#you cannot fucking see and there are branches all over the sidewalk from the wind which is strong enough to shove you around

[argiopi]

it’s about the little joys amidst the grind for survival

#my art #hornet #hollow knight #*crawls out of a gutter covered in wet leaves* sup. #i've been slowly poking at asks but it gets frustrating to have so little time to draw so i wanted to make something really quick..! #my life lately has been about the grind for survival /_\ #onset of cold season means i won't be warm again for several months and i'll be usually tired and hungry #isn't it fascinating how the body responds to seasons? idk if it's from less sun or higher caloric demands from heating the body #POV you are biking to work in a downpour. it's before sunrise and cars' headlights are reflecting off the rain on your glasses #you cannot fucking see and there are branches all over the sidewalk from the wind which is strong enough to shove you around #only reason I never fell is because i've been cautious after a recent bad crash. #well now i have a raincoat and learned the lesson to bring spare pants when it's raining and i can move my knee again. luxury! #how does everyone else just keep going when it gets dark and cold all the time. i feel like a bear that should be hibernating. #can't wait to go apeass crazy during the thaw. sprint until i collapse the moment i feel a warm breeze. makes winter worth it #real self-care is using what little energy you have at the end of the day to make a meal big enough to provide several days of leftovers #*throws eggs into the rice* please you need protein for tomorrow i love you. eat well and be strong! #been falling into the habit of skipping meals because i'm too tired to cook and eat. thank you me of yesterday for not being selfish :] #I have a hot tip! if you boil a vegetable; retain the water and freeze it. #last month's accidental yam stock was this week's risotto base #don't you dare discard nutrients and flavors. you need those. they are so scarce and precious. #anyway. don't get lost in the struggle. squeeze in some art and get that creative juice out of your system. #personally i am excited for hornet to explore the arts :] #oh at least autumn is beautiful. but I moved to a place with less nature.. #didn't realize how important it is to me to have large stretches of woodland. I miss my free ranging territory! suffocating in the suburbs! #well now i go to get not enough sleep. nighty night. #(huh? it's almost halloween? since when??)

[highsviolets]

give me love (i’ll put my heart in it)

summary: you think about your relationship with Ben, musing on endings and beginnings. set in between ‘complications of time’ and ‘gingerbread cigarettes.’

pairing: lifeguard!Ben x reader 

warnings: angst-ish? I guess? Nothing crazy. Some language.  

links: prev / next / series masterlist / full masterlist 

a/n: yes hello hi I still write for Obi-Wan! Thanks to Brit, who encouraged me to post this, as well as being the fearless champion of this series. If you wanna, listen to this while reading.

give me love (i’ll put my heart in it) 

The cigarette isn’t working like it’s supposed to. There’s no burn, no squeezing in your lungs. Smoke that’s exhaled in a practiced breath lingers. Reluctant. It doesn’t want to dissipate — building blocks of nothingness can’t dissolve into their own substance, after all. Or can they? Maybe they’re just waiting for permission((letting go)).

It doesn’t matter anyway. A rock is your path, and you kick it, and you watch it travel down the sidewalk. Does it know? Does it know that its existence was a hindrance to yours?

Marlboros feel different without him around. When you haven’t stolen it from his backpack, or pocket, or right out of his hand. It doesn’t taste like heady spice, tingling tobacco. There’s an anguishing aftertaste in it wake, all metallic and slippery and….fucking hell, what’s the word? Where you miss the way things were before? Reminiscence? Nostalgia?

Ben would know. He’s good with words. The inhale is sharp, this time. From the death stick or the thought of him, you can’t say. Probably him, you decide, and pull the flannel tighter around you with your hand. He has always drawn you closer that you already were.

Ben is good with words, and he is good with cigarettes. Somehow the two things mold together, pressing and pulling: a play-doh question of eternal causality. Which came first, the cigarettes or the words? It sure as hell wasn’t you; he was already everything he is when he dragged you from crushing currents and brought you back to solid land. and you had lit his cigarette and worn his t-shirt and kissed him against the metal of his car, so hot it was cold, so hot you didn’t feel him save you from drowning just to set fire to your eyes. so hot you forgot the sensation of suffocation, his life squeezing yours in a box, a box shaped like the narrow white-and-red packs in back pocket and the metamorphosing of his books and the lewd lines in his sketches of aromatic deep blue futures ((those too that he would construct on your body, all arches and gilded strokes)). Hands are Ben’s forte: his weapon of choice. It is how he constructs you, brick by brick, and how he punches you apart, snippets and cuts and incisions through rips in paper and bleeding ink and scabs made from ashes.

He’s here and not here, as he always is. But nothing works even when it’s all the same. Ben will always linger, in crevices in dark armor that you carry shrouded and half-discarded, limp from a weary frame. And he will be there too, in drizzles of gold and honey sunlight. Perhaps you will never be able to smoke a fucking cigarette again((you won’t be able to stop))

Christ, it’s been a while, you had thought when he offered you one for the first time. Funny. That was the last time he had asked. Each ensuing occasion had been a woven branch of phone lines and psychosomatic communications, almost inebriated in their understanding of you and him. you&him drunk, drunk and drowning, hapless as he crashed into you without permission because he didn’t need to. When you had said yes to his cigarette you had said yes to him, and when you said yes to his question on Fukuyama you had assented to his words.

You feel out of place here: disjointed and rheumatic moans echo in your ear while you traverse pavement.This is his turf, and fall suits him better than it suits you. His hair matches the leaves, and his turtlenecks accentuate his cheekbones. He says he likes your flannel (you would, you told him, leaning into the heavy palm caressing your cheek, you picked it out.) But fall is far too esoteric for your liking, too erudite, too intellectual, too restrained. It is everything Ben is and everything you are not. And somehow he is summer too, drowsy and vibrant orange, and fucking hell if he isn’t winter and spring too.

Ben is entirely too alive for his own good — whole fragments — stitching — beloved, licentious breath.

And too pretty at that, you think, catching sight of sky through liquid smothered eyelashes that approach eroticism in their melancholy. You’re not like the girls he knows here. They’re posh and come from towns that aren’t like yours. Like yours and Ben’s. Their penmanship is precise and they have unsaddled accents and when he converses with them he never has to explain himself the way he does with you, tripping and fumbling with words and lighters and dousing the two of you gasoline just so you can see the patterns with which you’ll burn; damn it all if he never has to stop to tell them about a book because they’ve already internalized the moral principles of righteous words, and Christ you just can’t fucking compete with them, with these girls who adorn their words in painted lips.

Your mind has done what it’s been trained to do, exercising agency when you most seek comfort. Lattices of neurons have listened to what you want, twisted electrons pathways and energy levels shattering any semblance of a resting state. There is no rest, not with him and not without him, either. Ben is fast and slow; he is glacial, earthquaking movements. You do not realize you are moving — until you strain for the horizon and discover that it is no longer there.

He is outside, smoking. Corduroy meets brick at the upper reaches of his shoulders, stiff and formal, where his hair would be if he hadn’t cut it just a few weeks back. You wonder if he is really the one that is breaking you; perhaps you’re the one that’s casting him off-balance. Wet — Hot — Car — Skateboard — Library — Braids — Hands — Jackets — it’s always you going into him, so how is it that he has entered into you. maybe there’s a reason you failed biology after all. you could never see things as they really were. before lingers; there will never be an after, not for him((not for him with you)).

what’s wrong, baby, he says and the cigarette falls from his lips but not his hand, not the one that’s taking your arm so you face him head on((you’ve never been able to do that, maybe it’s time you start, maybe it’s time you finally start acting like him, and those girls with painted hands)).

you want to say something witty, something that doesn’t just cut but leaves an open wound. a phrase that will make him hurt in all the same places you do. a clump of letters that will make him understand. that’s what Ben always wants, isn’t it? To understand? you thought the phrase had been soft green and vibrant purple. now it’s a double entendre, or maybe a pun, all dual definitions of sneers and hypocrisy. Ben would know, of course. He’s good with words.

time stretches. temporality feel different as he stands, now upright. waiting. he’s waiting. waiting and yet still moving. blue eyes pluck at your tearstained cheeks((sifting through realities)).

the world needs to stop screaming, to stop screaming and let you think for once, no, you are tired of thinking, you are not like him, you are raw and uncensored gushes of emotion((exuberant hiding)).

Ben tilts your chin, thumb veering up your jaw. the pattern of his fingerprint — all coiled, swaying swirls — imbalance of charges — soft stings to jolt you awake. his touch is so familiar: wrapped in hundreds of occasions past. you relive them all in an instant, from the first to this last ((there is no after)).

but these are shadow-truths, ones you read in the way his hands grip your back and fall back to his sides((limplanguidlazy)) and you want to kiss him, kiss him one more time with eyes wide open. so you can watch him slip away, and slip away with you watching, you think. it’s a lie((Ben told you truth is a certain point view))

ben does not kiss you, but apologizes instead. blue eyes never lose your face and the meanings pressing against your skin feel sticky, over enunciated and slurred at the same time. he is right, but you cannot help but thinking that it is because he has made it so. he has achieved his greatest goal: ben now lives in a reality of his own creating. one fabricated with shards of bloody glass and violet scrunchies ghosting along the fringes of notebooks. most of all it is created with his words. because ben is good with words.

you smile and nod because it what you do, that is what you always do when the world((him)) crashes at your feet. and you walk away. it is really you that have been left, and him who has succeeded in the undoing. but it is all words, words and shadow-truths and half-hearted grasping at living((maybe he will realize how loud it is without him to tame the wind that’s rushing in your ears))

obi tags: @ohhellokenobi @profkenobi @goldenkenobi @rentskenobi @nobie @roseofalderaan @mcu-padawan @anakin-danvers @obitwo @obirain @justrunamok @catsnkooks @answer-the-sirens @lussyyung @cherrykenobi @royalhandmaidens @snips-n-skyguy0501 @kyjoraven @videogamesandpoorlifechoices @ina-lotta @inukako @i-am-i-am-obiwankenobi @princessxkenobi @wille-zarr @badedum-badaboom

#obi wan x reader #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan x y/n #obi wan kenobi x y/n #obi wan x reader insert #obi wan kenobi x reader insert #star wars fanfiction #90s au #fic: breathless #ewan mcregor #cristina writes #feel free to send any typos my way #i know they exist lmao #userkarina #usernobie #shadesofstarwars

[possibilistfanfiction]

i got all the parts i wished for (it's an ache & it shines through me)

[anyway someone said they wanted carm & laura & their baby running errands n stuff etc on a cold november day so here u go, this has no real substance & is rly just gay]

//

i got all the parts i wished for (it's an ache & it shines through me)

.

is it a sign? or just a landmine?/ or a feeling roaming free?/ it's overtaken me/ gonna hold it 'til it dries up/ or pocket it for another day/ if it's me i cannot give up/ i'd rather that she stayed/ oh, slack jawed me/ can't you see?/ there's so many rhythms and harmonies/ & i'm walking the dog back —sylvan esso, “slack jaw”

//

the morning is the kind of harsh bright that tells you that winter will happen soon, that this is one of the last days you can comfortably wear sneakers and spend time at the park without freezing. you yawn once, just waking up, and when you turn over, there’s your wife and your dog and your son, all sound asleep, all various degrees of small. you watch them all for a few minutes, curled up and tangled, and your chest hurts, because they’re the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen. you think they get more beautiful every day.

eventually, your stomach grumbles and carm cracks an eye open with a little smile. she’s tender with you, seemingly more so as time goes on, soft and sweet and honest. ‘good morning,’ she says in german, then yawns and shakes her head and says it again in english.

‘good morning,’ you say, and you want to kiss her but you can’t—you look down at your son and your dog again and she laughs, shifting to tickle both of their tummies. your dog scrambles around, trying to stand up, while your son squeaks out a little, delighted laugh and then babbles, reaching for you while he also has a death grip on carm’s hair. his eyes are a blue you don’t think you’d ever seen before until you watched them open for the first time.

you are so full of love in this moment, on this cold morning, that it knocks the wind out of you. carm looks at you curiously, because your breath catches and you feel like you might cry, but then she’s kissing your cheek and your dog is licking your son’s foot, which is making him laugh, and they’re all kind of a mess, and you just close your eyes and listen.

//

carmilla does things carefully now. not in a way that worries you—she’s not scared of hurting you, not timid. she just—cares. takes her time to make you dinner before you get home from work, a recipe she’d learned years ago in mumbai; just yesterday you’d watched her sit on the floor and rub waterproofing wax into all of your winter boots, working it in patiently with her hands, taking special effort along the seams.

you know why—the most special, quiet reasons. it’d taken you two years to convince her to go to therapy—four broken hands that hadn’t healed at vampire speed, more nightmares than you could possibly keep track of, and a lot of withholding sex—but she’d gone. with carm, you’ve learned that you need to go slow, with just about everything, but especially this. when she’d been in therapy a few months you’d suggested an emotional support dog for her, especially for during the day when you weren’t there. she’d certainly been enjoying her trust fund time, but you’d come home from work to her cowering in the shower, shivering, freezing and despondent. you’d come home to her sitting in the snow on your back porch in february, drinking whiskey and watching the sunset, and it was so cold out her eyelashes were coated with the remnants of frozen tears. you’d come home to carm hurt in so many ways, or reliving that hurt, tiny and beautiful and deeply sorrowful.

so you’d done your research and when you’d brought home a puppy to foster—his fur deep, deep black, his eyes light grey, with a sharp face, missing a leg; he was pulled out of rubble from a hurricane in the south—carmilla had held him very carefully, pet the length of his body with incredible gentleness, and smiled up at you. she’d decided to name him wittgenstein, so you’d insisted on calling him wit, much to her frustration. he’d very quickly become an important part of your family, and they’re scared of the same things: thunderstorms, sudden loud noises, when the subway gets stalled underground.

they’d healed, and it’d been years before you brought up the idea of children. when you had, though, carmilla had agreed much more quickly than you ever thought she would—but she had gestured toward your small, sleeping dog, his little sweaters in the corner and his organic dog food and his leash and snowboots, and then shrugged. you’d laughed and kissed her but you had understood: she is full of love, and she has always been full of care, even when it hadn’t seemed like it.

you’d adopted max months later, and carm had been terrified of him for a few days, you’re pretty sure. but she’s a fantastic mom, which you’d watched bloom and grow. she speaks lots of languages to him, whispers little songs when he’s crying. he seems to really like grabbing onto her hair, and she always gets up at night when he’s fussing.

the first time you’d brought him to visit her at work, in her little office with a mess of papers on the desk and what you’re pretty sure is hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of first editions and journals from famous philosophers on her shelf, she’d led you to a small café near campus, and a group of her undergrad students had run into you, and they had all melted at seeing her with this tiny, beautiful baby. she had grumbled but eventually laughed, his fingers curled around one of hers.

//

this morning you put max in his room, let wit stay by his playpen, and then walk back to your bed with carm trailing behind. you’re both laughing and you feel young again, you feel twenty again, when you lay this girl down beneath you and kiss her deeply, when you pull her body toward yours until she’s gasping your name in the golden light through the window. the hints of winter sun.

//

you lazily take a shower together, and you wash her hair, which she almost never lets you do. you kiss there too, although it’s without pretense, this intimacy. you get dressed in an easy rhythm, having shared this space for years. it strikes you sometimes at how profound and intense these ordinary moments of love are: of course you have fallen in love with her grand gestures—sneaking into palaces to dance at midnight, proposing on the roof of the philosophy building in the middle of a meteor shower.

but you hadn’t realized the magnitude of your love until you were grocery shopping years and years ago, and you had been getting vegan burgers from the freezer aisle, and when you had found her after she’d wandered off, she was closely inspecting pears, peering at them intensely. you’d been so floored by your fondness for her—this odd, brilliant, almost quotidian creature—that you still remember it now.

and this happens all the time, your love for her. when she’s making coffee and curses slightly when she spills a few grounds, then sighs and gets a clorox wipe from under the sink, when she talks quietly to max, when she smiles at you while you’re on the subway, holding your hand and not shaking at all.

//

today you have to run errands, but they’re not really important, so you bundle max up in his stroller and put wit’s sweater on, then his little boots. they’re really fucking cute, so you make carm wait so you can take pictures of them. she slouches and sighs but she’d put on a hat and a scarf and a legitimate weather-appropriate coat without having to be convinced or reminded, so you take it as a win.

she walks wit while you take the stroller, and you make her stop in victroire and of course she’s the one to find something; you go to jimmy’s for another coffee, chat with tahir, your favorite barista, throw the ball for a few minutes for wit at trinity bellwoods. it’s cold, and so you stop in at kenzo for ramen, try to feed max little tiny bits of noodles without making too much of a mess. you go to f as in frank and carm spends an inordinate amount of time trying on vintage sweatshirts, but she’s in a great mood today so she models them very seriously, which makes you laugh. it’s the only reason she does it, you think, which makes you love her more.

eventually, you can tell she’s getting tired, and max is getting fussy, and wit is panting. you make them all go with you to pick up groceries, though, the only real errand you’d had to run. you walk back with them to your little brownstone on euclid, and you’ve worked it out well enough by now that you can push the stroller, walk the dog, and hold her hand.

when you mention this, she laughs.

‘we really are parents then, hey?’

the tiny inflection at the end makes you stop, and take a deep breath, and she stops too, worriedly.

you shake your head, kiss her with all your might, so softly, right there in the middle of the sidewalk, golden leaves falling around, the last gasp of fall before the barren branches and snow. your son is babbling and your dog is shuffling around your legs, and carmilla—your wife—sniffles, just barely.

you back up and it takes you a second to form words, because her eyes are so dark and brimming with tears.

‘that was just very canadian of you,’ you tell her. ‘the “hey?”.’

she rolls her eyes with a messy, teary laugh. ‘that’s what caused a kiss like that?’

you shrug—you know you don’t have to explain it to her, not really.

she smiles, a grin, and you know what that means. ‘laura, i’m wearing blundstones.’

‘oh my god,’ you say, start pushing the stroller again as she jogs to catch up.

‘i have toque on—from roots.’

‘you’re an idiot,’ you grumble, but you’re laughing too.

‘i’ll make old fashioned’s with maple syrup while we watch degrassi tonight.’

‘i literally hate you,’ you say, but you glance over at her, dark hair and eyes and the prettiest skin, her warm heart and her beautiful brain, the golden light of the day waning, shimmering.

‘i love you too,’ she says, and reaches out to take your hand.

#tbqh carm & a therapy dog matter so much to me #he's a lil pharoah hound if u wanted a visual #also peep that lorde vibe #carmilla fanfiction #wow a fuckin throwback hey #read me #possibilistfanfiction

[pumpkins-s]

How different would slaos would be if Holt siblings grew along with Lance, Hunk and Loraine??

Matt is seventeen when they move to Veradera.

He’s hardly keen on the idea—Houston born and raised; the concept of some quiet, sleepy seaside town on the East Coast is an anathema to him, and he shares none of his parents’ enthusiasm for the peace and serenity of it all.

The place is a cobbled together mess of grand, newly built homes facing the water, protected as private by the rising seaside cliffs, and leftover neighborhoods of older homes a ten-minute walk down crumbling sidewalks and sandy pathways to the beach. It’s a mismatch of weatherworn family homes and bungalows, mom-and-pop ice cream and fish & chip shops, and the upscale construction projects looking to capitalize on a relatively unspoiled place.

“It’s rustic,” his dad says when they first drive through town.

Matt thinks of the Houston bustle and the constant loud chatter of his former school. “It’s boring,” he sighs, and next to him Pidge cheers her agreement.

He spends three days moping indoors—in their house that is neither quite one of those seaside cottages nor of the new designs, but somewhere in between—before his mother kicks him out, with instructions to take Pidge to the park.

“Under duress,” Pidge declares as he walks her there, tiny pigtails bobbing in the seemingly never ending coastal breeze Matt already loathes. “Taking me to the park under duress. I never asked for this!”

Matt wonders where the hell his seven-year-old sister picked up the phrase under duress, and then promptly forgets about said concern when, upon entering the park, a child falls out of a tree and on top of his head.

He screeches, the kid screeches, and somewhere along the way he hears a shout of “Lance!” and looks up to see another kid and a girl about his age, with long hair that snags on the branches and falls in front of her eyes, sitting in the tree.

“I’m ok!” The human projectile he can determine is likely Lance calls back. Matt groans into the dirt where he has landed, and Pidge yells a war cry, picking up a pinecone and chucking it at the girl in the tree in an effort to avenge her brother.

And that’s how they wind up with the McClains, plus one Hunk Garrett, as something like friends.

Really, Matt isn’t very good with people. He’s better than Pidge, not like it’s hard, but for the most part he’s hardly a social butterfly, though that doesn’t stop Loraine and her two shadows invading his life, regardless. Pidge is dragged into friendship by the kids—Loraine’s brother Lance and his constant companion Hunk—and after a few weeks of kicking up a fuss for the sake of it, Pidge decides the boys are all right after all and attaches herself to them as her possessions with that kind of blunt stubbornness she exudes in most everything.

Matt, as her built-in (and severely reluctant) babysitter, is in turn left with Loraine, the boys’ enthusiastic (and more than willing) caretaker. She’s all summer-kissed skin and bright, twinkling laughter, and while he would never have expected a friendship to work between them, it somehow just…does. They sit on top of picnic benches together as the kids play on weekend afternoons, Matt with his book as he glares down at it against the sun and Loraine with her bright smiles and nimble fingers that braid his slightly-too-long hair as she reads over his shoulder when she’s not watching Lance and Hunk, and it’s…good.

It’s weird, and as mismatched as Veradera itself, but that doesn’t stop it any more than it does the town from being as it is. Matt is the slightly quirky teacher’s pet attending college several years early that he drives twenty minutes to every morning, and Loraine is the small town golden girl of the public school that she bikes to come rain or shine. His family is small and spread out across the country. His father is on Garrison payroll and on call for NASA, and his mother works in some shiny building in D.C. doing things he’s not allowed to ask about, for purposes of national security. Loraine’s family is large and tight knit, her father is dead, and her mother makes a mean chocolate cake and is the kindest woman he has ever met.

Matt is an avowed atheist, from a family of avowed atheists. Loraine wears a cross around her neck, but her sister wears a Star of David, and the lot of them can’t quite seem to decide is they’re Catholic like their mother or Jewish like their father to begin with. It gives Matt a headache, and when he tells her as much she laughs, high and true.

Most people won’t talk about those things. Religion. Faith. But Matt is the kind of person where curiosity will outweigh social propriety each time, and Loraine is the kind that believes every question is a good one, so they have many debates over the subject against the setting of the summer sun.

“Don’t you want something to believe in?” Loraine asks him once, grin crooked and face alight in the sun’s glow, and Matt decides if he believes in anything, it’s her—because when he looks at Loraine, he cannot imagine any laws of the universe compelling her to do anything but what she wishes.

When Matt is eighteen, the Garrison offers him a full ride for their upper division research program, like his father before him, and he leaves as Loraine stays. He almost asks her to apply, to come with him, because Matt is a genius as expected for the Holt name, but Loraine is her own kind of quietly brilliant, easily up to the task.

But more than he knows her brilliance, he knows her stubbornness. Veradera—and Lance, always Lance—is her world, and she would never leave so long as people need her here. The unfinished Garrison application she’d told him about once is proof enough of that. She’d made her decision long before he could have impacted it.

When he gets to the Garrison, his roommate notices his picture of the two of them and shoves him, asking about his girlfriend with the pretty eyes.

“She’s my best friend,” he says stubbornly, and then puts the photo away in his desk drawer for good measure, the idea of unknowing eyes seeing Loraine and reducing her to pretty grating in a way he can’t quite understand.

When Matt is nineteen, he gets a call from his mother—hesitant and heartbroken in a way he hasn’t heard her since his grandfather died when he was a child—and his world is yanked out from under his feet.

He comes back for the funeral, and only feels numb as he stares blankly at the casket being lowered, Pidge sniffling and clinging to his arm in a way she hasn’t since she was a toddler. A priest says a quiet sermon, because Loraine was the sister that wore a cross, after all, and Matt feels like standing up and demanding what kind of fucked up God would let someone like Loraine die.

It’s not until it’s all over, and the mourners begin to depart, that it finally begins to sink in that this is really happening. She’s gone and the world will never have her sun again and he wasn’t even here.

Loraine is gone.

At least, he thinks as much until they go to pay their respects to her family, and Matt sees Lance, tiny in his chair, yet so large in his quiet gaze that sees far too much for a child his age. He’s wearing her cross around his neck, hands curled into fists in his lap, and when Matt looks at his face, narrowed eyes and sallow, still sickly skin, he sees that same stubborn determination he knew of summer nights and brash faith.

If the universe couldn’t bend Loraine to its will, Matt decides, it can’t do the same for Lance either, because he sees her in her brother’s eyes, still as powerful and compelling as the tide.

And he doesn’t know whether that reassure or terrifies him more.

Perhaps both. Everything about Veradera, about Loraine, had always been a mesh of impossible combinations, after all.  

Why the hell wouldn’t Lance--her shadow, her moon, her love--be the same?

#Hi I have a secret bias towards Matt & Loraine friendship concepts #also I've always wanted to do Matt POV so this one kind of got away from me #the SLAOS AUs #my writing #Loraine McClain #Matt Holt #SLAOS talk #Anonymous #asks #questions for Nik

[excelgesis-blog]

Free of Any Eden

chapter: 5 / ?

wc: 2,048

pairing: neo

rating: PG-13

tw: brief mentions of suicide

crossposted on: aff // ao3

"...how you remind me of some spring, the waters as cool and clear (late rain clings to your leaves, shaken by light wind), which is where you occur in grassy moonlight..." -Reginald Shepherd, "You, Therefore"

          Hakyeon could feel his heart somewhere near the floor. He blinked back tears for the thousandth time as an emptiness curled in his stomach.

         “Dude, what the hell?” Wonshik jogged down the hallway toward him. “Did he seriously fucking leave?”

         “I don’t understand,” Hakyeon whispered. “I don’t know what’s going on…”

         Wonshik let out a sigh. “That was by far the rudest thing I’ve ever seen him do. And that’s saying something because he’s really not the nicest person around.” He raised a brow. “Do you guys have some bad history together or something?”

         Hakyeon swallowed and shook his head. There was that murky something, teasing the edges of his mind, making him feel like a part of him was missing.

         “Well he seriously owes you an apology.” Wonshik reached out to grab Hakyeon’s elbow. “Come on, we’ll head to the coffee shop together.”

         “I don’t think he wants to see me.” His voice broke halfway through.

         “I’m sure he’s just moody because he had to get out of bed. You can never tell with Taekwoon, honestly. Now come on, you’ll get sick if you stand out here barefoot like this. I’ll take you to our favorite coffee place.”

****

         The coffee shop was cozy and warm, and although Hakyeon wrinkled his nose at the bitter smell, he could understand why people would like to come here. A metal staircase spiraled up toward a loft lined with bookshelves, and the round tables were home to potted plants and mismatched chairs.

         Wonshik ordered a latte – hadn’t he just had coffee at home? – and guided Hakyeon through the sparsely populated room to the back corner.

         Taekwoon sat in an oversized armchair with a laptop computer perched across his knees. His glasses had slid down to the tip of his nose and his hair looked as if he had run his hands through it in frustration. And again Hakyeon felt familiarity warm and comfortable in his chest. He could see Taekwoon in a long crimson jacket, reaching toward him and pressing a folding fan into his hand. He could hear Taekwoon’s soft voice through leaves and branches, composing a melody with the wind –

         “Kim Wonshik.” Taekwoon’s voice carried none of the gentleness Hakyeon had dreamt of. It was all hard edges, like ice creeping across water toward the shore. “What are you doing?”

         Wonshik placed the steaming latte on the table beside Taekwoon’s chair. “Drink this and stop being such an asshole, will you?”

         “I told you I don’t want to see him.” Taekwoon’s eyes narrowed in Hakyeon’s direction. Hakyeon did his best to stand his ground.

         “He didn’t do anything to you, I’m sure. Don’t you think you’re being a little rude?” Wonshik flopped down into the nearest chair, leaving Hakyeon standing alone with his hands clasped in front of him.

         “You don’t know anything about this, Wonshik. Stay out of it.”

         Wonshik rolled his eyes. “Look, he’s a friend of mine now and I don’t want you being such an ass. You’re going to scare him away.”

         “Why is it that everyone wants to be friends with him all of a sudden?” Taekwoon’s tone remained icy, and Hakyeon was sure he could feel it in his veins.

         “Why do you insist on being such a dick to him all of a sudden?” Wonshik countered.

         “I told you to stay out of it.”

         Hakyeon could feel the mounting tension in the air, and he found it frustrating that they spoke of him as if he weren’t there. He cleared his throat loudly. They both turned their gazes to him, and he locked eyes with Taekwoon.

         Taekwoon’s eyes darkened. “What?”

         Hakyeon refused to look away. “Please don’t talk about me like I’m not here.” He swallowed and practiced the next words in his head several times before he said them. “I think I deserve an explanation.”

         Taekwoon scoffed and turned his gaze to his laptop. “If anyone deserves an explanation, it’s me.”

         And all at once the coffee shop dissolved, washed away like silt in water and Hakyeon was in another place, another time, another life. There was dirt under his shoes and low stone walls were sharp against the searing blue of the sky. He felt a hand on his shoulder and his heart leapt into his throat.

         “I think an explanation is necessary.” The voice was stern, but Hakyeon was taken aback by the softness of it. He turned in surprise, his gaze locking with Taekwoon’s. He was dressed in a deep sunset purple broken by a golden pattern.

         Hakyeon lowered his gaze. “An explanation?”

         “You had no right interrupting our practice. It isn’t your place.” His voice grew fuzzy and distant, there was a roaring in Hakyeon’s ears like wind and water—

         And the coffee shop rushed back into focus. Taekwoon was staring at him, his knuckles white where he gripped the arms of the chair. The room tilted at a dizzying angle and Hakyeon stumbled forward, reaching out blindly to steady himself.

         Taekwoon’s hands were on his shoulders, warm and comforting, and Hakyeon could feel his breath ghosting along his ear, followed by a soft “Hakyeon, I missed you so much.” The words were sugar sweet and Hakyeon leaned in, only to feel Taekwoon’s hands shoving him roughly back. He stumbled and fell, landing hard on the wooden floor.

         “What the hell?” Taekwoon gasped.

         “Jesus Christ!” Wonshik scrambled forward to help Hakyeon to his feet. “Taekwoon, what the fuck?”

         “What was that?” Taekwoon’s voice shook. “What the hell are you doing to me?”

         Hakyeon clung to Wonshik’s arm and tried to steady himself. His head spun. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t know what’s happening--”

         “I told you to stay away from me.” The words trembled and Taekwoon’s eyes were wide behind his glasses. “I shouldn’t be feeling this, this isn’t normal--”

         Hakyeon swallowed. “I feel it, too.”

         Wonshik looked between them frantically. “What?”

         “Is everything okay over here?” A barista in a black apron hovered near Taekwoon’s armchair. His eyes were wide underneath a fringe of light hair.

         “We’re fine, Kyung,” Taekwoon said darkly. “We were just leaving.”

         “Says who?” Wonshik squawked.

         Hakyeon stumbled as Taekwoon grabbed his arm and yanked him toward the front door. All protests died on his lips, and he couldn’t deny the shiver that slid down his spine at his touch. It was as if he had craved it for a hundred years, an addict deprived of his high.

         Taekwoon shouldered the door open and rounded on him, his fingers pressing hard against Hakyeon’s forearm. “Explain yourself.”

         The words hit like acid. “I can’t,” Hakyeon breathed. “I honestly can’t.” Taekwoon was close – so close – and he resisted the sudden urge to bury his fingers in the fabric of his jacket, to pull him closer and closer—

         But how could he feel that for someone he barely knew?

         His mind rebelled, pushing back, insisting that he knew Taekwoon from some other time, some other place. His presence felt so familiar and safe and he wanted to revel in it. He wanted to forget about this new life with all of its complications and intricacies and bask in Taekwoon’s familiarity like it was the summer sun.

         “I know you.” Taekwoon’s grip tightened. “Why do I feel like I know you? How do I know your name?”

         Hakyeon shook his head. “You feel familiar to me, too. I-I can’t explain it.”

         “Is this some kind of sick joke? Did my father put you up to this?” He shook Hakyeon’s arm, but his grip had slackened into something surprisingly gentle. His voice was laced with desperation.

         “I’m as lost as you are.” Hakyeon reached up to pull Taekwoon’s fingers away. Taekwoon’s grip loosened easily. “I can’t explain this any more than you can.” The emptiness that had curled in the pit of his stomach was gone, replaced by a warm comfort. Something felt so right about being with Taekwoon. But how was such a thing possible?

         “I told you that I wanted you to stay away from me.” Taekwoon’s voice was weak, and the anger that had painted his words was a diluted version of itself. “But whenever you’re gone I…”

         Hakyeon waited for him to finish with bated breath.

         “I miss you,” Taekwoon whispered. “How is that possible?”

         “What the hell are you doing out here?” Wonshik stumbled onto the sidewalk and shot Taekwoon a sharp glare. “Are you still being an asshole?”

          Taekwoon took a step back from Hakyeon. His eyes were glassy, as if he were stuck in a trance. He shook his head and glanced at Wonshik, who stood near the coffee shop door with his arms folded across his chest.

         “I-I need to get to work,” Taekwoon stuttered. He turned and headed down the sidewalk, pushing his way through the crowd until his retreating back was swallowed in an undulating sea of dark coats.

         Hakyeon let out a breath. The emptiness had returned, clawing its way into his chest like a trapped animal.

         “What the holy hell is going on between you two?” Wonshik’s voice was an octave higher than usual.

         Hakyeon slumped against the wall, his legs threatening to give out. “I have no idea.”

****

         “So tell me again.” Jaehwan paced back and forth, and Hakyeon thought idly that he would wear a hole through the hardwood floor.

         “I know him,” Hakyeon said softly. He poked at the food Jaehwan had brought, his appetite waning as the seconds ticked by. “He seems so familiar to me.”

         “You must have met before. What’s so special about that?”

         Hakyeon sighed, and the sound seemed to echo in the empty bookstore. Wonshik had dropped him off on his way to work, and Jaehwan had instantly jumped on the chance to interrogate him after Wonshik’s quiet “Kid’s had a rough morning already.”

         “It’s more than that. I feel almost… empty without him.” Hakyeon frowned at how vulnerable the words sounded.

         “Oh no.” Jaehwan shook his head and pointed a finger at him. “No no no, you absolutely cannot fall for Taekwoon. Trust me. It’ll just end badly for you.”

         Hakyeon flushed at the suggestion. “That’s not what I’m implying.”

         “Sure as hell sounds like it to me,” Jaehwan said. “I mean, sure, he’s tall and dark and handsome and everything, but the boy has serious commitment issues, man. He’s too busy with work to focus on a relationship.”

         “I’m not suggesting a relationship!” The words came out loud and harsh, and Jaehwan visibly jumped at the outburst. Hakyeon couldn’t begin to explain why ire roiled in his veins, but his head was spinning and he wanted answers. Real and tangible answers that could set his pounding heart at ease.

         Jaehwan held up both hands, palms facing outward. “Fine, fine. Whatever you say.”

         “I’m just so confused about all this.” Hakyeon tried to keep the frustration from showing in his voice. “Is this normal? Have you ever felt this way?”

         “What, like I miss someone? Of course I have. Everyone has.”

         “But that’s just it.” Hakyeon let out a breath. “How can I miss someone I barely know?”

         “Maybe you just click. Maybe you knew each other in a past life, hell, I don’t know. It could be anything.”

         The door to the bookstore opened, and Hakyeon didn’t bother turning to see who had walked in.

         “Speak of the devil,” Jaehwan said under his breath.

         “Jaehwan, I need to talk--”

         Hakyeon jumped at the sound of Taekwoon’s voice. He turned in his seat and their gazes locked. Something tugged at the corners of his mind, stronger than before, and a rising tide of affection and familiarity bubbled up in his chest.

         Taekwoon sighed. “I should have known you would be here.”

         “I can leave,” Hakyeon whispered.

         “Won’t do any good.” Taekwoon ran a hand through his hair. “You’re everywhere. Even when I’m not around you, you’re still there.”

         Jaehwan’s eyebrows rose. “What?”

         Taekwoon crossed his arms and seemed to weigh his words carefully before speaking. “Come with me.”

         Jaehwan pointed at himself questioningly.

         Taekwoon shook his head. “Not you.” He nodded toward Hakyeon. “You.”

         Hakyeon got to his feet and took a shaky step forward. “W-where are we going?”

         “My place,” Taekwoon muttered. “I think we need to talk.”

#fic: neo #neo fic #n #leo #neo #vixx neo #free of any eden #foae chapter 5

[vampiresman]

That Night. (TLA Ch. 1)

#to love again #to love again update #to love again chapter one #gay vampires #gay #lestat de lioncourt #louis de pointe du lac #loustat #fanfic #iwtv #interview with the vampire