#the screen looked kind of like the second drawing...the rose petals would fall
Text
beautiful stranger.
oikawa x reader
a short piece in which oikawa tooru approaches you on a idyllic evening. it’s a little awkward though, since you’re trying to die.
word count: 3.3k
tw: indirect and direct implications of suicide.
your warm hands stay gripped onto the metal rails in front of you, applying enough force to watch your knuckles turn white. you find yourself doing it over and over until your fingers numb from the continued pressure. alone, you’re mulling over mundane affairs. you’d rather not be thinking about them but find this loop all too easy to fall into.
the shadow of the railing casts over a large canal, its water sifting freely, far beneath you. it laps over itself, slithers of fish break the transparent surface as they swim. some of their scales rise to kiss the sunlight in opaque relfections.
thin layers of petals scatter the ground beneath your feet that have slipped from overhead trees and continue to flutter down freely. glowers of dying sunlight seep through the shapes of them as they fall.
in this moment, autumn is alive.
it’s really lovely right now.
you’re here, all caught up in chasing that feeling of peace. safety in an open space. you have to cope with that fact that tranquility never comes easily for you.
there’s nothing that should be leaving you as deeply unsettled as you are. you’ve learnt to largely ignore feeling so overwhelmed, though it stirs and resurfaces times you wish it wouldn’t.
what’s bugging you is that you can’t quite get a grasp on your own life.
for starters, everything lacks coherent meaning. to you, there’s something constantly missing every single day. nothing purchasable, nothing attainable through hard-work and any level of perseverance. truly, it affects you so much so that even just standing here, feet glued to the very spot that is undeniably ‘lovely’, brings you nothing but unimaginable sadness.
earlier, you brushed it away as an off day but you know that’s not true. you’ve been feeling like this all the time.
it is, therefore, not at all abnormal to wonder: can a person have such thing as an off life?
you really don’t like to think about things like this too much. once you begin to muse over deep naysay you find yourself snowballing.
solutions are painfully unobtainable and it’s generally as productive as chasing pavements.
do i really enjoy being alone? or am i obsessed with the sensation loneliness brings?
“you know, if you stare long enough, you might end up wanting to jump in.”
at once, your vision snaps up, taken aback by the additional voice. you hadn’t realised that during your mindless lamenting, another person had quietly joined you by the evening canal-side.
fair skinned, dark eyed, chocolate curls brushed neatly over his features and cowlicks that bob against the light gusts of wind.
a boy offers you a smile, before shifting his feet towards the empty space to your left. you can’t seem to process him, staring at the empty spot he’d been in seconds earlier.
you’re not supposed to be here right now.
“i was totally kidding by the way.” he adds. “that was really dark, sorry.”
you’re silent in return, eyes casting back onto the running stream. the water is shallow and the fall long, so jumping in would certainly prove fatal. you know all of this too well. it’d disturb the fish who are just here to live, though, it’ll only be for a moment. they won’t know any better.
you don’t really know what to say. it’s troubling that he’s here and hearing it out loud disturbs you, like a direct call out. at no point were you prepared for any kind of conversation prior.
the two of you stand there in complete silence. it’s not particularly awkward, you just don’t know why he’s approached you so easily, talking to you like he’s known you well enough to make outlandish jokes.
asking directly for his intentions seems rude, so you’ll put up with it until he leaves.
“do you always come here?” the stranger pipes up once more, though his focus doesn’t leave the water. you breathe in deeply.
“sometimes.”
“oh, i see.”
his palms lay flat and he pushes gently off of the rails, only to fall back onto them with all his weight. he does it again, repeating the process over and over at a steady pace. you stay hunched over, keeping your distance. he doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest though, clearly absorbed in his surroundings.
“it’s like a set out of a movie, this place. seems like somewhere i’d ask my girlfriend to marry me.”
your tongue rolls around in your mouth.
yes. you think. his girlfriend would most likely be thrilled-over the top-squealing if he did. that’s entirely his business.
you really don’t care to hear of other people’s romantic endeavours.
is it out of jealousy? you don’t know. maybe.
this conversation is meaningless. you wish he’d go away sooner so you could have this time to yourself.
also, jealousy is an ugly word. you hate it.
he stops his movement with a exhale of air, tilting his head back to blink up at the warm sky. the last touches daylight mingle with the oncoming darkness, creating a deep tinge of orangey-yellow.
“when’s your birthday?”
a petal lands on the bridge of your hand, sticking to your skin.
“do you want my social security number?” you deject.
“what? no!”
“are you sure? really, i’ll give it to you.”
“no!”
“then why are you asking for my personal information?”
he falls silent for a moment, before mumbling out a small: “just wondering.”
a tinge of guilt creeps over you at his apologetic tone. you admit, your answers thus far must make you seem like a completely unapproachable asswipe. you’re not at all. you just aren’t all that sure how to make small talk with strangers when you’re trying to part with the world by dinner time.
it feels like an unexpected guest at your very lonesome party.
“it’s (insert birth month).” you fold.
he purses his lips, face contorting a little.
“i see.”
he doesn’t continue down that path after your response. the both of you return to a mutual silence, staring into the portrait scenery ahead. the stream fills the soundscape pleasantly. fallen leaves have gathered at the base of your shoes, brushing over the tip gently with the turn of the wind. you observe them quietly.
“can i ask you another question?”
he seems a tad more timid now.
he definitely thinks you’re the type to blow up and give him an earful about minding his own business, doesn’t he?
you’d never raise your voice. in general, but also because it’d break the comfort of the scenery the world has so generously given you.
“sure.”
“do you believe in soulmates?”
the question is a little random but not impossible to answer by any means.
“no.”
“what?”
“i said not really.”
“you said no.”
“that’s the same thing.”
“...fair enough.”
he exhales out, sounding a little disheartened by your curt response. perhaps to him, you were a tough nut to crack; an ambiguity for him to understand. were all people like that? you weren’t playing hard to get, in fact, you’d answered every single enquiry he has had to offer. his efforts are amusing, though.
you raise a brow at him.
“i’m sorry, was that the wrong answer?”
for a moment, he doesn’t reply, stuffing his hands into his pockets, gazing down at the head of his shoe. pivoting his ankle, he draws small circles with the tip of his foot into the ground, into the dead leaves.
“not at all.”
“your expression says otherwise.”
“um, it was just a bit bleak, i guess.”
you let your arms droop way over the railing, fingers wading through the autumn air. you’d never really taken the concepts of soulmates to heart. it was romantic bullshit put out by somebody looking for a fantasy to indulge in. out of seven billion people, there could hardly be a singular person made for you. people aren’t born for other people. if that were the case, it wouldn’t be a rose-tinted fantasy. it would be suffocating. where’s the freedom in love?
“most people always answer like you these days anyway.”
“oh, sorry.”
he looks up at you, tilting his head.
“no, don’t be.”
back to a default mute, left with nothing but the faint chitter of overhead swallows and the odd rumble of cars passing by.
“tooru.” he states, after a while.
“what?”
“tooru. my name is tooru.”
“oh, okay.”
“oikawa tooru.”
your fingertips have become flushed. maybe you’d pressed a little too hard on that cold surface earlier. now that all your blood has come rushing back, the tingling sensation feels foreign.
his name slips of the tongue rather easily, don’t you think?
“nice to meet you, oikawa tooru.”
“it is nice, isn’t it?”
for the first time, your gazes meet properly and you offer him a crooked smile.
“i suppose so.”
off the side of the canal, almost right under the bridge, a small cluster of ducks have gathered. adult ducks tend to be considerably larger than its offspring —as is factual with any animal— so it’s easy for you to tell that there’s only one parent there, along with three of its ducklings.
people like to come to the canal to feed the ducks bread, though you’d heard somewhere that it’s actually quite bad for them.
you wonder. do ducks care particularly if one of its ducklings die? will it do something with the body, cry out, hurt?
or is grief exceptionally human?
“i don’t actually have a girlfriend, by the way.”
he sifts out his phone, tapping the screen and sliding it open. you watch him turn it to its side, before leaning over to take a picture of the depths below. you just watch.
“oh, okay.”
he doesn’t elaborate, focused intently on his current task. your attention returns to the shape of the birds, bobbing up and down rhythmically.
there’s only so much you can say about the canal. yeah, it’s beautiful. you don’t have the right vocabulary to describe the way it makes you feel. honestly, it feels abysmal to even try. you’re convinced though, that you’re in love with the way the water moves. you’ve always appriciated it whenever you walk past, told yourself jokingly that you could die there if you had to.
funny, that.
beautiful things tend to hurt in an unbearably amplified manner.
“say, tooru?”
“yeah?”
“if i climbed over the railing right now, would you stop me?”
you’re both fixated on the paddling now. his phone is back in his pocket, elbows propped up. he hums, taking his time to think over your question.
“most likely.”
your fingers meet one another and the tingling spreads to your palms.
“i’m thinking of jumping, actually.”
“oh.”
“yeah.”
“my joke earlier...”
“yeah.”
his fingers drum rhythmically on the slender poles under the rail top.
“then i’d jump right in with you.”
the corners of his mouth tug slightly at your perplexity, supressing a chortle. he’s not laughing at you, though. it’s more a gesture of understanding. this tooru doesn’t know you at all, yet he gets it. he gets it all too well.
you get that he gets it.
tooru clears his throat. “bad day?”
“that’s an understatement.”
“well, you’re not a bad person for feeling the way you do.”
by now, the ducks have swam away, you can make out the general shape of them, melding into the distant, mute colours of the bankside. the sky look minutes away from being set alight. time has never been your friend, you see.
“i feel crazy for trying.” you’re rather blunt about it.
“fair enough.”
“…is that all?”
“well, do you want me to tell you that you’re not crazy?”
you lull into silence.
“i don’t know.”
with that, you shift to angle yourself so that he’s in your immediate peripheral, the thought of gawking at him seems ridiculous but you want to look at him. you find it hard to do it up front for some reason.
“i’m no suicide expert, but it’d probably be lonely doing something like that by yourself. wouldn’t it be comforting to know someone’s falling with you?”
your fingers run absently across the jagged surface of the rails, the old paint has been chipped away at, after all its years of protecting. in all it’s history, had anyone else hitched themselves over this very rail?
were they asking for the same answers as you?
god. that’s awful. you don’t want to think about that.
you catch each others’ eyes for a second but you resign quickly, focusing as hard as you can on the flecks of black on your thumb.
“that would be selfish of me.”
“not if i’m offering.”
you scramble to look anywhere else, abruptly turning. you’re facing away from the canal, stomach fluttering a little as you fall onto the rail’s length.
in all your time by yourself, you’d never been given an irrefutable reason to ‘be’. it’d always been a live-for-the-day type of experience. if a day is good, you’re utterly blissed out by it, totally in love with life. if it’s bad, you have little reason to go on. nothing particularly interests you enough to dedicate your days persuing it. fame seems tedious, looks are temporary, a six figure career sounds like emotional jail-time, or a slow, schedule-filled trek to death. whichever description sounds more sufferable.
you see, in essence, we all get off at the same bus stop. some journeys are simply shorter than others.
“you’re guilt-tripping me out of it.”
“i’m not!”
you’ve never stopped to ask yourself what it is you want.
death interests you, you suppose. though, you don’t see the reason to wait around and pretend to ignore it until one day it drags you kicking and screaming.
“oikawa tooru, don’t you have better things to be doing than offering to jump off bridges with strangers?”
that coy smile tugs at his lips once more. nothing you say seems to phase him. it’s like he knows you. he’s thinking: yeah, this isn’t anything out of the ordinary for them.
“should i? you look at that water like it’s someone you hate. or love. maybe both. i got curious.”
“curious?”
“yes. and quite frankly, you’ve left me curious. practically starving. you haven’t even told me your name.”
“my name doesn’t matter.”
“boo. that’s not true at all.”
his tongue pokes out, tugging at the corner of his eye. you shake your head, genuinely unable to hide your amusement, turning to him properly this time.
and really, it’s like the canal side and oikawa tooru were made from the same stardust. he blends right into the picture, as effortlessly pretty as the rest of it.
the strands of hair out of place, a little disheveled from the breeze. the scarf buried into his nose, glasses a little misty from the heat of his own breath but when they clear, you see his eyes all too well.
you’d like to tuck those strands into place, they’re bothering you just a little.
“(y/n).”
your brows furrow a little.
really, this could all very well be some sort of fantastical dream. as nice as it all is, it feels painfully unreal. boys don’t look like that on autumn evenings or offer to die with you.
that’s it.
tooru must be a figment of your imagination.
no. wrong. not a dream.
this is a corner of your mind you haven’t ventured into yet, psychologically, some kind of safety net. a sliced off piece of reality you’ve come to hide in because you’ve utterly lost your mind. he is nothing but a part of you that makes you feel at ease as you come to terms with your self-destruction.
god, that bothers you more. you are crazy.
your hand extends, reaches out all on its own.
you just want to know if he’s real.
oikawa tooru glances down for a moment, he’s probably wondering about you, what’s left you in such a state. though, he’s happy to slide his palm against yours, latching onto it. he shakes once, twice. a little more. tightens his hold a bit.
the weight of his fingers as they brush lightly against your palm is fantastical. he’s so warm. you can feel it spread through you from the pads of your fingers.
he’s very real.
tooru has rather pretty hands.
the contact makes you feel kind of delirious, a produce of being utterly touch-starved. just a simple touch. you’re embarrassed to say it but it takes everything inside of you not to start weeping or hold on frantically in case he does disappear, do something bizzare that’ll scare him away forever.
hey, tooru. are you made of honey?
“well, (y/n), i’m offering you my life right now.”
the sun has set foot on the horizon, plunging in ever so slightly. as a child, the thought of night scared you, feeling largely betrayed by the sun’s farewell. now, it’s a unique kind of comfort to see the moon. it’s as lonely as those who lay their eyes upon it.
“i don’t want it.”
his fingers slip downwards against the dips of your palm.
“you don’t?”
“no, i mean... i don’t want death. not right now..”
you don’t even want to think about it anymore. funny, how things like that work. you were so sure of it. today was the day. your dark rendezvous. weren’t you itching for it?
this bastard.
this man you’ve never met. he clasps onto your hand once and suddenly he stops your nauseating rollercoaster of thoughts and leaves you wondering if, actually, you’d like to see the canal-side again tomorrow, or in fifty years.
who are you really, oikawa tooru?
“no?”
“yeah.”
“then what do you want to do?”
“stay right here, i think.”
your fingers curl, maintaining your hold on him. you should be shy or awkward about this whole ordeal but so you’re desperate for that warmth to continue.
you both stand there, facing one another, hands extended. it’s a little robotic looking. you’re pretty stiff but very sure this is what feels right.
to you, existence is based solely on feeling your way through stages of life. that sickeningly sweet innocence of youth. childhood memories that to you, are dwindled husks of gold, valuable in some aspects but almost meaningless in others. to laugh or to cry allows an individual to create a deep-set connection to the environment around them. it is no longer passing scenery but a moment in your life you once lived through.
that’s beautiful, isn’t it?
unfortunately, emotion provides both a living fantasy and the potential for agony. life is not sweet, nor innocent. it is what you make of it.
it is what your mind is forced to make of it.
and as much as one wishes they were as coddled and loved as they were children, life beyond those years is lonely, difficult and more than you were ever capable of.
were you weak? perhaps.
but maybe people aren’t built for life. we’re all weak.
and realistically, if you are unable to clamber over one obstacle after another -established by those before you- you’re doomed to fall behind.
that will hurt. you will hurt unforgivably because self-worth is no longer a beautiful gift of internal discovery and love but another way to be measured and downsized externally. a practice that leads to hatred. a desire to die.
that’s really where it all began for you. a romantic, a poet at heart, living inside your own, kinder world. that is until reality knocked on your door, invited itself in, just to set the entire thing on fire and leave you as vulnerable as the day you were born.
you aren’t allowed to hide. it comes looking for you eventually.
your stance on life hasn’t changed, afterall, you’ve spent nights mourning over how much it can hurt to live. to fall asleep exhausted with yourself, only to wake up and do it all over again. what you do know, however, is that droning, lonely feeling isn’t there right now. that ongoing, battering ruckus inside your head has ceased. tooru, the strange magician, has left you thoughtless and a little dumb.
you like being this stupid. for once, there’s nothing intrusive prodding the inside of your head.
it’s frightfully quiet, actually. you don’t know what you’re feeling right now. how much time has passed since he’d made that awful joke?
his gaze is on your lingering contact, before lightly pulling you closer, twisting his wrist down so you’re holding hands. your gaze moves to the bankside. you feel comforted. maybe it isn’t death, maybe all you want is a hand to hold.
probably not. that is a stupid, sappy thought. you’re still fanatic about ending your life.
you were so close to doing it, without even really understanding what you were doing. the canal scenery is overpowering, numbing, if you will. without oikawa tooru, you may well have kissed those fishs’ fluorescent scales with your own two lips, as cold as ice with some unfortunate early-morning runner discovering you by twilight.
“we can do that.” he hesitates. “if i’m honest, i would have been pretty scared to jump.”
“yet you still offered?”
tooru hums merrily in confirmation.
“why?”
“because you’re cute.”
you can’t believe your own ears.
“what? seriously?”
“yeah. originally, i wanted your number but things took a small turn.”
you burst out in gutteral laughter, free hand back onto the railing for support. for a moment, you look at him, shaking your head in utter amazement.
“you’re a piece of work, tooru, you know?”
“yeah, i know.”
he smiles back at you. the shadows cast by the setting sun only make him all the more enigmatic.
now that you think about it, you can’t figure this guy out at all. it’s like staring at a wordless piece of paper and trying to find something legible.
“how do you know i won’t come back and repeat all of this tomorrow?”
tooru tilts his head ever so slightly, observing you. his eyes flutter down to your lips, speaking like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“because you told me your name.”
“what does that have to do with anything?”
“well, now that i know that, you’re no longer just a beautiful stranger.”
you understood now. he hadn’t just offered you his life, he’d offered you him. by living on, you’d accepted graciously. he knows that if you visit the canal side again, you’ll only remember this moment.
a bad moment that he, in all his glory, turned into a good one. the day you two first met.
oh, clever boy. he saved you.
though you must say, oikawa tooru, you’re very much mistaken.
you are the beautiful stranger.
a tear runs down your cheek, a little warmer than you could’ve expected.
one turns into two, slipping more and more. eventually, you’re standing over the canal, hand in hand with oikawa tooru, sobbing quietly as the water runs peacefully below the both of you.
#haikyuu headcanons#haikyuu fic#haikyuu x reader#haikyuu imagines#oikawa x reader#oikawa scenarios#oikawa fic#i love oikawa
548 notes
·
View notes
Text
[CN] Victor’s Magnificent Date (Eng Translation)
🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a squeal-inducing date which has not been released in English servers! 🍒
There’s a phone call that comes BEFORE the date: here
Valentine’s 2020 Collection: Gavin // Kiro // Lucien
The date begins with MC sitting alone in a café. The temperature is incredibly hot, and the fragrance of roses is in the air.
She’s on a video call with Anna, who very helpfully establishes the context for us - Victor brought MC to South America to participate in the Rose Festival as a “reward” for completing an assignment the previous year.
It’s MC’s final day in this foreign country, and she wants to make full use of it.
Anna notes that MC’s complexion doesn’t look good. MC looks at herself in the screen and realizes that she indeed looks paler than usual. She says the weather is too warm, so she feels a little faint.
Anna is still worried about MC as she remembers how MC did quite a lot of overtime before leaving for the vacation. MC tells Anna to hide this matter from Victor.
Anna: You haven’t…
Anna stops abruptly, her eyes looking at something behind me. Having a bad feeling, I turn around.
Finished with his video-conference, Victor walks down the stairs towards me, wearing his usual suit.
He stands behind me, his eyes sweeping over the phone screen on the table before raising an eyebrow.
Victor: What are you hiding from me?
Anna ends the call.
MC: Your meeting is over?
I flash Victor a wide smile, forcefully changing the topic.
Victor: It ended earlier than expected.
Victor doesn’t press further. He loosens his tie. I realise that there is a thin layer of sweat on his forehead.
MC: You didn’t have to rush over. Don’t you feel warm dressed like that?
Victor: It’s still okay.
He lifts the small luggage beside me, then picks up the sun hat on the table and places it on my head.
Victor: There are still a few hours before the event starts. That “Travel Guide” you did on the plane can be put to use now.
I widen my eyes and look at him from underneath my hat.
MC: How did you know about that? I thought I did it covertly…
Victor: What do you think? Of course I saw it.
MC: So you weren’t sleeping at all!
Hearing my “accusation”, Victor glances at me, his tone slightly teasing.
Victor: Someone’s soliloquy woke me up.
MC: Since you know about it… leave the rest to me. Let’s set out towards the Rose Festival!
Ignoring the discomfort in my body, I raise a fist in the air in high spirits.
There is a look of resignation in Victor’s eyes, but the corners of his lips are dyed with the warmth of sunlight, hooking upwards into a slight smile.
Victor: I shall wait and see then.
They go for a walk:
MC: I heard the Rose Festival has been around for a few hundred years!
I look at the flower baskets sold along the streets, and I feel like getting one.
MC: On this day, the men will invite their other half to dance. They will find the “most beautiful rose” during the event, and he will present it to her with a lover’s kiss. Isn’t it very romantic?
I share what I had read up online. Victor listens to me quietly, his thin lips pursing into a nice smile.
Victor: You did your homework.
MC: Of course I did! You specially accompanied me here, so of course I’d want you to have a memorable experience!
Victor: Haven’t you gotten it the other way round?
My grand ambition is suddenly interrupted. Victor takes the small slip of paper containing our travel plans from me and puts it into his breast pocket.
Victor: This is my “reward” to you. All you have to do is enjoy this trip.
Amid the unique architecture of this foreign country, Victor’s eyes seem to become more tender. It gives me the sudden urge to capture and record this moment.
MC: Victor, I’ll help you take a photograph?
I lift the camera that is hanging around my neck and point it towards him.
MC: Cooperate and give me a smile! I’ll shout “three, two, one”, and you say “pudding”!
To my surprise, Victor frowns.
Victor: Why pudding?
MC: Because I feel you wouldn’t shout “brinjal”… Or else you could use another word?
The crease in between Victor’s eyebrows smoothens out. He nods.
MC: Have you thought about it? I’m going to take the shot now! Three, two, one-
Victor: Dummy.
When I press the shutter, I hear Victor’s soft yet clear voice.
In the picture, Victor has a small smile on his face.
My heart rate suddenly accelerates. I lift my head to respond with a retort, but a sudden wave of weakness floods my entire body.
The blazing sun makes me feel especially dizzy.
MC: I…
The camera almost slips from my hands. I sway for a moment before falling into Victor’s arms, and he realises something is amiss.
In my flustered state, I see anxiety written on Victor’s face. I open my mouth, trying my best to form words.
MC: Victor, I don’t feel very well…
~
The hotel room separates us from the blazing noon sun. I am seated on the bed, my head slightly hazy from heatstroke. The ceiling fan spins slowly, dispelling the heat in the air.
This room that Victor managed to book at short notice has been decorated with several rose-related ornaments because of the Rose Festival.
The rose petals which were originally on the bed have been scattered all around, adding a touch of fragrance to the humid air.
The sound of the door being knocked cuts me off from my thoughts.
After half a second, I hear the sound of the door being unlocked. Victor walks in, carrying a grocery bag.
Victor: How do you feel now?
MC: I feel much better after taking the medicine.
To ease his worries, I summon my strength to give him a smile.
MC: Though we’d probably have to miss the Rose Festival…
Victor: You’re still thinking about that?
Victor puts the bag on the table. He walks over and presses his hand against my forehead. I relish the coolness of his touch.
Victor: Your temperature has gone down, but you still need to rest.
After checking on my condition, he draws his hand back. He removes his outer suit and places it at the side of the bed. Then, he returns to the table and takes out the items from the bag.
MC: What did you buy?
Victor: Ingredients. It’s more appropriate for you to eat milder foods.
Victor’s back is facing me. I see that the back of his shirt is drenched with sweat. I bite my lower lip, my heart suddenly feeling lighter.
MC: I’m not that hungry actually. Just getting something from the hotel would be fine.
Victor: It’s so rare that we’re here. You want to eat those kinds of things?
Victor turns to toss me a glance, directly rejecting my idea.
MC: Then… at least take a break first?
Victor: No need. You should sleep for a while.
Victor walks into the small kitchenette with the ingredients, and the sound of splashing water follows. Hearing him cook, I start smiling.
I’m unable to sleep peacefully in my current state. Something horrifying is chasing me in my dream, causing me to scrunch up my eyebrows.
MC: Uhh… don’t go!
In a moment of peril, I grab onto something that gives me a sense of assurance, and refuse to let go.
Victor: Dummy.
A familiar sigh travels to my ear, enabling my tense self to relax. I enter a deep sleep.
An unknown duration passes before I regain consciousness. My body feels like it is being enveloped, and I’m unable to move.
I struggle to open my eyes, but all I see is a patch of skin.
MC: !!
I widen my eyes instantly, my drowsiness vanishing completely-
Victor is also lying on the bed, his arms encasing me tightly, taking an afternoon nap.
I am leaning in the crook of his neck and am able to see his chin if I look upwards. I feel his steady, gentle breathing - like a single feather - on my ear.
My brain short circuits and I have no idea how the scene before me occurred - until I see how my fingers are tightly wound around Victor’s tie.
While I was dreaming, I had pulled on Victor’s tie, which in turn tugged his shirt open as well, revealing his bare chest.
I control my eyes before they can trail further downwards, and immediately let go of the tie.
Perhaps disturbed by this movement, Victor frowns, his eyelashes twitching under the light.
I shut my eyes, pretending that I’m still asleep.
The body that is pressed against mine shifts slightly with a rustle. The sound of Victor’s breathing seems to change.
He weaves a hand through my hair, his slender fingers gently sliding along the strands. Every minute movement faithfully travels to the ends of my nerves.
I don’t dare to move even the slightest inch. Feeling nervous, my temperature rises, and I feel my back break out in a thin layer of sweat.
The hand resting on my body shifts. Our close proximity makes it easy to visualise even the slightest movement in my mind.
Victor: Why are you sweating so much?
His low voice is tinged with slight suspicion. I’m wondering if I should open my eyes at this moment, but Victor’s palm ends up on my back.
The sudden contact makes me want to quiver, but I suppress my body’s instinctive response.
Fortunately, Victor retracts his hand. He slowly extricates his wrist from under me.
The body warmth suddenly vanishes, leaving me feeling slightly dejected. Soon, the sound of running water can be heard from the bathroom.
MC: Huff…
I release a long breath and open my eyes slowly.
Victor is no longer in the room, but the parts of my skin that he had touched feel as though they are on fire. My heart rate is unable to settle down.
The sound of running water stops. When I see Victor walking out, I shut my eyes once again.
The spot next to me on the bed sinks. Victor sits at the side of the bed, picking out a few strands of hair from my face.
Victor: MC? Are you awake?
MC: Uh…
I pretend to swipe his hands away blearily, but he continues placing the back of his hand against the side of my cheek.
Victor: Why has your temperature gone up again?
He draws his hand back, replacing his warmth with a wet towel. He gently wipes off the sweat on my temples.
Even though I know that he is genuinely helping me lower my temperature, I am completely unable to control my own senses.
The soft towel trails down my neck. Victor’s fingers unintentionally brush against my lower neck, causing me to tremble slightly.
A bead of sweat trickles off my face, sliding down my neck and disappearing into my hair.
Victor pauses. I squeeze my eyes shut, but my eyelids twitch uneasily.
It’s as though my body has decided to go against me in every way. At this moment, my stomach releases a string of low growls.
MC: …
Quiet air flows in the room. I remain stiffly in position, not moving at all.
Victor: You’re awake?
My eyelashes twitch, but I still don’t dare to open my eyes.
Victor lets out a low laugh, then leans over slowly. I sense a large shadow looming over me through my eyelids, and I stop breathing.
Victor: How much longer will you pretend to be asleep?
MC: I… I’m awake.
Seeing that I can no longer put up this pretence, I open my eyes slightly and watch as Victor straightens up.
Victor: If you’re awake, get up and have something to eat.
After a late lunch, MC notes to herself that even though they can’t go for the Rose Festival, spending time together alone with Victor is not bad either.
She notices that there is a bottle of red wine on a low shelf, and that it doesn’t have a label.
Victor: You still want to drink after having a heatstroke?
Victor’s sudden voice from behind gives me a fright.
MC: I was just curious… did you buy this bottle just now? Why doesn’t it have a label?
Victor: It’s home brewed wine from the Market Fair. It has a special flavour.
MC: Special? Was it brewed by some famous master?
Victor: Not a master. Didn’t you want to find the “most beautiful rose” earlier?
I fail to understand the meaning of his words, but Victor doesn’t continue explaining. He skilfully removes the oak stopper, pouring the rose-coloured wine into a glass.
Along with the scent of wine, a sweet-smelling aroma permeates the air. I can’t help but let out a deep sigh.
Victor arches an eyebrow, looking slightly surprised.
Victor: I didn’t know that people who suffer from a heatstroke would also experience a deterioration of smell.
I ignore his sarcasm, taking up the wine glass and swirling it in front of me. The faint aroma of flowers becomes even more obvious.
MC: It’s rose! So you can actually brew wine with roses?
Victor: It’s not made using roses, but it does taste like it.
MC: Can I try it?
Victor doesn’t respond immediately, but takes the glass from me before saying slowly:
Victor: No.
MC: Victor, CEO Victor, Mr Victor, please let me try it! My heatstroke is completely gone!
I lean towards Victor, but he raises the glass up high. Even if I were to tiptoe, I wouldn’t be able to reach it. So I can only huff and give up.
MC: Fine.
Victor: Wait till you…
MC: Just kidding!
Seeing Victor lower his guard, I jump and snatch the glass. Because of my unsteady footing, I end up lunging towards Victor.
Victor reacts immediately and steps backwards, forgetting that the bed is behind him.
After a chaos-filled second, Victor falls onto the bed heavily, bringing the scattered rose petals along with him.
I’m lying on him, my mind a complete blank, though my expression still displays cheekiness and excitement from snatching the glass earlier.
The glass of red wine that sparked off this entire situation has tumbled onto the bed, its contents spilling onto the covers and even soaking my hands.
I dumbfoundedly take in the scene before me as the scent of rose petals envelops us.
Victor, who is pressed below me, lets out a heavy sigh. Loose strands of hair casually fall in front of his eyes, making him look less sharp.
Victor: Didn’t I say that you can’t try it?
While he speaks, I can feel the vibration of his chest as we are pressed together tightly.
I regain my senses, my face beet red, wanting to straighten up.
Victor grabs hold of my wrist, and I fall back onto his chest.
Victor: You need to change your habit of running away whenever something happens.
His narrow eyes catch the change in my expression. His expression, while remaining the same as usual, makes me even more flustered.
Unlike his seemingly calm expression, he is unable to hide the heat emanating from his body and seeping through the thin fabric of his clothes. This causes my body to heat up as well.
The air seems to be burning, and I can hear my rapid heart rate. Even my voice wavers.
MC: I will change… next time.
Victor: I’ve heard this phrase many times.
The hand around my waist is like iron, pulling me even closer.
MC: This is an accident.
I explain in a small voice, letting my eyes shift everywhere aside from his face.
MC: I was just curious about the flavour…
Victor: You’re only allowed one sip.
MC: You said it yourself!
The scent of wine still wafts in the air, tinged with the fragrance of roses, making the atmosphere feel even warmer.
I bring my wine-soaked palm to my lips, gently licking it with the tip of my tongue.
A touch of sweetness spreads from my taste buds to my brain. The slight bitterness of wine carries with it a hint of a rose aroma. It has a surprising attractiveness.
Victor pauses. His eyes turn darker, and his voice sounds slightly husky.
Victor: …are you stupid?
Hearing this, I realise what I just did, and even my ears turn red.
MC: We’ve tasted the wine already, we...
Victor grips my wrist before I can escape again. With an irresistible pressure, he pulls me closer-
A drop of sweat trails down the side of my face and pelts onto his collarbone.
His Adam’s apple bobs, and he uses his other hand to loosen his tie in a slightly rough manner. He releases a low laugh.
Victor: Who says I’ve tried it?
With my guard down, he pulls my palm closer to himself and sticks out his tongue like I did earlier, gently licking the remaining red wine off my palm.
The rose-coloured liquid and the redness of the tip of his tongue makes this colour appear fresh, and even more dazzling, in my eyes.
My breathing and heartbeat seem to stop. I can only sense the touch on my palm, like electric currents coursing through my entire body.
While doing this, he keeps his eyes on me.
Trembling slightly under his gaze, another bead of sweat rolls off my temple. I want to escape, but I’m unable to hide from him.
The emotions within those deep eyes resemble surging tides.
Victor: The taste is not bad.
MC: [blushing] !!
I widen my eyes and pull my hand back as though I just touched a live wire. Victor doesn’t stop me this time, letting me hop up from the bed frantically, almost tripping over his feet.
Victor: Don’t be so reckless.
Victor reaches out to hold onto my waist, his low and husky voice in my ear.
MC: You…
Victor: The “most beautiful rose” is not just a literal rose.
He lowers his head and leans towards my ear, his lips almost pressing against it. I can barely concentrate on his words.
The curtains are drawn open, and the scene of the town shrouded in dusk appears before our eyes.
Victor: The sky is the most beautiful part of this town.
Following his words, I look up and my eyes widen in surprise.
MC: …it’s beautiful!
The rose-coloured sunset glows from the horizon. The clouds hang in the air, drifting slowly. Embedded in the sky, the clouds resemble waves from the sea.
The sky of this small town looks like a rose that is waiting to bloom.
Victor: In the evening, the colour of the red clouds look very special from here. This is the most beautiful rose I found.
His tender and low voice is in my ear, and I suddenly understand what Victor brought to me.
I originally wanted him to have a unique travel experience. I never thought that he would be the one giving me this rose-coloured sky in the end.
Victor embraces me against the window. The look in his eyes is even more tender than the red clouds.
Victor: Close your eyes.
I close my eyes obediently. A scorching breath gradually draws near, and a soft touch descends on my lips.
Victor places his hand on the back of my head, deepening the kiss.
His actions are gentle yet powerful. The intense stimulation spreads from the tip of his tongue all the way to my depths.
The fingers that gently brush the back of my spine leave a trail of tingles in their wake.
The hot air cools as the sun sets, but the temperature continues to increase along with the intertwining of our lips and tongues.
My senses are completely overtaken by Victor’s presence. His breathing, his tender licks, his arm encircling my waist, and the heartbeats from his chest…
After an inordinate amount of time, I tighten my grip on Victor’s arm, like a person who is about to lose consciousness and drown.
The faraway clouds, like a rose that has been waiting for a very long time, finally begins to bloom.
The curtains are pulled shut, and the room once again descends into a dim warmth.
An intense and rich floral fragrance slowly ferments in the blisteringly hot air.
🌹
Phone call after the date: here
#mlqc#mlqc cn#mlqc spoilers#mlqc victor#love and producer#the true OTP is Victor x his tie#truly inseparable
429 notes
·
View notes
Text
Suptober Day 25 - Tattoos
“I want a tattoo,” Cas said one morning, completely out of the blue and while Dean was still dangerously in his first sips of his first coffee.
“You’ve got tattoos.” Dean bit back grumpily, though Cas knew better than to take his ire seriously before ten am.
“Yes. I want another one.”
“Okay...” Dean drew out the word like he was waiting for Cas’ point.
“Can I?”
Dean snorted and placed his mug down on the table, “I’m not your mother, Cas. You’re a grown ass practically immortal being. If you want a tattoo you don’t need my permission.”
“I know, but… would you help me? I don’t want to end up disappointed and I don’t know how to tell if a parlour is a good one or not.”
Dean squinted at him through the steam from his coffee, considering.
“Sure,” he said. Go grab my laptop, we can have a look around.”
Xxx
Dean was almost done with his mug and a lot more cheerful when Cas returned a few minutes later, he took the laptop and flipped it open, searching for nearby tattoo parlours and going onto their various websites.
“I don’t suppose sanitation really matters to you,” Dean said, flipping through some pictures of a studio before dismissing it. “Seeing as you can’t get infected and all, but it says a lot about how much a place cares about the art it makes. If you can stumble in there at three am and demand Bob Ross’ face on your ass then you’re not in the right place.”
“Why would anyone-?”
“People.” Dean answered with a shrug. “Those are the kind of places we went to get these,” he gestured at his chest, “but these are practical, they just had to be copied from a drawing we supplied, if you want an actual design, you need to find an actual artist, not just someone with a tattoo gun who can draw hearts and fancy swirls and a passable wolf.”
Cas wrinkled his nose at the thought. He did want a proper design, something beautiful, something meaningful, something his. But the task seemed monumental for him let alone a stranger.
“Here are the ones that look decent.” Dean said a few minutes later, showing Cas a set of six tabs. “What do you want to get anyway?”
“I don’t know.” Cas said, feeling touched that Dean was walking him through this but overwhelmed as he clicked on the first tab and a slew on images popped up. “How am I supposed to choose?”
Surprisingly, instead of mocking him, Dean smiled and shuffled his chair closer so he could see the screen too.
“Look through the artist portfolios,” he directed, pointing to the option at the top of the screen. “Most will have links to their own websites with more of their work. You’re not looking for the perfect design, just the perfect style. Some are better at portraits, others at more geometric stuff, some do different things with colour. You can narrow it down by crossing out the ones you don’t like.”
Cas nodded solemnly and turned his attention back to the screen. The first artist had lots of strong black lines and straight edges. The second a lot of portraits, neither of which really appealed to him.
He seemed to search for hours. Dean was refilling his coffee when Cas found what he was looking for.
“This one.” Cas said, looking up to see Dean jump at his voice. “I want her.” He tried to keep his tone neutral but from the slight crinkle at the edge of Dean’s eyes he hadn’t been able to hide the excitement in his voice.
“Alright, let’s take a look.” Dean said, leaving his mug at the machine and coming over to look at the screen over Cas’ shoulder. “Nice,” he agreed.
Castiel felt a warm buzzing in his stomach, he was glad that Dean liked it too. The image on the screen was a rose, not what Cas was looking for really, delicately done, with a fine outline, but it was the colours that were magical; midnight blue and deep, rich purples blended in the petals, with a shimmer that looked almost metallic, smudging across the lines slightly, not enough to ruin the image but just enough to be imperfect, to feel right.
Castiel booked a consultation for the following week.
Xxx
Cas sat in the waiting room of the tattoo parlour, tapping his foot nervously while Dean sat next to him. Dean had insisted on coming with him and Castiel hadn’t thought to object, the last time he’d gotten a tattoo he’d been alone, and although the pain was minimal compared to some of the torments he’d endured as an angel, experiencing it as human pain was different and he had wished for company, even if Dean only would have mocked him and compared him to an infant.
“What if it turns out bad?” He asked quietly, “I still have no idea what I want, what if I can’t think of anything? What if she doesn’t have the right colours, or-”
“Cas,” Dean interrupted patiently, “it’s just a consultation, no needle is getting near your skin without your say so. If she draws you something and you don’t like it, she’ll change it for you. If she doesn’t have the colours she’ll order them in and we can go back when she’s got ’em. If you don’t have any ideas we can talk it out. It’s gonna be fine”
Cas was grateful for the reassurance, but he was still nervous nonetheless. He just didn’t want to be disappointed. This felt important and he didn’t want to mess it up by choosing the wrong thing. The artist, Giva Chaudhary, was exceptionally talented, but none of the images in her portfolio had really spoken to him. He was worried that they would get there and she would be unable to produce the thing he wanted on his skin forever and he would either have to go home with nothing, or settle for something that was less than perfect.
“Mr Novak?”
Miss Chaudhary was a small woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties, her black hair was bound in a long plait and she had a smile that seemed almost too large for her face.
“Yes.” Castiel said, standing to shake her hand. “Miss Chaudhary, you work is beautiful.”
“Well thank you, but don’t bother with the ‘miss’, Giva is fine.”
“Cas,” Cas offered, and then, because Dean was leaning to shake her hand too. “This is Dean, a friend.”
“Moral support?” Giva asked, her dark eyes twinkling, “Understandable, a first tattoo can be a scary business.”
“It’s not his first,” Dean said immediately, “but this one’s important, he wants it to be right.”
Giva nodded and gestured them to sit, she did as well, laying a sketchbook and some pencils on the table in between them.
“So, Cas, do you know what you’d like?”
Cas felt himself flushing and stammered out an apology which Giva waved away, “Not a problem, that’s what these talks are for, yes? If we don’t figure it out today you can always come back another time. So what drew you to my work in particular?”
So Cas told her, he answered her questions and looked through her books. She made some further sketches as he talked, of nothing in particular, nothing important, and so her sketches, while lovely, were nothing like what he was looking for. Dean was quiet throughout, Cas kept glancing at him to gauge his reaction to each piece but he remained stubbornly neutral. This only added to his confusion, how was he supposed to decide if he didn’t know if Dean would like it or not?
“I wonder if I might ask your friend to go and get us some sandwiches from across the street.” Giva said after thirty minutes of light conversation and not much progress.
Dean was reluctant, but agreed when Cas nodded to him and left with a significant ‘call me if you need me’ look.
The second the door closed, Giva let out a long sigh. “Perhaps you can speak more easily now,” she said. “I notice you very much want his approval.”
“I trust his judgement,” Cas said, carefully.
“I don’t doubt his judgement, only that in this case, his opinion matters less than yours. He will approve the most if you’re happy.” Giva said with a kind smile, as though she saw this kind of thing all the time.
“You care for him deeply,” she said
“I-” there was no sense in denying it. “Yes. Dean and I… we’ve been through a lot.”
“Tell me,” Giva said, sitting back in her chair, sketchbook at the ready.
Cas cleared his throat.
“Err… Well… I suppose you could say I come from a very strict background,” he began, picking his words carefully. “When I first met Dean, more than a decade ago now, I pulled him from a dark place; it was a duty for me at the time, to keep an eye on him, look out for him and his brother, to try and keep them on the righteous path. Dean… Dean disliked being led.” He felt a small smile tugging at his lips. “I found myself admiring that, helping him more that I was supposed to and as I grew closer to Dean, I began to see my family for what they truly were. They tried to get me back, keep be under their control but I fought for my freedom because Dean showed me how.”
“Freedom is an important thing.” Giva said encouragingly as she sketched, “Worth fighting for. But it can be difficult if family disagrees with your choices.”
“I made many mistakes that I can never redeem.” Cas said, “A lot of bad decisions that got people hurt. Dean forgave me even when he had every right not to, while my family betrayed me, cast me out, hunted me.”
“A fall from grace, sounds like.” Giva muttered, Cas looked up sharply but the petite woman wasn’t even looking at him, she was focused on her sketch.
“That would be… incredibly accurate.”
“So why the tattoo now?” Giva asked, her pencil stilling for a moment, “This is your first important one, but you waited ten years?”
Cas tilted his head, formulating his answer before speaking, looking down at his own hands, “For years after I met Dean, my body didn’t feel like my own. Like it was someone else’s and I was just stealing his life. It has taken me a long time to… settle into my own skin, as it were. These clothes are his but they fit me now and so have become mine. My other tattoos are copies, but this will be the first thing about my body that isn’t inherited.”
Giva nodded again and asked nothing more, continuing to sketch in silence, she tore three separate pages from her notebook when she was done and laid them out one by one.
Cas didn’t even look at the third sketch, the second one was perfect.
Xxx
“So I drive all this way and I have to drive all the way back again in four days but you’re not gonna tell me what you’re getting?”
“I don’t want you to see it before it’s done.” Cas said, holding Giva’s sketch tightly to his chest. Before Dean had come back in with sandwiches, they had discussed minor tweaks and colours and Giva had given him the sketch to look over in case he wanted to change anything else before his appointment, she assured him that even the day of, if there was anything that he wasn’t certain of it could be changed to his liking as long as he told her before she got her needles out. In fact, all Dean knew about the piece was that it was going to be large and on his back, and that they would probably need more than one appointment to get it all done.
“If it’s Bob Ross’ face, I’m disowning you.” Dean griped.
“You don’t own me,” Cas pointed out. “So disowning me would be pointless.” And then, “and it’s nobody’s face.”
Xxx
It was worth the wait. That was all Dean could think a few weeks later when Cas dropped his shirt so that Dean could see the healed and completed piece. No wonder Giva had looked so pleased with herself after Cas’ last session, no wonder Cas had been beaming through red eyes.
Wings.
If Cas had asked his opinion he’d have said perhaps a little on the nose but he would have been eating those words.
They covered almost the entirety of Cas’ back with anatomically correct (he was assuming) detail but they were by no means static, the top half was full and thick with shimmering feathers, so dark they were almost black, but whatever ink Giva used caught the light, sending beautiful tones of blue, green, purple and magenta skittering across them. They swept down the curve of Cas’ spine where the feathers began to thin, hints of red and orange entered the mix, not enough to take away from the beauty of the above, just a subtle transition where some of the feathers were burning and curling into ash, then further down still those burnt and falling feathers twisted in the air, transforming into butterflies the same colour as the healthy feathers that weaved around the now bare bones of the wings.
“Holy shit,” he breathed. “Cas, they’re incredible.”
“I can’t manifest my wings,” Cas said quietly, “but I want you to see them as I see them. They are perhaps the thing I miss most about my old life; the symbol of what I was, powerful and grand and sure. But I’m not bound by their rules anymore. And what I am has changed into something more compressed, more human but infinitely more free. That transformation is largely because of you, Dean, and I can’t thank you enough.”
Dean barely realised he had reached forward to touch one of the burning feathers until Cas shivered under his touch, his fingers followed the wings in their progression, along their changes, they followed Cas’ story and he was the one who should be thanking Cas for letting him be a part of it. Without thinking, he dropped his lips to Cas’ shoulder and pressed them there. Cas turned to meet him and their mouths fitted together like they were made to, like they had done this before a thousand times, like, perhaps, they should have.
@winchester-reload
If you liked this, please consider buying me a coffee.
224 notes
·
View notes
Text
Tie a Yellow Ribbon For Me
Fandom: Supernatural
Summary:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Even death can’t keep him
From finding his way back to you.
Quick facts: Romance – [established] Gabriel/Reader – Nondescript Reader
Warnings: Angst-ish with a happy ending, many flashbacks handle it, use of ‘sugar’ as a term of endearment for a gender-neutral reader
Prompt: Written for @gabriel-monthly-challenge’s February prompt: Spin the Wheel. I landed on “A Dozen Red Roses”. Tagging @archangelgabriellives, @archangel-with-a-shotgun , @archangelsanonymous, @ttttrickster, @warlockwriter, and @revwinchester.
Words: 2459
Special Context Note: For people who might not know: “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree” was a popular song in the seventies (I think?) performed by Dawn feat. Tony Orlando (I do recommend it; it’s a good song). It’s told from the perspective of a man writing to his lover after having been away for a few years. He tells her that if she wants him still, she can tie a yellow ribbon around a certain tree and he’ll come home, but if he doesn’t see it, he’ll assume she doesn’t want him back and he’ll keep going and never bother her again.
A/N: That summary is a little more sinister than I intended. Sorry, no dark!Gabriel here. Or “The Crow” AU. (Though hm, that’s a possible idea.) This is kind of an alt S5 post-“Hammer of the Gods” where Gabriel doesn’t go to Loki et al. This is sort of similar in premise to some other stuff I’ve written so I apologize to the people who follow me. Ironically, despite the title, this story was actually written to repeat listening of “11 Minutes” by Halsey and Yungblud feat Travis Barker ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Please enjoy! (PS: In case my formatting gets fucked up, flashbacks are encompassed by tildes (~).)
You feel like you’ve gotten used to the silence.
Sure, you had periods of it before– spending 24/7 with a sometimes-manic archangel is a pre-requisite for madness– but those quiet moments without him had always felt like in-betweens. Small breaks, or minor reprieves, sometimes purposefully taken, and sometimes just waiting. Gabriel could have popped in at any moment.
Now he can’t.
You can say you’re mostly okay now. Mostly. You’ve lost before and you’ll lose again. It’s the nature of things, just being in the world as it is. Being a hunter in it means you’ll do it over and over and over again.
It doesn’t make it ache any less.
But you’re still going, because it’s what you’ve always done and it’s what you’ll always do. Right now you’re on your way to a small desert town that seems convinced it’s living out the movie “Tremors,” and going by the reports, you can see why. You feel a smile creep onto your lips. Gabriel would have found it funny.
~
“Have you been terrorizing a small city in Wisconsin in your spare time?” you ask and flick Gabriel with your big toe.
“Ooo, Wisconsin. Sounds like a party,” Gabriel says out loud, but the look he gives you asks, ‘Really?’ and he holds out a piece of whatever candy he’s focused on now. You trade him for the paper and take a bite while he skims the story.
He snorts and tosses it down. “Amateur. Credit for style though; there’s worse you could do than a Mel Brooks homage.”
You roll your eyes and finish swallowing. “I’m sure the three victims would agree with you, if they could.” You fold up the newspaper and set it aside from the massive stack of other regional papers that Gabriel had whined about, and yet gotten for you anyway. “I’ll head out tomorrow.”
“So you’re done working now?” Gabriel asks. He sits up and puts a piece of chocolate between his teeth, makes sure half of it is sticking out, and waggles his eyebrows.
You laugh and lean forward, bracing yourself with your hands as you stretch to meet his mouth with yours. Just as you’re about to gently bite on the chocolate, it vanishes, and Gabriel slips his tongue into your mouth instead.
Once you’ve had your fill of each other (for the moment) you can’t help how big you smile. “You’re so cheesy sometimes.”
He grins. “Sugar, you have no idea.”
~
You need a shower.
Badly.
You don’t feel the slime as much as you did when the constructs first exploded, but you don’t count that as a good thing, because it’s still there and you keep getting reminded of that whenever you shift. The day is dry and warm and a wind rushes across the desert landscape. When you step out of the car a strong gust blows past you and you shield your eyes until the air settles back to its steady pace. You get to your room and put your key in the lock when something catches your eye.
All down the sidewalk are cutouts in the concrete, just spaces of dirt that look like they’re supposed to be planters. Some of them have scattered cacti, but most are empty. Yours was empty, you're fairly certain, but now there’s a spindly long-stemmed something, being blown to the side and clinging to the dirt with nothing but tenacity. You kneel down to get a better look and–
it’s a rose.
Your breath catches in your throat. Not even a desert rose; a real, thorned rose, with petals that have obviously been sandblasted for a while and a thin stem that looks sickly.
But a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.
~
There are flowers everywhere.
Gabriel really likes this place. He’s been here for a couple of months, and it shows; every day he’s seen you (almost every single day, as of late,) he’s given you flowers– a bouquet of twelve red roses. And, as you haven’t exactly had places to put them, he has graciously offered to ‘keep them somewhere safe.’
So of course there are dozens (of dozens) of roses scattered all around the room, still miraculously alive. Heavy emphasis on the miracle.
“You're the one who said I was cheesy,” Gabriel says and sits down, but puts his drink on the side table. Champagne, of course, and he’s even wearing a ridiculous red and black patterned robe. It’s a testament to how much you like him that you are not making fun of him right now.
But you can admit you do like the roses. The petals are soft and they smell nice. You look up from your bouquet to see Gabriel smiling at you. The softness of his expression throws you off and you hide the lower half of your face in the flowers. “Why always roses?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” His smile turns all trickster. “It’s just what they have at the grocery store.”
You hit him with the bouquet hard enough that he falls off the bed. Well, his mad laughter probably helped, but you’ll still take credit for it. Asshole.
~
Someday, sentiment is going to get you killed.
You pick the rose anyway.
The young couple currently having their first date is pretty cute. Now that you’re not annoyed by them blocking the door, you can appreciate the beginning a new relationship. And it’s going to be one; they’re both all soft smiles and longing glances and dumbstruck lovelorn expressions. One of them keeps fidgeting with their hands, and the other shifts an enormous bouquet from arm to arm. You note the roses, of course, but it’s made up of a lot of other flowers too. It’s very pretty– and must have cost a fortune. You smile. Explains the coffee date.
~
“You work too much.”
“You’re a needy guy, aren’t you?” you ask and glance up from the screen. “Five more minutes, Gabriel. Then I’m all yours.”
He huffs and flops onto the table, head in his arms and pouting and grumbling enough to draw attention. You roll your eyes and, while he’s distracted, kiss the crown of his head.
He stops grumbling. But the next time you take a sip of your drink it’s like shoving pure sugar down your throat and you choke.
His smile is almost as saccharine. “I just wanted to make it as sweet as you.”
You stare at him and calmly wipe your mouth. “Twenty minutes.”
He sputters in protest.
“I’ll knock it down to ten if you walk up to the counter, wait in line, and buy me a replacement. With money.”
He starts muttering again. But he gets up.
~
You look at your computer and think about actually trawling for hunts, but, well, your coffee cup is empty and who can be asked to work under such inhumane conditions? You hop off the stool and almost crunch a stray rose underfoot. It must have been dropped by the happy couple by the door. As you pick it up you wonder how you’re going to interject and give it back, but when you stand, they’re already gone.
You look back at the flower. It’s truly lovely; obviously well cared for (and not just shoved in a fridge at a grocery store, Gabriel). You smile at the thought of his indignance, and set the rose on the table. It would be a shame to let it get thrown out, so you’ll take care of it.
Even at the end of the world, there are still mundane monsters to kill. You’re leaving a very shaken family with one less poltergeist and a lifetime therapy to look forward to (at least they have a have a lifetime, now,) when the youngest daughter runs up to you and holds up a rose. “Here! This is for you.”
Though you thank her and take it, the mom echoes your concerns when she asks, “Honey where did you get that?”
“I found it,” the kid chirps, like that’s all you need to know.
It’s a real rose with almost no thorns and a yellow ribbon tied around the stem. That’s an odd thing to just find. But the house has settled and you figure you can burn this and stick around for a day or two, just in case. You thank the little girl again, bid goodbye to her sisters and parents, and as you go you start to tuck the flower away when you see a small embroidered symbol on the ribbon.
An Enochian symbol.
As you speed away, you barely resist the urge to chuck that fucking flower out the window. You want to. But at the same time, you can’t bring yourself to do it.
Fucking asshole.
~
“I need to understand!”
Gabriel shoves you up against the wall. Not hard enough to hurt, but it does stun you– for a second. His grip is too light and his expression too conflicted for him to convince you what a ‘monster’ he is. “You’re not that kind of person,” you say and stare him down. “So why do you want me to think you are?”
Gabriel jerks, but you grab onto his jacket and yank him back in. “What are you so afraid of, Gabriel?” you whisper. “I’m the one thing in the universe you don’t have to fear.”
Gabriel leans in, close enough to kiss. Your eyes shut on instinct. Or maybe it’s Pavlovian.
“You're the one thing in the universe I have to fear the most.”
Air brushes past your lips, the pressure of his body releases, and you open your eyes to empty space.
~
He had come back within a day, as soon as you had asked, and said ‘I’m sorry’ in every conceivable way without ever saying it with his mouth. (Well, verbally, that is.) At the time, you figured it was fine.
And maybe it was. Now that you’ve had a few days to freak out, get your hopes up and down and all around, you feel a little calmer. You have the roses set aside and the ribbon spread out on the bed while you sit with your Enochian dictionary. Gabriel wouldn’t lead you along willy-nilly. You have faith (just a little) that this means something.
And if this does turn out to be some “Drink your Ovaltine” bullshit you are going to find out how to travel back in time so you can murder him with your own two hands.
It takes a while, but you find the word, and then use a few other dictionaries and translation sites to get it into English. You check it five times, in different ways, and then sit, chest swelling with hope that you’re not sure you can handle.
‘Healing.’
You want to believe, but a rough translation boiled down to its essential part can’t make you Mulder. You put the books away and lean back against the headboard, just trying to process, when something ‘thump!’s against your door. You grab your gun and stay alert as you check the outside area, but as far as you can see, there’s no one.
But there are three roses, piled neatly just in front of the door. You smile. Because really– you’re skeptical, but you’re not stupid. You pick them up and put the flowers to your face while you mind the thorns. You’re pretty good at that by now.
“Okay,” you say and nuzzle the petals. “I’ll wait.”
You find five more roses over the next couple of weeks in utterly random places. On your pillow. In a sewer. In your water glass after you turn away for a second. In the basket you grab at a grocery store. On your passenger seat. That last one makes you ache.
That night, when you open your book and find eight perfectly placed rose petals, you almost cry. Twelve roses. It’s always been a dozen, so that means he’s coming back, right? He doesn’t appear right away, but you go to bed hopeful.
Except he’s not there in the morning.
Or the afternoon.
Or the evening. Or…
It’s late on the third day of waiting and hope is fading fast. You hit your forehead on your steering wheel and whisper, “Where are you?” Did you misread things? Was this set up in advance? Did he mean for you to heal? Was someone messing with–
Your radio comes on without any prompting and you jolt up. You’re so busy trying to look for danger that you don’t recognize the song at first.
“–nt me, if you still want me
Whoa tie a yellow ribbon round the ole oak tree…”
You blink. You stop being afraid. And start being annoyed. “Are you fucking serious?”
But the song plays on, and the volume even gets jacked up. “A SIMPLE YELLOW RIBBON’S WHAT I NEED TO SET ME FREE–”
“Okay!” You turn the radio off and sit in silence for a few moments before you burst into tears and laughter both. “Fuck; you’re such an asshole,” you say, with wet eyes and a smile full of teeth.
You consider trying to track down a bonsai or some plastic palm tree, but you’ve waited long enough. Still, when you get back to your room you go through all the motions of getting ready to go to sleep. Once you’re actually sitting on the bed, you put the yellow ribbon to your wrist and manage to tie a messy bow.
You lie down, exhausted by days of constant, immense stress, and sigh. As you drift off to sleep you think, ‘I’m ready, Gabriel.
Come home.’
It happens without fanfare. You simply wake to an arm around your stomach, and a morning still dark.
“Hey,” you say, sleep-addled.
Gabriel chuckles. “Hey.”
You’ve never heard anything so beautiful, even as rough as his voice is. “You sound tired.”
“Yeah.” Gabriel presses closer to you. “Almost getting murdered by your own brother is pretty exhausting.”
“Hm.” That’s a conversation for later. Or never, depending on how stubborn Gabriel wants to be. Either way, not now. Not when you’ve got him back. You turn over and wrap yourself around him. “It’s okay,” you say. “Go to sleep. I’ve got you.”
He gives you a wry smile, but whatever snarky way you expect him to say ‘I don’t sleep’ doesn’t happen. He shuts his eyes, and you hold tight. “I’m glad you came back,” you say. “Even if I don’t have a hundred ribbons.”
He shifts with quiet laughter. “That’s all right.” He holds your wrist and places a kiss that straddles the ribbon and your skin. “I only need the one.”
#spn gabriel#gabriel x reader#spn fanfic#spn reader insert#Supernatural fanfic#red roses#tie a yellow ribbon round the ole oak tree
108 notes
·
View notes
Text
Human Canvas | Bang Chan
✧ Genre: Soulmate!au, fluff, wee angst
✧ Summary: You were six years old when you got an inkling of what kind of person your soulmate is; they would draw little doodles on their arms all day, and you would draw back. But as an adult, its as if you two are at war with each other, with them covering your right arm with tattoos and you occasionally painting on your left arm for the fun of it.
✧ Word Count: 2.9k
✧ Want to read other parts of this series? Check out my masterlist!
✧
Growing up as a child in the era of booming technological advances and rising platforms of social media, it was hard not to become a member of at least one standing media presence. In your case, you were a well-known star on Instagram, showing off your strange yet classical renditions of paintings on the canvases covered with colors - or, on other occasions, your left arm.
As a child you loved to experiment with colors and silly doodles, even if you didn't have the creative capacity to paint your own designs. Your mother would frequently have to force you to take baths so she could scrub the childish splashes of color off of your arm - however on one occasion, you had noticed a little sketch of what looked to be a sad excuse of a shark on your right arm. Here’s the thing, your right hand was the only one that could paint or draw, so you had zero clue as to how or why the shark got on there.
When you’d asked your mother about it, her lips had suddenly parted as wide as the sea. “Honey, quick - write something on your arm!” She had told you, her shaking fingers handing you a blue-ink pen she had been writing with just moments ago. You didn't question her, since you were still just a kid that listened dutifully to everything your parents told you to do, and wrote out the word ‘hello.’ on your left arm.
Within seconds you felt a strange sensation on your opposite arm; when you glanced over at it in confusion, you saw red ink being scribbled onto your bare skin to spell out ‘who are you?’
That same day, your mother had the “the talk” with you - in which she explained that every single person on Earth had someone they were essentially destined to be with; no one knew why or how it came to be, but the evidence was there.
Your mother recounted on how she found her soulmate, your father, in high school. Apparently her bond was one where she could write something down, anything, on any sort of material and it would appear on the closest object (albeit reasonable) within minutes by your father. It was somewhat similar to your bond with this other kid, except if you drew something on your skin, it would appear on the same part of his body in seconds.
The boy you were bonded with, Chan, was apparently ambidextrous but preferred writing with his left hand, which was why he never doodled on the same arm as you. Within months you two had made interesting splashes of colors, silly sketches, and much more on each other’s skin.
However, as you got older, this came to be a rather pressing issue; in one of your college classes, you had been in the midst of a serious presentation when the professor cleared his throat awkwardly to signal you to stop. You’d looked over to him in confusion, as well as your giggling classmates, only to glance down at your right arm now covered in some rather... inappropriate designs. Why did you have to wear short sleeves that day?
In retaliation, you casually asked Chan what classes he took at school and when he had them; clearly he mistook your questions as just plain old curiosity, because the next day during his history class you had decided to paint a mural of bright yellows and pinks onto his skin. He was stuck with the neon colors all day, as none of his friends would lend him a jacket or coat in favor of laughing their asses off at him.
From then on it was like an all out war - he would doodle obscurities on your arm and you would stain his some ugly combination of colors. Then, one day, you’d woken up to a fucking tattoo on your right arm.
You were tempted to rant about it in a caption on a post, but decided you were better than that. Instead you took out all of your frustrations on painting your left arm with a plethora of delightful blues and yellows, creating a sort of rendition to the piece Starry Night by Van Gogh.
You snapped a picture of your artwork, feeling quite proud of yourself, and posted it on your Instagram page, it being only one of the many other art pieces you had on your page. In minutes the comments had been flooded with mostly positive remarks and a few mindful critiques, not that you minded; feedback was feedback, and all of it would hopefully further your progress as an aspiring artist.
Still, you knew that you needed to find Chan before he put even more tattoos on your body; you were a person who kind of needed to be presented as classy, and that meant no tattoos on your skin - sure you found it ridiculous, but you also didn't mind the pay you got from your job at the hospital.
“Y/N - is that, is that a tattoo?”
“For the love of - zip it, Minho!” You hiss at your amused yet stunned coworker, a fellow nurse by the name of Lee Minho. Both of you had gone through the basic stages of medical school together, and now you both happened to be some of the best nurses the hospital had seen in ages; so naturally, the two of you were rather close. “I didn't choose to have it, okay? That stupid soulmate of mine got it a few weeks ago.” You explain softly under your breath so passing doctors and nurses couldn't hear you.
Minho lets out a small noise of understanding, though his lips are still pulled into an amused smirk. “I see, I see. But why don't you just let it be seen, it's actually really cool.”
You sigh at his question, knowing he was just curious as to why you didn't want to show it off or anything. It wasn't like tattoos weren't allowed, per say, but you knew that it came off as more professional if the ink wasn't visible, no matter how cool it looked on your arm. “It’s just more professional this way, Minho. Don't get me wrong, I think the design is really interesting and beautiful, but now I have to wear long sleeves even though its hot as hell in here.”
“Fair point. So, you don't know where this Chan guys lives, or what his full name is?” The nurse asks, waving to a senior doctor that passes by you with a clipboard in hand.
“Nope.” You reply simply.
“Then why not ask him? All you need to do is write it somewhere on your arm, right?” He presses on, the curiosity eating him alive as to why you hadn't just asked your soulmate who exactly he was and where he lived so you two could actually meet each other.
You blink at him, once, twice, and then once more. “You... have a point,” you admit to the man, who is now smirking all too victoriously at you, “but - whenever I asked for his name all those years ago, he said that his nickname was Chan. I’m guessing he doesn’t like his real name or isn’t ready to find me yet.”
Minho whines at your explanation, his fingers going to the that had ridden up to expose the ink, tugging it down for you. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask now, right? I mean, you’re both adults now. There’s no way that he doesn’t want to meet you yet.”
You shrug softly to yourself, subconsciously tracing over the part of the sleeve that was covering the tattoo. While you had been ready to finally meet your soulmate, you had an odd hunch that Chan just wasn't ready, and you were afraid to accidently pressure him into it so soon.
“I’ll think about it.”
About a week later you finally decided that you really needed to find Chan, because he had gotten yet another tattoo on his arm - now along with the stunning rose covered in dark thorns just under your shoulder, there was a shorter cluster of thorny stems; it seemed like he was working towards getting a full sleeve.
It's not like you disliked the tattoos - in fact, you were amazed that you didn’t have to go through the pain or process of spending the money on the beautiful designs. You just wanted to lay out a few ground rules - like, nothing on the face... what, tons of people got face tattoos these days, you had a right to be worried about what else the guy wanted on his - and your - skin.
You’d been in the middle of scrolling through your feed, a french fry lazily resting between your lips as you nibbled on the salty snack, your eyes trained on the bright screen of your phone. Suddenly you stopped mid chew, eyes widening at what had caught your attention.
It was the same exact tattoo inked onto your right arm, except the stems had been extended towards the wrist where they wrapped around the skin to look like roots, and there were falling, wilting rose petals drifting down the sketch. Within seconds you had clicked on the suggested account’s username, waiting anxiously as it redirected you to an account run by what appeared to be a tattoo parlor. If you were right about the sleeve being an original design, then that meant there was a big possibility Chan had gotten his ink done at this particular parlor.
Furthering your investigation and completely abandoning the fries next to you, you click on the linked website in the parlor’s description, praying it wasn’t too far away.
Oh my god, you thought to yourself in a mixture of pure shock and growing excitement, staring at the directions from the map that had popped up when you allowed it to use your location, its only three miles away!
Not caring that you were still wearing loose sweatpants covered in cat hair along with a baggy, very wrinkled shirt, you literally jumped out of bed to run and slip a pair of shoes on, swinging your door open and shutting it quickly. You stared down at your phone as you hopped into your car, activating the GPS as you began your drive to the tattoo parlor.
The entire drive you felt like you were either going to puke or cry - maybe both. After all this time, after all those years of communicating through scribbles of messily written words on your skin, along with the silly drawings, you might actually be able to meet Chan... your soulmate.
When you arrived it was just another hour before it closed for the night, so you could only hope that someone working there would recognize the tattoo on your arm and be able to tell you who else got it recently. You quickly locked your car, nearly dropping your keys you were so jittery, and walked into the parlor. At the front desk there was a man with dyed blonde hair and darker brown roots, and the second you walked in he had glanced up at you with a warm, welcoming smile.
“H-hi,” you breathe out after a second of silence, still trying to catch your breath from rushing out of your house so fast, “um, weird question, but has anyone else gotten a tattoo like this recently?” You ask the receptionist, turning and lifting your sleeve so the entire piece was visible.
The man lets out a small hum, looking up at you from the desk curiously. “Our main tattoo artist designed that himself a while ago, he’s been working up to a full sleeve since about... four weeks ago, maybe?”
“Is - is his name Chan, by chance?”
“That’s his sort of nickname around here, yeah. His actual name is Chris. Are you... a friend of his?” He asks you, chuckling softly at your disheveled head of hair and red cheeks. Clearly you had been in a rush.
You shake your head at first, but remember that you are the guy’s soulmate, and technically you have known each other since you were kids - in a sense. “Is he here, right now?”
The receptionist nods again, jerking his head to a door behind the desk. “Yeah, he’s alone cleaning up right now. Go ahead.”
You send him a thankful smile, nearly stumbling into the corner of his desk as you walk slowly towards the door that is acting as the only barrier between yourself and your soulmate. Your mind is screaming at you to walk away out of sheer fear, but your heart is pounding so hard in your chest that you ignore any other thoughts racking your brain - and you walk inside.
Holy shit he’s gorgeous. Is the first thing that pops inside your head when your eyes land on the man, his right arm dotting the same tattoo on yours, his hair a pretty sort of silver color. The man raised an eyebrow at you, then glanced down at your arm as you quite literally held it out towards him.
“Um... what am I looking at?” Chan hesitates on his words, glancing back up at you in confusion. Your eyebrows furrow in wonder; was he seriously choosing now of all times to play around?
“We have the same tattoo, Chan - it’s me, Y/N!” You insist after an awkward pause, only to recoil in shock as his eyes narrow into a glare.
“Alright sweetheart, you’ve gotta be high as shit right now because I don’t see one dot of ink on that damn arm.” The artist retorts lowly, as if he was offended by your rash outburst. “I don’t believe you - Y/N would have to have my design on her arm, and you don’t.”
Your lips part in hurt, and a bit of... pride? Here Chan was, standing right before you with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring down at you because he thought you were some random chick claiming to be his soulmate.
Then it hit you.
“Um - you know what - never mind, I guess I got confused.” You apologize to the man. “Actually I came in to get a - a tattoo. I completely forgot to make an appointment, so I can come back tomorrow or-”
“Just lay down and tell me what you want, I could care less about an appointment right now. No one else is scheduled to come in.” Chan instructs and you listen, going to lie down on the leather chair. You were nuts - here you were, getting your first real tattoo just to try and prove that you were his soulmate. Were there easier ways to do so? Obviously, but the adrenaline pumping through your veins mixed with the loss of any rational thought had skewed any other possible plans to convince Chan of your identity.
“Can I get... three birds on the back of my shoulder?” You blurt out suddenly, knowing that it was a simple tattoo. Chan hums at your choice, telling you to lift your shirt off so he can prep your skin. He tells you that he has a design like that and shows it to you for approval, and you of course nod in agreement and wait for him to get everything ready.
The next thirty minutes go by as a blur, with Chan inking your left shoulder with tiny black birds and tiny details of wind and feathers. Once he’s done patching it up, you tap his arm to catch his attention.
“Can you um... look at your shoulder?” You ask him, your cheeks heating up when he snorts at you in disbelief. You’re not sure if he’s just trying to flatter you, since to him you were some weirdo who’d popped into his tattoo parlor out of nowhere for no real rhyme or reason; but he does as you suggest, walking over to a mirror hung onto the wall. He dips the hem of his shirt downward and tilts his head to see - nothing.
There wasn’t a trio of black birds on his skin.
“Holy shit - you really are Y/N, aren't you?”
You glance up at the baffled man in bewilderment, wondering how he had figured it own even though your tattoo hadn’t showed up on his shoulder.
“Didn't you... didn't you see the birds?” He questions you quickly, only to furrow his eyebrows when you shake your head slowly. “Wait - maybe, maybe we can’t see what we’ve done to the other person’s body - I’ve heard of it before, in cases like this-” The silver haired man starts to speak a mile a minute, taking short steps towards you with each rushed word that escaped his lips.
“Sometimes, when soulmates are close to each other in terms of distance, the bond acts on its own and can make a sort of - barrier, I guess? Here, look at your wrist.” He says after he’s grabbed a stray pen from his cluttered counter, doing a quick doodle on his own wrist. You flatter him, looking down to see a cute little smiley face staring back up at you - then you glance to his wrist, seeing the same exact doodle in black ink.
“You can see it, right?” You nod, too shocked to speak. You had finally found him, your actual soulmate.
Chan lets the pen drop to the floor and wraps his arms around your body tightly, pulling you into his chest.
“You found me, Y/N.”
✧
A/N - thanks, I hate it! :)
#skzwriters#stray kids au#stray kids imagines#stray kids scenarios#stray kids drabbles#stray kids#stray kids soulmate au#bang chan#chan soulmate au#chan scenario#chan imagine#stray kids angst#stray kids fluff
997 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Bachelorette
Words: 6.4k of absolute garbage.
Genre: Crack - but it’s more like trash.
Summary: A shit version of BTS members in the reality television show The Bachelorette. I tried.
Notes: Happy Two Years, folks! To commemorate the anniversary of this writing blog, I wanted to draw back to the first thing I’ve ever posted here, which was a garbage drabble. Hence, here is an equally garbage short fic! Enjoy!
The screen flashes to white and scarlet rose petals begin to fall from the blue sky. There’s a tickering laughter and a chiffon dress that drags against the sand, high heels stopping.
“She’s the entire package. Brains, beauty, strength, personality.”
“Beautiful.” “Stunning.” “Gorgeous.” “Incredible.” “The real deal.”
You radiantly smile, blinding those around you as another laugh spills from your lips. The lovely flowers fall upon your hair and skin, decorating your body and causing you to blink away the ones that tickle your visage. “I’ve waited my entire life for this. And I’ve never been more ready to find love.”
“Y/N is the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”
“She could really be the one.”
“But there’s never love without war.” Instantaneously, the monitor switches to several screens, flashing back and forth between them. “And the most shocking moment in Bachelorette history-”
You’re sobbing and crying, throwing a lamp across the room that silences every man. “Do you even care about me?”
A person is seen shaking their head directly at the camera in a private room. “Tensions are rising and it’s becoming unbearable. I just think he’s not here for the right reasons. And if it were me, I would never hurt Y/N like that. I only need a chance to prove it.”
“I’m really going to fight you!”
“None of them care as much as I do.”
“I’m not here to play games. I’m here to find love.”
There’s a massive ‘boom’ sound effect and the camera pans down to a polished man in a suit, hands behind his back as he strides out of a garden at night. “Hi, I’m Chris Harrison. Welcome to an exciting new season of the Bachelorette. Over the years we’ve had a lot of Bachelors and Bachelorettes come and go. But never have we seen anything like this before.”
“Y/N, our new bachelorette, has it all. She has a stable career, friends and a loving family. But from one bad romantic relationship to the next, she’s given up on love. Almost. That’s where we come in. Y/N can not only find love right here but find hope again. Let’s take a closer look at our new Bachelorette.”
The scene changes again, this time directly on you doing various activities, from going to the gym to cooking in the kitchen to entering your workplace. “I’m L/N Y/N, I’m twenty five and this is my last chance to find love!”
“All my life, I’ve been searching for my Mr. Right to sweep me off my feet and I think now’s the time. I’m ready to embark on this journey to finding love and opening my heart up. Who knows, maybe I’ll fall head over heels for one of these men.” A tinkering giggle streams from your mouth, a charming grin to match. It fades to black.
The nervousness begins to ebb at your bones. The cool night breeze laces through the strands of your hair and the light fabric of your red dress, flowing between your legs. Despite claiming so many times that you’re prepared, you’re not so sure anymore. This might be the defining moment. One of these people might actually be it. This would be the story that you tell to your future children.
A nervous laugh breaks through your pink lips, bated breath held between teeth and from your spot by the front mansion doors, you can see a black limousine begin to drive up. Eventually, it pulls over by the curb and the door opens.
A man with a half-eye moon smile appears in a crisp suit, his round cheeks nearly bursting and he tips his black fedora as he walks up the steps towards you. “Evening, milady. You are the most beautiful lady I have ever seen in my entire life. Not even the stars shine as brightly as you do. You are my lady of the night.”
You laugh, already melting from his sweet words. “Oh, you’re too kind.”
The screen switches, flashing over to the man knotting his tie correctly in the mirror. His voice layovers his actions. “I’m Park Jimin, twenty six years old and I’m a dental hygienist. I’m also a part-time model but a full-time women respector. I don’t understand why women are so mistreated in our society and in our world. It’s such a shame but I’m not like that. All I want is to share my life with someone special and I think Y/N can be the one. I know out of all the guys, I’m the only one who can treat Y/N right.”
The stranger reaches out, taking the back of your hand and laying a gentle kiss with his plump lips. “My name is Jimin and I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.”
He comes across as sweet and his aura is warm. Immediately, you feel at ease and you match his wide smile. “Well then Jimin, I’m looking forward to getting to know you too. I’ll see you inside the house.”
With a smile still plastered across your face, you patiently await for the next car. Once it parks and the door opens, you're instantly blown away.
“Hey, babe.” He winks. “The name’s Kim Namjoon. I'm twenty eight, personal trainer and I'm tired of working out my biceps, I want to work out my heart next.” The monitor alters to the dirty blonde doing push-ups on the gym floor, flexing in the mirror as well, wearing a thin tank top and black snapback. “My ex was crazy and it really messed me up. I'll admit, in the past few years, I've been a serial romantic but I really think Y/N can change me. I really hope she gives me a chance and we can see where this goes.”
Dimples crease on each side of his cheek, locks swept away from his forehead, right above his brow and he digs his hands deep into his pants pocket, casually strolling up to you. “Damn baby girl, why do you look so sexy tonight?”
You blush. “You’re too sweet.”
Namjoon reaches behind into his pocket and pulls out a single red rose. “I know you’re the one who’s supposed to give me one, but I decided to be the one to give it to you this time. You’re not like the others, Y/N. You’re beautiful and I hope you can open your heart to me.”
Without waiting for a response, he opens his arms, giving you a light squeeze before putting the flower in your hand and whisking away inside the mansion. You’re left a little awestruck before you clear your throat, turning back to the open road and waiting for the next person. But as a few seconds draws out to a few minutes, you grow increasingly confused. There are no cars approaching, or the sound or wheels rolling on the asphalt road.
It’s only after the longest eternity that you catch a silhouette making its way up the path.
The man-...boy...well you couldn’t be sure what since he wasn’t wearing a suit but a black sweater with the hood draped on his head, practically covering his eyes, strides forward. He was gliding as he walked too, ghostly steps that made you blink twice, wondering if it was really a phantom that was about to be caught on television. “Umm...hello?”
You attempt to dip down to catch his eyes but he flinches away and you notice his adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Hello.” His voice is smooth, melodic but quiet. “Nice to meet you.”
“My name is Jeon Jungkook.” There’s a dramatic sound effect and he’s found seated in a chair, in a dark corner with the curtains drawn. “I’m twenty four. Unemployed.” There’s more unsettling music that follows and he stares straight into the lense of the camera as if transfixed by his own reflection within it.
There’s a mysterious aura to him that you can’t quite put your finger on. But there’s no denying a slight magnetic attraction you feel towards the individual. Even from the corner of his hood, as you catch a slight smile of his lips, you feel your chest soaring. Though, it doesn’t last long.
He dips his head in a slight bow again and scurries away into the house, leaving you winded and speechless. You giggle at the strange behaviour but no sooner is the next person arriving, in a complete opposite fashion.
There’s loud drums that follow, people with instruments strapped onto their body. The tall man saunters up to you, dancing in a toilet costume. It’s ridiculous and makes you squeeze your stomach in laughter. “My name is Taehyung and I’ll take all the shit you throw at me!”
“Taehyung! Twenty seven and I’m a dental hygienist. In my spare time, I like to take long walks by the beach and write poetry. I like to play games and run around as well. All my life, I was never that great in school and even though my parents said it was okay, I still felt a missing piece in my life. It was only recently that I figured it out it wasn't about school at all but love. As long as Y/N sees me for who I am, I know she’ll like me!”
The strands of his brown hair poke out from his costume and you smile. “Looks like you’ll flush away my problems too, huh?” His boxy smile appears in return and he nods. You admit he’s a real cutie and you have to give him extra points on creativity, his hard efforts and how hard he made you laugh. He’s a funny one and it makes it all that more enticing. “I’ll see you inside.”
You’d never admit it, especially not when cameras are rolling a few meters away but you’re beginning to feel exhausted and overwhelmed, having been bombarded with handsome men for the past hour. Apparently there’s only three more left and you feel relieved but any exhaustion is quickly washed away when the familiar black limousine pulls up by the curb.
The door opens. You legitimately gasp aloud.
Tall. Dark. Handsome.
Anything you could’ve possibly wished for or imagined is put in a one package, one human. Your lashes flutter a few times, trying to make sure you’re not dreaming and the person smiles, buttoning up their suit and approaching the cobblestone steps in steady strides. He approaches you with a hesitant smile, the tips of his ears in a flaming hue of red and you bet your own cheeks are in the same exact shade.
“Hi.”
You nearly swoon right then and there. “Hi.”
“I’m Kim Seokjin.” He smiles and decides to shake your hand. His grasp is gentle, his smile a bit shy and perhaps even coy. Once he’s let go of you, you secretly yearn for his touch. “And I’m sorry but I don’t have any cheesy line or any special performance to show you. It’s just me.”
He shows himself in his most truest form, without any of the sparkles or pizzazz, any special one liners or winks. And somehow, it’s overpowering.
“Hello.” He smiles towards the audience, sitting straight in a chair. “My name is Kim Seokjin, I’m twenty five years old and I’m a dental hygienist. I’m not sure how I can describe myself. Um, I live a pretty mundane life. I go to work, come home and wind down but I really want to find someone special where I can share my life with. While I might not be one of the most exciting contestants this season, I really hope Y/N will be able to feel my sincerity. I’m looking for love and if she happens to be the right one, then I won’t hesitate.”
A childish, school girl giggle spills from your lips and you downcast your head, feeling too flustered to face him. “It’s alright. I don’t need anything, you’re already really sweet. Thank you.”
“I..umm…” He lingers for a second. “I guess I’ll see you inside.”
You hum, watching his backside disappear. “Yeah…”
There might be something there, you just can’t quite pinpoint it yet.
A man emerges from the bushes with a lopsided grin. “My name is Min Yoongi. I’m a twenty-five, a dental hygienist and I know Y/N is the one. I know it. I feel it. I even went a medium and our energy, it matches. Even our MBTI and our horoscopes. I didn’t say it, it’s written in the stars. It’s fate. We’re meant to be soulmates.”
Like his interview, Yoongi emerges from the bushes again by the side of the house and scares you shitless. You scream, jumping back, nearly twisting your ankle from the high heels and you put your hands over your chest, hyperventilating. He’s a bit short-statured but manages to climb over the railings and to the front door. You’re taken back, laughing nervously. “How long were you there for?”
“A while but it’s fine.” He’s without a suit jacket, his white shirt a bit marred from the dirt but he brushes it off, taking a leaf off his mop of black hair. Maybe you should feel a bit scared or be on guard but he has a rather cute aura, rounded cheeks and sleepy eyes. At the very least, he took the word ‘surprise’ with quite a literal meaning.
“Hello, L/N Y/N. My name is Min Yoongi and I’m convinced we’re meant to be.”
“Really now?” You chuckle, put a bit more at ease. “And why is that?”
“Because you’re the most beautiful soul I have ever met and astrology says so. Our ascendants and our venus signs match. The entire constellation graph works. Our MBTI are compatible, even our chinese horoscope claims so.”
You quirk your head to the side, brows furrowing a bit. “How do you know my birthday?”
Yoongi smirks lowly, his voice dropping to a vibrating timbre. “I know a lot of things about you.” He continues before you can further question him, “I already prepared our marriage certificate so the last barrier we need to overcome is this show. Are you ready to conquer this with me?”
“I-…” You nod. “I guess so.”
“Great.” He smiles, giving a gummy grin. “I’ll catch you later then, Y/N.”
The producer a little ways off appears appalled, expression twisted up in distaste but you give a small giggle. You liked all kinds of people, even if they were a bit bizarre and at this point, you were open up to anyone. There was one more person as well, so you try not to let your thought stray too off much and you stay within the present moment, waiting as the black car pulls up.
Unusually, however, it takes a few minutes for the door to open and when it does, the man is seen finishing up some kind of business phone call. As he walks up the steps, he bids the other person on the line farewell, pockets his mobile device and pulls off his sunglasses to meet you. “Hello. I’m Jung Hoseok, entrepreneur and business owner of my own startup company. It’s called Pink Panties, an underwear company. We make it out of the softest fabric-” he turns directly to the camera. “-and the official online shopping website will be launched in 2019.”
“That’s highly impressive.” Being career-oriented yourself, it’s nice to find someone who‘s ambitious as well. When he replies with ‘I’m fully aware’, you laugh.
The man throws his jacket over his shoulder, striding out the door at a quick pace and a million calls blowing up his phone. “I’m Jung Hoseok, entrepreneur and business owner at my own startup company for an underwear company. It’s called Pink Panties, similar to Pink Panther, the movie. Don’t worry, we’re in the process of being patented but we’re a legitimate company and we have many satisfied customer reviews-”
The interview gets cut short.
With no more men to meet, you brace yourself before entering the mansion where all seven contestants will most likely be in the living room, already scouting each other up and sizing the competition. All of them are so vastly different, captivating you in different ways, you’re not so sure what to think. Your brain is jumbled but there’s one thing that you are sure of-
Someone in this room is going to be your future husband.
For the next few days that pass, you spend as much time as you can with the boys, going on dates from each of them. All of the dates are at different venues, from luxurious restaurants to a special locations up the mountains. As you suspect, each of them have their own set of charms and at this point, you don’t know who you like more. All of them have their own qualities.
“I really enjoyed the helicopter ride with Y/N,” Hoseok muses and nods during his interview. “Being up there with her, it felt like we were on top of the world together and we really had a connection. For the first time, I really felt something. I can feel my walls coming down with her. More importantly, my underwear from Pink Panties never once shifted-”
Taehyung gulps, holding your hand while the sun sets and he nearly bumps into the metal pole. You laugh and he sheepishly smiles, scratching the back of his neck.
“The date was awesome but I didn’t get a chance to open up.” Taehyung grimaces, a somber expression written across his face. “It’s just so hard to talk about yourself. I get a bit overwhelmed because Y/N is just so pretty. She should put a bag over her head so I can concentrate better.”
On another outing, Jungkook sits a few meters away from you, his hat doing a good job of covering his face and you can’t even see his eyes from his long brunette bangs. There’s a bit of silence as you watch him and he stares back at you.
During the interview, he says only one thing towards the camera. “I’m really falling for her.”
Of all the men, however, you feel the most disconnected with Namjoon. He’s one of the most brazen and bold when it comes to approaching you, always dropping sweet lines out of nowhere, but you feel he hides his core personality. He’s distant and you’re not sure how to approach it.
“Can I tell you something personal? It’s because my ex was crazy.” He explains as the two of you sit at a bench outside, having your alone time with each other. “It really did some damage to me and I don’t know. I guess I just have a fear of falling in love.”
Your lips are pouty, eyes concentrated on his profile and you hum, acknowledging his tough past.
“Oh please.” Jimin rolls his eyes, tipping his black fedora. “Namjoon is an asshole and he doesn’t know how to treat ladies the way they deserve. He obviously doesn’t know how to treat Y/N they way she deserves. He plays around with women’s feelings and I would never do that. He’s not here for the right reasons.”
“Namjoon.” You reach out to graze his hand and his pupils connect with yours. “Do you trust me?”
There’s a pause and the corner of his mouth draws up into a blazing smile. “Of course I do, baby girl. You're not like the others, Y/N, and I’ve changed. You’ve changed me.”
You stand up, tugging him along and the two of you laugh together. “Then follow me.”
The two of you end up going to a place to skydive. You’ll be falling from the sky to overcome his fear of falling in love. “I feel like this will help us become closer.”
As ridiculous as it may seem, it turns out to be quite fun. It takes a lot of courage to take a step, off the plane but you both cling to your instructors and the adrenaline pulses through your veins. The wind whips through your hair and you scream in excitement. You can also hear his shouts from a ways off but soon, he joins your height and the both of you smile towards each other.
“It was one of the best experiences.” Namjoon breathes out in the interview, “I can really see my walls coming down with her. I thought we really had a connection.”
But it’s not always about you and the dates.
“That kid Jungkook is fucking weird.” Yoongi gives a disgusted expression, lowering his voice into a whisper. “He gives me the creeps.”
Jeon Jungkook is mumbling to himself in the kitchen corner, fiddling with something on a napkin. The moment Seokjin steps into the area, he slams into a moldy scent that singes off his nose hairs. He immediately pinches his nostrils, approaching in slow steps. “Umm...what are you doing?”
The boy in the black hood doesn't respond, simply muttering something incoherent. Jin frowns, swallowing hard. “P-pardon?”
“It's mung beans.” He says and scowls, drifting away from the are and holding the napkin straight to his chest. He enters the dark bedroom and stares at his competition for a minute straight through the crack before shutting the door.
“I’m not here to make friends,” he says during the interview. “I’m here for Y/N.”
As if the tension wasn’t high enough, one day, as you’re chatting with Jin on the sofa, there’s sudden banging on the front door that jolts you up. There’s shouting and screaming that follows, security guards sworming in front of the mansion. And you exchange one look with your current partner before heading upwards, skedaddling behind the other contestants. “What’s going on?”
There’s a slight tug of the corner from Namjoon’s mouth but you don’t notice the discrete movement, not when the rest of his features are appalled. “Taehyung has a girlfriend.”
“What?!”
The cameramen and women are all rushing to capture the scene while the lense practically pokes you in the cheek to take in your surprise and disgust. The other men are obviously completely enjoying the chaos and you all leave the house to watch the commotion by the entrance.
There’s an unfamiliar girl in a pink dress, somehow having climbed over the gate and she’s shrieking at a disorientated Taehyung. “You bitch bastard!”
“Mindy, what are you doing here?” He’s confused, a bit ditzy in the way he quirks his head to one shoulder, blinking innocently like he hasn’t done anything wrong at all.
“Why the fuck do you think I’m here?!” She marches up to him, taking her fist and whipping her arms uselessly at him. Taehyung lets out a few cries of pain and jumps up, just in time for security to grab her. “You lied to me, Taehyung! This isn’t your grandmother’s house!”
“I-uh…” He gulps. “I broke up with you, Mindy. It doesn’t matter.”
“What the hell?!” She fights against the men holding her back but they obviously don’t drag her away, allowing more screen time for this drama to unfold. “You didn't say shit to me! You just texted me that you were leaving and that was it!”
“Umm…” He sheepishly grins. “Oops?”
“What the-” She fights against the security but they finally restrain her from damaging his poor handsome face. “You know what? Go fuck yourself, Taehyung!”
With that, the so-called Mindy is taken and all the cameras point towards the man called and your own stunned expression. The guys try to comfort you, some of them obviously satisfied, but to no avail does it help you.
Namjoon throws his head back, giggling and laughing during the interview. “My god, Taehyung’s an absolute idiot.”
Jimin shakes his head, the fedora on his head shifting with the movement. “That’s not how you treat a lady. That right there is the complete opposite. I don’t think Taehyung or any of these people are here for the right reasons because I would never treat Y/N that way. A real man wouldn’t treat a lady like that.”
As the pandemonium settles down and you find yourself on the sofa in the living room, head in your hands, the others take their chances to swarm and insult the man in question. It’s a serious meeting and you’re nearly in tears, a sense of betrayal overwhelming you. You’ve been on dates with Taehyung, a man that may potentially be your husband, and here he is, having lied to not only you but someone else. That could’ve been you.
“Y/N...” The one that’s caused you so much pain approaches into the spacious, modern living room and the other contestants immediately stand up. “Can I steal you for a second?”
“Hey!” Jimin shoves Taehyung and blocks his way before he can get to you. “Don't talk about her like that! That's not how you treat a lady.”
“It’s fine, Jimin.” You lift your head out of your hands, standing and the sea of men reluctantly parts for you.
Taehyung eyes gaze into yours and he clears his throat. “I have something important to tell you.”
“Okay.” You allow him to take you away privately to the gazebo outside of the garden. There’s space between your bodies, one that he maintains out of respect and you prepare for what he’ll say. “What is it?”
“I wanted to say sorry.” Taehyung manages a soft smile. “Things are really complicated and she’s an ex. I broke up with her before I came here. Things weren’t good for a long time so you don’t need to worry about her. I’m here for you, Y/N, and only you.”
There’s a minute as the evening sun dips over the horizon where you soak in his words. While Taehyung is far from being the brightest crayon in the box, you can feel his sincerity and eventually, you nod. “Thank you for telling me this, Taehyung. I know it must’ve been difficult to bring up the past. I appreciate it and I want us to move on from this to get to know each other better.”
“Yes.” He grins. “That’s what I want too.”
At the end of the night, you both end up walking by the poolside together, hand-in-hand, admiring the beautiful city’s view.
But the peace doesn’t last long. Why would it in a house full of testosterone and when this is a reality television show meant to sate drama-thirty folks at home? You should’ve known.
“No one is as dedicated to this relationship as I am.” Min Yoongi puffs out his chest, snickers leaving his lips. “I’m gonna prove it.”
The guy ends up taking a train of cameramen and one of the producers to a tattoo shop. They exchange looks but none of them persuade him otherwise, for the sake of the show’s entertainment. And the guy simply lies down on the table, revealing his slim bicep to the artist.
“Oh. my. god.” You stumble backwards as he peels off the white bandage, having just entered the door and was asked by you where he’s been. The man reveals his still reddened skin but the black ink now entrenched into his flesh. “Yoongi!”
Taehyung appears from behind the pillar, jaw dropped to the ground. “Is that real?”
Yoongi grins a gummy smile, obviously proud of what he’s done. “Of course it is.”
Because right on his arm, is a giant ink picture of your face smiling and your name written in cursive underneath. A tattoo. Real. Permanent. Tattoo. Of your face. And your name.
Namjoon holds his palms up in defeat like he’s surrendering. “Dude got balls, all I’m gonna say.”
Seokjin sighs, dragging a hand over his face. “Why does it feel like I’m the only normal one around here?”
Before you can even address the issue of the tattoo and his horrible logic, there’s yet another issue.
“I’m really going to fight you!” Namjoon bumps his chest against Yoongi’s and the latter releases an icy chuckle.
“You wouldn’t be able to handle this.” His eyebrow cocks. “Not when your only exercise is fucking around.”
“Stop talking shit about and fight me.” And the two of them do just that.
Punches are thrown left and right, kicks and takedowns, bodyslams and chokeholds. They hurl each other left and right, fists aimed at cheekbones and groins. The others gather, Jungkook and Hoseok watching from afar, Jimin trying to intervene with Taehyung and Seokjin completely horrified over the display.
You find yourself by the banister and you wonder if anyone’s even here for you.
You’re sobbing and crying, throwing a lamp across the room that silences every man. “Do you even care about me?”
They stop, in the midst of grabbing the other’s shirt. The guys all turn and you run away with a hand cupping your mouth before embarrassment about the situation can devour you whole.
Park Jimin steals the limelight during the interview, holding his fedora to his chest. “Tensions are rising and it’s becoming unbearable. I just think he’s not here for the right reasons. And if it were me, I would never hurt Y/N like that. I only need a chance to prove it.”
Eventually, Jimin is the one to find you outside weeping and without saying much, he sits beside you and pulls you close, cradling your head and patting your back. You find comfort in his arms, able to calm down and you express your gratitude to his compassion.
Namjoon and Yoongi temporarily make amends for your sake and they both individually apologize. You forgive them, trying to put it behind you and focus on what’s actually important.
But the drama has yet to begin.
“So I had a business call early in the morning. Of course, business at Pink Panties is doing well. We’re able to keep cheap prices while paying our labourers well. Anyways, I really tried to keep my job seperate from the show since I’m here for Y/N but it was a really important emergency.” Hoseok is seated in his chair, one leg thrown over the other and he’s telling the story leisurely like he has all the time in the world. “So, I was trying to find an empty space as to not disturb the others and when I go down the hall and open up the bedroom...you wouldn’t believe what I find.”
“Is it true?” You whip your head away, drying your eyes with a tissue and Namjoon is at a loss of words. You sniffle, shoulders and frame quivering with your sobs. It doesn’t stop no matter how hard you try. And the camera focuses directly on you in a close up shot.
“Baby girl, baby girl. Don’t cry. I...baby girl, there’s only you, I promise.” He holds your hand within his. “We were just hanging out, that’s all. There’s only you in my life. I care about you, Y/N, and only you.”
You get yourself back together, holding up the pieces of your heart with makeshift glue and you gaze right into his eyes. “Namjoon, I want you to be honest with me. We can’t have a relationship, I can’t fall in love with you, if you aren’t honest. I want to trust you. So please, tell me what happened.”
The individual you’re facing is hesitant and you’re sure he’ll find some way to evade. It’s not like you want to hear it aloud anyways. You already know exactly what went on and the anarchy that was happening behind the scenes.
Namjoon slept with the producer.
As if life couldn’t get worse, the next day you wake up, there’s an atrocious cold sore right next to your lip, your throat is sore, you have a throbbing headache and a high fever.
It lasts for four days and on the fifth, the show’s remaining producers decides collectively to bring you to the doctor. What they tell you is equally petrifying to your symptoms- “It’s mono.”
Taehyung tips his head to the side, his lips pouty and eyes far-away in thought. “What’s mono?”
In another interview, Hoseok sighs. “Well, clearly, we know who got it first. Isn’t it obvious?”
“Hoseok said that? Fuck.” Namjoon laughs without mirth reaching his other features. “At least it wasn’t herpes.”
Seokjin exhales the longest breath, his temples already thumping with the added stress of his competitors. “Does this mean we all need to get checked?”
One thing’s for sure, you won’t be locking lips with anyone any time soon.
Yet, out of all the awful things that happen one after another, there are silver linings that occur in between. It’s just...they don’t involve you in any way, shape or form.
“You’re honestly a great guy.” Seokjin muses whilst the two of them are on the terrace together, enjoying some nice drinks, winding down from the eventful day.
“Thanks, bro.” Jimin smiles shyly, his eyes crinkling into half-moons. “To be fair, you’re pretty great yourself.”
There’s a moment taken and Jin sits back in his chair. His face is in a dreamy state, a sigh leaving his smiling lips. “I never thought I would meet such a great friend here. Jimin was an interesting character at first but I’ve gotten to know him and underneath it all, he’s actually a really sweet person.”
Hoseok shakes his head in another interview. “Those two are always going off on their own together and I don’t think they’re here for the right reasons. I’m here for Y/N and I’m not here to make friends. No one in the house knows what they’re doing.”
Jimin sheepishly grins and he shrugs, fussing with his fedora out of nervousness. “Jin and I have a lot in common and I like him a lot. I never thought I’d come on here to find someone so compatible.”
It’s a shit storm. At this rate, you’ll never be able to find love.
But the show must go on. It’s literally in your contract.
The moon is set high in the sky, the mansion quiet like it’s never been before. The lights are dim, candles flickering and lining the walls. All the men come in one by one in single file, gathering inside the room. The tension is high. You didn’t want it to be like this.
“Men.” The show’s host begins, breaking the solemn air. “There’s only six roses this evening. After all of this, one of you will be heading home. I wish you all the best.”
You appear and each of them smile at you, Jungkook chewing on some raw onions and Yoongi smirking at you, his tattoo showing in the flame’s luminescence. Every person has their own set of charms and personalities - you never thought making one decision could be so difficult. “This week has been very difficult for all of us. But for me, this experience is about finding a future and even the hard parts need to happen.”
A rose is held between your fingers and you take a gander around the room, soaking in all their features and all the nervousness found in their eyes. “Namjoon, will you accept this rose?”
He approaches in light strides, a grin plastered across his face. “‘Course I will, babygirl.”
Another one is brought to your hand. “Jimin, will you accept this rose?”
“It would be my absolute honour, milady.” He does an excessive bow in front of you, tipping his black fedora as if you were a princess.
As all the roses are given out and Hoseok’s hands are empty, you walk up to him, throwing your arms over his neck. The man embraces you and you hold back a sob. “I always thought you cared more about your career than me. I’m sorry, Hoseok.”
One ceremony after another. Hundreds of roses given out, red scarlet petals fluttering to the tiled floors. “Yoongi, I hope you can find a good tattoo removal place.”
“I thought we had a connection Y/N.”
“If this is the kind of person you’re looking for, then maybe you shouldn’t be here.”
“My future husband is in this room and it isn’t you.”
“I’m sorry.”
Days and weeks, date after date, kiss after kiss, and rose after rose. At the end, there can only be one.
“So-” The host settles down on the couch, ready to see what juicy details are rushing around in your brain. “-what are you thinking at this very moment, Y/N?”
You’re at a loss for words. “I honestly don’t know. I’m put in a very difficult position, Chris. On one hand, Jin is all I’ve ever dreamed about. He’s sweet and kind. He puts me at ease and I can imagine living a life with him. But then there’s Jimin and he’s sincerely the biggest gentleman I have ever encountered. He stands up for what he believes in, he and I share a lot of beliefs and I love that. There’s a connection there that I can’t refuse.”
The host adores every single word that spills from your lips, especially since it would put the audience in suspense for your choice. “So?”
You’re ready to rip out your hair. “I’m in love with two people!”
It’s the most shocking moment in Bachelorette history.
The entire nation is divided in half, hashtags trending on twitter and people screaming on instagram. But as they watch the scene unravel, you’re put even more crazed.
The breeze twirls into the strands of your hair. The sand is beneath your feet and the waves crash against against the shore, spraying a mist into the air. The candles are lit, glowing with the evening sun that dips on the horizon, reflected in the blue waters. It’s the perfect proposal.
“Y/N, from the first day I met you, I have been stunned. From the very beginning, I could be comfortable with you. I could be myself. You challenge me to be the best version of myself. You made me believe in love again and you are the one who gave me hope again. You are everything that I have dreamed for and more. There’s no one better that I would want to share my future and the rest of my life with. I love you so much. I love you, YN.” He gets down on one knee. “Will you marry me?”
You throw your arms around him. “Of course I will, Ji-”
The screen cuts to black and rose petals sprinkle from the sky.
The Bachelorette - even if it started all over again, you would always choose him.
#bts fanfic#wow I feel like I'm degrading my entire blog by posting this shit storm LOOOL#it's really difficult to write good crack and not bad crack#but YOLO am I riteee?#I'm not gonna even add this to my masterlist#it's just gonna be an easter egg for future readers#and I'm gonna shit myself if people think this is actually good or something#ANYWAYS I want to thank you to all readers and mutuals#whether you've interacted with me a lot or you're completely silent#thank you for existing#without you I wouldn't have been here for two years#I wouldn't have written as much as I did#Thank you.#jimlings
65 notes
·
View notes
Text
Honey | Prologue
It’s simple enough to tell what kind of bee stings you by the markings on their body. The bright golden stripes look the same when a certain amount of anxiety presses against the inside of your mind when a slight buzzing fills the air- but if you really take a moment, just one moment, to sit and look at what it is that’s resting on the soft petals of a flower, you can tell.
The workers are the ones that usually take flight during sweltering summer days when the sun seems to obscure vision and the scent of freshly cut grass fills your lungs. They do their jobs- flying from one soft pad of pollen to another until their too heavy to comprehend making another pit-stop.
I wasn’t always so calm when it came to seeing the little insects. I wouldn’t freeze in my spot and hover closer to get a good look at what exactly had the power to send people running. The first time I was stung was the worst though, a day that I’ll never be able to push from my mind.
It was one of those days where the light lingered in the sky, turning a once vibrant blue to a low hanging navy. The stars were just begging to shine through as the moon made its appearance right above the horizon.
The day was nearing an end, sleep pushing flush against me as I lounged in the long stalks of sweet grass that rose above our shoulders as she gazed above us. The ground was cold despite the heat of the day, my hands folded diligently against my overall coated stomach.
My breath was shallow, heart pounding in my ears as the wheel to my bike continued to turn with slight clicks. I had thrown it down so quickly along the curved edge of the dirt road that I hadn’t given it time to dull to a slow, yet powerful, roll.
The crickets were chirping in tune with the pulse against my wrist as I willed myself to calm down. I would have to get to the house soon- get back to the daily life that was complete with schoolwork and baths, and sleep that I didn’t’ want to fall into.
The pain was brief, an irritation instead of something that was overwhelming. It was a slight burn, my breath flooding my lungs as I pulled myself from the grassy oasis. It was right beneath my elbow.
I blinked feverishly, my mouth suddenly like cotton as the involuntary tears began to cloud my vision. I had been bitten by ants before, had fallen off swings, and taken tumbles on the very bike that was three feet away.
I had never peddled that fast before, not even when the Johnson’s from down the street let their monster of a dog off of its spike studded leash. That dog didn’t’ scare me, and neither did those boys who only wore sweat-stained tank-tops. But the bee that has just dug it’s pointed stinger into my flesh was a different story.
The tears that streaked down dirt-coated cheeks, dripping off my chin and wicking into the fabric of my t-shirt. My knees ached, and breath quickened as I sped past my metal clad mailbox and through the screen door that kept a grated golden yellow reflection from the light.
My mom was cooking- the scent of pot roast coated my lungs in an almost comforting way as I let the door slam behind me. It was loud, enough for my mom to draw in a breath. She had told me a million times not to slam her door. I could slam my door when I moved out- but never hers.
She pulled her attention away from the boiling pot of potatoes. The sunflower wallpaper was so bright against the glow of the kitchen lamps. I squinted, not used to such an artificial thing out of nowhere like that. Her face fell almost immediately as she abandoned her stirring and knelt down in front of me.
Her mousey brown hair pooled in front of deep cobalt eyes, apron bunching at her feet as she was quick to use her thumb to wipe away some of the stray tears that continued to fall from my eyes. “What it is, Avery, did something happen?”
“I don’t know,” I sounded out between quick intakes of air. I was starting to feel dizzy- hyperventilating from the fear of whatever it could be. We had just learned about black widows, the spider with a bright crimson pattern against its thorax. “I got bit.”
“Where?” My mother coaxed, voice soothing as I yanked up my elbow and shoved the large welted area near her face. A sly smile spread across paper thin lips. I didn’t think anything about this was funny- I was about to die, the venom was going to reach my heart at any second and she was laughing? “Oh, sweetie, that’s just a bee sting.”
“A what?” I squeaked, shrinking into myself as the frown began to dissipate from my features. She didn’t’ answer me right away, instead, she scooped me off of the tiled floor and onto the counter away from the stove. It didn’t ache as much as it had been a few seconds later.
“A bee sting,” She reiterated, turning her back to me as she started to shuffle around the kitchen in an attempt to find something that I couldn’t quite place. It was a little container filled with white powder- stuff I had seen her bake with before. “He didn’t mean to hurt you, I’m sure.”
“How do you figure?” I sniffed, dragging my free hand against the base of my nose as she started to mix water into the concoction. I watched her, mesmerized. She was captivating with her movements, my jaw parting slightly. “He stung me.”
“Bee’s are simple creatures, my love.” She soothed as she took the metal edge of a spoon and motioned for me to stick out my arm so she could get a good look at the throbbing pain that shot against my arm. I let her, closing my eyes as I glanced away from what she was doing. The cold of the cornstarch was a shock at first, my breath drawing in so quick that it burned against my throat. “They have a purpose, and sometimes when things threaten that purpose they fight back.”
I nodded softly, calming down enough to focus on her words. “So he was just protecting himself?”
“Protecting his purpose.” She said, setting the porcelain bowl down as she raised her soft touch back up to my reddened cheek to brush away any tears that were lingering against my skin. I leaned into it, comfort from the pain dulling bringing me down enough to catch my breath.
“Everyone has a purpose, right?”
“I would sure hope so, my love.”
1 note
·
View note
Text
Love through a lens: how Ingrid Bergman took the world’s breath away
From marital scandals to on-screen magnetism, a documentary about Ingrid Bergman salutes an actor who consistently defied expectations
Nearly 20 years ago, I went to stay with my husband in a house owned by the family of Roberto Rossellini, the great neorealist Italian film director. We spent our days as you do when you find yourself in an idyllic hideaway in the Italian sunshine: reading; lying by the pool; watching the light through the trees. And I thought about Ingrid Bergman, who must have visited this secluded villa at a time when her life was in free fall.
Its hard now to imagine the kind of scandal Bergman caused when she became pregnant with Rossellinis child, while still married to her first husband Petter Lindstrm. She wasnt just a wife, she was a mother, and had left her daughter Pia behind when she went off to Italy to work with Rossellini. The outrage was scalding. Bergman news jolts Hollywood like an A Bomb screeched one newspaper headline, neatly combining two of the most important news items of 1949.
In the US, religious groups began a campaign to ban her films on the grounds that they glorified adultery. In Italy, she and Rossellini were followed everywhere by paparazzi, their companions for the rest of their tumultuous life together.
I was a danger for American womanhood, she told an interviewer, years later. Even my voice over the radio was supposed to be dangerous. Of course I was hurt, but I didnt think that what I had done was so much other peoples business … If you dont like the performance, you can walk out, but to criticise peoples private life, I thought was wrong.
That defiant statement of intent is quoted in Ingrid Bergman: In Her Own Words, a new documentary film directed by Stig Bjrkman that tells the story of one of Hollywoods most enduring stars. It draws on her diaries, letters and interviews, interspersed with home movies, and glimpses of the actor in all her screen glory, from her Swedish debut in 1935 to her Hollywood heyday in the 1940s to her final roles nearly 40 years later. It is a revealing insight into a woman who consistently defied expectations.
Watch the official trailer for Ingrid Bergman: In Her Own Words
In her first American screen test, in bleached-out colour and silence, with no makeup as the clapper board proclaims, she shines. It is as if she is in possession of a secret and that knowledge illuminates her from the inside, as she glances directly at the camera, or smiles with a warmth that could thaw a Swedish winter. Its a sign of all that is to come. If you think of Bergman on screen, in Casablanca, Notorious or Gaslight, it is that radiance that first comes to mind.
In part this was a simple matter of her beauty. Daniel Selznick, son of the powerful David O who first swept Bergman away to Hollywood, told her biographer Charlotte Chandler: There is no one I have ever met, of any age, of any generation, that took ones breath away at every meeting the way she did. The complexion, the lips, the cheeks, the ears, the nose, the eyes, the body of a goddess. And she was just completely unselfconscious. Gregory Peck, her co-star in Hitchocks Spellbound, suggested that she was even more beautiful away from the studio cameras a judgment vindicated by the home movie footage that shows her relaxed with family and friends.
But there is some other mysterious force at work. From the very first, she was confident in front of a camera, and it is Pia Lindstrm the daughter she abandoned when she ran off with Rossellini who offers a psychological explanation for her mothers dazzling impact on screen. Bergmans mother had died when she was two, so she was brought up by her father, a photographer, whom she adored, until he too died when she was 13.
Love would come right through that lens, suggests Lindstrm. She was looking through that lens and she is looking at her dear dead father, and she would flirt and play with him and pose with him. She was completely comfortable with the camera and knew how to pose.
Bergman herself was aware of her gift. She was a poor little orphan girl, lonely and bereft, yet filming made her feel alive. Theres a photograph of her going to her first ever job as an extra that is notable not only for her staggering loveliness, but for the sheer vitality of her pose as she peers along the line of waiting hopefuls, looking outwards and forwards. I love the freedom I feel in front of the camera, she said.
Photograph: Soda Pictures
But she was a dab hand behind a camera, too, inheriting from her father a desire to record the world and the people around her. She filmed her honeymoon with Petter, and when she left him suddenly she wrote saying she didnt want many of the treasures she had left behind. The only problem will be our 16mm film. Maybe you will lend it to me so I can see what I looked like in my youth.
That desire to preserve each aspect of her life in photographs and footage has left Bjrkman a wealth of material on which to draw; in this private footage you see her falling in love with Rossellini, stroking his head tenderly as they talk; you watch the three children they had together grow up; you see their fear as their parents marriage falls apart. Later, you watch the sadness cross Bergmans face as she climbs into an ambulance when her daughter Isabella is diagnosed with scoliosis.
But just as revealing are the letters and diaries that Bergman also preserved, rich in self-knowledge and the honest confrontation of the contradictions in her character. Writing to a friend, when she is enjoying the first flush of success in her Hollywood career, she describes her panic at not working for four months which is two months too long. She is at home with Petter and Pia, but confesses: Only half of me is alive. The other half is packed away in a suitcase suffocating. What should I do?
She has an affair with Robert Capa, the war photographer, and her free spirit soars. She tries to be a good wife and to knit at home, but the siren call of something different propels her onwards. With Rossellini, it is his work she falls in love with first; she admires Rome, Open City and writes him a bold proposal. If you ever need a Swedish actor who speaks very good English and a little German, who can make herself understood in French and can only say ti amo in Italian, then Ill come and make a film with you.
Years later she explains his appeal more fully. It was a combination of passion that I fell in love with a man who was so different from any other man I had ever known, and it was my boredom in Hollywood I wanted to do something that they didnt expect me to do. When her relationship with Rossellini broke down, and she began to think about returning to Hollywood, she was still determined to do the kind of films I feel comfortable with. Success mattered greatly to Bergman, but not at any price.
At the same time, as the film makes clear, though her children mattered to her intensely, she was prepared to leave them to pursue her career. Her priorities were not those expected. If you took acting away from me I would stop breathing, she said. She admitted she had missed a lot, by leaving not just one child but her second set of children to be brought up mainly by others. I do regret it, but I dont think they suffered, she said.
That complexity the authentic voice of a woman who knew her own fallibility, of someone who loved and lost but never complained makes Bergman, who died of cancer, aged 67, in 1982, a peculiarly admirable Hollywood star. She was a pioneer before her time; protected and constrained by her loveliness, she voyaged ever onwards, brave and strong.
There is a rose named after her, which I have in my garden. It is deep red, lightly perfumed and almost too perfect in shape and form. It blooms for a very long time, lingering long after other flowers shed their petals. There could not be a better tribute to an actor who is always worth remembering.
Ingrid Bergman: In Her Own Words is at the BFI Southbank, London SE1, from 12 August and then at selected cinemas. At the BFI, the film will be accompanied by a mini season, Ingrid Bergman on Screen. bfi.org.uk
Read more: www.theguardian.com
The post Love through a lens: how Ingrid Bergman took the world’s breath away appeared first on vitalmindandbody.com.
from WordPress http://ift.tt/2t1ey6r
via IFTTT
0 notes
Text
Love through a lens: how Ingrid Bergman took the world’s breath away
From marriage scandals to on-screen magnetism, a documentary about Ingrid Bergman salutes an actor who systematically eluded expectations
Nearly 20 years ago, I went to stay with my husband in a house owned by the family of Roberto Rossellini, the great neorealist Italian film director. We spent our epoches as you do when you find yourself in an idyllic hideout in the Italian sunshine: say; lying by the reserve; watching the ignite through the trees. And I thought about Ingrid Bergman, who must have visited this secluded villa at a time when her life was in free fall.
Its hard now to envisage the kind of scandal Bergman stimulated when she became pregnant with Rossellinis child, while still married to her first spouse Petter Lindstrm. She wasnt precisely a partner, she was a father, and had left her daughter Pia behind when she went off to Italy to work with Rossellini. The resentment was scalding. Bergman news jolts Hollywood like an A Bomb bellowed one newspaper headline, neatly compounding two of the most important news item of 1949.
In the US, religion groups inaugurated a campaign to prohibit her movies on the grounds that they glorified adultery. In Italy, she and Rossellini were followed everywhere by paparazzi, their friends for the rest of their stormy life together.
I was a danger for American femininity, she told an interviewer, year later. Even my voice over the radio was supposed to be dangerous. Of route I was hurt, but I didnt think that what I had done was so much other peoples business … If you dont like the implementation of its, you can walk out, but to criticise families private life, I thought was wrong.
That defiant statement of intent is quoted in Ingrid Bergman: In Her Own Words , a new documentary film directed against Stig Bjrkman that tells the story of one of Hollywoods most enduring hotshots. It sucks on her diaries, characters and interrogations, interspersed with residence movies, and glimpses of the actor in all her screen magnificence, from her Swedish entry in 1935 to her Hollywood heyday in the 1940 s to her final capacities practically 40 years later. It is a uncovering insight into the status of women who consistently defied expectations.
Watch government officials trailer for Ingrid Bergman: In Her Own Words
In her first American screen research, in bleached-out emblazon and stillnes, with no makeup as the clapper card proclaims, she gleams. It is as if she is in wealth of trade secrets and that knowledge illuminates her from within, as she gazes instantly at the camera, or smiles with a warmth who are able to thaw a Swedish winter. Its a signaling of all that is to come. If you think of Bergman on screen, in Casablanca , Notorious or Gaslight , it is that radiance that first comes to mind.
In part this was a simple matter of her grace. Daniel Selznick, son of the potent David O who first cleaned Bergman away to Hollywood, informed her biographer Charlotte Chandler: There is no one I have ever assembled, of any age, of any generation, that took ones breath away at every convene the behavior she did. The hue, the cheeks, the buttock, the ears, the snout, the eyes, their own bodies of a goddess. And she was just wholly unselfconscious. Gregory Peck, her co-star in Hitchocks Spellbound , suggested that she was even more beautiful away from the studio cameras a judgment vindicated by the dwelling movie footage that demonstrates her relaxed with family and friends.
But there is some other mysterious coerce at work. From the very first, she was confident in front of a camera, “and its” Pia Lindstrm the daughter she vacated when she ran off with Rossellini who offers a psychological reason for her mothers dazzling impact on screen. Bergmans mother had died when she was two, so she used brought up by her parent, a photographer, whom she adored, until he very died when she was 13.
Love would come right through that lens, proposes Lindstrm. She was looking through that lens and she is looking at her dear dead leader, and she would flirt and play with him and constitute with him. She was completely cozy with the camera and knew how to pose.
Bergman herself was aware of her endowment. She was a poverty-stricken little orphan girlfriend, lonely and bereft, yet filming constructed her feeling alive. Theres a photograph of her going to her first ever task as an additional that is notable is not simply for her astounding loveliness, but for the sheer sparkle of her pose as she peers along the line of waiting wannabe, ogling outwards and forwards. I desire the freedom of the media I experience in front of the camera, she said.
Photograph: Soda Pictures
But she was a dab hand behind a camera, extremely, inheriting from her parent a desire to record the world and the person or persons around her. She filmed her honeymoon with Petter, and when she left him abruptly she wrote pronouncing she didnt crave many of the riches she had left behind. The only question will be our 16 mm film. Maybe you are able to lend it to me so I can see what I looked like in my youth.
That desire to preserve each aspect of her life in photographs and footage has left Bjrkman a fortune of substance on which to draw; in this private footage you determine her fallen in love with Rossellini, stroking his head tenderly as they speak; you watch the three children they had together grow up; you learn their horror as their parents marriage falls apart. Later, you watch the sadness cross Bergmans face as she clambers into an ambulance when her daughter Isabella is diagnosed with scoliosis.
But just as uncovering are the words and journals that Bergman also continued, rich in self-knowledge and the honest struggle of the contradictions in her character. Writing to a pal, when she is enjoying the first even of success in her Hollywood career, she describes her panic at not working for 4 months which is two months too long. She is at home with Petter and Pia, but profess: Merely half of me is alive. The other half is packed away in a suitcase suffocating. What should I do?
She has an affair with Robert Capa, the crusade photographer, and her free spirit soars. She tries to be a good wife and to knit at home, but the siren call of something different propels her onwards. With Rossellini, it is his wield she falls in love with first; she admires Rome, Open City and writes him a bold proposal. If “youve been” need a Swedish actor who expresses very good English and a bit German, who can stimulate herself understood in French and is simply say ti amo in Italian, then Ill come and make a cinema with you.
Years later she shows his appeal more fully. It was a combination of passion that I fell in love with a guy who was so different from any other man I had ever known, and it was my apathy in Hollywood I wanted to do something that they didnt expect me to do. When her relationship with Rossellini broke down, and she began to think about returning to Hollywood, she was still had decided to do the kind of movies I detect comfy with. Success mattered immensely to Bergman, but not at any price.
At the same time, as the movie made very clear, though her children mattered to her intensely, she was prepared to leave them to seek her profession. Her priorities were not those expected. If you took behaving away from me I would stop breathing, she remarked. She acknowledged she had missed a lot, by leaving not just one child but her second situate of children to be brought up principally by others. I do regret it, but I dont believe that they tolerated, she said.
That complexity the authentic expression of a woman who knew her own fallibility, of someone who loved and lost but never complained moves Bergman, who died of cancer, aged 67, in 1982, a peculiarly admirable Hollywood star. She was a pioneer before her hour; protected and constrained by her loveliness, she voyaged ever onwards, brave and strong.
There is a rose reputation after her, which I have in my garden. It is deep red, lightly perfumed and nearly too perfect in shape and formation. It blooms for a very long time, remaining long after other flowers molted their petals. There could not get a better tribute to an actor who is always worth remembering.
Ingrid Bergman: In Her Own Words is at the BFI Southbank, London SE1, from 12 August and then at selected cinemas. At the BFI, the cinema will be accompanied by a mini season, Ingrid Bergman on Screen . bfi.org.uk
Read more: www.theguardian.com
The post Love through a lens: how Ingrid Bergman took the world’s breath away appeared first on vitalmindandbody.com.
from WordPress http://ift.tt/2t8UspT
via IFTTT
0 notes
Last Seen Blogs
vendingmachineoflove-moved
every glamorous can has a heart to fill!
damsclindistrcss
macaria.
allthingsda
All Things Fandom
stumbling-through-time
stumbling through time