idle reverence, he takes a few steps closer and notices the silk of your dress is ruined, perhaps permanently. His jaw drops slightly at the still gleaming shine of the fabric, the most expensive silk he has ever seen. It clings to your skin, dampened and tarnished, fraying at the ripped edges but still doing its best to hold you delicately, clinging to you in the effort of keeping you safe. Something about the cut of the dress triggers a memory he cannot quite reach, a familiarity in its lines and shapes that make him recall there was a purpose behind this outfit, a reason that it is both extraordinary and unforgettable, but it vanishes from him as quickly as it came. The fog in his mind is heavy, muddling his thoughts and pulling at the edges of his concentration and he knits his brow together to keep himself grounded.

In the aftermath of this brief recollection, he bites a whine of longing burning at the back of his throat, a pathetic sound of loss, regret, mourning. Your hair spills over the rocks, eyes closed and skin bruised though not scraped to bleeding. Flickers of recognition press at him, mind racing around the image of your soft lips, the high angle of your cheekbones, and the delicate elegance found in your wrists. Struggling to recall your name, Jaebeom approaches gently, coming to a kneel at your side, unsure what to say at all.

Pressing two fingers to the pulse point in your neck, he feels a dull, yet ever present, throb of life beneath your skin and releases a breath he did not know he had been holding. Alive, though just barely and unconscious, lungs likely full of sea water. Everything about you is soft, the warmth of life fading quickly beneath his fingers and rendering you terribly fragile, and he retracts his hand for fear of his touch giving bloom to more marks along your flesh.

Glancing around the cliff face, he looks for signs of wood, other bodies, ripped sails or bent iron, but finds nothing. No signs of shipwreck, no signs of a waiting party to receive you. You are alone in this torment, rejected by land and sea, and forced to exist within the limbo of life and death.

Before he can stop himself, he lifts you to his chest, cradling you close as he rises to a stand. If you were awake, you would be shivering, would tremble in the chill that means to overtake your very bones, and he hurries as best he can back to his boat and the woolen blankets he keeps in case of cold summer rains. Moving quickly over the shore, he stumbles slightly, feet tripping over themselves in surprise as he feels you burrow into him, seeking warmth with a low moan, and brow furrowed in what he hopes is simply the effort of healing.

Finally aboard once more, he takes you into the small cabin beneath the helm and tucks you into the straw bed he keeps for nights when the winds are threatening and violent, remaining on the boat in case the waves should do their best to reclaim the wood. Draping several blankets over you, he crawls close enough the heat from his chest could radiate into your skin, encouraging a rush of blood in your veins. His fingers twitch, wanting to brush stray strands of hair out of your eyes, but he presses the flat of his hand into the bed, resisting his urges.

The medic will need to be informed. This realization hits him with a bitterness that speaks of separation, chest restricting and tightening against the air in his lungs until it hurts to breathe. Against his bones, his muscles battle the urge to hold you close and he shuts his eyes with a grimace as a headache blooms at the base of his skull. Yet, as he strains to focus in the quiet of the cabin, he is acutely aware there are no traces of your breath, no labored wheeze no even inhalation, and so he resolutely declares that he will ferry your oxygen, coming to sit up on his knees as he plugs your nose and presses his lips to yours, opening them slightly.

Cradling your chin between his thumb and forefinger, Jaebeom exhales deeply, letting the strength of his breath travel into the limit of your lungs. Squeezing his eyes closed, he exhales for as long as he can manage, giving everything within himself to you before, all at once and all over again, he feels as though he has stepped out of himself.

Once more, voices materialize at the back of his mind, these new sounds more like echoes that erupt from nowhere and no when, fingerprints of a bygone era carried to him on wings. Their words are a garbled mess of sounds, undeterminable cadences lacking diction or emphasis, but he hears the sound of a man, low and gentle and wondrously tender.

He hears a man, and the man is unmistakably, unfailingly, him.

Opening his eyes, he drinks you in, and surrenders to the notion he is being conquered by the mere sight of you. One word from you, and it would be as violent as a new beginning, a great shattering of all the comforts he knows of the world. And he would welcome it, knows, as if by magic, that he has given over to it before, would give over to it again, the power in you so great only ritual could contain it.

Blinking several times to clear the shock from his mind, he quickly moves his hands to your chest and presses against your sternum in the rhythmic way his sister taught him when he announced he wanted to be a fisherman, just like their father. Her eyes had glazed over then with the memory of loss and strife, and so she laid him on the floor and promptly taught him how to save a life should the sea threaten to claim a man as her own. The muscles in his harms strains as he continues pressing, and he thinks maybe he will need to press his lips to yours once more, bracing, instinctively, for more voices to fill his head, but a rush of water bursts from between your lips and he quickly moves back, turning you to your side to let it drain completely.

Falling back on your side, you release a cough but you do not wake, the small puddle of water between you both at once threatening and sacred, a reminder that everything Jaebeom has seen and felt is real, tethered to this moment. Tethered to you.

‘Who are you?’ he murmurs, but even as he says it, even as the words leave his mouth, he knows this is not the right question.

In the oncoming silence, the correct words swell on his tongue, nearly tumble from his lips, but, instead, he chews the inside of his cheek, aware that the right question will insight a riot in him he is unprepared to endure.

When Jaebeom carries you into his home, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, overtaken by the staggering weight of deja-vu.

He’s been in this position before, holding you against him in the center of his small kitchen as the elasticity of his emotions stretches outward for an eternity. There is an awakening occurring at the very center of his soul, bursting like a new star as its white heat slithers down his spine. Glancing down at you, your soft lips, your closed eyes, and your limp frame, held so closely to him, he feels the earth move beneath his feet, the shifting tectonics of his life all leading to this single moment.

Shaking his head, he releases himself from this, moving to his bedroom with focused steps as he places you in his bed. Igniting the oil lamps, he works quickly to bathe you in warm light, covering you with his down comforter before moving to the furnace tucked in the corner of the room. In summer, he keeps little coal and kindling but he uses the last of the brush wood he’s saved from the recent winter to ignite a small fire that burns red and gold behind the latched closing.

He regards your still form with a frown, running a hand through his hair in distress and grits his teeth. The last several days have been almost unbearably hot, but it seems August’s heatwave has been broken by the cool wind of the day, the overall gloom breaking the humidity and blocking the sun from her usual path. Of all days, it pains him that this would be the day the sea released you from her clutches, sent you from the cold depths of her darkness back to the shore where the sun refused to keep you.

From his kitchen, he takes a small linen cloth, inspecting it for cleanliness, and folds it into a long rectangle. Warming it in front of the furnace, he rotates it in circles before he feels it is sufficiently heated, just enough to ease tension in your muscles and restore heat where you need it most. It warms his hands, palms already swollen and grown clammy, room becoming relatively stuffy as he slides the cloth beneath your neck while you sleep. Already, a pink flush has begun to settle within your cheeks, the relief in him not unlike a rapture.

What will you say when you wake, he wonders. How will you sound when you look him in the eye, unsure of where you are? More importantly, he worries if you will wake at all, if perhaps the rush of blood beneath your skin is the last tour it will take before it stills altogether, heart too sluggish to keep a steady flow. The thought sends a tremor of heartbreak into the base of his spine, and a pained gasp tumbles through his lips, scorning the very notion of the thought.

He needs an occupation to distract, needs a purpose to feel as though there is progress being made, and so he turns on his heel and grabs his coat, supposing that when you do wake, he should at least be ready.

The walk to his sister’s cottage is not long, one that he usually relishes in the spring when the path is lined with blossom trees and the foxes play around their dens, their ruddy tails bouncing amongst the high grasses. Today, his strides are long but the journey feels endless, the path reaching well beyond the limits of the land, his mind thinking only of arrival rather than enjoying the view.

Another group of missionaries passes him along the dirt road, and he crosses to the other side to give himself space, freedom, liberation from their watchful eyes. Offering them sidelong glances, he studies the way they regard him conspicuously, whispering to one another as though he cannot hear the faint sounds of their voices, the conviction of their stares a judgement he feels with all of his body. Do they somehow know that he has found and kept a woman? Have they heard the voices too, the echoes he is resurrecting just by being near you?

He finds he cares little for the answers to these questions, deeming their existence as something infinitely less important or significant in the light of resolute purpose.

Byeol answers the door after three hard knocks, her face a picture of confusion that still does nothing to mar her beauty. She stands just shy of his height, one hand on the door and the other on her hip, the laugh lines along her cheeks carrying a secret smile within them.

‘Jaebie,’ she announces, more a question than a statement. Arching a single brow, her brown eyes bore into his with the chastising admonishment only an older sibling could manage. ‘Shouldn’t you be fishing?’

Jaebeom nods, a noncommittal gesture of affirmation, and presses his way through the doorway, past her slight frame. He wastes no time slipping off his boots as he fumbles for an explanation.

‘Sorry for the unexpected arrival,’ he mumbles, only partially apologetic. ‘Something’s…’ his voice drifts away, eyes looking everywhere but her face as he searches for the right words. To tell the truth means he must tell the whole truth, unable to hide anything from her, and so he settles for one single, vague word. ‘Happened,’ he says, finally.

Immediately, he regrets it.

Byeol’s eyes widen, hands raising to gently cup his face in her palms. Satisfied he is whole, they run down his shoulders to his arms, searching. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No, no.’ He pulls himself from her grasp, hands raised in surrender, offering her a sheepish smile of amiable regret. ‘Nothing like that. I, uh, need to borrow some of your clothes.’

She takes a single step back, brow knit together in bewilderment. A myriad of emotions pass over her face, and Jaebeom does his best to count them all, the youth of her features rising and falling between her fear, her amusement, her apprehension. Eventually, she settles on curiosity as her eyes rake him up and down, one hand resting on her chest, perplexed yet surprised.

Rolling his eyes, he turns away from her and moves through her home, heading towards the wooden staircase. ‘They’re not for me.’

Byeol follows close behind, hot on his heels. ‘You’re telling me you…’

There’s too much excitement in her voice, the sound and volume of it making him close his eyes as if bracing for a storm. In one fluid motion, she rounds in front of him to block his path, eyes wide in delight as she makes an inappropriate gesture with her hands.

‘No!’ he scolds, though he finds he must swallow the early threads of a laugh. ‘Not that either.’

Resting his hands on her shoulders, he feels a slight flush creep into his cheeks as she giggles in childish glee. Gently easing her to the side, he continues up the stairs with heavy thuds of his feet. It always amazes him how easily, and how quickly, Byeol can manipulate the atmosphere in the room, her energy always barely contained and always terribly infectious. Questions are burning at the back of her throat, and she follows closely behind, the bounce in her step echoing around the house behind him.

Just like their mother, she will not let this go until she is satisfied, will not let him leave until she has received at least one answer, and so he releases a silent sigh as he reaches the landing, turning down the hall towards her room. He should be commended, he thinks, for the bravery he must assume to endure her interrogation.

‘There’s a woman -’ he begins slowly, only to be cut off.

‘You bastard!’ she exclaims delightedly, slapping his shoulder blade with enough force to make him stumble.

She takes his slight hesitation as an opportunity to run ahead of his once more, the glee in her eyes wild and bright, a look he once found vindictive in their youth. Spreading her arms wide, she presses her hands into the frames of her bedroom doorway, full of impish joy as she stares him down. The love he feels for her blurs together with his frustration, the affection in him rising like a tide.

‘Would you stop?’ he pleads, though now he does not bother to stop his laugh. ‘I just need some stays. A chemise and some trousers, too, if you have them.’

Standing to her full height, she raises her head elegantly, full of self-importance and authority, swallowing her smile for a serious expression of warning. ‘You can borrow them on the grounds that you give me her name.’

Exasperated, he looks away, letting his gaze move to the side and into the small rectangle that is Sun Hee’s room. It’s messy, the bed unmade and several books piled onto their mother’s antique rocking chair. Atop the books, her stuffed crochet kitten rests, presiding over the chaos like a queen. Along the walls, sepia portraits of his mother and father hang beside cross-stitch pieces his sister did while pregnant: one a rabbit, another a bundle of wild flowers, one a vestige of the sea. In the center of the wall, above her small wrought iron bed, a portrait of her father is framed and hung, the frame a silver gilded edge that catches all the light, even when the clouds threaten to block the sun.

When he looks once more at his sister, he sees how his silence and avoidance has riled her further, her wry grin returned once more with all its damning inquisitiveness.

‘Do I know her?’ she presses, narrowing her eyes.

He shakes his head, and offers a small shrug of his shoulders. ‘No,’ he explains, ‘I actually don’t know it.’

Jaw dropping, she reaches forward once more and slaps his arm. ‘Jaebie!’

Dropping his head, he presses his fingers into his eyes and wishes, with all of him, that her assumptions of his perpetual loneliness and solitude were not such a concern. Wishes, more than anything in this moment, that Sun Hee did not frequently ask for an auntie to play with, her lack of a father rendering her wishes for a sibling obsolete. For any other man on Indolon, a woman in his home, let alone his bed, would hardly be news, would hardly warrant any discussion at all, but Byeol has watched him try, and fail, over the years to find a woman who loves as ardently, as openly, as intensely as he does.

She has watched him resort to his life by the sea, watched him spend days alone on his boat, returning at sunset and smelling of brine and salt. All her life she has watched and she has worried, alluding to the full weight of her concern only in jest.

‘Can I please just have them?’ he groans weakly.

Lowering her arms from the doorway, she steps to the side and welcomes him through. ‘Yes,’ she acquiesces. ‘Take what you need from the closet, but this isn’t over. And be quick, I’m on my way out.’

Jaebeom tosses her a silent expression of gratitude over his shoulder, moving through her room with quick steps. ‘Where are you going?’ he asks, sliding open her wardrobe and taking things he knows she keeps but does not often wear, certain she will not miss them. ‘Isn’t Sun-hee already at school.’

Byeol moves behind him, gathering her headscarf from atop her bed and tying it with a hum of confirmation. ‘I’m going to Mala Green’s. Her husband’s ship was meant to port two days ago. It never made it.’

Jaebeom stills, clothes draped haphazardly over his arm as he turns to greet her eyes. Together, they regard one another in silence, a cold chill seeming to overtake the room. He remembers the look he sees in her eyes now, remembers the bone deep anxiety and the way she did not sleep for weeks, not even months. In a single moment, it is four years ago and they are both bereft.

‘The Pyxis?’ he murmurs, remembering how he and his sister and his niece, and all the town had watched it sail away from port eight months ago, waving until it disappeared from the horizon.

She nods minutely, a small motion almost imperceptible had he not been watching her intently, looking down at her hands where she nervously picks at her fingernails. ‘She is thinking the worst.’

Dropping the clothes to the bed, Jaebeom takes a few strides and comes to stand before his sister. Letting his hands rest on her shoulders, his thumbs press idle, reassuring circles into her muscles, hoping his expression looks hopeful, at least. ‘It could just be delayed.’

Taking in a shaking breath, Byeol nods but does not lift her eyes to his, gaze trained instead on the unsteady motions of her hands.‘We always like to think that, but…’ Falling quiet, she glances towards her vanity, a distant expression of longing painting her features. He knows she is looking at her wedding photo, but he does not mention it. ‘A woman always knows, doesn’t she?’ she finishes, finally looking at him with an empty smile.

And just like that, in the length of the shallow stretch of her lips, they fall back in time to Port Vela. She clutched his hand as the Aquila departed, the strength in her grip enough to turn both their knuckles white. The intensity of this touching reminded him that to love is to open the heart to grieving, that to love means to welcome the notion of losing, and so he pressed his fingers against hers with the same force, joining her in solidarity.

Even before the missionaries declared him dead, she knew he was lost. The tears she shed in childbirth were not those of bodily trauma but those of heartbreak, once more holding his hand and begging for him to tell her why Dong Hyun wasn’t there with her, why the missionaries were forcing her to believe he was still alive. She said it hurt to know they were teasing with the heart of a widow, that moment perhaps the last time he ever feigned trust in the gods and their mortal vessels.

Dong Hyun had left to deliver a group of missionaries from a nearby port, and they were angry for weeks at their failed return, citing a growing population that needed more help. Jaebeom never knew why they didn’t come to the funeral, his sister and his newborn niece crying in unison against an empty coffin while he pressed his feet into the wet grass. He wanted them to see what their selfishness had done, the rage in him putting a sheen of sweat on his neck, the most angry he had ever been.

‘He’ll be okay,’ he states, pulling them both out of the darkness of their thoughts. ‘They will all be okay.’

It’s a nice thing to say, he thinks, something that sounds reassuring and optimistic, but he wonders, quietly in the back of his mind, to whom he is offering this confidence.

Byeol startles slightly, eyes glassy and slightly glazed over with memory as she takes him in. ‘Yes, well,’ she begins, stepping out his hold to gather her things. ‘It will be good to be there for her.’

Jaebeom watches her move towards the door, hands balled into fists and pressing his nails into his palms. It’s more visceral now, somehow more tangible than ever, the unease he feels when he thinks about their blue cloaks - their endless, royal blue.

‘Launder those when you’re done please,’ she says, coming to a halt and pointing her long index finger at the clothes piled on the bed. ‘I don’t want to be wearing any of your remains -’

Jaebeom’s eyes widen, the spell of his thoughts broken by Byeol’s teasing giggle. ‘Byeol!’

She simply steps into the hallway and moves down the stairs, her laughter carrying through the house as though the sadness had never been let in.

It was only when you said you were leaving, announcing the date of your expected departure with wild eyes and ink stained hands, that he thought maybe, horribly, he had not told you he loved you enough.

You showed him the boarding papers, the crew notes, the bonds list and you were laughing, disbelieving that good fortune could shine on the persistent. Years of work had culminated in this opportunity, and you could not tear your eyes away from the King’s signature, it’s black script so formal you pressed your fingers to your lips to hide the ferocity of your smile. He loved you most then, burning in silence and struggling to find the right way, the best way, to tell you that his love for you demanded he become monstrous, too many hearts in his chest to contain the totality of this wanting.

‘It will be the longest we’ve ever been apart,’ you said, chancing a look at him, and the briefest flickers of grief walked across your face. In an instant, you tucked them away, smoothed your smile over and put the light back in your eyes, hiding from him the very thing that could bring him to his knees.

‘I’ll send a hawk to woo you,’ he offered, the smile tugging at his lips only half genuine, only half true.

He was certain you knew it, too, but you simply chuckled, arched one perfect brow and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

‘You’ve already done that.’

He only had a week to show you that he loved you beyond reason, beyond the human capacity for emotion. One week, and you would be gone, drifting away from him at sea, and he would be waiting, always waiting.

‘Then I’ll do it again.’

Again and again he would do his best to win you over, holding you tightly against his chest and reminding you there was nowhere as safe, nowhere as sacred as against his skin, against his heart. You leaned up to kiss him, always eager and impatient for the things you wanted most, but he breathed against your lips, let your twin exhales unify your heartbeats and reminded himself that you were still here.

He could feel you. You were still there.

Jaebeom wakes with a start, hairline dampened with warmth, stress, and confusion.

The dawn breaks through the sheer curtains of his bedroom window, the heat in the room oppressive and stifling as the embers within the furnace strain to match the gleam of the sun. Curled in a ball atop the lambskin carpet at the foot of his bed, the joints of his knees and elbows are aching, having been forced into one position too long. Tentatively, he stretches his limbs with a low groan, elongating his back against the floor and does his best to remain quiet in his relief.

When he’d returned home, you were still sleeping. Unchanged and in the exact position he had left you, a brief anxiety overtook him at the sight of your too relaxed face and the weakness in your limbs. There was a fragility in you that frightened him, a treacherous sort of quiet that promised great annihilation consuming the room and reaching down, deep within his ribs, compressing his lungs. He would have shed tears for you, would have unleashed an expression of grief so holy and so silent it would have broken worlds - but you moaned, almost regal in your suffering, and, for a moment, he was weightless.

In the tense tranquility that followed he slumped into the reading chair beside his bookcase, head buried in his hands, and sighed. With his eyes closed, he could pretend things had not changed, that he was still himself, that he still belonged to himself. It was as though there were two of him, battling within his blood - the one that knew nothing, that craved the assurance and predictable simplicity inherent in the life he had built for himself.

But the other is violent, a torrent against his bones reminding him this life is not his, that you are his life, and the passion in him is pushed into madness at the notion of not being able to follow where you have gone.

‘All this?’ he lamented into the rough skin of his palm. ‘All this over the desire to be loved?’

The moon was midway through its journey across the sky when he fell asleep, nestling into the rug at the foot of your bed - at your feet, though still giving you the distance, giving himself the distance. And all night he had seen you, felt you, let his whole world become enamored with you.

Pressing the base of his palms into his eyes, he groans, letting the dark become coloured with reds, whites, and purples under the pressure. Rustling from somewhere in the room makes his heart stutter in its rhythm, motions still and muscles tense with the effort of not moving, simply listening. His is not the only breath in the room, and when he takes his hands away from his eyes, his vision adjusts to see you - your face framed by your hair as you lean over the bed, regarding him curiously.

Startled, Jaebeom sits up, head dizzy with the sudden movement, and he presses a hand to his temple though he does not close his eyes, fearing he might still be dreaming. A dark night lives in your irises, hungry for everything that comprises his very being, and even as he lets his vision focus, lets himself recline into the intensity of your stare, he feels as though you are burning inside him, tearing your way through his sinew, the most voracious thing he’s ever seen. You regard him, unblinking, studying every detail and nuance of his features with tension in your brow and parted lips.

Briefly, he wonders how long it has been since someone looked at him like this, looked at him as though he is both the universe’s greatest secret and its most coveted answer.

‘You’re awake,’ he manages, throat dry and voice constricting beneath such coveted attention.

Instantly, he curses himself for such a simple and obvious statement. All night he had imagined hundreds of first conversations with you, knowing his first words with you would ultimately be the most important, and already he has betrayed himself. You’ve taken all the power from him, left him in such a state of shock, he supposes his words have withered, nothing in the world as sacred as your eyes on him.

But the smile you offer him at the sound of his voice could combat the sun, the world brightening around the fullness of your cheeks and the pleasure you keep at the corner of your lips, like a secret. A blush burns at the tips of his ears, and he is glad it does not immediately live in his cheeks, pleased he has learned, somehow, to not give himself away all at once.

‘I am,’ you nod in affirmation. A chill walks down Jaebeom’s spine, the sound of your voice an echo of his dreams, exactly as he heard it all night long. ‘You found me.’

Seconds stretch between your bodies, an infinite eternity between your last syllable and his first breath, his eyes on yours like a pledge of loyalty.

‘Were you looking for me?’

Hope invades his words without his permission, helpless against their desire to be the thing you sought most, to be lucky enough to be your prize. His fingers press into the soft strands of the carpet beneath him, and he watches as you fall back against your legs, shoulders slumped as you look around the room. All at once, emptiness overtakes you, the light in your eyes dimming as you search within yourself for an answer.

‘I don’t know,’ is your whispered reply. Looking at him once more, he feels as though you are rooting within his soul, continuing the expedition within him. But still, you are lost, voice adrift and lost at sea. ‘I can’t remember.’

He smiles encouragingly, wanting you to know, more than anything, that it is okay. For himself, he reminds you both that everything is okay.

Inching along the carpet, he clears his throat as he rests his arms on the bed, gazing up at you as though he is making wishes on the moon. He wants to be close to you - more than he’s ever wanted anything, Jaebeom wants to be in your orbit, close enough he could taste the salt that still lingers on your skin. Biting his tongue, he swallows all his rushed, messy emotions and clears his throat, choosing instead the words of logic, the words of practicality.

‘What is your name?’

Little by little, your smile slowly fades, burned by this simple question. Still, you remain calm, perplexed and unsure of how much of you has truly been misplaced. ‘I don’t know.’

‘That’s okay,’ he reassures you gently. ‘My name is Jaebeom.’ In saying his name, he waits for a flicker of recognition, a response that would confirm all he has spent the night feeling, but you simply regard him blankly, glad for the conversation. Shaking his head, he sighs. ‘How did you get here?’ he tries, keeping his voice calm so you find no reason to panic or run.

Now, your smile disappears completely and all that is left behind is you, your sadness, and the way it clings to your body like a shadow. The smallness of you in this moment puts an ache in his chest that feels like an inheritance - something he has been owed, that you owed one another having vanished in the completeness of your unknowing, and, together, you grieve. With a slow shake of your head, you confirm there is a void surrounding the nature of your being and the reason for your arrival, and the longer he looks the more he sees how this torments the deep desire that quakes inside you.

He knows nothing of you, knows only that you are here and you are tangible and you are emptied, but still he can sense you are a wild, impossible beast of a woman. The storm in you could tear the world asunder, and so he tries a different tactic, choosing to ask what is felt rather than what can be recalled, wanting to hold onto as much of you as he possibly can.

‘Are you hurt?’

For a long moment, you consider his question, as if thinking through the concept of hurt, the very notion of it, rather than the truth of it. Running his eyes over your frame, he notices that some bruises on your arms have already faded, as if the midnight sky was your healer. You are far healthier and far more whole than the person he found yesterday, but there is a strangeness to the way you look at him, to the way you think through his questions that gives him the passing sensation that you are not there at all.

He fears, all the way down to his marrow, that if he were to look away, you would disappear completely.

‘It does hurt, yes,’ you admit finally. Offering him a small nod of confirmation, your eyes grow wide as though you yourself are surprised by the experience, the ability to truly hurt a clandestine experience.

Jaebeom had feared this. Always, the most lethal of wounds are the ones not worn on the skin. ‘Where?’

Slowly, you lift a hand to your chest, right above your heart. Pain etches itself on your face, the turmoil of bewilderment and confusion, the misery of things long lost, making a home of your soft features. He watches your brow knit together as you regard him, a slight downturned frown tugging at your lips as you silently beg him for answers.

Reaching a hand forward, his fingertips nearly graze the smooth skin of your knee, exposed between the ripped threads of your silk dress. When he’s close enough he can feel the warmth from your skin, he remembers himself, retreating back to curl his hand into a fist.

‘Did a man hurt you?’

He hates the way the words taste, sour and acrid on his tongue, but he supposes this dress is your wedding gown and he’s seen more than his fair share of broken hearts around town. This, of course, would be the worst he has ever seen, but he chooses not to worry you further, keeping his voice soothing and calm.

‘No,’ you shake your head, looking beyond him into a distance that is both contained within and expanding outward. ‘Not one,’ you continue with a dark whisper. ‘Many.’

Jaebeom does not think himself a man prone to violence or aggression but, in a single moment, he feels his heart is a weapon. His spine straightens as he rears back slowly, relying entirely on the support of the floor beneath him. His hands are no longer his own, knuckles taught with the desire to tear his way through flesh and sinew. There is no limit to the monstrous creatures he would face standing up for you; he’s burning, fully ablaze alongside you, and it surprises him how quickly kindness can burn away.

‘We can report it when you are well enough,’ he announces, clearing his throat in the effort of remembering himself. As much as he would go to battle for you, he similarly does not want to frighten you. ‘When you remember the details we can report it. They won’t get away with it.’

Shoulders relaxing, your hand falls away from your chest as you find comfort in his words, and a small sense of pride prickles at his ears and neck. With anyone else, he’d be sheepish that he is giving himself and his emotions away so quickly with you, but he can’t help it, he thinks. Not when you look at him like this, like he’s the part of summer you’ve been anticipating most and are pleased by the mere sight of him. People don’t look at him like this, especially the people he wishes would look at him and want to continue the mere act of seeing him. You make him feel like someone, and he is more with you than he ever has been on his own.

Keeping your eyes on his, you shift so you rest on your hands and knees, crawling across the bed towards him. Jaebeom leans back, pushes himself away from the bed and it is only when the heat from the still burning furnace threatens to sear his chemise that he pauses, looking over his shoulder to pout at the proximity. Your hand presses against his foot, stopping his movements and he returns his focus to you once more, all breath and blood flow halted in his veins.

You’ve climbed off the bed, settled on the floor with your hand on him and a glimmer behind your eyes that says you know he has longed to be touched. Has he been real before this moment? Has he truly existed until the moment you placed your hand on his skin, a paradoxically cold warmth that sends a chill up his legs and into his groin. Until this moment, he has been afflicted with the strangest sense of object permanence, but only of himself - himself and his relation to you, the only thing that has ever truly mattered.

‘You won’t come close to me,’ you explain, sounding terribly sad.

Deflating, he leans forward and places his hand on yours, finally, running his thumb along your knuckles. The salt from the sea has turned your skin into the softest thing he’s ever touched, and he applies just enough pressure to remind himself you are tangible, real, present.

There’s something familiar and, simultaneously, ephemeral about the way his hand moves over yours. He finds it impossible to look away as he explains, ‘I wanted to give you space.’

‘I’ve had enough,’ you counter, and the sharpness in your words has him taking in your lips, your cheeks, your face in wonder. You are every bit the tempest he knew you would be, and he smiles, amused and gladdened by your confident vehemence.

Pulling your hand out from under his, you raise it to the side of his face, tucking strands of hair behind his ear and letting your fingers glide along his cheekbone. The intimacy leads him, momentarily, to believe that he is completely naked, exposed to you in all the ways that could truly break him. Once more, he feels you searching within him for something you can almost grasp. Words live and die on his tongue, answers he too craves fading before he has the chance to truly process them.

You are unified in this complex looking, the act of remembering both a mysterious and a fact.

‘You’re familiar to me.’ Cocking your head to the side as you speak, the childlike curiosity you exude has him pressing his hands into the carpet, reminding himself it is still too early to take hold of you, too early to hold you against his heart as he had done in his dream.

‘Have we met before?’ he offers gently.

Excitement colours you, has you straightening as you pull your hand from his skin. ‘Do you know me?’

It’s his turn to shake his head, his turn to smother hope with little disappointments. ‘No.’

‘Then I suppose not.’

With a slight shrug, you return your hand once more to the side of his face, palm cupping his cheek to trace the contour of the bone. Little by little, your eyes soften and a silent yearning overtakes your features. Jaebeom wants to tell you everything when you look at him like that. Things he’d never breathe to another person, things he had long since forgotten rise up in his throat and he nearly chokes on them, wanting you to have absolutely everything.

Running your thumb over his bottom lip, a blissful sigh escapes from the center of your chest, eyes slightly glazed as you luxuriate in the texture of his skin beneath your finger. ‘I don’t mind, though. I like looking at you.’

How like a child he feels when he is with you - suddenly restless and impatient and young, the boundaries and the calculated logic he has spent years cultivating in his adulthood dissolving the moment he learns you are pleased with him. In his dream, he somehow knew your kisses were a hurricane, all raindrops and wild winds that made his skin feel electric. The way you seem to tear through him now is a confirmation he was correct, the summer in you so immaculate he thinks it is always the bloom of July in your soul.

Were he to look elsewhere in the room, he is certain it would be a betrayal - the treachery of looking away from the gods’ sky. Jaebeom is calmed by the sight of you, the anxious itch in the back of his mind dormant simply because you have decided he is worthy of being adored. He wonders where he has been looking all this time, if he has truly seen anything at all until this moment, the colours of the world infinitely more rich because of how you choose to wear them.

Clearing his throat, he looks briefly at your hand where it holds his foot like a cross and trembles. ‘I like looking at you, too.’ It feels so silly and unimpressive, repeating your words back like a parrot, but he means it - there is more conviction in those small words than any other promise he has ever made and, when he looks at you again, he hopes you can feel it.

Your answering smile is so rich and full, he finds his thoughts are rendered unintelligible, and so he lowers his gaze to the ripped dress that does its best to maintain the echo of its former shape.

Clearing his throat, he slowly pulls his foot out from your grip, skin tingling from the loss of contact. The warmth from your hand still lingers, and he frowns, regretting his decision even through his commitment to the choice. Pressing his hands to the floor, he rises to stand and brushes off his trousers, looking for ways to keep his hands busy.

‘Can you stand?’ You look up at him, expectant and congenial. ‘Are your legs strong enough?’

Copying his earlier movements, you press your hands into the floor and, unsteadily, lift yourself to a stand. For a moment your knees wobble, but you keep your eyes on his, shoulders rolling back as you take in a slow inhale. Finding your balance takes focus, brow knotted together with the effort of standing on weakened muscles, but you keep your feet planted, hands spread at your sides to aid in maintaining your center of gravity. And when you stand, stable and sure, at your full height, you nod proudly, delighted you have surprised yourself.

‘Good.’ The most natural thing in the world, he finds, is praising you; a long dormant habit awakening once more ‘I’m actually not sure what I’d done if you couldn’t,’ he admits sheepishly.

Amidst your infectious giggle, Jaebeom finally has an opportunity to truly take in the state of your clothes. He wonders what torment you have seen, what hell you’ve walked through that has torn the silk and chiffon down to the essence of their threads. The bodice hugs your waist, but the whalebone corset is torn at the ribs, threatening to expose your skin. There will be no saving the sleeves that hang limply off your shoulders, falling behind your back like a ragged cape. Sea water has stained the silk to a tarnished, bleak yellow, the sand of the seabed nestled deep within the folds of your skirts.

Still, too much of your skin is visible to him. The skirts have pulled away from the bodice and a large portion of your thigh remains bare, the other leg free of clothing from the ankle to just above your knee. Standing before him, he sees you as a survivor of a slaughter that bore no claws, and he aches to pull you close, to keep you safe, to remind you that you are whole.

Perhaps, he thinks, the reminder is mostly for himself.

‘I brought you some clothes,’ he announces gently. Gesturing vaguely to the wardrobe in the opposite corner, his nerves get the better of him, words becoming bashful. ‘You look like the size of my sister, so they should fit.’ Running a hand through his hair and gripping the strands to alleviate the tension in his wrists, he pulls himself out of your orbit and heads toward the wardrobe. ‘We need to go into town anyway to see the medic, so I can get you some if these don’t fit properly. I just…’

Opening the doors, he pulls out the clothes he borrowed from his sister- stays for night time, two pairs of trousers, a woolen skirt he remembers buying for his sister one solstice that she has never worn, and three chemises he hopes will fit you. He lays them out delicately on the bed, arranging them into outfits he hopes you find comfortable. Fixating on the trousers, he looks at them too long as his stomach drops. Indolon is one of the few islands where women wear trousers, their propensity for skirts just as enthusiastic and common. He hops the sight of them will not offend you.

‘Thank you.’ Approaching the bed with light, careful steps, the smallness of your voice does little to mask your immense gratitude, hands coming to graze the myriad of fabrics he has selected.

Something about the feel of them between your fingers astounds you, a stunned silence turning adding a weight to the room that did not previously exist.

‘These are beautiful.’ Your hand moves to the skirt, the difference in its texture putting a glee in your eyes that makes his heart swell. ‘Thank you for caring for me,’ you finish, finally looking up at him once more.

Time bleeds past him as he falls into you, falls beyond himself and into a love that consumes him. Around your body, light seems to vibrate, uncertain how to hold you and so it holds all of you, and none of you, at once, bending around your back until he wonders if the very nature of this conversation is merely an illusion. Should he look away, he worries you would vanish, that he might forget, and so he steps near enough that he might touch you.

Keeping his hands forced at his sides, he drowns momentarily in his wanting before he speaks. ‘Anyone would do it.’

Lowering the skirt, you reach up to cup his face, forcing him to look at you. A shiver walks down his spine, followed swiftly by an unfamiliar heat in his blood as you speak. ‘I don’t remember much of the world, but I do remember that is not true. Not everyone would do as you have done.’ You lean into him, close enough your breaths touch between your bodies, his entire existence narrowing to this single moment. ‘I’m grateful for you.’

All of him craves giving in to the boundless lust that rages within his chest, memories of his dream resurfacing to haunt his bones. There were other memories within that dream, memories of your body wrapped beneath his, memories of your lips and the way you always pressed hard against his mouth, ensuring he would feel you long after you had departed. Jaebeom wants to live in those memories now, wants to force them into his reality so badly his hands and his sides start to shake.

But in those memories, lives the texture of your skin and the way his fingers have mapped every node of your spine. And it is only when he recalls the distant blur of this experience, so foreign to him it is as though it belongs to someone else, that he remembers there is nowhere in his home for you to undress.

When he had selected this house by the sea, he had assumed his life would contain the dawn, the dusk, the ocean, and little else in between. His home is merely one large square, the kitchen bleeding into his open bedroom and the sitting area tucked into corners he felt would be comfortable. There is, fundamentally, no element of privacy, and this is the only thing, he thinks, that gives him the strength to pull away - the desire to keep you comfortable and to be polite his only saving grace.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, taking one small step back. It is enough for his head to become clear, enough for the sadness in your eyes at the separation to not sting like a bullet. ‘I can leave you to change.’

He moves around you, not really certain what he would say should you inform him you will need assistance with your bodice and corset. They are torn enough and ruined enough he imagines they will not be a problem, but the mere idea of his fingers accidentally caressing the smooth expanse of your back puts a tightness in his chest the magnitude of which has him both frightened and bewildered.

Jaebeom does not want people like this, certainly does not want them this badly and with this much conviction, and so he walks through the bedroom and into the kitchen, the cool metal of the doorknob a balm against his skin. And it is only when he is outside, eyes closed as he lets the breeze overtake his heart, his spirit, his soul, does he feel like himself once more.

It is only when he is in an entirely different location, far enough away from you he cannot feel you, that he remembers to breathe.

The walk to town, by your side, is among the most eventful experiences of his life.

Having roamed the island roads all his life, he has grown used to the view, the unchanging scenery resulting in him finding it to be rather dull and grey. He cannot remember the last time he saw this world with fresh eyes, the last time he took in the trees, the slope of the land and felt joy - the last time this world brought him pleasure. You however, combat the very essence of his ennui with your inherent enthusiasm, taking in every sight and every sound as if it is, not the first time you have witnessed them but, the first time you have reunited with them after many years away.

In you, a language of reconciliation is being cultivated - one that only you will be able to understand, and one that makes Jaebeom cast you curious side long glances as you press your hands together in consternation. Your scrutiny of each detail slows the walk considerably, your presence somewhat distant and hollow as you struggle to define the essence of familiarity within you. Each time, it fades miserably and quickly, leaving you momentarily disheartened only for new wonder to replace the frustration once more.

Through you, he begins to see the town as something eternal, something so long lasting and sacred that, even if it is forgotten, it is still unchanged and important enough to be missed. Selfishly, he ponders what place he held in your old life, if he held any place at all, aware that, sometimes, you look at him with this same questioning fixation. In his own life experiences, you appear missing, but the way you look at him and touch him assures a small, needy piece of his heart that he is remembered, and therefore not ephemeral.

Still, he is certain you have been here, on Indolon, that this is your home and nowhere else. Having decided to forgo the shoes he had taken from his sister in favor of your bare feet, claiming it felt more natural to feel the earth beneath your toes, your steps are confident as you walk. Your eyes take everything in with too much intensity, but your steps are sure, certain of the placement and used to the cracks and the gravel that line the journey. When you are not focused on a building, a face, a view, you do not follow behind him. Instead, you are perhaps just a hair’s breadth ahead of him, relaxed in your inherent certainty.

‘Is any of this triggering your memory?’ he quietly tries, hoping he does not completely disrupt your train of thought.

‘Yes, but at the same time no.’ Your lips continue moving even as your voice dies, murmuring mysteriously to yourself as you look around. ‘It’s like I’ve seen this before in a dream, but then anything can look like anything if you want it to badly enough.’ Offering him a sly smirk, you peer up at him through your eyelashes. ‘I still like looking at you the most, though.'

Heat paints pink smears along his cheeks, and he glances down to his feet momentarily to smile at himself, flattered and, helplessly, twitter-patted. With you beside him, so close, his fingers dig into the pockets of his coat, gripping the cloth in the effort of stifling the desire to reach for your hand.

'Thank you,' he begins, his smile unwilling to fade. Still, he does his best to warp his features into a serious expression. 'I'm glad I'm more interesting than trees and brick.'

The music of your laugh is an eruption, the juicy fullness of it breaking over his tongue and filling his mouth with unprecedented gladness. You are unshy with your laughter, endearingly liberal and letting it echo through the air, demanding everyone hear your pleasure. Jaebeom swallows thickly, feeling almost as though he can taste you on the wind, in his mouth, and he holds his breath wanting to keep you inside him just a moment longer.

'I'm serious,' you tease, nudging into his side

Passing the field of pink and blue wildflowers, you become transfixed by a group of small children playing amongst the grass. Holding hands, they jump and dance in a circle, their laughter interrupting the song they are singing in broken unison. He recognizes the nursery rhyme of Ciperion immediately, remembering how his sister and some of the older children would make him play this game with them, dancing in a circle until the song ended and they had to remain completely still. Always, one of his sister's older friends, usually the boy she had a crush on, would play Ciperion, choosing a victim to steal away from the group. Only then would the circle continue dancing over and over until only one player remained and they had to outrun Ciperion to win.

He chuckles at the memory, how petulant he always felt at being the first one out - always, and without fail. Now, he realizes it was merely because of his strong reaction to being taken that made it more entertaining for his sister's friends, his cries and yells something they would tease him about for days.

‘What are they singing?’ you ask softly, interrupting his thoughts.

Jaebeom hears your voice and looks to his side, finding you are no longer with him. Turning, he finds you have come to a halt alongside the edge of the field, watching the children with a dark fascination that runs a chill down his spine.

He approaches you slowly, looking between the children and you, finding the tether of your fixation to be unbreakable. ‘The song of Ciperion,' he explains gently.

When you look at him again, your inquisitive expression is marred by such a sincere sense of aloneness his throat runs dry. Your prying eyes demand more from him, demand explanations and answers, so greedy and so painfully hopeful he wonders what the word wounded in you.

‘It’s an old urban legend on the island,’ he begins, looking back at the children who have now stilled, a little girl roaming behind the group with her hands raised like claws. ‘Everyone knows it, primarily because we grow up hearing it from friends or parents. It’s really just a ghost story. Parents tell it to make sure their children don’t go too far near the shore if they can’t see them, and kids tell it amongst friends just to see who is the most brave.’

Mystified, you keep your eyes on the group of children. ‘And it’s a song?’

He shakes his head, meeting your eyes on the raised arms and laughing faces of the children, hoping this contact of just your twin gazes is a comfort. ‘Not really, no. It’s a story, but it’s so old it’s become a nursery rhyme.’

‘Tell me.’

Jaebeom hums, trying to remember the way his mother told him this story when he was small. ‘Centuries ago, there was a ship called Ciperion that was meant to arrive at Port Vela.’

At the word Ciperion, you bristle, eyes widening slightly, though if in terror or recognition he cannot tell.

‘It was commissioned by the King, back when there were Kings,’ he continues, watching your reactions in the corner of his eye. ‘In those days, it was the fastest ship ever created, and had been assigned one of the largest crews - they called it the jewel of the sea. The crew was composed of experts in every field - cartography, cosmology, anthropology - and the ship’s sole mission was exploration.’

When you finally look at him, the heat from your gaze puts a fire in his veins, the sheer fervor and earnestness of your attention making him shudder. Swallowing thickly, he continues.

‘Legend says that they reached an island and saw how corrupt the Indolon King had been, how far reaching his power and torment really was.’ In the field, a little boy is taken by a young Ciperion, his scream of surprise mingling with the relieved laughter of the other children. ‘They rushed home to stop him from destroying their land, but the ship never made it. No one knew where the ship had gone, especially because the waters had been calm the night of their intended arrival.’

‘So they all perished?’ Even as the words leave your mouth, your focus turning back to the children, he knows this question is not meant to be answered, a small voice in the back of his mind advising him you already know this answer. Its rhetorical nature is anguished, lost, full of a yearning he presumes no language could ever express.

Coughing to clear his throat, Jaebeom nods knowing you cannot see him, and continues. ‘The lighthouse stayed on for weeks, even on clear nights. But still, Ciperion never came back.’

The silence in you is a sea, and once more he presses his fingers in the fabric of his jacket, warring within himself to keep his hand still. Your own hands look lonely, hanging limply at your sides as though you have been defeated by something much larger, and much more complex, than just your lack of memory. As he studies your changing expression, he counts the emotions that swim over your features - anger, fury, loss, grief, and, strangely, happiness - before you settle on none of these, choosing instead to remain empty.

But the magnitude of this choice renders you disheartened, tears pooling in your eyes, and he watches you swallow, fighting them back to the depths within your heart.

‘There’s never been any proof that Ciperion was real,’ he offers, hoping this will aid in bringing you comfort. It was never real, he supposes, and so there is no need to mourn the loss of made up things.

Yet, this consolation does not help, only serves to insight frustration, hands at your side curling into small fists as your eyes narrow.

Looking back at the children, Jaebeom combats the ever creeping flush at his neck and ears with the rest of the story. ‘Some say that every twenty years, on the anniversary of its port date, you can see the ghost ship Ciperion sailing along the horizon, looking for ways to dock. Only if the night is clear, that is.’

‘And if it isn’t?’ you question, a bitterness biting at your words that takes him aback.

‘If it’s cloudy,’ he offers delicately, ‘the fog along the water is so thick it blocks the lighthouse altogether. It moves up from the water onto the shore, looking for ways into houses or into town as if it has a mind of its own. And if it touches land, you can hear screams in the clouds themselves.’

As if they never happened at all, as if, all along, you nothing of this story had touched a bleeding wound within you, the tears in your eyes seem to dissolve. Your hands unfurl from their fists, and a touch of pink warms your cheeks. There is contentedness all over you, and you turn to face, a pleasant smile tugging at your lips.

‘That’s a nice story,’ you say, simply, blinking up at him in genuine interest.

A laugh bursts from his chest, one that comes from nowhere at all and instead is a bark of surprise rather than a logical expression of amusement. Furrowing his brow, he laughs to himself through the fear and the confusion, waiting for your earlier expression of grief to overtake you once more. But when it does not come, when you giggle along with him merely because it is something to share rather than an honest or sincere experience of humor, he silences himself with a low grumble and kicks the stones at his feet.

‘Yes,’ he agrees quietly. ‘It’s just something we grow up hearing, but nothing ever comes of it.’

‘Is it the anniversary, then?’ You smile up at him, seeming happy to be included in a story, happy, too, to be sharing his company, and you press your bare feet into the stones, making little shapes with your toes. ‘They’re singing with so much fervor.’

‘Yeah,’ he hums in confirmation, watching you draw circles into the earth. ‘Actually, I think it’s tomorrow.’

‘And will you look for the ship?’

Cocking his head to the side questioningly, he studies your face as he speaks. ‘Would you like to?’

‘Are you asking me?’ you press, tilting your head to the same angle as his. The sight of you makes his breath catch, your beauty always somehow the most arresting, the most bewitching, but watching you mirror his position creates an uncanny sense of unease in his belly. ‘I’m not sure what I would be looking for,’ you finish, uncertainty lacing your tone.

‘I’m not either,’ he laments, furrowing his brow as he takes you in. There are so many things he’d like to say to you, only to you, so many things he’d like to ask, but starting feels painful, complicated, as though he’s attempting to speak a language he does not yet understand, so he swallows, drawing the same circles as you with his shoe. ‘I haven’t gone looking for it since I was a kid.’ Your circles are so clean, while his are oblong, and he is unsure why this matters, but he is excited, fundamentally, that there is so much he can learn from you. ‘The last time it was here, I was eight, and even then we didn’t see anything.’

Nodding in understanding you hum, knitting your brow together in consideration of his words. ‘It would be...fun?’

‘If you want to, we can,’ he chuckles, peering at you through his lashes, still waiting for another response of sadness, of melancholic heartbreak to rise up in you again. The legend of Ciperion stirred something in you, touched pieces of your spirit denying access to all else, and he thinks, perhaps, it is the tragedy of lost life and torn wood that triggers memories of spilled blood. Anyone would weep at the horror of this, and so he clears his throat, remembering true horrors are the ones humanity can touch.

‘But,’ he begins, loud enough the children in the field turn to look at them, worrying their play will be halted before continuing to sing once more, ‘you washed up on the rocks.’ Looking at you fully, he feels his chest tighten, remembering the shredded silk and the way your hair wound over the rocks, latching into deep crevices just to keep you safe. ‘People don’t just come from the sea. If there’s a shipwreck somewhere, we’d have to tell the medic and the council. That’s a more pressing ship to be looking for.’

Biting your lip, your eyes grow distant and glassy as you retreat inward, mind racing towards shadowed images that render your voice small and soft. ‘I don’t remember where I was before this.’

‘Sometimes that can happen with trauma,’ Jaebeom advises, and it strikes him that your admission does not bring despair, only annoyance at your failing memory.

Through all of this, not once have you expressed fear at the notion of death, unafraid for your own mortality even after the very essence of it has been threatened and challenged. It hits him now that the only time you have ever been afraid is when confronted with the notion of others experiencing a fate meant for you. One tale of a shipwreck, and so soon were you unmade into a dark beast, woven together by sorrow.

Kicking the stones away from his feet, he tilts his head encouragingly, wordlessly advising that you continue alongside him. ‘The medic is one of my old school friends,’ he explains with a small grin, readying for Stefan’s loud laugh and teasing sarcasm. ‘He’ll be able to tell you more once he can run a few tests. You’ll like him. He’s quite funny.’

Walking beside him, there is a bounce to your step. ‘I remember that I like funny people,’ you announce, tossing him a playful smirk. ‘Maybe I will like looking at him as much as I like looking at you.’

Jealousy tightens itself around his ribs, the selfish desire for him to be the only thing that brings you pleasure rising in his throat like bile. It is an entirely new experience for him, the notion of love that one must remember its fragility, the sacredness of a lover's admiration more divine than the gods. Already, every breath he takes is heavy with you, body and soul hypnotized by your existence, and, in the effort of appearing aloof and affable, he grits his teeth through a humorless laugh.

‘Better not,’ he teases, though the jovial nature of it is almost nonexistent. As soon as he says it, he becomes upset with himself, the statement alone so preposterous and out of his character he shivers to shake the sound of it off his skin.

You, however, do not seem to notice, nudging into his shoulder once more as you continue on the journey.

Jaebeom has not seen the entirety of Isle Indolon, his ability to travel limited by his small income and the availability of everything he needs being centered to the town. However, he has never truly felt the need to explore, their small city of Sunridge Keep the capital of the island and therefore so full and bustling with activity he finds it impossible to muster the desire to leave. Orange red brick buildings decorated with limestone columns line the road, the gravel and dirt of the path turning into smooth cobblestone, warmed by the light of the blazing sun.

Hissing slightly as your toes touch the warm stones, you pull your foot back in surprise, only to place it back down with careful movements, mind racing once more as you take tentative steps forward. Immediately, your eyes are everywhere, touching everything all at once. You are hungry for absolutely everything, reading names of shops, studying faces of strangers as they pass, watching the florist hand out daffodils from her wicker basket as though nothing has ever been so marvelous. The bread maker offers you a warm sticky bun, and you look instead to the man’s face, not to the pastry held in his large palm, studying him as though his name might arrive on your tongue.

Jaebeom guides you away, offering the vendor a dismissive wave of his hand, only to find your eyes latched onto something else. He grows light headed watching the trajectory of your focus, your wild discontent and ravenous hunger gnawing you into a frenzied state of almost savage inquisitiveness. There is not a single thing your gaze does not touch, and occasionally you stop in front of shop windows to look in, eyes searching ever deeper for something familiar.

The center of town always smells the sweetest to Jaebeom, and so he leads you in this direction, hoping that the star shaped expanse and its wide angles will ease some of your tension. Childishly, he plans to acquire some roasted chestnuts, certain their candied deliciousness will provide you comfort even if it does not inspire remembrance. The throng of people eases as he approaches town center, the citadel bell chiming the late early hour, and you pause, looking up into the sky in awe. He’d always loved the bell tower - even if he did not trust the missionaries, even if he made himself believe it was deception that lurked behind their irises and not concern, he always appreciated their music.

Leading you to the large fountain directly in the center of the star, he settles on the warm marble and gestures for you to sit beside him. The rushing water calms his erratic heartbeat, and, yet again, with his eyes closed he can pretend he is small, little more than a boy who belongs completely to himself and to his mother, the whim of his will the only thing that stirs his reason.

‘We have a bit of time to rest here,’ he says, leaning back and closing his eyes as the sun cascades over his skin. It warms him from within, the magic of his childhood returning on the breadth of a sunbeam. ‘I always like to sit here a while before I run my errands. One can never deny music, can they?’

Jaebeom awaits your response, what feels like his very spirit existing in anticipation of you. But when it does not come, his skin begins to tighten amidst another wave of unease, and he opens his eyes to find you have retreated so far within yourself the shock of it lives on your features.

Hands in your lap, your back is rigid and straight, gaze flicking between the citadel tower and the people mingling at its base - up and down and back again, rushing between each as though you will never have your fill, teeth chewing at the inside of your cheek. Your fingernails pick at your skin before pressing crescent shapes into your palms, adrenaline putting you in a state of anxiety so severe he finds he, too, is sitting up straight and watching the crowd for familiar faces.

‘Do you recognize something?’ It takes work to keep his voice calm and soothing, doing his best not to startle you.

‘There’s something wrong with this,’ is all you whisper, and Jaebeom scours the crowd for a sign of injury, panic, even an out of place cart, but he comes up empty, finding nothing untoward in the surroundings.

Once more, he studies every face that passes, every horse drawn carriage that moves past, wondering which of these is the culprit for your turmoil. It is only when your hand moves to his thigh, gripping tightly enough he comes to see your grip as a vice, that he notices what it is that has you so undone.

At the base of the citadel, the crowd has started to dissipate, the smiling faces of mothers and their children departing after receiving their blessings. A group of four missionaries stands, handing out pamphlets and greeting passerby with neutral, unreadable expressions. Their royal blue cloaks catch the late morning sun, the velvet of the fabric gleaming in all their expensive glory, putting cerulean shadows on the limestone behind them. In this way, they are glowing, ephemeral visions that at once are otherworldly and oppressive, the sort of power in their light that would bring one to their knees.

As always, he shivers at the sight of them, but your grip on his leg tightens and when he looks at you again you are murmuring to yourself and he feels his jaw go slack.

‘Murderers,’ you hiss, softly enough that only he can hear but you say the word over and over, voice rising in pitch until your voice dies altogether.

You watch them, unblinking and repulsed, the fear and loathing in you so great he sees you now as a mere apparition of the woman you once were. A great tremor has started to creep through your limbs, body rocking back and forth as though you are at sea, your center of gravity warped as you continue to look and look.

Running his hand up and down your back in an effort to calm you, Jaebeom feels his own voice start to waver. ‘What is it?’

You say nothing, merely shake your head, unwilling to speak for fear that they may hear you. All his question manages to do is inspire another round of mumbling, calling them murderers only to yourself and only to Jaebeom, simply because he is close enough for your voice to reach. His eyes scour the crowd for a discreet way to remove you from the fountain, looking in the direction of Stefan’s practice only to drop to a disappointed frown. In front of the pathway, at his end of the star,a group of people have gathered to inspect a vendor of Veruvian silk.

‘Murderers,’ you say again, and this time it is loud enough that a young boy passing by hears your voice, his eyes widening in surprise.

Jaebeom grimaces apologetically, waving the boy along as he pulls you into his side, holding you close. Even in his state of panic, his heart breaks that this should be the first time he holds to him, the first time you would be able to remember, the comfort his arms reduced to merely a time and a place, and not a feeling. The trembling in your muscles is palpable, tangible enough his hands feel as though they are gripping something monstrous, something absolute in its knowledge and power. In a single moment, you have become something Other, shaking against his ribs with enough violence he fears you may tear the marble of the fountain asunder. Your hand leaves his thigh and comes to grip your seat, fingers pressing against the stone until your knuckles turn white.

He’s certain the missionaries must see you, certain this will turn into something holy and something wholly unwelcome, but they seem to pay you both no mind, their attention devoted instead to the good and to the whole.

And just when he thinks he may be able to ease words out of you, the noise of you reduced to slow, deep inhales between your parted lips and the shaking in your muscles coming abruptly to a halt, you bed over, eyes wide in shock, as you vomit sea water, seaweed, and, most horribly of all, blood at your feet.

Author’s Note: lord god, im telling you i thought this was going to be a very short story but here i am...all this with so much more to go. im just really in love with this world and actually really proud of it? ive never done anything like this and ive been in love with fisherman!jb ever since the dye preview pics came out. ive had this in my mind since i messaged @imdifferentshadesofpurple in may about it and im just so glad it lives. did i make an entire story out of that one promo pic and the oyster dress by alexander mcqueen? sure bet but you cannot blame me.

tag list: @red-exo @heatofmyexoheart @majci @yehet-me-up @lamichellee @ahgishaman @softly-savage-mint-yoongi

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softslashers · 3 years

Text

Wildflower.

Pairing: Flower Shop AU! Asagiri Gen x Reader

Word Count: 1,798

Summary: Gen runs a flower shop; Y/N comes in to buy some flowers and can’t help but be drawn in by his mischievous smile. They find themselves coming in more often than they truly need flowers.

Warnings: None that I can think of, its pretty wholesome.

A/N: Important to note that I already posted this on AO3 a little over a week ago, read it here! I plan on coming back to this blog and doing more, I think limiting myself to just slashers kind of set me up for failure tbh. I’m going to expand to a few animes/mangas I like, but there will be a lot of villain/slasher content on this blog still!! If you want to unfollow I totally get it!! I’ll post some updated rules later tonight!

Spring had finally arrived and brought with it all the best parts of the year. The weather was pleasant when you had left the house that morning, electing to spend your day off taking a walk around the town that you had moved to only weeks ago. There was so much you wanted to see, but the busyness that comes with moving and starting a new job had left you unable to experience the town you now called home. A cool breeze brushed past you as you stepped out, it was cool, and the sky was dotted with clouds. Taking a deep breath in, you watched as leaves and freshly bloomed flower petals floated in the air, stepping forward, you allowed the wind to carry you along with them down the street, towards your destination.

There were many small buildings that lined the streets of the town: boutiques, family run restaurants and cafes, even a little flower shop that seemed to catch your eye every time you passed on your way to and from work. You had wanted to visit all the shops in the area, help support the local businesses and grow acquainted with the flow of people in town. Unfortunately, over the weeks that had passed since your arrival, you had only managed to visit the nearest grocery store. You decided that you would make the most out of the day, visit as many places as you could, and treat yourself while you were at it.

The first store you had wandered into had not been too special, it was a small clothing boutique that had clearly recently stocked for the spring weather that was now upon you. Nothing in particular caught your eye. A bookstore was next, everything they sold was second hand, and you ended up making out like a bandit. This continued for a few hours, weaving in and out of stores, slowly accumulating more bags as things caught your interest. Eventually, you had worked up enough of an appetite to decide to stop in one of the cafes in town. Purchasing yourself a small meal and a beverage, you finally took notice of just how sore your feet had gotten from all the walking you had been doing. As you took a seat at one of the tables, you decided that you should be heading home soon, and after you finished your meal you would only allow yourself to visit one more shop.

It had not been a difficult choice in the slightest. You had been wanting to visit the cute little flower shop that you seemed to pass every day, and besides it was spring, what better time to get something floral to liven up your apartment! And like that, your excitement began to build again. You quickly finished your food, threw out your garbage, grabbed your bags and, once again, you were off down the street.

The flower shop was adorable, white walls were accented by the colorful bouquets sitting in the window display, vines climbed their ways up towards the roof, and what appeared to be a hand painted sign sat above the door. As you entered, a soft bell chimed from above you and you stepped into the warm light. You were the only person in the store it seemed, with not even an employee sat behind the counter to greet you. Yet the store was still inviting, warm light cast over the array of blooming flowers, quite a few of which you had never even seen before. It smelled heavenly as you approached the first display to the right of the door.

Lost in thought and unsure of what to purchase, minutes had passed and you hadn’t even noticed the man that had now come to stand behind you, a nearly mischievous grin on his face and his arms crossed in front of him.

“Hello,” the man’s voice startled you, causing you to jump and whip around to face him. A chuckle left his lips as his grin seemed to widen even further. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”.

“No,” you responded, “just something for my counter”.

The man nodded his head and appeared to get lost in thought for a moment. You were curious about him, he was not particularly tall, probably around 5’6 or 5’7, he was slim, and had dark lashes that brought out his gray eyes beautifully. What had really struck you about his appearance was his hair. You could only think of describing it as an asymmetrical bowl cut, with one side having a long piece that reached his chin. The cut wasn’t the only interesting thing about his hair, it was split down the middle, half black and half white, yet it didn’t seem like it had been dyed that way, the parting was too indistinct to seem purposeful.

“I haven’t seen you before,” he brought his eyes up to meet your gaze, “you must be new.”

“I just moved here a few weeks ago, I haven’t had the time to explore until now.”

The man hummed at your response, turning his head away from you again. He wandered around the store for a moment before coming to a stop in front of a display of yellow flowers, picking up a bundle, he turned on his heel and approached you, grin still present on his face.

“These,” he then shoved the bouquet into your hands and stepped back, “they’ll look lovely on your counter, I’m sure.” As you held the flowers, you recognized them as yellow daffodils, and smiled back at the man before nodding your head and walking over to register with him.

He had been right, they did look lovely on your counter. Every time you spotted them out of the corner of your eye, you found your thoughts drifting back to that interesting man. From that point on, you decided you would go back to the store every week, once the flowers started wilting, for a new bouquet.

The first week you came back, man had greeted you with that same grin, and asked you what you were looking for this time.

“Dealer’s choice!” You had responded, hoping your excitement might cover up your nervousness. This response seemed to please him, as he hummed in agreement and began to wander around the flower shop once again. This time he came to a stop in front of a display of chrysanthemums, picking up a bouquet of pink ones, he then returned to you and placed them in your hands, before staring at you with an expectant look.

“Well?” his gaze shifted from your eyes to the flowers and then back up.

“They’re beautiful!” You could have sworn you saw a bit of pink tint his cheeks before he turned and made his way to the counter.

This tradition continued for months; you had never missed a week. Always stepping into the store with a warm smile, excited to see what the man would pick next. You had eventually learned that his name was Gen, and as the weeks passed, found yourself staying longer with each visit. Your conversations grew from short interactions about different kinds of flowers to what was going on in your lives and personal troubles. Gen began to feel like an old friend, always willing to listen and offer up his advice, which you felt would sometimes get you into more trouble than you were in to begin with, but he had not led you astray yet. He even began to open up about his own life, you had hoped that it would quell your curiosity, but taking in information about him only led to wanting to know more. Feelings had bubbled to the surface, and you liked Gen more than you felt comfortable admitting. Maybe even loved him. For the time being, you had decided to suppress the feelings and force your current friendship to be enough to satisfy you.

It was a Tuesday in late summer when, upon stepping into the store, you found Gen sat behind the counter, a bouquet already in hand and a bit of red spread across his face. He stood abruptly, the stool he had sat on let out a shrill squeak, and quickly made his way over to hand you a bouquet of small yellow flowers mixed in with larger white ones. His smile seemed less mischievous and more genuine today.

“Do you know much about flower language?” he asked as he took a step back. You shook your head.

“You should really look into it. Those are gardenias with yellow acacia.” Before you could ask him anything, he shifted the conversation elsewhere. This visit had been your longest yet, you had entered at midday and did not leave until he had begun to close up for the night. Though it had been hours, you never once found yourself bored, and when it was time to leave, you even felt a bit disappointed. When he said goodbye to you that night, he seemed different, maybe a bit nervous. You tried not to focus on it as you made your way home.

It was only when you crawled into bed later, laying there half asleep, that you remembered he had told you to look into flower language. You forced yourself to sit up, ignoring your exhaustion, and grabbed your phone from your nightstand. When you saw the results that appeared after looking up the contents of the newest bouquet he had picked out for you, you felt your heart clench in your chest and heat rise to your face. You were giddy, like you were in middle school again and your crush had just acknowledged you for the first time. Falling asleep that night proved to be rather difficult as excitement coursed through your veins, you were going back tomorrow.

Morning came slower than you hoped, and you were out of bed as soon as the sunlight shined through your window and onto your pillow. You had to practically force yourself to slow down and wait until you knew Gen would be at the shop, time had never passed more slowly.

When you eventually did set out, you found your quick paced walk evolving into a near run. You had to see him. You had practically thrown the door to the shop open, the small bell ringing out into the air. This had startled Gen from his place at one of the displays, where he stood setting out freshly prepared arrangements of various colors. He had whipped around, face looking unlike anything you had ever seen on him before. He seemed scared, but hopeful.

After taking a moment to catch your breath, you met his gaze. A smile crawled its way up your face,

“I love you too.”

#dr stone imagines #asagiri gen x reader #dr stone x reader #asagiri gen imagine

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daydreamingintheimpalax · 4 years

Text

Secrets

Summary: After a particularly rough hunt, Dean shares a secret with you that changes everything.

Prompt: I have loved you since we were 18.

Warnings: Probably just swearing TBH; Maybe slight douchbaggy ex.

As soon as you and the Winchesters had walked through the bunker doors, you let out a relieved sigh. It had been a rough week, you all had been hunting a werewolf that just couldn't stop moving, making it impossible to track until it finally slowed down somewhere in timbucktoo. Well, it was more like Colorado somewhere, but you know, you were never known for your georgraphy skills.

What had made it worse, was that despite this wolf practically throwing the three of you around like rag dolls, which was getting way harder now that you weren't the spunky crisp 20 year old you once were, was the fact that you had happened to run into Randy.

Randy had been your high school boyfriend for two years, his family were also hunters and having a boyfriend who understood your life, it was nice back then.

You had known the Winchesters all your life, your families running in the same hunting circles, you had worked cases with them multiple times over the years until finally settling down with them now that they were the only family you had left. You had broken up with Randy when he got increasingly possesive and jealous when you turned 19 and you'd decided to move in with Dean once Sammy had gone off to college.

Dean was alone and his dad was constantly going on hunts and leaving him behind, he was very upset when Sammy had left, so he chose to hunt on his own. Your father had left years ago, leaving you with a buddy who he called your uncle bobby, even though he wasn’t really, but choosing to live with Dean so he wouldn't be alone made it easier for him, then when you were 23, he'd been mauled on a hunt and died. Hunting with Dean after that, became a normal routine, but Randy hated Dean, and Dean, well, he wasn't fond of Randy either.

The mutual distaste for each other only increased the more jealous and controlling Randy got, nearly fighting with you every night when you chose to go back to the apartment you shared with Dean instead of staying with him. Eventually, when he became physical, Dean had enough and knocked him out one night after you'd come home with a bruised eye, threatening to shoot him if he ever came near you again. That was the end of that and you hadn't seen Randy since.

Until tonight, when he happened to be tracking the same werewolf you guys had been. It became worse when he realized you were still hunting with Dean, and the memories of all those arguments and black eyes and bruises came flashing back. You managed to finish the case, but not without some bumps and bruises and having Randy there made it worse, with Dean and Randy glaring daggers at each other every time they researced. Randy still being the asshole he was despite the years you two had been broken up.

You were just glad to be home, glad to be away from that tension. You showered, cleaned off all the muck, and settled down on the little blanket you still had on the floor in the back yard area behind the bunker, you'd sit there on the warm nights, enjoying the stars while you sipped on a beer, winding down after a hunt. Tonight was no different, and you definitely needed it tonight more than ever.

After a few minutes, you heard the familiar sound of Deans boots, planting himself next to you, his own beer in hand.

“You okay, peanut?” His voice soft but husky, the tell sign he was exhausted. The nickname made you smile, it became his favorite thing to call you ever since you'd lived with him all those years ago, your obsession for peanut butter never understandable to him. Didn't help that your short stature against his giant frame basically made you peanut sized to him. You'd accepted it a long time ago, you were short, and Dean took great pleasure in teasing you about it.

You let out a big sigh, “Yeah, I'm good now.” You smiled, sipping from your beer bottle as you looked and examined the stars. Dean shuffled next to you, crossing his bowed legs as best he could, before sipping from his own bottle.

“Can’t believe we ran into Randy of all the douchebags, never thought I'd see that assholes face ever again, he's still missing that tooth.” Dean chuckled, the comment making you burst out laughing so hard you nearly chocked on your beer.

The memory brought you back to the night Dean had punched him for hitting you, knocking one of his front teeth out. The satisfaction and the look on Randys face bringing you joy. He had been frightened of Dean ever since, seeing the ghost white look on his face when he'd seen Dean tonight made you smirk, glad he'd learned his lesson back then. It was still funny, seeing him years later, he'd gained a lot of weight, his hair line had receded a lot and his tooth still missing. The image no longer matching the cocky football star from highschool.

Your laughter slowed, Dean sighing next to you as you both stared up at the sky.

“i gotta say, I am glad he fucked off after that night, don't think I could've stopped myself from doing worse if he'd tried to bother you again.” Dean spoke, a hint of something in his voice that you couldn't quite place.

He went quiet again, you looked over at him, watching him softly as he stared at the sky, sipping from his bottle. You'd known Dean Winchester all your life, and somehow, things about him still managed to surprise you. He was a complicated person to figure out, he didn’t let many people in on his feelings or thoughts, and although you knew he trusted you with his life, you were sure there were still plenty of secrets you didn’t known about your best friend.

You hummed out, taking another sip of your beer before you spoke, “Hey Dee?” you spoke softly, his eyes meeting yours.

“Hmm?” His reply a soft hum, acknowledging he’d heard you.

“Tell me something?” you asked, wanting to know something new, something he hadn't told you yet. Something that could surprise you.

“Tell you what?” he chuckled, wondering how much beer you'd had before he'd come out here.

“A secret, something I don't know.” you looked a him, wondering how much he held in, in fear no one would care, he'd always looked after everyone all his life, you, his mother, sammy, even his dad those rare nights he came back from a hunt completely shittered.

“You know all my secrets, y/n/n, you know that.” he stated matter of factly, you shook your head, not accepting his answer.

“No, there has to be something, something you haven't told me, or anyone, something special or secret, personal, a funny story, anything, I just need something to make this night a little better.” you looked at him, eyes big and hopeful, he bit the inside of his cheek, concentrating and thinking of a secret he'd yet to tell you, there was one, one he never planned to tell you in fear it would ruin everything you'd both built, the bond, friendship, the trust. Tonight was better than never he supposed, he knew it would come up one day, it might as well be tonight.

You watched him concentrate, thinking of something he hadn't told you, something you didn't know, after a few minutes, he sighed.

“I guess I have a secret I was always too scared to tell you,” he shrugged, licking his lips softly before he spoke again, “I have loved you since we were 18.“ He stated simply. No other words following.

You stared at him for what felt like forever, he seemed slightly nervous, seemingly avoiding eye contact. He finally got the courage to look at you again, you still stared at him, shocked at his admission.

“When you say loved....” you began, but he cut you off, “I mean full blown told everyone I would marry you one day, head over heels crazy about you, I still am y/n. It's the main reason my other relationships never worked, they were never you, never could be.” He shrugged.

To say you were shocked would be an understaement. “Wh-, why didn't you ever say anything? We've been friends for forever, we've shared a bed, and apartment, Jesus Christ Dee, you've stripped my drunk ass down to nothing and got in a cold shower with me to sober me up and you never thought to mention that little deatil?” You ranted, slightly upset he never thought to tell you something this big, it had been years, YEARS, that he’d been dragging around these feelings in secret.

He sighed, “The timing was never right, you were with Randy for a while, then when we moved in together, I didn't want to ruin it by being an idiot, I didn’t know if you felt the same about me and I was scared of losing you, of scaring you away and destroying everything we'd built, our trust, friendhship, I chickened out and figured I'd rather have you in my life and keep that part a secret than to lose you completely.” He finished, watching your face for your reaction, worried he'd ruined everything, he couldn't lose you now, not after all these years.

“Dee...” You shifted closer, he cut you off once more, “Don’t....don’t say you feel the same okay? Don't pretend or lie to make me feel better, I'm a grown man, I can handle rejection, I just figured it was time you knew, that's my secret, it's the only one I've ever carried with me and kept from you, besides the fact that I always resented that a guy like Randy was ever lucky enough to have you and threw his shot away, he was stupid enough to hurt you and not appreciate you.” he frowned, turning back to look at the stars.

You watched him, you couldn't believe he'd been right in front of your face this whole time, all the losers like Randy, the one night stands hoping you'd find your perfect guy out there somewhere, yet, he’d been with you the entire time, right by your side your whole life, and suddenly you realized it, all the times he took care of you, when you were drunk, or crying, or someone hurt you, he'd always been there, not just because he'd been your best friend, it was also because you had been his love, he'd loved you for so long, you felt stupid you hadn't realized it after all these years. Dean Winchester was your perfect guy, your soulmate. Your mother had always been right, You didn't find love, it found you, when you least expected it, and sometimes, you found it hiding in plain sight.

you gently reached out, placing a hand on his face and pulling him back to face you, his eyes met yours and you leaned in, placing a small but deep kiss on his lips. You pulled away slightly, meeting his eyes.

“It was always you, Dean, the guy I've been searching for all my life, the one who always made me feel special, and loved, and just, loved me, It was always you. I'm sorry it took me this long to realize he was always right beside me.” You smiled softly, his eyes lingered on yours before he smiled, leaning in to capture you in a deep kiss once again.

“S’okay, luckily we still got some time left on this earth, we got plenty of time to make up for it.” He smiled, the moonlight enhancing the twinkle in his gorgeous Hazel green eyes. You loved this man, and now, you could finally freely admit that, and spend whatever would be left of your life as a hunter being in his arms, this time, not as his best friend, but as something more.

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader

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yeojaa · 4 years

Text

❪ TO THE MOON AND BACK! ❫

You feel winded and you're not sure why. Like you'd been walking on cloud nine and were now falling through the atmosphere, plummeting toward the ground at incredible speeds. When you speak, it doesn't really sound like you. "Yes." Because he was exactly right - you were a hopeless romantic. Always had been. It was hard not to be when your parents were childhood sweethearts and love was the thing you'd been chasing your whole life.

alt summary. You use your one brain cell for love. It doesn’t always end well.

pairing. kth x (named) f!reader. jjk x (named) f!reader.

genre + rating. non-idol!au. romance (fluff), smut, some angst. general.

warnings / tags. none, tbh. a lot of soft soft softness in this chapter.

count. 4.1k

chapter 10.

You wake in bits and pieces, with half-composed thoughts that drift in and out of focus. Dreams that you can’t quite remember now exist somewhere in the back of your mind, playing like a breeze. There’s sleep crusting your eyes, bleary and heavy-lidded from the nap that’d seamlessly extended itself into a fourteen hour compulsion.

Tracking a hand across your face - you can feel the lines left behind by linen, how they imprint against your cheek in the same way sunlight does from your bedroom window - you note that his side of the bed is empty. His side because he’s claimed it as such, nearly two months in.

The shower is running. You can hear it through the thin walls of your apartment. He’s also just dropped something, because the resounding bang! is as loud as fireworks on New Year’s.

Lethargic, you drag yourself from your sheets, cursing your obligations all the way. So what if you’d agreed to them before? It was now and you were somehow still tired.

The effort you exert in making the bed is haphazard at best. You’re even less enthused when you throw clothes on - his shirt, discarded across the back of your desk chair - and a comfortable thong that cuts high across your hips.

“Don’t use up all of the hot water!” You call, not very loudly at all, toes wiggling their way into slippers on your journey out of your room.

Taehyung doesn’t answer but you know he’s heard you.

Down the hallway and into the kitchen, you busy yourself with coffee, single ceramic mug poised and ready the moment the kettle whistles. You consider, briefly, making another, before remembering that unlike you, your boyfriend has terrible, godawful taste. He dislikes coffee as much as you hate deadlines - which is to say very much.

You rest against the countertop as the water comes to a boil within the pretty blue kettle you’d received as a gift from your mother when you’d started university. Marginally wider eyes take in the sun that filters into your apartment, how it bounces off your coffee table and the assortment of picture frames littering the space.

There’s one of you and your parents. Your sister had taken it, snapping the image the moment you sneezed. It was meant to be a photo you’d be embarrassed by but instead it sits front and centre like some deranged centrepiece.

There’s another of a group of people hanging all over each other. Beneath someone’s elbow is your face painted with streaks of wayward paint; your sister has an unimpressed Upo held high above her head.

There’s just a silhouette - broad-shouldered and dressed in all black with a mushroom-head of fluffy black strands - inspecting a room of lights. It could be anyone but you know it’s Jungkook. You try not to linger on it too long, swivelling your stare to the next photo.

It’s newer, in Polaroid-form. Your face next to Taehyung’s stares back at you from the front of your refrigerator, a lopsided heart and your names scrawled beneath it in his neat Hangul.

“What’re you looking at?” You hear him before you see him, turning towards the sound of his voice as he tugs his shirt mostly into place, pristine white cotton slinking against his body and sticking where moisture settles.

His hair is still wet, curling at the ends and dripping onto the collar. It spreads to your own shirt when he envelopes you easily, all but hiding behind your curtain of dark hair. Warmth radiates off him - his body heat and that of the shower’s - as he presses into your back, fitting you against his chest. It doesn’t even seem like that much of a deliberate motion as an impulsive, subconscious one.

He just wants you closer - always does.

“Stop!” You’re grumbling but you’re not very bothered; you like him too much to be anywhere but in his arms. Still, you push however feebly at his wrists, relaxing into his touch with the same breath.

“Stop what?” He hums in response, all bared teeth and that stupidly charming smile of his. It pulls fine lines by his eyes and wanes them into crescents, mouth stretching into that peculiar shape that’s so very him.

You glower at him, though the expression falls flat. It’s still a little sleepy, caffeine not quite sparking the animosity it requires. “You’re all wet!”

He ignores that and turns toward the fridge, prying open the white door to peer inside curiously. He speaks into it, to the bag of grapes and half-empty tub of ssamjang. “The water’s still warm - as promised.” It hadn’t been a promise, but he’d heard it and they were mostly the same thing.

When he turns back toward you - surprisingly not empty-handed - he flashes you that playful smile you so adore. It pulls his mouth once more into that boxy shape, a real-life present you very much want to unwrap.

So focused on it, you don’t realize he’s speaking again, lips curling around syllables that sit just past your comprehension. “What?”

“When was the last time it wasn’t?” Taehyung never holds it against you when he has to repeat himself. He never minds, accepting it as another second spent together. You only know because you’d asked him once, a few days ago, when you’d made him repeat himself for the fourth time and he’d been just as patient as with the first.

You aren’t sure how he does it. He insists it comes with growing up with younger siblings.

“Two nights ago, before you went to bed.” You’re solemn, chin just a touch defiant and hands crossed over your chest. It’s meant to be intimidating but by the pull of his mouth - just enough to give away his amusement - you think it’s probably quite weak.

“Oh, really?” It comes in an earnest drawl, as if he’s really trying to remember.

“You thought I wasn’t going to shower but I did and it was awful.” As if to drive your point home, you wobble your shoulders like a penguin would, shimmying on the spot.

“But…” There’s a light in his eyes - a mischief that illuminates the darkness of his irises. “Didn’t you say you weren’t going to shower?” He punctuates the question with a firm bite into the peach he’s pulled from the crisper drawer. It crunches between his teeth loudly, the smug glint in his stare as hard as the flesh he tears into.

Mouth of your own purses and pulls, drawn into a straight line. You can feel the hard edge of the counter behind you but you shift regardless, shrugging into your cup of partially-cooled caffeine. Taehyung adjusts with you like he’s attuned to you - caught in your gravitational pull. When you tuck your elbow more closely to your side, he crowds there; when you slip under his arm, he revolves on his heel and slides his palm comfortably over your waist. Anywhere you go, he follows.

“I’m right,” he sing-songs, deeply pleased. He’s so handsome like this - full of brightness to the point it radiates out of him, warming you all the way through to your toes.

“Sure,” you return, coolly, with a roll of your eyes that he’s grown used to over the few months. He knows you don’t mean it so he laughs, low and slow, directly at you. The sound settles into your bones, digging into your ears in the most pleasant way.

When he presses forward, deposits a sweet kiss to your cheek, you can’t deny the flutter in your chest. It beats to a melody he orchestrates with nimble hands - music to his ears. He can’t help being a little proud of that. He wants to draw it out further and further, until your voice joins the symphony of sound. But he can’t, because you have plans and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t excited and a little preoccupied with that.

“Go take that shower. We’re leaving in an hour.”

You’ve never loved children - which is not to say you hate them, but your maternal instinct has never guided you. You don’t squeal with joy when you see a newborn and you definitely don’t rush to hold babies, all too put off by their fragile nature to trust your own strength - or clumsiness.

But here with him? You think Taehyung - and his adorable siblings - might just change your mind.

Under cover of heavy boughs with a pretty tartan blanket laid beneath you, you watch the scene before you unfold like something from a movie, unravelling the knot in your chest as it does.

Jong Gyu’s laugh slips into the mid-afternoon sky, cresting high above the oak branches as it rings and rings. He’s holding tight to the chains he’s swinging from, legs pumping as hard as they can in his neat denim overalls. No threat of falling deters him as he demands to go higher, elated when his brother complies and pushes just a little harder. He trusts Taehyung - and his own grubby five year old grip - without question as he sweeps higher, feet barely brushing the ground on the next swing forward. There’s nothing to rob him of his joy as it vibrates through his entire tiny body.

“Higher, higher!” His request comes half-formed and stolen by delight. Taehyung’s own joy bonds seamlessly with it, throwing it into deeper relief as he does exactly as asked.

You don’t bother to fight back the smile that spreads, stretching from ear to ear at the sight. You don’t even mind the warm body curled in your lap, small fingers threaded around your knee as if it was a blanket and not the knobbly, definitely-not-comfortable bone it is. Fingers of your own pass through the little girl’s hair, combing through it like you might’ve liked when you were her age.

By the stillness, you think she might have fallen asleep. You wouldn’t be surprised - it’s been hours since you’d been at the park and she’d expended more energy in the last half hour than you did in a week.

“Unnie,” she mumbles it so quietly, mouth warm against the fluttery flowy cotton of your trousers, that you almost miss it.

“What is it?” You don’t expect her to sit up so you round your shoulders, listening intently.

Her answer surprises you: “Tae-oppa’s happy.” She says it so matter of factly, finding strength somewhere you can’t see. She grips your knee barely tighter, like she’s pressing the statement into your skin, impressing the meaning with each tiny digit.

When the silence pulls a touch too long, you realize she’s waiting patiently for an answer. You’re not sure what you can say but you try nonetheless.

“I hope so.”

“I know he is.” The middle child speaks with such certainty. She reassures you like it’s an undeniable truth, far too firm for a girl of only nine. Then she turns to you and you see that same confidence in her smile and how it erupts like lava, coating her popsicle stained lips and teeth and tongue. Somehow, despite the nearly two decades that separates them, she looks remarkably like Taehyung.

Maybe it’s the way she smiles or how her dark hair sweeps over her eyes - thickly lashed and expressive.

“You make him happy, unnie.”

You stay just as you are, smile of your own forming in slow, measured ticks of your mouth. There must not be anything better than the belief of a child, you think - a decidedly not very-you thought. It’s undeniable, filling you with pride. “He makes me happy, too.”

“What about me?” Eunjin is completely serious, staring up at you imploringly. It doesn’t matter that this is the first time you’ve met her or that she hardly knows you. You’re already in her good graces, cemented there by the soft braid you’d twisted into her hair earlier and the last piece of cheese kimbap you'd selflessly given up.

“You also make me happy.”

The girl sits taller as if taking great pride in this concession. She doesn’t look in the direction of her siblings - both still erupting with laughter over by the playground set - but rather, tilts her head adorably. It reminds you of Taehyung yet again, earnest and sweet and demanding of affection. “And Jong Gyu?”

“Him, too,” you reassure. She seems satisfied with this, nodding solemnly to herself before she all but throws herself back into your lap in only a couple of motions. You return to comfortable silence easily.

You think you might like children more if they were all like this.

“Getting tired?” It’s Taehyung with Jong Gyu on his shoulders, the young boy’s fingers fisted tightly - too tightly, by the way your boyfriend occasionally winces - in his unkempt hair. He’s approaching in long strides, closing the distance between you before you have a chance to answer.

“I’m fine.” You share a look, glancing at the small body coiled around your legs. “But I can’t speak for all of us.”

It must be her not-spider-sense that compels the girl to speak, words once against lost to the fabric she’s clutching. “‘m not tired.” No one believes her - she’s drawling just like her older brother does when he’s about to fall asleep. It’s adorable.

Taehyung laughs and the sound curls from his lips like smoke, the joy in his eyes as bright as the rays that shine warm and glorious above the canopy of leaves. He shifts the boy on his shoulders, trying desperately to catch a glimpse of his chubby cheeks from his periphery. It’s altogether useless, because he’s nearly as tired as his sister, slumped against the back of Taehyung’s head like a ragdoll.

“Let’s head home then.” He speaks softly for their sake, more than fine with the energy - or lack thereof - that stills their bodies. It’s far easier to bring them back to his parents like this, worn out and sun-warmed. It means not being blamed when they erupt with hyper energy later - a common occurrence when it came to babysitting.

Communication passes silently between you as he lifts Jong Gyu from his shoulders, depositing the frame that’s all loose limbs and baby soft skin into your lap. The little boy heaves a little noise and nestles his face into the shape of your waist, his sneakered feet just barely missing his sister’s head.

You pass Taehyung bits and pieces from your day - stackable containers and used utensils, the worn tiger plush that the youngest Kim carries around with him - and he stores them neatly away, stretching the confines of his damier canvas keepall.

Of course Kim Taehyung would use a three thousand dollar luxury tote as a picnic bag.

“Ready to go?” He crouches at your side, bag at his feet. You move in practiced synchrony, his lips pressing a sweet kiss to the crown of your head - to the half-hearted braid you’d twined to match Eunjin’s from earlier - as you unfurl Jong Gyu’s fists from the hem of your shirt. He scopes the little boy into his arms, cradling him against his chest like he’s done so many times before.

When he rises, bag in his free hand, he looks almost like he regrets his decision. His fingers itch for yours. The desire increases tenfold when you shake his sleeping sister awake, rousing her with quiet apologies and that smile that makes his heart clench.

He knows now isn’t the time, but seeing you fit so perfectly with his imperfect family feels a lot like a miracle. Like you were made for him, for them - to fill in the spaces he’d long since moved on from.

Maybe it’s too much for a Sunday afternoon just months in the making, but he likes it anyway.

Jungkook’s not quite sure whether it’s delight or surprise he feels when your Battletag pops up on the bottom left-hand corner of his screen in the middle of his comp game. He thinks it must be the latter - because this has never been your game as much as it’s been his.

You’d indulged him when he’d asked you to download it years ago, muttering under your breath about how all boys wanted the same thing (namely, video games).

How fitting that it was bringing you together again.

Or would be, if he’d stop staring at his screen like a kid dumbfounded by a strange new animal at the zoo.

His fingers itch with an energy he can’t place, thumb drifting over and over his space bar. He hardly even realizes his hero is bouncing up and down on the screen - Little Red Riding Hood outfit a crimson beacon - until one of his teammates calls him on it, snarky and more than a bit disbelieving.

“Ashe - what the hell are you doing?”

Dazed and still a little confused, he flinches and immediately stops his assault on the poor key, gaze swivelling back to his screen as a whole. Luckily, they’re on their last hold on Ilios and he’s got B.O.B at the ready because he’s finding it hard to otherwise focus on the game, his attention drifting back to your presence in the online world.

“Can you BOB now? Ball’s incoming.” Not the asshole of an Orisa from earlier. It’s your Ana, soft and decidedly feminine. There must be some sort of irony there.

He presses Q immediately, launching the omnic ally across the point to where the opposing team will surely enter from. As if right on cue, their poor Lucio is launched into the air and riddled with bullets, his death appearing in the kill feed moments later. Wrecking Ball follows seconds later, seemingly about to throw the game into overtime as he contests - only to be slept right outside of the boundary.

There’s a collective congratulation and patting of backs as VICTORY presents itself.

“Good job, boys.” It’s your Ana again, but it isn’t the voice he wants to hear. He doesn’t say it back before he leaves the game.

When he clicks through to his friends list, he sees you in competitive queue, which means he either has ten minutes or none at all. He takes the plunge with shaking fingers, his message to you riddled with spelling mistakes he rues.

JKMKNAE says: look who it is

You don’t immediately respond and the wait feels like eons, his worry growing as his whisper disappears within the global chat. Great. You were ignoring him.

He’s halfway to gnawing his bottom lip into a mess when he notices you’ve left queue, sitting in menus now just like he is. Maybe that’s a good sign? He hates the bubble of hope that forms in his chest.

CHOCHOTRAIN says: who is it?

The breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding comes in a rush and his entire body sags with relief. He’s typing before he can think better of it - before the logical side of his brain can override the sprinting of his heart.

JKMAKNAE says: idk JKMAKNAE says: someone i wanna duo with JKMAKNAE says: you down?

You answer in the form of an invitation to your group; he accepts the moment he receives it.

CHOCHOTRAIN says: get on discord

Apprehension fills him with bright light, sparks going off beneath his skin. He can see the mild tremor in his hands - likely from all the caffeine he’d had this morning, but also possibly due to the fact that he’s been too lazy to make any sort of proper meal all day - and he huffs out a small sound of amusement.

For all of the reasons it might be there, he knows one of them is you. At least, a little bit.

You make him so nervous.

“You’re back on the Overwatch grind?” He’s speaking the moment he accepts your call, his voice crackling over the connection with much more confidence than he feels. It’s silly, given your history - but then again, it’s because of your history that he’s like this.

“Sort of,” you answer in a distracted way that makes his mind wander. Then you’re sucking down a smoothie and the sound is bouncing around in his ears, answering his question for him.

“Blueberry banana?” It’s your favourite.

“Strawberry banana, actually.” You sound almost like you’re pouting. He can imagine the expression - the rounding of your mouth, the way your brows gather together. “I ate all the blueberries and forgot.”

It’s so very you that Jungkook can’t help snickering. “How do you forget you ate something?” He asks, but he knows the answer. He’d seen you eat a croissant once and then ask where it’d gone, completely oblivious to the fact that your plate was covered in crumbs from said baked good.

“It happens, okay!” He’s glad you’re laughing along with him. It feels good, like how things used to be.

“Sure, sure.”

“I should kick you from this group right now.” He knows you won’t. At least, he thinks you won’t. He doesn’t really know you as well as he used to, like you’re standing behind a door that’s stuck.

“You won’t,” he hums, equal parts hopeful and reassured.

You relent with a sigh and another one of your laughs, just dramatic enough to convey that this is okay. “I won’t.”

Silence returns, the quiet only broken by the sound of your straw rattling in your cup. It’s comfortable, somehow, even if he’s more than a little amazed by it. It sits like a blanket in his lap, thrown over his legs to anchor him to the here and now. It’s warm, full of the feeling of you.

“How are things?” He breaks first because he always does when it comes to you.

“Really good.”

It’s something he’s always liked about you - your transparency in most things. You found no comfort in playing it cool, in acting aloof. When someone asked you how you were, you’d tell them - the good, the bad, and the ugly. When you were passionate, it practically bled from your pores, spilling out of you in unrelenting rays of colour.

“Yoongi and Joon have been teaching me so much.” You laugh and it inches just over the line of derision, softened by awe and gratitude. “Like, I thought I knew what I was doing but god, I was so wrong!”

You don’t mind, though; your laugh tells him as much.

“I keep thinking I’ve gotten over the learning curve and then—” By the way you’re talking, he’s imagining you’re using your hands, waving them around your face in that weird wiggly motion you tend to do when you’re flustered. “—Boom!” It rockets out of your mouth and he winces. “Six new things to learn.”

“But you’re happy?” He doesn’t need an answer. Of course you are. This is what you’d talked about for years, day in and day out.

“The happiest I’ve been in a long time.”

He tries not to think about the double meaning and all the things you don’t say that sit just below the surface, threatening to tear him to pieces if he isn’t too careful. Because Jungkook knows it’s more than just music that lives in your heart now. It’s someone - and it isn’t him.

“You deserve it.” It sticks in his throat a little, gumdrops and candy formed from all your sweetness. He means it, though.

“That means a lot.”

You’re quiet for longer than he expects then. Your hero - Ana in the coveted Bastet skin - makes the jump across the back of Hanamura’s second and first point. Maybe you’re concentrating? He’s seen you miss the leap a handful of times, so he wouldn’t be surprised.

“Are you happy?” You ask almost as if you’re afraid of the answer.

Four critical hits meet their marks before he speaks, careful and measured. “I am.” He isn’t lying. Things have been fine - good, even - with contract work rolling in and his clients satisfied. He’d found his inspiration again after losing it almost a year ago.

“You deserve it, you know. Happiness.”

It’s a reminder he’s heard from you more than a handful of times. Mumbled into his shoulder when he was stir crazy and frustrated; pressed into the palm of his hand in the form of your touch when he was waiting for a call back; scribbled on a sticky note left on his fridge when the layers wouldn’t sit right. As if you worried he’d forget if you didn’t constantly say it.

“I know.” He does know, truly. He’s a good guy with a good heart.

But that doesn’t always mean he gets that he wants, even if he deserves it. He’d had to learn that the hard way with you.

notes. enjoy all of this softness because it's going to get really messy. :l only three (maybe four?) chapters left! ty for sticking with me. 💜