#a little lonely but oddly comforting but also you get this ache in your chest | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hongism · 3 years

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the most brilliant darkness - j.wy (ft. c.san)

↣ pairing: wooyoung x fem reader/san x fem reader ↣ genre: greek mythology au, fantasy, angst, fluff, modern day greek gods au, s2l, slightly suggestive but nothing Lewd ↣ wc: 26.4k ↣ warnings: language, talks of losing hope/dreams, talks of mental health, mentions of death/discussions of a car accident and nonspecific mentions of a suicide! please please exercise caution when reading this fic as it is rather heavy! ↣ summary: life, to you, moves in waves, with crests and dips and all sorts of storms meant to trouble the waters throughout. you simply didn’t expect to crash into them so hard.

for @sleepylixie and @delicatewerewolfsoul’s hamartia collab!

four minutes past five o’clock, you step into a new life. the floor under your feet is oddly cold when you slip your shoes off beside the door. carpet slides between your toes like a weak attempt to warm your foul mood, but the stiffness in the air keeps you from finding any comfort in the feeling. no one greets you right away, which is what you expect, but still, there’s a sting that dulls and aches in your chest for too long. you suppose there could be some poetic semblance to going from a lonely, empty apartment in a busy city to a small town where the population is mostly middle-aged and older people. and at twenty-four, you suppose there could also be an argument that maybe you’re creeping up to join them.

“ah, y/n! i just saw yunho’s text! does he need help bringing your stuff up?” the voice comes from your right, and the woman who rushes out of a cramped kitchen greets you with open arms and a tight hug. she fits the bill for typical citizens of this town — hair greying enough to be noticeable and a dirtied little apron tied around her waist. hard-working people, that is, who work until they’re physically incapable of doing so even when they get paid dirt for it. such a concept seems odd to you who has friends who work for the money and to retire early.

“there are only a few boxes, you don’t need to strain yourself, aunty.”

“please, you’re the only one who shouldn’t be straining yourself. you had to pack everything yourself anyways! let us get the rest for you, okay?” the woman flashes a crooked smile as she pulls out of the hug, and that smile persists even as she steps around you to get to the open door. the argument is on your lips but she’s gone before you can voice your complaints, leaving you to stand in the middle of your new and foreign home.

it’s a nice enough place, you suppose, and a serious upgrade from your ratty apartment that you had to leave because you couldn’t afford to rent it any longer. although part of that is because of the job you were forced to leave, as well as the boyfriend (now ex) who left you with the cost of having to pay twice as much when he moved out. it wasn’t entirely his fault — you weren’t about to tell him to refuse the overseas job offer he received, especially not when it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for someone fresh out of university. it was more unexpected than anything else: five years of dating sent down the drain by a simple job offer on his side of things and a rejection letter from the only graduate school you truly wanted to attend on yours.

if you had to describe the feeling of your life at this very moment, you’d say it’s very much like the feeling of seeing your parents’ nicest vase fall off a table and knowing it’s going to break, then not being able to pick up the pieces fast enough. between the rejection, the breakup, leaving your job, not being able to afford your apartment, and now having to move to the only family who would take you — you’d say it’s safe to say your life is falling apart in every place imaginable. your aunt and cousin are making it manageable, especially yunho who was the one who dropped whatever he was doing to come help you move out and drove you down to this town in the first place, but the change is still in freefall and you don’t quite know what waits at the bottom yet.

“here, i’ll show you to your room!” yunho says, stepping through the front door with a large box of your belongings in his arms. there’s a clump of black hair sticking to his forehead, accentuated by the red highlights that streak through it, and he does his best to flick it out of the way with a huff of air. you trail behind him as he leads the way through the modestly sized house.

you and yunho frankly don’t know each other all that well. you are cousins, yes, but yunho was adopted by your aunt around the age of thirteen, and your family had already moved to a different city when that happened. the times you met up for family functions were few and far between, but even with the tragedies yunho has suffered in his own life, he’s always remained bright and peppy to a fault. he never seems to carry what happened to his own parents with him, and the life in his eyes never leaves either. as your aunt said on the phone when she first heard about your situation, perhaps this will be a good chance for the two of you to get closer as family. you won’t have much of a choice thanks to your severe lack of friends in this area.

“aunty is going to be busy tonight with work, so i thought we could go out and get some dinner in town? maybe after we finish unpacking some things?” yunho’s offer comes over his shoulder, called back to you as you trail behind his tall form with your hands folded in front of you.

“yeah, that sounds nice,” you mutter back. in all honesty, you’re too focused on taking in your surroundings than you are listening to what he’s saying — the bedroom is simple in a way that feels lonely. the drab neutral paint on the wall, the dull carpet that matches the comforter draped over the foot of the bed. it almost looks like a bedroom meant for yunho with the dark blues and decorations that sort of mimic a college dorm, but you’re sure your aunt didn’t expect to have anyone move in like this, so you can’t blame her for the tacky decorations. at this point, you’re simply grateful she extended the offer because moving out of the country to be with your dad felt too much like your life was out of your control.

“i can introduce you to some of my friends too if you’d like? they’re all from around here or live here too.”

you want to ask if they’re in similar positions, ones where their lives are spiraling and collapsing in on themselves, but that question is far too heavy for yunho’s brilliant grin as he sets a box down.

“yes, please.”

“please, you don’t need to be so formal! we’re family after all, yeah?” yunho grins wide enough to nearly split his cheeks with the gesture, then reaches a large hand out to land on top of your head. the motion that would usually make you spit and hiss like an offended cat instead makes you feel a little pang in your chest. yunho ruffles your hair, takes a step to the right, then moves around you to continue moving boxes into the house.

it doesn’t take long to move the boxes; however, the process of unpacking all those boxes is a nightmare in and of itself. your aunt disappears to go off to work an hour into the hellscape that is your new room, and you continue to work on moving clothes and smaller belongings with yunho at your side for another hour and a half before finally taking a break to breathe.

in those ninety minutes, you learn that yunho is chatty, and there’s no shortage of words for him to say or things to talk about with him. you don’t mind the idle chatter, and most of it is yunho telling you stories of the town and his friends, so listening isn’t a difficult task for you. he already knows all about what you’ve gone through recently through the phone calls and conversations on the ride here.

you learn that seonghwa is the oldest of his group of friends and is currently in nursing school despite being a softie who refuses to kill flies in case it might hurt them.

hongjoong is a prestigious art school graduate who spends most of his time doing freelance work for big-name buyers overseas but shares an apartment with seonghwa because the latter can’t afford his own place with school loans at the moment.

mingi and yunho met in high school and have been best friends ever since, glued to each other’s sides, and since graduating, mingi has lived here with his family. he still doesn’t know exactly what he wants to do with his life, but according to yunho, that’s something that he’s always struggled with.

another boy, san, also lives with them, although yunho neglected to mention why that is exactly. all you learn of him is that he’s quiet by nature, and not the most talkative, so you shouldn’t be offended or anything if he’s quiet around you at first. he’ll open up over time.

jongho and yeosang are the ones who are in town the least in terms of frequency. yeosang works as a model, so he only comes into town when there isn’t work lined up for him. as for jongho, the man is apparently the youngest of the friend group, so he gets teased endlessly for that despite being the one who could probably beat them all up. you don’t learn exactly what he does or what his story is, but yunho makes a few under-the-cuff comments about it being related to yeosang somehow, so you can only assume that he works with the model in some way.

you run through that list of facts over and over again in your head as you climb back into yunho’s truck to head to dinner. he promised it would be something low-key and chill, that you wouldn’t have to worry about everyone being there right away — only mingi, hongjoong, and san will be there this time because yeosang and jongho are out of town, then seonghwa has a late clinical — but meeting new people has never been your forte.

a large part of you worries that all your recent traumas will be glaringly evident on your face. there will most likely be an inevitable question of “so what brings you to this town”, and you aren’t positive you can answer such a question without bursting into tears and reliving the hell that your life has been in the past few weeks.

yunho drums his fingers against the side of the steering wheel in time with the music on the radio, and you watch the motion with little interest.

“when did you move back here? after college, i mean,” you ask out of the blue, not bothering to explain where the question comes from.

“after college. hm, like a month or so?”

“oh.”

“uncle got sick.”

“oh,” you repeat, though this time it comes out as quiet as a whisper and there’s a hint of hesitance to your tone. he can only be talking of your aunt’s husband, the one she married when you were eighteen and yunho was seventeen. no one in the family bothered to mention that he ever got ill or anything like that, not even your aunt when she first talked of you coming down to live with her.

“it’s okay.” despite the reassurance, yunho’s knuckles bleed white as he clenches the steering wheel. “we didn’t tell anyone about it.”

“i didn’t know. i’m sorry.”

“he didn’t die,” yunho reiterates. “he had to leave. he’s at a facility somewhere up north. not sure where; mom didn’t tell me. she took him away, and that was the end of it.”

in a way, you think that’s almost worse, and that’s an odd thing to think about. being alive is worse than being dead? odd.

“oh, hongjoong-hyung is already here.” yunho shifts the conversation almost conveniently (but you weren’t going to press for more information about your uncle anyway) as he pulls the truck into a narrow parking lot. you follow his gaze out the windshield only to see a short-statured man with a head of fiery orange hair and an obnoxious floral beanie perched atop that neon head of hair. you’re almost annoyed by the mere sight of the man before you remember that he’s a freelance artist who apparently makes more than six figures a year, so maybe getting on his good side would be good for you. is he too young to be a sugar daddy? are you too old for one? maybe you ought to research the inner workings of the sugar daddy-sugar baby industry more in-depth sometime.

yunho pulls into the nearest empty parking spot, not bothering to straighten out or even check to see whether he’s in the lines or not. you follow suit as quickly as you can when he pulls himself out of the truck, and the little fumble you do with the seatbelt that results in the metal clanging hard against your knuckles definitely doesn’t hurt like a bitch or make you clench your teeth as you climb out of the car. the obnoxious little redhead comes closer when yunho waves him over, and you’re left to take in the fairly frayed and stained light wash jeans and rainbow pastel sweater clinging to his torso. despite looking put together and well-off, there’s a certain sense about him that strikes you as entirely… custom, so to speak. like someone took a cookie cutter to the man and he bent it out of order into a pattern he preferred before letting it shape him.

“hi hyung, this is my cousin, y/n. y/n, this is hongjoong.”

“the art kid,” you utter without thinking, meaning to keep that mental note strictly mental, but it slips out anyway as hongjoong extends a hand in your direction. his hand twitches and hesitates in midair, but his lips curl upwards into a cat-like grin that fully shows how amused he is.

“at your service,” he replies, maintaining that same curled smile.

“should i use an honorific with you too?”

“no, that’s just something yunho does. no need for you to do it as well.”

“well, it’s nice to meet you then, hongjoong.”

“mingi and san already went inside to grab a table.” hongjoong points over his shoulder with his thumb, motioning towards the door to whatever restaurant it is you’ve landed at. yunho lingers by your side as you walk closer to the building as though offering some semblance of comfort and reassurance for you to rely on, and it helps. a bit. not much, but it’s the thought that counts more than anything else.

the inside of the restaurant is about as busy as you expected, which is not at all. the occupants themselves are much younger than you imagined, however, and most of them look only old enough to be in high school, if not middle school. it makes the two you are looking for stand out that much more. from what yunho told you, mingi is nearly as tall as he is, and that means he’s going to loom over you at least a little bit. his head is quite visible over the lip of the booth he’s sitting in, platinum hair reflecting the yellow lights above his head. you can’t see the other man with him quite yet, but he comes into view when hongjoong steps around the booth to sit beside him. he’s charming enough, you suppose. broad shoulders accentuated by a slim fit tank top that goes all the way up to his neck, muscled arms out and on display, and his hair is a simple black that contrasts off mingi’s blinding hair color. there’s not much to him — at least not much that would make him stand out in a crowd beyond his body proportions. something about the sharpness of his features intimidates you, how his eyes narrowed enough to be glaring in your direction as he takes you in and his jawline is just as intense, as though trying to mimic the same look his eyes have. you drop your gaze just as quickly as it lands on him, not keen on making any sort of eye contact.

yunho slips into the booth beside mingi then proceeds to shove the other man so far up against the wall that the poor guy whines in protest as it happens. it works in your favor though and lets you sit comfortably beside your cousin as you stare down new people in a new place and town that’s almost entirely foreign to you.

“san, mingi, meet my cousin. y/n, this is san and mingi.”

“nice to meet you both,” you say under your breath, bowing your head enough to be respectful without being obvious.

“welcome to our little band of chaos,” mingi greets. his eyes smile when his lips do, and it’s an infectious enough grin to make you smile a little yourself.

“hello y/n.” san’s lips stretch in a similar manner. dimples poke just beyond the corners of his mouth, deep little caverns that make his cheeks seem to glow under the lights. “hope you enjoy it here.”

« ♡ »

the first several weeks of your stay with your aunt and yunho are spent doing a lot of the same things. some days you’ll go out for dinner or to an arcade with yunho and his friends, but you don’t do it much. you don’t really have anything better to do; evenings alone are spent cooking for your aunt or in bed watching whatever you can find on the television. you meet seonghwa on the day marking your fifth week here. he’s pretty enough to be a model, eyes soft and happy when they looked at you, and you felt a strong sense of nurturing care from him just in a short interaction. it’s no wonder he’s striving to be a nurse. you don’t see him nearly as often because of his heavy schedule, but when he does come out with you guys, he always lingers near the edges of the group or the room and watches from there. sometimes hongjoong goes over to stand with him. you asked him — seonghwa, that is — why he doesn’t engage with the group as much, but the only response you got out of him was a gentle shake of his head that made a few of his long bangs fall into his eyes. you figured it was enough of a clue to not bother the subject further.

hongjoong sometimes misses your weekly outings (although occasionally when you’re feeling bolder you’ll go along with yunho two or three times per week). he gave you his number after that dinner when you met, so you sent him a text the first time he didn’t show up to a dinner that you attended. what you got in response was three days straight of pure radio silence only to be awoken by a shrill ringing from your phone at five o’clock in the morning on a saturday where hongjoong explained that he was overcome with inspiration for a commission from one of his patrons and it turned out so nicely it would be featured in an exhibition show later on in the week. the following friday, you all (seonghwa included) packed yourselves into yunho’s truck and drove down to see the exhibition.

around week five or six, you begin to wonder if san and mingi truly have nothing better to do with their lives based on the frequency of the texts flowing in and out of the group chat you were added to, all notifications about them going to various places in case anyone else wanted to join. yunho works what might as well be a full-time job but is apparently only part-time, an assistant at the local elementary school, and it really makes sense for someone like him to take up a job like that. mingi claims to have a job as well, although you have yet to figure out what exactly it is and don’t feel quite comfortable asking yunho to tell you. as for san — there’s not much to be said about him. he’s loud and quiet at the same time, in two starkly different ways. boisterous in public, always talking and playing around, but not once have you ever heard him talk about something personal. granted it’s only been a little over two months since you met the man, and of those two months, you’ve seen him maybe a dozen times at best. none of those instances have ever found you having a one-on-one personal conversation with the man.

during your eighth week, you meet jongho, who swings by the town on his way through quickly, but long enough to greet you and say he looks forward to getting to know you better later on. he’s sweet and friendly though, mature in a way that leaves you surprised when you recall that he’s supposed to be the youngest amongst the friend group.

week nine has you meeting yeosang, and it’s actually a long conversation that you share with him on a rusted bench outside the arcade that the others in your little new friend group are inside (aside from seonghwa, who has another late shift at the hospital). if someone were to ask you to recall the exact contents of that conversation, you would have a hard time simply because it was so much while also being nothing at all. he gave you his number in case you wanted to keep in touch before admitting that he’s terrible at responding and one conversation could take several days to get through.

week nine also brings about another oddity, one that stands out a lot more in your mind at the end of the day for two reasons. one: it’s terribly embarrassing and humiliating and whenever you think about it there’s this chill that goes down your spine because it’s that horrid.

“y/n darling, would you please run down the bread aisle? we need yeast and bagels,” your aunt says to you as you walk alongside her cart of groceries. because of yunho’s work schedule, you’re often the one left to be the grocery store helper, and it’s usually not much trouble or issue at all. the town is quaint, and the grocery store is far quainter, a very local and homey vibe to it between the aesthetic and the workers. you’ve almost got the layout fully memorized after the weekly visits, so you don’t have to wander around in search of something vaguely bread-like to find the aisle you’re looking for.

unlike usual, however, your phone buzzes in your back pocket as you round the corner of the shelves, and you don’t think to check if anyone is in front of you before pulling it out and continuing to walk forward.

yeonjun: hey y/n. i finally got settled in sydney! been so busy with the new job and friends that i’ve barely had time to myself to breathe, but i’ve got a few days off now! was wondering if you wanted to chat and catch up? i miss you lots xx

it shouldn’t hit you as hard as it does. you were expecting the text from your ex any day now, and frankly it’s coming much later than you anticipated (not that you were waiting around for it or anything). you split on good terms, it was a matter of different directions and different life paths, not anything unsavory or horrible that would result in the two of you being embittered. it’s just one text message, and yet it tells you a whole slew of things about how yeonjun is doing without you.

he’s where he always wanted to be, with a new job that pays so well he’s probably set for life if he keeps it, he’s busy and settled in with new people in a new place and happy. meanwhile, you’re off in an unknown town living with your aunt because you’re too broke to afford a place on your own, without a job, rejected from the school you desperately wanted to go to, with a damn degree that isn’t going to get you shit because you banked everything on getting into that graduate school. it’s not yeonjun’s fault; you’d be a cruel and heartless fool to ever blame him for being happy and living well because that’s all you ever wanted for him. that doesn’t make it hurt any less, though, and it doesn’t stop the burning in the corners of your eyes.

the moment comes to a crashing halt quite literally as you run face-first into another human being, still staring down at the notification. the impact is almost enough to knock you flat on your ass, and while you stay standing, the same can’t be said for the person you just hit. your initial reaction is of course to panic because you immediately assume you just took out an old person, but in your already panicked state, the tears come before an apology does. a dry sob heaves its way out your throat, one hand stretched to the person you hit and the other reaching up to cover your mouth.

“i’m sorry, i’m so sorry, are you alright?” you ask before any other cries can slip out. a warm hand slips into yours, then there’s a resounding laugh that seems to penetrate every ounce of air in the room.

“it’s okay! i promise i’m fine. it takes a lot more than that to take me out!” thankfully, the person you knocked down is in fact not elderly and actually a man? boy? you can’t tell how old he is at first glance, but he surely looks younger than you. beyond the mole crowning the crest of his cheek under his eye, there’s another on his bottom lip that catches your eye immediately. somehow it distracts you from whatever mess is on top of his head — is his hair dark brown? blond? blue? light brown? you can’t really tell because it’s mussed in so many different directions, but even with how odd it is, something else pulls your attention less than a second later. once you notice it, it’s hard to take your eyes off of it. his eyes are a neutral shade of brown which isn’t at all shocking or out of the ordinary to you, but there are pretty rings of gold swimming through that sea of brown, a color that almost borders orange with how saturated the color is. he helps himself to his feet more than anything else because you’re still in a mixture of panic and tears.

“are you sure you’re alright? did i make you drop anything?” you see nothing on the floor or in the man’s hands, so you can only assume he has a cart elsewhere, but you would really hate to have knocked his groceries all over the place.

“no! well, you dropped me on my ass, but that’s okay.” he laughs again, and the sound floods your senses more than before, like a wave crashing into you at full speed before you have a chance to gain footing on the shore.

“i’m — i’m so sorry,” you repeat, and this time the apology comes with a shaky exhale. he shakes his head to the point where his hair falls further into his eyes as he brushes his hands down the back of his pants.

“it’s really quite alright. you look like you’re having a hard enough time already without me making things worse.” you were hoping in vain that he wouldn’t comment on your tears, but at least he didn’t say anything condescending about them. he’s not wrong; you’ve certainly had a rough day as of three minutes ago, but beyond that, you’ve had a rough couple of months and a year if you look back on it as a whole.

“are you sure i can’t like, i don’t know, pay for your groceries to make up for it?” you make the offer like you have the money to spare, but really you don’t and you’re silently hoping he either refuses or only has a loaf of bread and stick of butter in his cart.

“oh please don’t! i buy way too much stuff, i wouldn’t ask you to do that!” his lips turn at the corners, and you’re hit with a smile that can only be described as adorably lopsided. you catch yourself staring at it a beat too long but the stranger makes no comment on it; he simply goes back to speaking like he never stopped. “actually, i have an idea. you seem to be a new face around here so i’m not sure if you know, but i own a little coffee shop here in town!” he reaches a hand into his pocket and withdraws a small business card from it, extending his arm out to you with a little airy giggle. the sound is cruelly wholesome and adorable coming from a man you just steamrolled in a bread aisle. “if you want to make it up to me, you can drop by my cafe anytime you like!”

you take the card with what must be an expression of shock. he’s provided enough of a distraction to get your tears to stop flowing and now they’re starting to dry on your cheeks thankfully, but when you look up from the card with neatly crimped corners and the words “cafe aurora” etched onto them, your stranger has disappeared entirely. nowhere to be found in front of you, behind you, in the aisle, at either end of the aisle — just gone completely without a trace. you consider for a brief moment that you are in fact mentally compromised and imagining things, but the card in your hand is too real for that to be the case. you’ve never heard of the cafe, and the address seems to be rather close to your aunt’s neighborhood, so really it’s a wonder you haven’t been dragged there at some point before.

“y/n sweetie, did you get the stuff i asked you to get?”

“a-ah, no, sorry…” you turn to the sound of your aunt’s voice, head ducked to your chest in a fit of shame. the card makes a new home in your pocket alongside your phone. she must see the clear evidence of your tears — either red-rimmed eyes or messy tear tracks on your skin.

“oh, honey, are you alright? did something happen?”

“sorry, i didn’t get the yeast or bagels yet, i…” clobbered some random guy after receiving a text from your ex about how well he’s doing? yeah, that explanation might just make you seem even more off your rocker.

“don’t worry about it, hun. it’s okay to get a little mixed up and emotional; you’re still going through a lot. it takes time to get back to stable footing when you’re going through so much. let’s just grab the rest of the stuff and head home, okay?”

“yeah,” you mumble under your breath, still not able to look the woman in the eye as you answer her. there’s a fleeting part of you that wishes to do something impulsive and reckless, something that will take the edge off and quell the rampaging emotions in your chest. perhaps throw loaves of bread at the floor, scream at the milk section, something, anything. given how yunho described what happened to his father and how your aunt ‘took him away’ though, you aren’t keen on doing anything impulsive in front of the woman.

your phone sits heavy in your pocket, yet somehow that small card the stranger gave you weighs far more.

« ♡ »

any thought of that stranger leaves you by the next day, and the card finds its way to the top of your dresser where you promptly forget about it within a week. you do decide to go out at least twice a week with your new friends, although at the age of twenty-four, saying it like that makes you feel childish. and today you’ve decided to go to the arcade at nine o’clock in the evening on a friday because apparently yunho has not had a night off in a while and both san and mingi are available yet again. yunho and mingi walk ahead of you, san on your right.

“they always let us bring snacks in, dude. stop being paranoid.” mingi slaps the back of yunho’s head with the plastic bag dangling from his hands. it’s not enough impact to break the snacks inside, but yunho still pretends to be scandalized and snatch the bag out of mingi’s hands with the claim that he can’t be trusted to protect their children. “you’re about to eat our children!”

“i’m a better father than you could ever hope to be!”

san snorts, head falling back to expose the pretty line of his muscled neck. he’s rather quiet today — at least more than usual, but you’ve actually grown to quite like the easy and comfortable silence that hangs between you two at times.

“did you know they have a deal that if neither of them is married by 35, they’ll marry each other?” he inquires as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants. you feel a bit underdressed next to him as usual what with his button-down and loose-fit trouser combo, but he somehow always makes the outfits seem as comfortable as a pair of joggers.

“figures. they can’t live without each other anyway. only makes sense for mingi to marry into the family eventually.”

“careful. yunho might get ideas and try to set you up with him.” san quirks a brow at you, smile playing at his lips and dimple poking his cheek. though the man was highly intimidating at first (and for the next several weeks until you got past the awkward stage), you’ve grown to find a lot in common with him. not as much as hongjoong, but the lonely art child isn’t present today, so you’ll enjoy your time spent with san instead.

“please, even if yunho somehow managed to convince me to marry mingi, i would be a stranger in my own marriage because they’d spend all their time together.”

“we already third wheel every time they’re together, so it wouldn’t be too much of a change, right?”

ahead of you, yunho swings his plastic bag around a little to keep mingi from snatching it, and as he does, a napkin slips out of the opening of the bag. you were raised with some decency, of course, so you don’t hesitate to try to grab it as it whooshes by. the descent it makes is assisted by the lack of a strong breeze in the air, but you still have to chase it to the edge of the sidewalk to get within arm’s reach of it. you’re just about to grab hold of the flimsy material when a hand closes around your bicep and yanks you back so hard that your head bounces off air.

“wh—”

the blaring sound of a car horn interrupts you, a gust of air hits you with enough strength to make you stagger, and the napkin disappears entirely from sight as a vehicle speeds by less than a foot from your face. for a moment, your ears ring, and your heart beats so hard that you fear it might just pop out of your chest entirely if it doesn’t calm down.

across the street, under rays of yellow light from the lights illuminating the path, stands a man with hair neatly parted down the middle. dark brown, light brown, blue, and platinum. he regards you with nothing more than a disinterested stare, hands shoved deep in his pockets and expression so flat he could be a statue for all you know. or he could be a hallucination conjured up from a near-death experience just now, but that still hasn’t sunk in completely yet. either way — that stranger from the grocery store is standing across the street looking so stoic that it’s unnerving in a lot of ways. you don’t stare for long as the hand on your arm pulls you around and back to the sidewalk you were just on.

san stares back at you when you fully turn around.

“i’m fine,” you say without missing a beat, hoping that san can’t feel the way your muscles are trembling under his touch. his grip tightens a little.

“be careful.” you’d just gotten used to his demeanor, and now his eyes are back to intimidating you.

“y/n!?” yunho comes up on your left, pushing into your space to grab hold of your shoulders. he twists and turns you like it’ll show off some invisible wounds you’ve suffered, and the small voice in the back of your head echoes that his expression reminds you a lot of ones you saw on your father’s face from time to time. san’s hand slips from your bicep down to your wrist where his fingers decide to dip into the curve of your palm. you can’t tell if his hand is shaking against yours because of your own trembling or if it’s his own. the expression on his features tells you that it’s the latter.

even after you repeatedly assure yunho that you are alright, he refuses to stop fussing over you and demands that you walk on the inside of the sidewalk while he walks closer to the road just in case. and insists that you hold onto his arm which makes you feel like a child, but you’ll take the punishment for scaring him so badly minutes ago. you dare to glance back across the street before following the warpath to the arcade. it’s no surprise that no one stands on the other side, but you can’t stop thinking about how hard san’s hand was shaking against yours.

later you’ll tell yourself that you’re only bold enough to ask yunho about it because san and mingi are walking far enough ahead and talking loud enough to drown out your quiet questions.

“i’ve never thought to ask before but um, what exactly is san’s story? like how did he end up here? i never hear him talk about his family and he’s never away from mingi either so…”

“ah, yeah, that’s because he lives with mingi and his family! they met in college, roommates in freshman year and then they stuck with each other after. i think — well, i know there was some sort of incident that happened during college, and san had to drop out because of it. he didn’t finish college or go back, but he came here to live with mingi’s family, then mingi came down to live at home again when we graduated.” yunho’s steps falter and halt for a moment, eyes glaring holes into the sidewalk as he contemplates his next statement. “i don’t know exactly what happened to be honest. mingi never told me, but it’s not his business to anyway. i know san isn’t originally from around here though; he came from a bigger city with a family with lots of money. i don’t know where they are now or how san’s relationship with them is, but he doesn’t like talking about them, so i avoid asking.”

“ah. i’ll try to avoid it too then,” you mumble. staring at san’s broad shoulders and back offers no reprieve from the tangled thoughts running through your mind, nor do yunho’s words do much in the way of helping enlighten you on his character at all. if anything, you’re set even further back because what kind of thing has to happen for san to drop out and move in with his roommate’s family when he had a rich family from a large city all the while? it doesn’t add up in your head, but you aren’t about to go up to san and ask him about it point-blank.

no, instead you fall quiet and watch the man’s back as he talks to mingi as though he didn’t just possibly save your life and keep you from an early death. he’s as animated as ever, grinning along with mingi’s bright and loud tone that’s become something of music to your ears after only a few months of knowing him. you can’t exactly catch the thought before it occurs, but some voice in there pipes up to note that for the first time in a long while, you feel happy here. not only in this new place with new people but also in your life as well.

when you reach the arcade, there are already two people standing in front of the brightly lit building, one bearing a head of obnoxiously orange hair and the other a less familiar but not unwelcome sight of jet black hair against pale skin.

you pull your arm out from where it’s currently resting against the crook of yunho’s elbow as you see him.

“you didn’t say that yeosang would be here?!”

“i — i didn’t know either? hyung must’ve kept it from everyone,” yunho stutters, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks forward. “he’s gonna roast your ass so hard when he hears you almost got hit by a car.”

a scoff slips out of your mouth immediately, but you aren’t too bothered by the quip because it means that yunho won’t be high-strung and glued to your side out of worry throughout the entire night.

your theory proves to be correct because once you’re inside the arcade with the others, yunho peels away from your side to join mingi and san over at the dance pads, leaving you with yeosang and hongjoong. you don’t mind it all too much; you find it easy to converse with hongjoong as it is because of your shared art background, and the last time you saw yeosang, he piqued your interest enough for you to want to converse with him some more. so it’s no issue when you follow the pair to the air hockey table in the back, leaning up against the cool metal as they take positions on opposite sides of it.

“i didn’t know you were in town, yeosang,” you start as he pulls out a few coins.

“ah, yeah, came in earlier today! flew in from milan; hongjoong picked me up from the airport.”

“milan?” you echo, eyes going a little wide at how casual yeosang is in stating the fact. you know he’s a model, but the type of model as well as how prolific he is in his work are completely unknown to you. and right now it seems you were grossly underestimating how successful he is.

“i had a show there on monday. stayed a little while longer for some sightseeing. oh, that reminds me — joong, i brought back some photos for you.”

“oh? anything good?”

“mm, dropped by a few art installments and museums but they were rather boring.” the idea of such things being boring to yeosang almost makes you snort simple because of how pretentious it makes him sound. him and hongjoong being closer than the rest of the group would make sense in that regard. “took some photos of some more basic things for you. maybe it’ll get you in the mood?”

“inspire me, yeosang, i need it to inspire me. if i needed to be in the mood to paint, i’d just go mope around and listen to classical music.”

“you do that every week you don’t meet up with us…” you mumble, earning a sputter of denials from the man.

“i do not!”

“seonghwa called tuesday to complain about how you were staying up past when he got home from his late-night shifts.”

“and!? that doesn’t prove anything!”

“he said you were playing the piano music again…”

“oh come on, that was — what, it was once? maybe twice? over two years ago!”

you haven’t been here for long in comparison to these people who have known each other for years by now, and yet something about it all feels natural in the way that some people still feel like home after a long time away. you got that feeling when seeing your aunt and yunho, after the first awkward icebreaker week when you finally got settled in — the sense of returning to a place where you belong. that’s somewhat the feelings these people give you as well. mingi, san, yeosang, hongjoong, seonghwa, even jongho despite how brief your initial meeting was. your initial inhibitions and fears of being rejected or pushed away without reason for simply being sad and upset about the things you’re still reeling from were strong and present for the first several weeks. now, they’re there, but it’s almost as though they’ve been diluted to an indiscernible amount.

in short, they make it easy to be friends with them. and you appreciate it so deeply because it’s exactly what you needed after suffering so many losses.

at some point, you move over to the dance pads to watch the tail end of yunho and mingi’s grueling dance battle, standing beside a very engaged and loud san while yeosang and hongjoong linger a little further away so the latter can see all the pictures yeosang took for him. time always seems to pass quickly on nights like these, even when you want it to last longer, and it’s eleven o’clock before you know it, resulting in your little group getting ushered outside by tired staff members just trying to close for the night.

yeosang being in town and hongjoong actually attending for once must bring out a special occasion in everyone because that’s not where you part ways for the night. instead, you make the short walk over to the park down the road upon mingi’s insistence.

you don’t know how you end up alone with san. it’s quiet between the two of you, a sharp contrast to how he was with yunho and mingi in the arcade earlier, and you can’t pinpoint why. whether it’s the late hour, something on his mind, or anything else in-between. you function better as a human being when the other person is driving the conversation. san, however, doesn’t seem keen on starting one at all right now. the others are off god knows where doing god knows what as you stand with san at the corner of the park on the part of the sidewalk that isn’t dampened by the sprinkler system. at least the weather is nice tonight.

san shifts but doesn’t say anything, and you don’t realize what he’s up to until you see the slender line of a cigarette dangling from his fingertips.

“that’s bad for you,” you say, but there’s no real heat in your tone. san shrugs.

“i know. i’m a social smoker. don’t do it much.”

a breath, then a small stretch of silence that’s somewhat comfortable.

“can i have one?”

san glances at you out the corner of his eye. his gaze sweeps over your face, eyeing your hair, your eyes, your nose, your lips, then he gives your whole body a once over before climbing back up to look you in the eye again.

“no,” choi san answers simply, and his tone is so airy and light that you don’t have it in you to be upset over the refusal.

“okay.”

“it won’t fix anything.”

“yeah.”

“tell me, y/n, do you care for coffee?”

that’s how you end up walking along a rather empty sidewalk near midnight, choi san at your side as you balance yourself on the curb like it’s the game you used to play as a child. he’s still smoking, cigarette hanging from his lips despite no longer being around people, and you get the growing sense that it’s not entirely “social smoking” after all. not that it’s any of your business. you’re focused on not falling off this curb, after all.

the place he picks for coffee turns out to be a gas station and not an actual coffee shop, but it’s late to a point where you wouldn’t be surprised if there weren’t any cafes open at this hour. you follow him through the automatic sliding doors, eyeing the back of his short hair the whole way like it will explain his demeanor to you. the cigarette falls to his side locked between his index and middle fingers, and he keeps it lit despite the very evident sign on the door that says no smoking.

“you shouldn’t do that in here,” you mutter. san turns to look at you. he pulls the cigarette back up to his lips and takes a long drag before huffing the smoke out the corner of his mouth. the foul stench reaches your nose, and you try not to grimace.

“i know,” comes his reply. it’s flat, but not in a way that’s meant to be condescending.

“okay.”

you exchange a series of empty blinks with the man. he’s a conundrum honestly, one you can't pick apart fast enough, and frankly, you’re scared that sticking around too long might get you unfortunately attached. not detrimental, but certainly not needed given your recent failings, and you aren’t sure you want to see another relationship fall apart this soon after the last.

san turns forward again and keeps walking. you’re left to play catch up, jogging a little to match his long strides as he takes you to the back of the convenience store. it’s only then that you realize this isn’t about coffee at all. you don’t stop following him, not until you reach the little hallway between the bathrooms, where a dingy and old water fountain sits. san buries the butt of his cigarette in his pants leg, not batting an eye at the small ring it leaves behind, then runs it under the water of the fountain. once he’s satisfied with it, he drops it in the trashcan then turns to face you once more.

“well then.”

maybe you misread the tension in the air, maybe the scenario isn’t unfolding the way you think it is, because choi san is stuffing his hands into his pockets and staring at you without moving.

you decide, on a whim of bad judgment, that you’re going to take matters into your own hands.

it takes two steps to close the distance between your body and choi san’s, and one second to close your shaky fingers around his shirt that’s unbuttoned to his stomach.

the kiss tastes of smoke and ash, like soot that’s freshly fallen from a fire with a minty aftertaste that bites at the back of your throat so much you nearly cough into his mouth.

san meets your intensity and desperation with a fervor that speaks for itself, no need to even secure his hands at your hips with the way he’s backing you into the corner between the bathroom door and the water fountain.

belatedly, you realize you never messaged yeonjun back.

« ♡ »

you don’t talk about that night with san, not to him or to anyone else, but then again, why would you? it was a moment shared, one where you were (not at all) tipsy off a single drink at the bar, and he had done the same. so what’s there to talk about? misread signals and awkward encounters with the poor teenager on staff who found the two of you pressed into the corner of a gas station hallway? you did end up getting that coffee afterward though. it was nice enough, you suppose. tasted too much like mint and ash for your liking.

even if you did care enough to mention it, it’s not like anything would come out of it. you aren’t sure you even really want anything to either.

fucked up feelings and bad decisions are your forte, but you don’t wanna bring that into this brand new friend group when you have no other options in this godforsaken town. you got your impulse decision though, and with it came a slew of possibilities of what effect this could have on your friendship with san, with the group, your life in this town — it spirals out of control too fast for your liking. and when the nights grow old and fall far into morning territory, your brain likes to depict those thoughts like a poorly written play.

there’s one moment of weakness that happens two days after, one that you aren’t proud of in the slightest. in short, yunho finds you seated in an empty bathtub at two in the morning, spaced out and on the verge of tears.

the longer and more convoluted explanation would be that you received another text from yeonjun that was full of pleas for a response and him asking you to not throw away what’s left of your relationship (in kinder, gentler words). that alone would have been enough to take you out of commission for the night, but you got your yearly call from your dad around midnight because of your time differences.

you don’t hate the man, nor do you have a particularly bad relationship with him; it’s just that talking with him leaves you thinking about other things that are far less than pleasant and harder to deal with, so avoiding it entirely is often your choice. you ignored his first call in fact, but the second came through and you knew he would be insistent.

after that, well, yunho came in for his late-night bathroom trip and his soul nearly left his body seeing you in there with the lights off. it would have been amusing if not for the dismal mood.

less than a week later, you start seeing a therapist. it’s on your aunt’s command and the result of your first argument with the woman since you arrived. yunho called it ‘trouble in paradise’; you knew it to be a ticking time bomb. and frankly, your aunt did bring up several valid points. first: you sit around and do nothing all day unless you feel like going out with yunho or to the grocery store. true to a fault. second: all you do when home alone is watch television. not completely true because you sometimes do your laundry or cook something, but still true enough. third: you simply seem physically, mentally, and emotionally unwell.

that was what triggered the argument. the direct attack had hit you like a brick being hurdled across the room even though you were standing two feet away from your aunt at the time. it was enough of a wake-up call to get you to listen to her pleas, coupled with the edge of desperation in her voice as she explained how she just wants you to be okay. it lands you in a cold and hard cushioned chair beside a woman who sits with one leg crossed over the other and glasses perched on the tip of her nose. she always looks the same every time you go, the only differences lying in her outfits and hairstyles.

“i suppose i’m feeling lost right now.”

“because of what, y/n?”

you wave a dismissive hand through the air, untucking your foot from where it currently sits underneath your other leg, and you press it to the floor like it will do something to ground you.

“i have no real direction in my life right now. so much of what’s happening to me feels… out of my control. and like, a lot of people tell me that i should just do whatever i want while i can but to be honest, i don’t know what it is that i want if i want anything at all.”

“that’s a shockingly normal mindset for many college graduates to have, y/n. you’d be surprised how many share that line of thought.”

“i suppose. i think because i lost everything i had so quickly, it hit harder. at the same time, part of me feels as though it hasn’t fully sunk in or hit yet.”

“you’re having to adjust to many things at once. how does that make you feel?”

that’s the cursed question of the hour every time you visit. and in many ways, you think it’s meant to be confusing and catch you off-guard even though you ought to expect it by now.

“the people around me… i think they imagine me to feel overwhelmed by it all, but honestly, if i don’t think about what i lost when coming here, i feel quite fine. it’s when — yeah, when i start thinking about all that.”

“before college, did you have any dreams that you wanted to see fulfilled, y/n?” her pen is dragging against the notepad over her knee. the anxiety-riddled part of your brain begs for a reprieve, to know what she’s writing, what she thinks of you, or perhaps even if she has a damn answer to your life’s problems.

“yeah, i used to want to travel.” i was going to go to sydney with my boyfriend. those words stay on your tongue and never meet the air. “go around the world and see new things. i got my degree in photography and art but that fell through when i couldn’t get into grad school.”

“tell me a bit more about that. why do you think graduate school is such a necessity?”

you shrug and offer no further response at first. eyes find the wall and stare at a rather inconspicuous dot there as you mull over your thoughts.

“i’m not even sure anymore. it’s what my parents wanted me to do. to them, if i was going to get a degree in something like art and photography, then i needed the graduate degree to succeed and get actual work.”

“do you believe them?”

“…yes.” you think of hongjoong and the six figures he apparently has in his bank account. “no. maybe, i don’t know.”

“and since moving here, have you tried drawing or taking photos at all? anything to stimulate that part of your brain or even just to do for fun?”

“n-no,” you admit, turning back to look at the floor under your feet. you shake your head a little late. “i haven’t really been able to since everything came down on me. i guess i’m worried about it being hard or less enjoyable than it used to be.”

“that’s understandable. it can be scary to go back to that thing when you are feeling so much failure from it. why, if you don’t mind me asking, were you rejected from the grad school you applied to?”

“um, it was because of my grades. some core classes that i didn’t do well in that brought my GPA down enough to get rejected.”

“so it wasn’t your art or photography classes? or your portfolio, i assume?”

“no, no, uh, they said it was my math and science grades.” when you blink up at the woman, she’s wearing a slight smile on her lips, gaze gentle as it washes over you. it doesn’t hit you as to why until you stop to think about what was said.

“your skill in art and photography were not to your detriment, y/n. do you see that?”

“yes.” it’s tougher to admit that than you thought it would be.

“tell you what, y/n. why don’t we do a little exercise for this week? i would like you to take a few photos or draw something if you can. in nature preferably so you can spend some more time outside, but mind your own boundaries and do so wherever you’re comfortable, okay?”

the doctor made it seem entirely too easy, or at least that’s what you think as you leave the building and stare into a far too bright sun and suddenly have many regrets about agreeing to go outside for this. you’ll get over it once your eyes adjust, but for now, you glare at the ground the entire time you’re walking to the car where san waits to pick you up. yunho would have been the one to get you, but alas, his work schedule got in the way, and your aunt was also busy so here you are. getting into san’s car after therapy with his sharp stare and expectant expression glued to the side of your face as you settle in the passenger seat. it’s no secret what you were doing; you had to give him the address and name of the building after all, and that wasn’t exactly inconspicuous especially since he had to make the forty-five-minute drive out of town to get you to the city for it. you can’t explain why your body is burning with shame, nor do you like the fact that it is.

therapy is normal. it’s healthy. there’s nothing wrong with it.

but the self-instilled prejudice against it, along with the societal implications that go hand-in-hand with those thoughts, drive your shame to an impossible degree.

“how was it?” he asks as the car doors snap to their automatic locks.

“it was fine. as far as those things go.”

san snorts.

“yeah, i know what you mean. do you want me to take you straight home?”

you draw your lips into a purse and stare at the dash as though it’ll give you an answer.

“actually, can we do something else really quick?”

san ends up taking you to the nearest art supply store, where you pick up a fresh sketchbook along with a new set of pencils to replace your worn down and ancient ones. he doesn’t offer much beyond pointless conversation, things that would never imply that the two of you made out in the back of a gas station convenience store just a week ago. that’s fine by you; you aren’t ready to think about the implications anyway.

there’s an odd thrum of energy on the drive back, however, and that’s not something you can ignore as easily. you do your best to anyway.

“you got your degree in photography, right?”

“um, yeah, photography as my major then i got an art minor as well.”

“do you still take pictures and stuff?” san stares forward at the road ahead, but there’s something about the way he speaks that makes you feel like you have his full, undivided attention on you.

“not so much anymore, no. my camera is on my dresser but i… i haven’t really touched it since moving here.”

“there’s this place i really like going to.” he pauses there, leaving you to blink at his sharp features and side profile in curiosity. it’s such an odd thing to say out of nowhere, although you sense where it’s going moments before he continues speaking. “it overlooks a hill that’s covered in cherry blossom trees. they aren’t blooming right now, but it’s still a really pretty sight.”

it’s there. the invitation, the implication, the hidden meaning to his words — san is asking you if you want to see them with him, and you aren’t fool enough to say no to such an invitation.

“i’d that to see that sometime then,” you reply, and it comes out more like a whisper than anything else.

“you said you’ve got your camera at home?”

it feels like you are unknowingly signing away some part of your life you don’t know about. and maybe if you had more sense in your body, you would realize how this will inevitably turn out given what’s already happened, and the regrets from your first impulsive decisions would echo back now.

even if they do ring in your ears now, you ignore them.

“we can drop by and pick it up, if you want.” you pose the offer, even though san is the one asking you if you’re okay with coming along. he agrees nonetheless.

when you arrive back at your aunt’s house, san tells you to stay put as he climbs out of the car and walks around the front. you aren’t sure why you’re inclined to listen to him, but you do as he says, watching with wary eyes as he reaches your side of the car and pulls the door open for you.

“i’ll wait out here for you,” he says when you step out into the open air. your chin tilts up a little in question.

“you can come in if you want.”

“i’m sure your aunt wouldn’t want me smoking in her house.”

a small noise of realization slips out of your mouth, and san flashes a cigarette dangling between his fingers. you hadn’t even seen him pull it out, but he must have done so before helping you out of the car. he’s lighting it a second later, something that should make you step back and out of his breathing space because of how unpleasant the smell it.

“that’s… yeah.” you shouldn’t want to kiss him again, you shouldn’t want to go down that route or making things messier because logic tells you not to. yet him taking a drag from that damn cigarette triggers something of a pavlovian response in you that makes you want to lean into his space and lick the smoke off his lips. and when the door of opportunity opens, you step through it like it’s the home behind you. this instead manifests in you pushing into san’s space with his movements mirroring yours like he knows what your intentions are. he only has to push his chin down a little to reach your lips, holding his cigarette out to the side and away from your body as though he fears hitting you with it. your hands are curling around the fabric of his shirt — this time a plain muscle tee hidden underneath a leather jacket — and you get exactly what you’re after a moment later, tongue making its way to san’s lower lip. the taste is sweeter today, perhaps because he barely started smoking, but the bit of mint of his skin gives you the hit you want.

“go get your camera, then i’ll take you out there,” san murmurs into your mouth, soft pants filling your skin with warmth. it’s nice, you think, to have this, even if it’s out of impulse and not anything of substance.

“where exactly are you taking me?” you inquire as you let your hands relax against his shirt. if you think too hard about it, you’d note how you can feel his muscles twitching under your palm.

“hotel at the outskirts of town. i’ll make the reservation while you’re inside.”

it’s concerning how little communication flows between the two of you. although you’re speaking and saying things to each other, this can hardly be called proper communication because of how much you’re omitting. from the ‘why are we doing this’, ‘are we really doing this’, even the mutual agreement is out the window almost, if not for your eagerness to nod along with san’s words.

there’s something of a haze over your brain when you pull back from san’s touch, his lips nearly chasing yours for a split second before he replaces your spot with his cigarette once more. the walk through your home to reach the camera seems to take twice as long as usual, and yet with your brain running a mile per minute, you somehow feel rushed and frazzled at the same time. it’s an odd dichotomy that choi san has put you into, one you can’t fully pick apart and explain. it persists well after you retrieve the camera off your dresser and return to his car, goes beyond when he opens the car door for you to slip inside again before proceeding to walk around the front while finishing off the last of his cigarette. when he sits back in the driver’s seat, he smells of smoke and ash and mint.

the implications of what you are going off to do with this man weigh heavy on your shoulders. he’s not unattractive in the slightest; you’d be a fool to not feel even the slightest bit of sexual attraction when it comes to him. and right now, arguably, you’re feeling it more than a little with the way you keep pressing your thighs together when his hand travels over to your seat and plants itself on your upper thigh. the touch is equally testing as it is teasing, and your subtle response to his inaudible question of “is this okay” is enough for him to continue. it’s not so much a big deal as it is a hairpin trigger releasing you into shark infested waters that contain regret, bad decisions, and ruined relationships. you’d be happy to float in that water like a leaf, drowsy and uncaring about the effects your actions have on the people around you. the more anxiety-riddled part of your brain screams that no, that’s not an option, you have to stop being selfish.

you’ve suffered enough these past few months.

you’ve lost enough.

whatever this thing with choi san is, you’re going to take it and consume it while you can, rocking lazily back and forth in the waters with his arms around your waist threatening to bring you down.

« ♡ »

the trend, you’ve learned, has become to simply not talk about what you do in your private time with san.

does it become a habit? yes, unfortunately, one that occurs once a week if not more than that. it becomes difficult when yunho starts getting home before you do, and you’re forced to answer his questions as to where you’ve been, but just saying “out with san” suffices enough because he doesn’t think there’s anything suspicious there. at least he doesn’t voice it. he usually just shrugs and says it’s good that you’re getting out more.

you never stay the night at the nice hotel on the outskirts of town, one that’s surely pricey given how it has velvet upholstery and silk sheets in the bedroom, along with a bathroom that’s bigger than your room in your aunt’s house. the balcony attached to the room is where you spend most your time after your less than savory sexual activities with san. he always pulls the purple velvet armchairs out the sliding doors and sets them out on the balcony so you two can sit and watch the night sky together before it gets too late. it seems bizarre to you that he would spend so much money renting the room out for the night only to never ask if you want to stay over; san always without fail brings you home at midnight, waving to the receptionist on the way out like this is a totally normal situation.

on the bright side (yes, there is one, and it’s one your therapist really enjoys hearing about), you take lots of photos while over at that hotel with san. usually, you use the balcony as a vantage point to take pictures of the stars and moon, or if the moon is full enough, you’re able to get good photos of the landscape with yellow moonlight splashed over it. you start bringing your camera to your therapy sessions just to show the doctor your work with no shortage of pride, because it’s something you’re good at and you’ll be damned if you don’t get to show off the one thing you worked so hard on for four years.

you spend a lot more time outside and in the park as well, which is also good for you because it means more sun and outside air, and you’re no longer tired all the time as you used to be. you don’t always go out with people, sometimes it’s better if you get to be out on your own with your thoughts. sometimes one of your friends will drop by if you’ve been out long enough. other times, a certain stranger finds you there.

the first time it happens you write it off as a coincidence. the man with four (yes, four still) shades in his hair waves at you from across the grass, and you offer a shy wave in response. he passes on and leaves you be.

the second time, he stops to speak with you.

“hi. out here alone again?”

“you know that sounds creepy, right?” you argue, but you think you could take him in a fight. easily.

“oh, does it? sorry! i just meant you seem to be out here alone a lot. not that i’m watching you!” the way he fumbles with his words and struggles to stop digging his grave deeper is almost endearing. you laugh as he shakes his head and slaps his own cheeks. “i’m wooyoung, by the way! you probably only know me as the grocery store victim or that weird stranger who keeps bothering me at the park.”

“wooyoung,” you repeat, testing the name on your tongue then letting it go on loop in your mind until you think you’ve got it down. “it’s nice to meet you, wooyoung. i’m y/n.”

“y/n,” he echoes back to you. that little bit of your brain that produces serotonin trills from the sound of it on his lips, an inexplicable joy coming from just that one thing. “you like photography then?” he motions to the camera in your hands.

“yeah, well, i majored in it actually. so i sure hope i like it.”

“cute,” the stranger giggles. you’re a simple girl. being called cute makes your heart do backflips and somersaults, and this is no exception. “i’ve got to run back to the cafe right now, but if we ever happen across each other again, i’ll stop and ask to see your pictures, okay? be ready for it!”

for some reason, you laugh at the odd demand and nod.

it stops becoming a coincidence when this stranger starts showing up every time you’re alone in the park, like he’s got some sixth sense that you’re on your own or he really is following you around without you knowing. you aren’t sure whether it’s enough for you to call him a friend, although you admittedly enjoy his presence a little too much for him to be only a stranger. he loves looking at the new photos you’ve taken since you saw him last, always asking to look them over when you aren’t in the middle of taking one. the company is nice in a way you’re afraid to admit. he likes to linger at your side, likes to make jokes just to see you smile and laugh, sometimes steps in front of your line of sight while you’re trying to take a picture just to mess with you. those pictures always end up being your favorites.

oddly, san loves seeing your photos as well. at least, he enjoys watching you take them while you’re out on the balcony together. you think nothing of it — assuming it to be an easy way for him to pass the time while he’s doing his nightly smoke — and that’s how it remains until one night when you’re out for dinner with the whole group.

you’ve made a habit of keeping tracking of the time in terms of how long it’s been since you arrived in town, so to put it in perspective for yourself, it’s week seventeen when the first cog falls into place, one marking your unlabelled relationship with choi san in a public manner.

“y/n is really good a photography, you know,” he states to the table just before the waitress arrives with your food. he’s sat across from you, sandwiched between mingi and yunho’s lanky forms while you’re seated opposite him with seonghwa and hongjoong on either side of you. it’s not so much the statement that catches you off-guard as it is the confidence with which he says it, like it’s his little secret to share even though your cousin is right next to him and the whole table knows what you majored in at university. “she could do an exhibition with you, joong.”

hongjoong blinks over at you, eyes lighting up with joy in a split second, and you don’t have time to look at san’s small smile or the dimple poking a hole in one side of his cheek before hongjoong is pulling your attention off him.

“oh, do you have a portfolio? a website maybe? i’d love to see your work!” hongjoong is as animated as ever, and seonghwa offers a sigh on your other side before urging the man to not bombard you with questions until after you’ve eaten. and there choi san sits across the table with the same half-smile and almost enough light in his eyes to make you believe that perhaps there’s a little weight to what the two of you have been doing for the past six weeks.

you decide not to bring it up right away, letting the incidence stew in your brain for exactly two days until you are next alone with san, which happens to be on another outing with mingi and yunho. jongho and yeosang are in town this time around, and that’s frankly the only reason you all go out in the first place. you, with your camera in hand and san seated beside you on the grass in the park as the others play soccer a little ways away.

“why did you mention my photos to hongjoong?” you ask, fiddling with one of the buttons on the back of your camera. san glances over at you as he shrugs off his jacket. it’s nearing winter and yet he’s still wearing a tank top like it’s the middle of summer. you almost feel cold just by looking at him.

“because they’re good. and he likes looking at photos for art inspiration.”

you blink up from the back of your camera, but your gaze doesn’t go straight to san. it lingers on the group before you, the soccer ball on the ground racing across the grass, and the few trees that still have orange and brown leaves on their limbs. you snap a quick photo then return to examining it before speaking again.

“they’re just photos. i wouldn’t say they’re nearly as exciting as joong’s art.”

“still your work though.”

“and that makes it good?”

san twists at the neck to look over you. admittedly, there’s specific words you want to hear from his lips, but you’re too afraid to even voice the thought to yourself.

“yeah. isn’t that enough?”

“tell that to the grad school who rejected me.” you mutter that bit under your breath, so you can’t be sure whether san really heard it or not, nor does he offer any indication that he has. instead he reaches down for your camera bag, nudging it with an index finger and arching a brow in your direction. the gesture confuses you for a split second before you realize what he’s after. “yeah go ahead. there’s probably photos in there.”

you used to treat that camera bag as your most prized possession, the place where you stored keepsakes of all sorts and kinds, and you thought you moved them all out of there when you got your rejection letter. emphasis on thought, because as san rifles through the bag, he pulls out a stack of old and fading polaroids you must have forgotten to take out. you nearly fumble the camera at the sight of them, eyes catching the figures on the one on the top of the stack in an instant. san pays your blunder no mind and continues to flip through the photos. he lingers long enough on each one to get a good look at them, all containing the same person or people.

“is this you?” he asks eventually as he finally pauses on one of them.

“yeah… um, yeah we used to take lots of pictures when we were younger.”

“who’s this in the pictures with you?”

“that’s m-my younger sister.”

“you look young here.”

you nod even though he’s not looking your way, a poor mimicry of the way your heart is racing inside your chest.

“i was around twelve years old in those probably. my sister was seven.” if you think about it too hard, you’d remember that it’s almost time for you to call your dad, but that’s something you aren’t ready to recall quite yet. san must notice your hesitance surrounding the subject, pausing his fingers where they trail over the top of one of the photos. the silence hanging between your bodies feels infinitely heavy in a way that shouldn’t even be possible. he clears his throat and sets the stack of photos down in your camera bag again.

“you know, my family died a few years ago. when i was a junior in college, um, that’s why i didn’t finish school actually. i kinda flunked out, really, bubt the school was nice enough to have pity and just called it a drop out instead so it wouldn’t look as bad. i came here to live with mingi’s family because i didn’t have anyone else to go to, no money to afford a place, couldn’t stay on campus since i was no longer a student either. after everything processed and the funerals went through, i got some money from the will but mingi’s family insisted i stay.” san’s lips press to form a thin line, then he sets his jaw like he’s about to hiss through his teeth. “it was a car accident that… did them in. a really bad one. i didn’t even get the chance to have a hospital visit. that’s why when — when you almost got hit that night a few months back i freaked out so badly. even though i wasn’t there with my family at the time, sometimes just the thought of a car accident is hard to deal with. time has passed, sure, but it’s still something that comes back around every once in a while to haunt me.” san picks at a few blades of grass by his feet.

even after all the things you’ve done with this man by now, this is still the first true vulnerable and emotional conversation you’ve had with him. the fucking and playing around are merely that; neither of you open the door of opportunity to things like this either because you’re afraid or too worried about what that entails. you hate to think this is a step in your relationship, forward or backward or sideways — you aren’t sure. he’s not crying, hardly emotional to the visible eye at all really, but something about the way he speaks about his past makes you inherently sad.

“is that the way it is for you as well?” he inquires. you blink at the side of his face in a moment of dumbfounded wonder for far too long because your brain isn’t catching up to the situation quick enough, but one glance at the polaroids in your camera case gives you the clue you need. you knew him to be in tune with your body, to know which buttons to push and how to get you to squirm under his touch in no time, but for him to pick up on your emotions tied to the photos so quickly like this is something new for certain.

“yeah,” you murmur. it’s out of sheer instinct that your eyes go down to the polaroid on top of the stack, where younger versions of you and your sister stand, hugging and smile without a care in the world like nothing would ever be wrong in life. it’s almost funny looking back. even after your mother was out of the picture, you still thought your family was untouchable and perfect. “she died when she was fourteen. it’s… still something that’s sensitive when the anniversary comes around even though i’ve gotten lots of professional help to deal with the trauma. there are always thoughts of ‘why couldn’t i be there’ and ‘where did i go wrong as a sister to let this happen’. and i was a sophomore in college at the time too. just — just getting the call was the hardest part. i didn’t know what she was going through, didn’t know she was in so much internal pain that it drove her to do what she did because i couldn’t be there with her. i still think my dad took it the hardest since he was the only one taking care of her at the time, so i felt so… fucking guilty for the longest time, both because i wasn’t able to be there for both of them and because part of me didn’t feel like i deserved to hurt as much as i did compared to my dad.”

“i experienced that too,” san mutters, and it’s a quiet admission that leaves you straining to hear it. “the guilt of not being able to be there when it happened, sometimes even the guilt of surviving when they didn’t… for a long time, i wanted to die because i thought it was too much for one person to bear.” the man leans back, moving his arms out from where they prop up against the grass, and he’s lying flat on his back in the grass a moment later.

“what changed?”

he hums.

“i didn’t die.”

you nearly scoff at how ridiculous that statement sounds. obviously he didn’t die, he’s right in front of you, talking to you, speaking to you, and —

“they died on accident, and i didn’t even when i was trying to. don’t you think that’s a sign from the universe that i’m meant to stay?”

you scoff for real this time, settling down in the grass beside san to stare up at the same clouded sky.

“that’s a romanticized way of thinking about it, don’t you think?”

“maybe, but it’s given me a reason to not want to try any longer.”

“i’m glad. that you don’t try anymore, i mean.”

he almost smiles.

“i was rushing towards a cliff and hoping that i would hit rock bottom as quickly as possible.”

it’s funny, in a way, because that statement alone could describe your entire relationship with san, from the first impulse decision until now. you subconsciously reach for his hand. his fingers dance over yours, searching and grabbing for all of two seconds before he withdraws his hand completely from your grasp.

“now, i think i prefer moving much slower than everyone else, to better enjoy the parts of life i tried to rush through.”

you hope that your rock bottom doesn’t end in flames, that the hotel room your relationship exists in doesn’t fade to grey, and the mental polaroids you take of choi san day in and day out don’t turn brittle.

« ♡ »

two weeks later, you find yourself back in the same park on the same grass with camera in hand. this time, however, you are on your own without your friends to keep you company, but that’s mostly because you opted not to tell anyone you were heading over to the park. your phone keeps buzzing behind you in a way that indicates that there are plans either being made or already in motion. you are more occupied with the family of rock squirrels darting around the grass several feet away.

the conversation you shared with san is always in the back of your mind somewhere, moving like these squirrels do such that it’s noticeable and takes over your focus several times a week, but you and san don’t dare go back to those vulnerable and emotional conversations.

you imagined it would shift something in your relationship.

it didn’t.

a day later when you finally had the opportunity to go back to the hotel with him, he fucked you so hard that you had bruises lining your hips the next day. you didn’t talk about it, you allowed it to happen because it was something you wanted when he posed the question of “can i be rough tonight”, and perhaps it was simply another impulse decision to regret later. you didn’t ask why he wanted it, nor did he explain himself. it happened, you did it, you moved on from it.

you’ve learned that making assumptions with choi san is wildly unpredictable and unreliable because he changes his mind on a whim so often. the little sting of pain you felt in your chest when he so quickly yanked his hand away from yours was a wake up call in a way. it didn’t keep your feelings from being hurt, or stop your less-friendly-more-romantic feelings towards him from continuing to blossom, but it gave you a reality check at least.

all in all, aside from that mess, you’d say that you’re doing rather well in life. you called your dad last week on the anniversary, and for some reason, this year was easier than the last. it sounded that way for your father as well. the call with your mother didn’t go as smoothly, but there’s a reason you avoid talking to her as much as possible, and that only proved your point further. you keep up with therapy even though you think you’re nearing a point where you no longer need it; the extra security of getting to talk through thoughts about the future helps enough to make you continue going. last tuesday, you gave your portfolio to hongjoong for him to look over, and he promptly gave you a scrap of paper with a number scrawled on it, telling you to call them immediately. as it turns out, you now have a slot in hongjoong’s next exhibition for some of your photos, which is insane to think about considering how awful your parents were about your major. this opportunity is one that you never imagined possible because of their views on your future, so to see it come to life like this is nothing short of a miracle in your mind.

you’re in the midst of editing one of the photos you took of the squirrels when someone sneaks up on you from behind.

“what are you doing?”

the sudden question and foreign voice hits you so hard that you startle, nearly dropping your camera and falling over, but a pair of hands dart out to steady both you and the camera. your gaze goes up and up until it lands on smiling lips, full cheeks, and brown eyes that have gold rings around the center. wooyoung has eyes that would look good under the lens of a camera and a smile to match. you huff and lift the camera to your face to snap another picture of the squirrels. wooyoung leans far enough into the frame so that only his face and blinding smile are visible, and you find yourself snapping the photo anyway.

“hi. sorry for scaring you. mind if i sit down?” he motions to the empty space beside you. to be honest, you’re of half a mind to deny him simply for scaring you out of your skin, but his smile is warm enough to compel you to say otherwise.

“go ahead,” you mutter, relaxing your shoulders as he settles onto the grass beside you. “how did you know i was here?”

“i didn’t! i swear, i’m not like — i’m not following you or anything weird! i was just out for a walk because the weather is nice and saw you over here alone, so i thought i’d come say hi.”

“okay.” you narrow your gaze but there’s no heat to the stare. “you’re kind of odd, you know.”

“you say that every time!” wooyoung whines before puffing his cheeks full of air.

“maybe you should stop sneaking up on me and start texting me to announce your arrival.”

“are you ever going to call me? i gave you my number for a reason, you know,” he counters, lifting a brow at you yet still smiling away. “why should i be the first one to text, hm? call me first so i can hear your pretty voice sometime, y/n~”

that’s another thing you’ve learned about wooyoung in a short amount of time: he’s a fucking flirt most of the time. not in trashy or sleazy kind of way either, but the kind of way that gets your heart racing and nerves running wild because he’s already charming enough without the flirting. your usual responses to those advances are just to sputter and stumble over your own words since he picks either the most inopportune times to flirt or just drops the remarks on you out of nowhere.

“oh, you brought a sketchbook today! you’re an artist too?” he thankfully diverts the subject today before you start getting flustered.

“shouldn’t you know that by now? it’s been two months since you started following me around here.” your quip is light-hearted and doesn’t hold much weight to it, the kind of thing you would say to a friend, and wooyoung takes it for what it is. he pouts his lower lip out, accentuating that pretty mole on the side. when he leans into your space, you simply let him, and he knocks his shoulder against yours with a huff before dropping his head to your arm. the action makes your heart skip several beats, enough to be concerning at least.

“you never mentioned art before! that’s no fair, you can’t hold it against me.”

“art minor, but i think i’m much better at photography.”

wooyoung smiles against your shoulder, and you feel the imprint of his lips well after he sits up straight again.

“little did you know i’m pretty good with a camera myself. moreso videos, but i’ve been known to take some good photos too.”

you nearly hand over your camera and ask him to prove it, but he continues speaking before you have the chance to.

“would you mind if i took a few pictures of you? not to keep for myself, obviously, but for your own safekeeping.”

“i don’t usually keep photos of myself,” you say with a small tilt to your chin. the request in and of itself isn’t the strangest, but the fact that he would want to take them simply for you to keep them is. wooyoung shrugs.

“some other time then.” he pulls himself to his feet so quickly you worry that you’ve offended him by denying the request, but then a hand stretches out to where you’re still seated on the ground. “would you like to visit my cafe? drinks are on me obviously, i won’t make you pay. but i gave you my invitation card several months ago and you still haven’t come, so that’s kinda a good reason to come, don’t you think?”

you don’t take his hand right away, instead mulling over the idea as you stare at his expectant face.

“okay.”

he helps you pack your camera up and even carries the bag over his shoulder as the two of you leave the park. when his hand slips into yours when you reach the sidewalk, you think nothing of it, if only to protect your already fragile and shaky heart from further destruction. it’s warm and cozy in a way that your nights with san aren’t, however, and you tell yourself that’s the only reason you cling to his hand tighter. it feels okay to do so, which is more than what can be said about your relationship with san seeing as you two dash around trying to hide your activities from everyone else in your lives.

wooyoung takes you to a building you can’t recall ever seeing before even though you recognize most of what’s around it. it certainly looks like a cafe, what with the big windows on either side of the door peeking into a cozy and neutral-toned room that looks welcoming. the door itself looks quite out of place with how ragged it is, old wood with animals carved into the wood against a more modern look for the windows. wooyoung doesn’t give you much time to look at them, but from what you gather on your first prolonged glance, there’s a donkey and what seems to be a crane on the wood, intertwined at the neck and stretching up to the upper lip of the door. if you compare the building to the other ones on the block, then perhaps the windows would be the things out of place since everything in the central part of town has an old-timey vibe to it.

the interior is warmer than the winter weather outside, and it’s just as cozy as you imagined it to be from visual you got through the windows. the color palette overall reminds you of wooyoung’s eyes actually — deep browns with golds and oranges that nearly blend together, matching the flames that dance through a fireplace burning away against one of the walls. it’s arguably a less predictable approach to a cafe; booths and couches replace tables and chairs, and the only traditional thing about its appearance are the stools and tall tables near the windows. towards the back, there’s a huge coffee bar with plenty of open space behind it along with glass displays containing pastries of all kinds. the odd thing, another one for the list that is, is that there is no cashier or register in sight, just an empty space where orders must be delivered. and though you expected the place to be completely empty since wooyoung has given you no indication that anyone else works here, you spot some people who come into view as you step further into the cafe, near the fireplace and laid out on the couches. you almost blink by them without interest, and you probably would have if not for the head of neon orange hair you spot a second later.

“hongjoong?”

the owner of the orange hair jolts upwards, pressing the sketchbook in his hands to his chest like he’s trying to conceal what he was doing. his companion on the couch opposite him doesn’t budge, eyes still shut but twitching at the sudden noise. you only recognize it to be seonghwa because of his scrubs.

“heh, i finally convinced her to come, hyung,” wooyoung chirps, lifting your joined hands like it’s a personal victory.

“you know each other!?”

“of course! known each other for years now! along with the others! we don’t get to hang out as much because i’m always busy here, but they come hang out whenever they feel like it.” wooyoung beams at you like this isn’t some big revelation, like you haven’t been out of the loop for months apparently, because all this time no one thought to mention this cafe or wooyoung at all. you aren’t offended; it would be childish for you to be hurt by such a thing honestly. the confusion is more than slightly present, however, seeing as you can’t rectify why wooyoung would be someone they would want to conceal. wooyoung must pick up on how you’re feeling because he drops your hand to nudge you in the side with his elbow. “you could have been here all this time if only you took me up on my first invitation.”

hongjoong moves off his couch, snapping his little spiral sketchbook shut and setting it on the cushion before coming over to where you and wooyoung stand.

“hyung, want a drink? i’m gonna go make one for y/n.”

“yeah, yeah, americano, you know how i like it.”

“yep! y/n, what do you want?”

“um, surprise me,” you mutter back, blinking from man to man like it’ll answer the questions running rampant in your mind.

“do you like sweet things? you must since you seem to like me so much, heh.” wooyoung pokes his own cheek just beyond where his lips end and dips the skin like he’s trying to create a dimple there.

“i, uh, yeah, i do.”

“perfect!” wooyoung disappears in the blink of an eye, heading off to the coffee bar with a little too much excitement in his steps.

“you’ve known him all this time?” you ask the second he’s out of earshot. hongjoong tilts his head in question. “i mean… you guys never invited me over here?”

“wooyoung asked us not to.”

“he asked you not to,” you echo. disbelief creeps in, and hongjoong looks off towards the ceiling.

“he said he would invite you when he was ready to.”

“he invited me months ago.”

“yet you never came until now.” the man brings a hand to his already mussed hair and runs his fingers through the messy locks. “none of us were intentionally hiding anything from you. we were just respecting wooyoung’s wishes. he’s not the best with new people and likes to get to know them himself before bringing them here. and him bringing you here is a big thing for him.” now that makes close to no sense in your mind seeing as it’s a cafe and the whole purpose of a shop is for people to come and go whenever. “he didn’t invite you as a customer, y/n. i think you’re smart enough to realize the difference.”

and there is a difference, one that you do pick up on, and you recognize it because it leaves a soaring feeling in your chest like your heart is ready to escape altogether. you aren’t ready to face that fluttering yet, so you change the subject as best you can. you nod towards where seonghwa sleeps near the fireplace.

“were you drawing him?” a flash of panic crosses hongjoong’s features. when he looks over at the other man, his expression goes soft, a little wistful and melancholic in a way that hurts to look at if you stare too long. “you looked a little guilty when i interrupted you.”

“could make a whole exhibition with just those drawings one day, i think.”

“that’s okay.” you turn to the coffee bar where wooyoung stands behind it, working his magic at the machines with a certain ease and grace that makes you want to take a picture of him. “i think if i was brave enough, i’d have a whole album of photos myself.”

hongjoong raises a brow, and you don’t realize those words actually slipped out until it’s too late.

“i see it. would’ve thought it to be san though.”

the speed at which you jerk your head towards him has you seeing stars, and you almost want to throw up thanks to how quickly a lump rises in your throat. you’ve done nothing wrong really. so why do you feel so guilty?

“no,” you answer as quickly as you can. “there’s nothing there.”

“right. my bad.” hongjoong shoves his hands into his pockets and continues to stare in wooyoung’s direction like he’s trying to see the man the way you do. it’s not that you like him, not like it’s a crush, it’s just feelings of warmth and comfort and happiness that come out of being with him. it’s easy to mistake those feelings for romantic ones sometimes.

“he’s a good friend, i think. wooyoung is,” you clarify. the defense is weak, it has holes all over the place, and you know hongjoong can see right through it all because you and him are simply too similar.

“he’s a hopeless flirt, isn’t he?” hongjoong asks, but it’s not a question he’s genuinely asking to hear your reply. closer to a rhetorical question, you think. “he’s not a player. he doesn’t like fucking around with people’s feeling for the sake of doing so. he’s… a good person, even if insufferable and annoying at times.”

“it almost sounds like you’re trying to sell him to me.”

“just want you to know what you’re getting yourself into, if that is indeed something you’re after.”

maybe you should have asked hongjoong the same thing about san before getting yourself into the mess you’re currently in, but hindsight probably wouldn’t help you much either. you imagine you’d still make the same bad decisions, perhaps knowing they were bad a little sooner than before.

wooyoung returns with three drinks in hand and a smile on his lips. hongjoong takes one with a nod then goes to return to his original position on the couch across from where seonghwa sleeps.

“you have an option, y/n. well, technically, you have three. all sweet options! chai latte… vanilla latte… or we can make out on the couch in front of joong until he gets sick of seeing it.”

“um!?” hongjoong exclaims from his spot, face contorted into grimace. seonghwa groans and shifts in his sleep, rolling over onto his side, and the motion distracts hongjoong in less than a second.

“i’m kidding, i’m kidding! we all know you’re into that nasty kind of thing, joong.”

“would you at least insult me in a quieter tone, he’s trying to sleep over there!” hongjoong hisses through his teeth. wooyoung giggles under his breath, a sound that makes his whole face light up with joy, and you catch yourself staring a little too long.

“yeah, yeah, i hear you. here, y/n, you can try a sip of each and take whichever one you like more!” wooyoung nudges one of the cups towards your mouth, holding it up to your lips even when you try to take it from his hands. the gesture makes your body hot with embarrassment; the position is almost demeaning in a way that makes you want to retaliate, and although he doesn’t let you fully take the cup, wooyoung smiles when you place a hand around his to take a sip from the cup. he repeats the motion for the other one, eyes trailing over your expression like a hawk surveying its prey. “the first?”

“yeah…”

“thought so. here!”

when you next look over at hongjoong, the man is trying poorly to conceal a smirk.

“let’s sit on the couch, y/n, i didn’t get to look at the pictures you took today.”

“you photobombed one of them, dumbass,” you mutter against the rim of the cup wooyoung gave over to you.

“heh, but i bet you made me look like a cute dumbass in it.”

wooyoung is smiling, hongjoong is humming, seonghwa is sleeping the day away, and you’re finding yourself suddenly very caught and vulnerable, like an animal trapped under a net to be readied for slaughter. yet even though your heart is racing fast enough to put a cheetah to shame because of wooyoung, you aren’t worried that he’s the one who will hurt you. when your phone buzzes in the pocket of your jacket, you don’t need to look at the screen to know who’s texting.

rock bottom doesn’t look like a porcelain bathtub full of blood and water in your eyes. it looks like a man with a mole under his eye and on his lip, rings of gold in his irises, and teeth that are ever so slightly crooked and out of place.

« ♡ »

in the weeks that follow, that cafe becomes like a second home to you, as much as the hotel on the outskirts of town.

the blossoming feelings you have towards wooyoung are hard to wrestle with. it’s the new and exciting feeling of a crush, one that permeates the air around you and leaves you giddy when you so much as think about seeing him again. and yet…

and yet you still end up with your face pressed into the mattress and silk sheets billowing around you as san fucks you night after night, an unending and inescapable cycle you can’t seem to break. those nights are becoming more and more frequent too, something you’re loathe to admit because it’s scary to, and even yunho has stopped asking where you’ve been when you come home the next day more than twice a week. in your defense, you don’t always come home late from the hotel, or stay the night there wrapped up in san’s arms. sometimes you come home from cafe aurora after a similar, yet quite quite different kind of evening that consists of you and wooyoung playing cards or board games or watching shows together ron his far too small phone screen. they’re two sides to the same coin in a lot of ways. you don’t know which side you want it to land on.

the emotional part of you calls san’s name, simply because you’ve done this long enough to become attached even if he isn’t.

the logical side says that wooyoung treats you better without even needed to be in a physical relationship with you, just without the guarantee that he’s attracted to you in any way.

life might be fine and dandy on the outside, but inside this hotel room, you think it’s falling apart around you again. if you’re left to pick up the pieces alone, then you’ll accept that duty for what it is, as long as it means not losing san in the process. he at least seems like the type to not let feelings get in the way of friendships.

right now, though, your throat is burning and dry from overuse, and towards the tail end of a second round with san, your moans weren’t even coming out because of how hoarse your throat became. he’s moving around better than you are; you’re still planted on your back on the mattress, sprawled out and exhausted. you won’t shower yet — there’s still more to come in a few hours so it’d be pointless to clean yourself before san intends to dirty you again.

“make sure you go to the bathroom.” san helps you out of the bed, a hand coming to rest on the lower part of your back as he guides you to the bathroom attached to the hotel room. “i’m gonna brush my teeth.”

he stays in the room with you even when you sit down on the toilet. silence passes between you two. he grabs his toothbrush, squeezing a bit of minty colored paste onto the tip of the brush then running it under the faucet water. it isn’t until he has the brush shoved between his mouth and scrubbing harshly at his teeth that you decide to speak up, and even then, you aren’t why you decide to talk at all.

“what are we doing?”

a heavy question, one that’s coming a little late — both literally in terms of the day and figuratively in terms of how long the two of you have been at this. san blinks over at you through the reflection of the mirror. he shrugs.

“making bad decisions and trying to justify them by saying it’ll get better with time.” san says the words so casually, like it’s nothing and it’s nonchalant in a way that almost makes your skin crawl. he knows what he’s doing and where he stands. he knows what this all means to him, but do you? and even if you knew how you felt, would it be the same as him or different?

then again, it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise to you. san wouldn’t take you to some hotel on the outskirts of town — even if it’s a pricey one with velvet and room service that makes you feel important — if he actually saw this going somewhere. he wouldn’t go out of his way to hide this from mingi or yunho, nor would he tell hongjoong to mind his own business nor would he get pissed at seonghwa for calling out some of his less than savory behaviors. he wouldn’t need to do that if he wanted anything more out of this, right?

you aren’t hurt, at least not as much as you ought to be because “self-love should come first and you need to look after yourself before giving yourself away to others” (perhaps your aunt knew more than she was letting on when she said that one).

“yeah,” you reply instead of the words dying to fall off your tongue. “i suppose we are.”

san spits into the sink and wipes his lips with the back of his hand.

“are you going to go smoke now?” you already know the answer to that, but at least it provides a little comfort to ask it out loud.

“yeah, i’ll be on the balcony. come out when you’re done in here.” with that, san steps out of the bathroom and leaves you to finish your business alone, and you’re grateful for it, but at the same time, him not being here wrenches your heart in a painful direction. perhaps you’re too weak to stand on your own, even if it’s in a far too fancy hotel bathroom. you rush to finish up and join him outside if only because it keeps you from crying tonight.

you know the next one or two hours will pass as usual: you’ll sit out beside him on one of those fancy velvet chairs that san has pulled out from the bedroom for you two, and at some point you’ll migrate from sitting alone to draping yourself over his lap and resting your head on his chest. he’ll smoke two or three cigarettes at best then settle to simply stare at the night sky with a hand carding through your hair all the while. it’ll be nice and calm and relaxing, nothing like the past two hours you’ve spent with them that resulted in your skin turning various shades of red and purple thanks to his teeth. then you’ll get up and go back to the bedroom, only to repeat the first half of your night with less roughness and more lackadaisical passion.

normally you don’t make conversation with san while out on the balcony with him. it’s nice to sit in his presence in silence and just enjoy.

“i think i like wooyoung,” you say tonight, barely glancing at the man under your body out of fear of a poor reaction. his heart thumps at the same pace under your ear. “romantically.”

“okay,” san mutters back. there’s a rustling like he’s fishing around in his pocket for something. the click of a lighter, then more rustling. you hear the drag of his cigarette, then the telltale scent of smoke hitting the air. it’s his fourth cigarette tonight.

“does that bother you?”

“do you want it to?”

“not really, no…”

“then it doesn’t bother me.”

“are you just saying that to make me feel okay about it?” you can only look at where your hand is resting against his chest with crumbling resolve, and the tears you refused to let fall earlier come back to haunt you.

“no. i can play jealous for you later tonight, if that’s what you’d like.” he’s done that before, except it wasn’t at your prompting — it was his own following the conversation with seonghwa that consisted of seonghwa offering to set up a date for you with one of his nursing school friends.

“i’d rather you not,” you admit as quietly as you can muster.

“cm’here.” you shift against the man as he offers the simple command, one hand falling down to brace on the chair when you push yourself up to look him in the eye. he still looks positively sinful in this light, with a few rays of moonlight falling over him and his button-down black shirt that always seems to lack the top three buttons. elbows out on either side of the armrests, cigarette dangling from his left hand while the right hand slips from your hair to the back of your neck.

he kisses you like that, choi san does, the version of him that you aren’t as accustomed to seeing. it’s the one who is a little broken inside himself, the vulnerable one that doesn’t like peeking through because he’s scared of it being laid bare to the people around him. you know what he’s been through, you know how life has been cruel, it’s nothing new to you by now. but even if he says it’s okay and it’s fine and it doesn’t bother him, his lips say otherwise. he kisses you with bruising force, and the taste of toothpaste on his tongue has almost been completely drowned out by the smoke. if the first time you kissed him gave you a piercing headache, this time does nothing but stab the knife deeper into your heart.

it’s not okay, but that’s okay.

you imagine he’s trying to convey that thought to you with this kiss.

i’m not yours, and that’s okay.

you wonder if he can feel that thought in return, the one that’s constantly on your mind and at your lips. in your mind, the part that’s still lost in wonder and imagination and stuck to those few art classes you took freshman year that spoke of describing your thoughts as colors and senses, you find yourself a bit curious as to what it would taste like to him. what is would smell like, look like, sound like, feel like. perhaps a bit selfishly, you wonder what you are to him in all those ways as well.

choi san tastes of mint and ash, a taste that always leaves the back of your throat itchy. he smells of a gritty smoke that makes your nostrils sting and burn. he looks like a predator, a feline one for sure with the way his lips upturn in a smirk and how he narrows his eyes at you when he craves you in the most debase ways. his sound would have to be something between the low huffs he exhales by your ears when you’re in bed with him, fucking until sunrise, or the little hum of laughter he releases when he finds something amusing. his feel is that of velvet and satin, the softest silk at your fingertips upon first touch, but there’s a bed of nails underneath that simply refuses to lay comfortably against him. you aren’t sure you’ll ever learn how to balance on those pinpricks, or if it’s really what you’re meant to do.

you aren’t his, and he has made that abundantly clear, even if some part of his being craves to have you like that as well. he won’t take it. he’s too busy floating down the river at a lazy pace, claiming to simply enjoy the process when it’s really a matter of unwillingness to move forward. there’s a strong temptation in your bones to stay put with him.

“do you want me to stay tonight?” you ask against his lips, taking the taste on your tongue and swallowing it down like it’s bad medicine.

“want you to stay every night,” san murmurs back just before sinking his teeth into your lower lip.

but you don’t want me to stay during the day so what’s the point?

san’s lips move down the column of your neck with a certain urgency that’s peculiar from him. you don’t know him to be rushed in anything, even when fucking the life out of you. the pain in your chest resurfaces and brings something ugly with it — a feeling of inadequacy, of not being enough, not having enough to make him want you to stay all the time. he clearly wants you so why won’t he just admit it? your hands tremble against the collar of his shirt as you cling to it, holding fast for some semblance of security that will never really come in a relationship with choi san.

you don’t want the man who kisses you in silk and velvet backdrops, smoke still curling off his tongue when he sets it on you, nor do you want to love him.

but you do.

perhaps that’s the true crime in loving him.

« ♡ »

on one hand, you think it’s rather unfair for you to have any sort of romantic feelings for jung wooyoung. being tied up in whatever it is you have with san is arguably a dick move on your part. because while you have feelings for wooyoung, there’s a part of you that clings to san like a piece of velcro refusing to pull away on the first yank. it’s unfair to wooyoung because should anything come out of those feelings you harbor, it would be horrid for you to remain with san the way you are now. it’s unfair to san for you to openly admit feelings for another man when the idea of you seeing someone else upsets him. in turn, it’s unfair of san to be running around like a chicken with its head cut clean off and hiding you away like you’re some secret that your friends can’t and shouldn’t know about, like being romantically intertwined with you is some sort of crime that can’t be exposed no matter what.

and that’s the greater crime, is it not?

can it even be measured in such a way?

when, if ever, do feelings become a crime against morality? is it fair for you to like wooyoung while in a purely sexual relationship with san?

you like wooyoung, whose feelings remain ambiguous and unknown to your nervous heart, but you also harbor some sort of …thing towards san, who claims to love you and sometimes — only sometimes — his actions match those words, before he turns are ignores you and holds you at arms’ length when you’re around friends.

it’s messy and convoluted and fairly wrong, and you’re certain that’s what yunho would say if he knew about any of it. which is the exact reason why you are sitting down with hongjoong in the front area of café aurora and not yunho. you debated asking seonghwa for advice, someone who is older and wiser than the rest of the group, but he deals with enough between all his schoolwork and clinicals that asking the lonely little art child who works “when inspiration strikes like a bolt of lightning from the sky” didn’t seem too far-fetched instead. despite your inhibitions about the obnoxious redhead with the weird red clogs that currently knock against your chair leg every so often, he has grown to be someone you trust with some level of mediocrity.

“so,” he starts after taking a sip of his iced coffee which may or may not have six pumps of syrup in it. “to what to i owe the pleasure today?”

wooyoung is in the back of the café, working on some breads and pastries while the two of you sit out here next to the window on your own. frankly that’s for the best because you had tried to convince hongjoong to meet you somewhere else but he hit you with a “i’m already here and bought you coffee so you’re coming here and nowhere else”.

“i could use some advice?”

“i gathered that much from the way you’re looking around like an anxious dog.”

if you had it in you, you would lean over and smack him upside the head, but you don’t.

“well… um…” there’s no good way to start this conversation, nor is there a good explanation that will make you sound like even half of a decent person. you don’t know how san would react to you telling hongjoong about your odd relationship-but-not; something tells you that he would be upset and probably ignore you for several days before telling you to meet him at the hotel for another excursion. and that should be a red flag to you, that should turn you away because you know you deserve better than that — hell, your ex treated you leagues better than that, but you aren’t supposed to be thinking about him, the therapist said that if you think about him too much then you’ll never move forward in life and—

“hey, you good?” hongjoong cuts through the train that is rushing towards the cliff and knocks it back on course to safer terrain. “anxious dog turned panic attack real quick there for a second.” well. that’s a much simpler explanation than the one your therapist gives. another question you should be asking yourself is why the fuck are you talking through this with hongjoong instead of your therapist.

“um, you’re been in some relationships before, right?” you ask, picking at the skin around your nail like it will keep you sane.

“several, in fact. look, doll, you’re lovely and all but my type tends to have a dick attached to their nether regions so—”

“not! no, hongjoong, not — i’m not coming onto you!?”

“all i was going to say is that you’re welcome to join us for some fun sometime,” hongjoong counters, and he has the audacity to pout a little when he says the words. and that raises another question of who the fuck is ‘us’ but you aren’t quite ready to open what lies inside that can of worms while you’re going through an existential crisis yourself.

“let’s say… hypothetically, of course—”

“right. hypothetically. the exact thing someone says before explaining a situation that is not at all hypothetical.”

“would you fucking stop?” you hiss through gritted teeth, and despite the harshness of your words, there’s no real heat to your tone, only exasperation. hongjoong motions for you to continue as he takes another sip of his lethal coffee. “let’s say you’ve been having a sort of… fuckbuddy relationship with someone. and you sort of have feelings for them, but they’ve made it clear that they don’t return those feelings or at least don’t care the same amount as you do. and you kind of start having feelings for someone outside that relationship. what do you… how do you handle that? if person one isn’t willing to put in the effort that you are, then wouldn’t it only be logical to go for person two? or… or is it unfair…”

your voice dies in your throat at that word, the same one that keeps floating around and making itself known to you in ways you didn’t think possible.

“oh, now this drama is delicious,” hongjoong utters, a smile curling the corners of his lips upwards as he props an elbow up on his knee and leans closer to you. you debate turning forward on your stool and staring out the window instead. it’s almost humiliating, because hongjoong knows this is real and seriously happening to you, and you know that he knows, and if he thought hard enough about it, you know he’d be able to pick apart exactly who is involved.

and he confirms that with his next statement.

“you smell a bit like smoke these days, you know. didn’t know you started.”

you don’t; not really, but it’s a double-sided comment that you pick up on nonetheless. you have to press your lips together in a thin line to keep them from wobbling and squeeze your eyes shut to ease the burning ache in your chest.

“i didn’t,” you whisper, giving hongjoong all the confirmation he needs to piece the situation together.

“didn’t used to avoid coming to the café for chats either.”

“i didn’t…” you repeat, and if it wasn’t already shattered, your resolve is surely in shambles now.

“then i think you already know what my answer would be.” hongjoong reaches out and places a hand on the back of your shoulder, a small hand against your oversized sweater that feels condescending for half a second before the comfort settles into your bones. “i’m not seonghwa; i won’t lecture you up and down about what you deserve, or what happiness and love ought to look like because frankly — fuck all that. fuck the system that claims there’s a specific name and shape to love.”

that’s such a hongjoong thing for him to say that you can’t help but to huff out a laugh, even though it’s not funny at all. of course the man who shapes his own — well, everything would say that.

“there’s no perfect recipe or formula to what love is supposed to look like or what it means or even how other people perceive it. what does matter… what is important — y/n, at the end of the day, you have to be able to look yourself in the eye and like what you see. not from a purely aesthetic standpoint, i’m not telling you that you have to fucking learn how to love yourself to love someone else because that’s such an outdated and toxic mentality that doesn’t help in the long run. no, i’m saying that if right now looking at yourself with person one makes you hate what you see in the mirror, then you have your answer. if he can’t fucking commit to something he knows he wants, to something he claims to care about and enjoy and love, if he can’t take some damn responsibility for something that is his own doing and his own duty, then you can’t tell me he loves what he sees in the mirror. you don’t love the world by walking around with your head down staring at the sidewalk all the time. you love the world by lifting your chin and looking at the trees and flowers and birds, the people around you, the buildings, the clouds, the night sky on a clear night with a full moon. even things as horrid and wretched as thunderstorms and hail have beauty to them if you’re fucking looking at them.”

hongjoong stops himself there, exhaling wildly like he’s run himself dry of breath. it’s a first for you, honestly, seeing him like this. so impassioned and intense, full of a spark that threatens to start a wildfire of emotions. he’s not speaking from arrogance as usual, not making stilted comments meant to crawl under your skin and bury themselves there. he’s speaking as someone who knows this feeling all too well, as someone who fought and struggled and suffered only to lose both the battle and the war in the end.

“y/n, you don’t love someone by only looking at the ground under their feet.” hongjoong turns so sharply that you’re forced to look him in the eye if only because of how much his movements surprise you. his glassy eyes that hold a river of unshed tears in them act as a mirror to your own wide eyes and worried brows. “you have to be able to love them when you look up at the rest of them too.”

“i know that,” you argue, albeit weakly and only as a defense to the sudden rush of stupidity that flows through you. hongjoong shakes his head just as quick.

“if you truly knew that, then why would you be coming to me for advice? come on, y/n, let’s not play around like we’re dumb teenagers who think they know everything about the world. i don’t know why you love — why you think you love him. frankly, none of that’s my business anyway. but to think you get to sit there, look me in the eye and pretend like you know? like i know? y/n, this — all of these people from wooyoung to your aunt to the old couple down the street who give seonghwa flowers every morning and afternoon when he comes home from a late clinical — god, y/n, they don’t know a damn thing about love. we run around chasing things that make us feel good in the moment, so what does that make us? you don’t marry someone because it’ll only feel good after fifty years of a rocky relationship. you marry someone because it feels good now, and you hope with everything you have that it lasts. if you don’t feel good with him now, then why do you still go back for more?”

“b-because i lo—”

“because you love him?” hongjoong scoffs a loud and echoing sound that you’re afraid wooyoung will hear from the back of the shop. that’s a thing you hadn’t ever thought about: loving choi san. you never entertained the thought because it’s not something you wanted to handle or wrestle with or even dream of because of the implications inside it. “do you love him, or do you love the idea of being in love with him?”

oh.

and that’s something you never brought yourself to consider, not even a little because that hits too close to home. you spend your childhood growing up in a household with a desperate father and a bitter mother who eventually walked out because she’d simply had enough. your father loved and loved and loved as endlessly as he could, not because he loved your mother or who she was, but because the mere idea of loving her even after she was gone was too enticing to lose. perhaps you should have learned your lesson then and figured out that love isn’t all that, when you already knew it wasn’t always pretty like the movies made it out to be.

yet, as hongjoong poses that question, it stops you in your tracks for a different reason. you aren’t in love with the idea of being in love with choi san. in fact, you despise the thought of it, it’s something you’ve avoided all this time out of fear and anxiety. you may want to be seen, to be his on the outside and not just inside that velveteen hotel room, but it wasn’t because you liked the idea of it. you want to feel wanted, like any human does at one point in their lives. and you want to be needed by choi san, to a point where he doesn’t have to hide it anymore.

you aren’t sure what label, if any, you could put on your feelings towards wooyoung. it’s still a new and budding crush at this point, not even close to being on the same level as what you think you feel for san. but part of you wonders if the answer to that question lies within what hongjoong just asked you.

“more often than not, we find ourselves taking people for granted,” hongjoong starts up again, his tone much milder than it was just minutes ago. “whether it’s through routine or habit or simply life, we grow used to the presence of others, and at some point, our consciousness replaces the constant worries about them leaving or disappearing with other thoughts. i’m not… telling you to do one thing or another, but i can almost guarantee that if you step away, he’ll chase you. if you step away to be with someone else, he’ll do what he does best. i don’t think i need to tell you what that is.”

you know with absolute certainty that san will withdraw into his protective shell meant to keep him from getting hurt, all the progress you made on opening him up and making a space for yourself in his heart will have been in vain, and he’ll clam up once more. it sends you back to square one, possibly with an even more bitter san to deal with.

“but that — it’s not your job to sacrifice your happiness or future for him. no matter what you think his reaction might be, you can’t let that stop you from doing what’s best for you.”

“what if i don’t know what’s best for me though?” the words sounded more confident in your mind, but when they leave your lips, it’s in a wavering tone that betrays the sudden wave of emotions coursing through you. hongjoong jerks to look over at you, hand already outstretched to drop atop your knee. “what if i choose to walk away and realize it’s the wrong decision?”

“there’s no real answer to that.”

your phone buzzes against the wooden counter under your elbows, and both you and hongjoong blink down at the flashing screen when a text comes through.

san: come to the hotel.

the shame that burns through your body is white hot, scalding you from head to toe, and you can’t imagine looking hongjoong in the eye after this because that one text shows how fucking weak you are for this one man.

“i already lost everything once before, hongjoong,” you say instead of acknowledging the text. “i don’t think i can’t handle losing it all again.”

“and i hope for your sake that you don’t have to.” he pauses to drag his index finger along the rim of his coffee lid. his nail is painted blue today, a blue that looks starkly similar to his roommate’s new shade of hair. “you don’t always lose everything though. it hurts for a bit, yeah, and it feels impossible, but you don’t lose everything.”

your phone buzzes a second, then a third time.

san: or i can come get u?

san: oh bring ur camera too, the cherry blossoms down the hill are starting to bud

you don’t lose everything, but losing choi san sure feels a lot like losing everything, or so your mind believes. even if his love is like a toic air that pulls the oxygen out of your lungs while you’re still struggling to breathe, it’s where you’ve placed all your bets and the fragile heart that’s still mending from the previous pains it suffered.

hongjoong isn’t looking at you anymore, nor are you looking at him. you both opt to stare out the window in front of you without saying or doing anything significant for what must feel like hours even though it’s only a handful of minutes.

“i know from firsthand experience that trying to force certain feelings onto a person can ruin you,” hongjoong says after a bit. he rubs the painted nail on his index finger with his thumb. you think you’re starting to piece it together better now. “i know you’re thinking about what might happen if you stay here with wooyoung instead of going to see him.”

“i don’t need to think about what might happen.” not when i already know.

“you won’t lose person two if you choose person one.” hongjoong’s tone comes out a bit hesitant, somewhat prompting in the way he leans into the words, and you take it for what it is.

“but i lose person one if i choose person two over him.” the sky looks a bit sad today, full of swollen grey clouds and few rays of sunlight. taking pictures outdoors will be a bit difficult like this. but last time the two of you went out to take photos before it rained, it resulted in san huddling you against an oak tree to shelter you and the camera from the rain as you laughed into each other’s ears before exchanging wet kisses under the leaves. it was the first time he didn’t taste of smoke and mint. you remember it fondly because he tasted a bit like the pumpkin pancakes you shared in this very café before going, and that was enough for you.

hongjoong drops the hand he’s pestering to place it back on your shoulder. you subconsciously lean into the touch even though it’s not something you would usually do.

“back then, i didn’t choose person one or person two, y/n.” his voice rings like a melody in your ears. “i didn’t lose either of them then because i was too afraid to lose even one of them. and now i think that’s one of my biggest regrets. i didn’t lose them, but i didn’t get what i wanted either.”

you want to respond, you even open your mouth to do so, but then the door to the café is swinging open and a tall man in pale blue scrubs with navy blue hair steps through. he holds a bouquet of flowers in one hand and an umbrella in the other.

“figured i’d find you here.” seonghwa beams in your direction, but that show-stopping smile isn’t meant for you in the slightest. you aren’t fool enough to believe that it is. it’s half past six in the afternoon though.

“did you get out early?” hongjoong asks for both of you.

“yeah, they sent me home because there was nothing left to do and the storm was about to hit.”

hongjoong didn’t lose either one, but he didn’t gain one either. now you understand exactly what that means as you see the way he and seonghwa exchange soft, lopsided grins.

“always a pleasure, y/n,” hongjoong sighs as he pulls himself to his feet. his hand goes to grab that damned coffee, and you realize that he’s barely even had an eighth of the tall cup. it makes much more sense why in the following seconds. he passes the drink over to seonghwa, taking the flowers and the umbrella from the man as he does, and seonghwa simply takes the straw between his lips and drinks. his nose wrinkles at the taste. “five pumps instead of six this time. working you down.”

“hm, it’s not bad.”

hongjoong’s smile only stretches one side of his face, but the joy in his eyes is unmatched.

“we’re getting there.”

“suppose we are,” seonghwa hums back at him, matching the smile and grinning with his eyes more than his mouth.

you can’t shake the feeling that you’re witnessing something you have no business seeing.

“have a good day, y/n!” seonghwa calls out to you as he and hongjoong move for the door.

“call me if you need anything else!” hongjoong echoes, waving over his shoulder. you watch the pair step outside then shift your gaze to the display window to watch them pass in front of you. it’s not raining yet, but hongjoong has the umbrella up and over seonghwa’s head, and they’re laughing in unison about something only the two of them know.

love, in your eyes, looks like two people under an umbrella laughing in unison because they just get everything about each other even if blissfully unaware and ignoring the obvious.

« ♡ »

when you watch movies — the ones that reach their climax on a rainy night with the main leads hanging each other out to dry and yelling in each other’s faces — you always put yourself in their shoes for a few moments. wonder what you would be like in that situation, how you would handle it, what you would say. after your breakup with yeonjun, who was the first real and serious partner you had, you decided those movies were simply a fantasy for sad people to feel okay. the couple always ends up back together after hurling hurtful and toxic words at each other. you know it’s a romanticized way of depicting love and how it works, but as you follow san up to your usual hotel room tonight, you can’t help but feel as though you are going up to sign your fate away like those movies.

if you’re being honest with yourself (which is rare) it didn’t take much thought for you to make this decision. hongjoong was right in a lot of ways. you shockingly aren’t too proud to admit that.

the hard part is leaving san in the dark like this. your initial plan was to bring it up the second you got in his car, but there’s rain, and it was loud on the windshield so you used that as an excuse to postpone the conversation until later. then you told yourself you would bring it up before he got a chance to kiss you and before he tried to initiate any sort of sexual activities.

that, as well, went out the window in the blink of an eye.

frankly you know you aren’t being as responsive or engaged as usual, you aren’t as loud with your moans as he touches you, and your mind is clearly elsewhere. san’s answer to those issues is simply to fuck you harder like he’s trying to knock the thoughts clear out of your head. it doesn’t work, of course. you give him points for trying though — it would have made this all so much easier.

as usual, you go out onto the balcony with san after round two, sitting out on the covered balcony and listening to the rain fall around you. perhaps you should have studied poetry and literature in college because you’d almost say that the sky is crying for you tonight.

“san.”

“hm?” his cigarette dangles at the corner of his mouth. the smoke spins little webs up to the ceiling, and they’re mesmerizing in the way that a pendulum swinging back and forth is.

“can we talk?”

“you’re talking now.”

you’ve said all of four words and you already want to sob, but the grave has been dug. you might as well bury yourself in it.

“i love you.”

san goes so still that you think you’ve put him into shock or he’s straight up died on the spot. then, he takes a prolonged drag from his cigarette.

“no, you don’t.”

yeah. you’re right. on any other night, you would offer that in response because it’s an easy out and makes san happy enough to not take a fourth cigarette from his pack.

“i do.”

“you like wooyoung.”

“and i love you.”

san pulls his hand down with cigarette balancing between his index and middle fingers. his sharp gaze searches yours, and tonight you muster the courage to stare directly back at him.

“kinda sick, isn’t it? loving me while liking another man?”

“don’t start with that.”

“with what, y/n? you’re the one who started this.”

“that’s a close-minded and ancient view of love.”

“okay. i believe you.” you swallow hard at the lump in your throat. san blinks once, twice, three times, then says, “i’m sorry for saying that. there’s nothing wrong with it or you. you can like whoever you want to like, i told you that already. i didn’t mean to lash out at you.”

“but you don’t love me.” it’s a statement rather than a question because honestly and truly you already know the answer.

“should i?”

those two words hit you so squarely in the chest that you nearly bend in half, and the tears spill forth with little restraint as soon as your poor brain processes them.

“what? you get to fuck me as much as you want but me asking for an ounce of love from you is too far?”

“you’re the one who got attached, y/n. that’s not my fault.”

“you led me on!” you protest, crying out a little louder so your voice carries over the rain.

“i never claimed to love you.” this san is cruel as he always is, and you wish more than anything else that the version of him you see in only fragmented glimpses would come out now instead.

“right so asking me to stay the night is nothing?”

“didn’t feel like driving.”

“taking me out for breakfast at wooyoung’s cafe in the mornings?”

“you said you liked the guy, i was giving you an opportunity to see him.”

“when you kissed me in the park?”

san doesn’t have an immediate excuse for that one, and you know you’ve caught him with it. you know he’s lying, you know there’s more to it than that. none of his explanations add up and none of them make enough sense to be fully sound. had you asked, san would have driven you home in a heartbeat to get you home to your family. he took you out for breakfast well before you told him about your feelings towards wooyoung, and not even always at cafe aurora either. you know he kissed you in the park for a reason, and you know it had nothing to do with this arrangement you have with him.

“let’s go inside,” san insists, dragging his cigarette up the length of his thigh.

“and now you won’t answer me?”

“what’s there to say, y/n? do you want to hear that i love you? i can lie like that all night while i fuck you, if that’s what you want.” he can’t pick up the shovel fast enough and finish scooping the dirt over your head, and you’re just sitting there in your own grave like it’s a new home.

“i wish you would stop lying to me,” you spit back. you bring your hands up to wipe at the tears streaming down your cheeks like it will do any good; they just keep coming and coming like the rain from the sky. san at least has the heart to look a little broken at the sight of your wobbling lip and pained expression. “i wish you wouldn’t lie to me, i wish you wouldn’t lie to yourself. i don’t want you to hide me. i don’t want you to act like i’m some secret to keep from our friends. i wish you would fucking be honest with me, with them, with yourself — i don’t know, san. i’m at my breaking point because of you.”

“well, i didn’t fucking ask you to stay! if you were hurting that badly, why didn’t you say something? why did you wait all this time to speak up? i wouldn’t have kept asking you to come if i knew you were hurting!” for the first time ever, san raises his voice at you in a way that scares you. it slips through then.

the san you spoke to about his family’s death and the accident that took them, the one who feeds you bites of his food in the mornings, the one who wakes you up with kisses pressed to the crown of your head. the not so gentle facade he bears to protect himself is falling to pieces before your eyes, and you have no intentions to pick up the pieces for him.

“you never stopped to ask if what you were doing was okay!”

“you should have fucking told me it wasn’t okay, y/n. why didn’t you say something?” his face contorts into something you hate looking at: a grimace, a forced smile, then a laugh of disbelief before he grabs his hair with both hands and yanks hard at the strands. the sob that tears through his lips is closer to a yell than anything. “why would you think i ever wanted to hurt you?”

“because you just sat there and denied loving me like your life depended on it! you’re only going to claim to care about me when i tell you that you’ve hurt me?”

“i’m fucking terrified, y/n, what do you want from me? i want to love you, i know i can love you, but i’m no match for anyone else out there! i can only have you here, i can only have you now — out there? why wouldn’t i want you to like wooyoung? he’s fucking perfect for you! what do we have in common except for shitty broken pasts? if i love you, then what do you get in return? i can’t give you what you deserve to have.”

“can’t i just fucking want you to love me simply because it’s you?”

“god fucking dammit, y/n!” of all ways for this night to go, this is last on the list of reactions you expected out of him. you would almost rather have him take you to bed and finish off your usual rounds of sex. san takes a deep breath, falling silent for several long seconds until he seems calm enough to speak again. “let’s go. i’m taking you home.”

“so you’re just gonna go dump me at home? that’s your solution to this issue?”

“yeah, well, maybe it’ll fucking show you that you shouldn’t love me!”

“oh, you’re such a victim, aren’t you!?”

“y/n… can we — can we please just go get in the car so i can make sure you get home safely?”

“no,” you say, but your voice comes out more broken than confident. “take me to the cafe.”

“it’s half past midnight.”

“he fucking lives there, san, it’ll be open.”

for all it’s worth, san doesn’t put up a fight at that. everything else, except for that. there’s a cruel irony to it that twists your heart further in the wrong direction.

the drive over to cafe aurora is the worst twenty-five minutes of your life, you think. the silence is enough to suffocate you, but the image of san’s knuckles bleeding white as he clutches the steering wheel makes you feel far worse than you already do. the lights inside aren’t on when you arrive, although that doesn’t stop your determination. you’re already dialing wooyoung’s number before you even unbuckle.

he answers on the fourth ring, voice groggy and tired like you’ve just woken him up from sleep.

“hello? y/n?”

“can you please let me into the cafe?” san doesn’t try to stop you when you reach for the door handle, nor does he even look in your direction when you climb out of the car and into the rain. when the door slams behind you, he stays put.

“are you outside? hold on, isn’t it raining? y/n, is everything alright? it’s almost one in the morning, why are you out right now? hold on, hold on, i’m coming downstairs, give me two seconds. don’t hang up yet, okay? wait for me to get you inside.”

san still won’t move from the spot where he’s parked on the side of the road, but he won’t look over at where you’re standing under the awning outside wooyoung’s door. the lights flicker on and illuminate the sidewalk. you wait five seconds before the door swings open to reveal a haggard wooyoung still in his pajamas and without shoes on. he glances from you to the car at the edge of the sidewalk. if he realizes who is in it, he makes no comment, simply shoving his phone into his waistband and tugging you inside without a word.

“god, you’re soaked. i’ll start a fire up, okay? just give me a few minutes. i’ll make you something warm to drink too and get you a change of dry clothes, wait here.”

wooyoung doesn’t ask, but he doesn’t really need to. the reality is clear enough: you’ve had a shitty night that turned even more sour. you almost prefer that he doesn’t ask about it.

it’s easy to let wooyoung take care of you tonight while you’re nursing the heart you knew would be broken by choi san one day. he provides a set of warm clothes from his closet for you, turning back to nurse the fire as you change behind him. he turns the lights down once the fire is burning bright enough and seats you on the couch closest to it. he gives your hands a tight squeeze before going off to the counter to whip something up for you to drink, and when he returns, he brings mugs of hot chocolate for both of you to sip on while you watch the fire.

wooyoung only speaks when you’re sipping at the drink, hand reaching up to smooth down your wet and mussed hair.

“you wanna talk about it?”

“san and i had a fight.” wooyoung presses his lips into a thin line but says nothing more. his hand lingers in your hair, working out the small knots as best he can without hurting you. “i’m sorry.”

“for what? i’m glad you came to me. who else would have taken care of you?” he hums to himself with a little smile twisting the corners of his lips.

“i should’ve just gone home. yunho would’ve made sure—”

“no. you should’ve came here, and you did, so it’s okay. i’m glad you did, y/n. i’m glad you’re here, and i’m glad i can take care of you, okay?”

“okay,” you whisper back. his hand reaches down to squeeze yours once more. two seconds later, he pulls the same hand up to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

“do you want to try to get some sleep? i’ll make sure the fire keeps going.”

where your voice fails you, you offer a nod that speaks for itself. wooyoung helps you resituate, taking your mug from your hands and setting it on the coffee table. he snatches up a few pillows from the corner, setting one under your head, then another under your knees. he disappears for a bit with the promise to be right back, and you choose to stare at the ceiling in his absence. some time passes, but you don’t have the energy to count the seconds.

he returns with two blankets and sets them out for you over your legs and torso. the smile on his lips is as gentle as ever when he tucks one of them under your chin.

“get some rest, okay? i’ll be here the whole time if you need me.”

his soft tone combined with the warmth of the fire and comfort of the blankets and pillows bring you into an easy sleep.

it’s a relatively peaceful sleep as well, that is up until some noise stirs you from your rest. you don’t feel like you’ve rested nearly enough for it to be morning, and the darkness still hanging about the room confirms that thought for you. the fire still burns behind you, but the weight of the blankets on your body feels heavier than before.

you blink down at your stomach, expecting to find wooyoung resting against your body there, but the head of hair atop the blanket is a solid shade of jet black.

he’s soaked to the skin with rain, far more than when you left him hours ago, and you don’t want to think about where he’s been or what he’s been up to in those few hours apart. your hand moves on its own to reach for his hair and comb through the wet strands in a similar manner to how wooyoung did it to you earlier.

a voice disturbs the peaceful silence hanging around you. you know it to be wooyoung.

“if you could start over, would you?”

the ceiling seems to stretch on forever. you’ve always noted that when sprawled out on these couches. it goes up and up, an endless illusion that swirls and moves when you stare for too long. san’s head is heavy on your abdomen, his hands warm on your waist, and his tears and rain-soaked hair wet against your skin.

“yes.”

four minutes past five o’clock, you step into a new life.

...

a/n: congrats on making it to the end of this monstrosity of a fic! i can’t believe i finally finished it nor can i believe i finished it relatively on time sgjoiajgoid please please please let me know what you think, leave a reblog or a comment or send me an ask about it! there’s a lot to this fic and it’s HEAVY but it’s special to me in ways i didn’t expect for it to be. also it’s unedited rn so pls be gentle <3

taglist: @astrojoong @popisdead @uhmingi @toothlessshiber @perfectlysane24 @choozari @imababywolf @vanishingboots

#kdiarynet #kwritersworldnet #ateez angst #ateez x reader #wooyoung x reader #san x reader #san angst #wooyoung angst #ateez oneshot #ateez fic #erm #idek how to tag this #it's not heavy on the fluff #ateez fluff #wooyoung fluff #san fluff #girl.... i lost the plot somewhere between word 5 and 25k

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kimetsunoyaibawritings · 3 years

Text

Burn like the Sun

Rating: General

Relationship: Reader/Kyojuro

Summary: “Simply knowing you are safe is a plentiful reward in itself.”

As a survivor of the Infinity Train accident, the reader seeks out the man who had saved them to try and offer some sort of proper thanks. And while he is severely injured -- enough to have to lay down his duties as a Hashira -- Kyojuro is nonetheless happy to know that his actions had protected someone.

"Is this the home of Kyojuro Rengoku?"

The question pulls the attention of the young boy standing outside the front of the gate of the vast home behind him, who had been sweeping diligently before your approach.

His bright, firey-colored hair is striking, but it is dwarfed immediately by the sharp red of his eyes as they move up to look at you. The resemblance to your savior is striking -- so much that you are sure that this is the right home before he even opens his mouth to speak.

"I-It is, yes," he says, voice oddly timid. "May I ask uh, why you are looking for him?"

He can't be older than twelve or thirteen. You try to offer him a comforting smile and gesture with your chin down to the small, cloth-wrapped bundle in your arms.

"I was one of the people he saved from the train accident a few weeks ago. I heard he was badly injured because of it and I..." you let the words trail for a moment as the boy (his brother? his son?) stares at you with a look that is not at all accusatory, but sharp all the same.

You clear your throat and speak, tone renewed, "I wanted to show him my appreciation and wish him well for his recovery."

At first the boy doesn't say anything in response. In the growing silence, you almost feel foolish. It had been hard enough to learn the man's name in the first place after the accident, but something about his presence had left a moment of terror and hopelessness instead with such warmth and comfort that the simple prospect of gratitude seemed the least you could offer.

Lost among your own thoughts and worries, the sound of the boy's voice rings out and drags you back into the moment.

"Let me go ask him first, if that's alright."

You're barely able to offer but a syllable of a reply before he's already slipped past the front gate and out of sight into the grand house beyond. It is as large as you were told, though you can't recall any prominent businessman nor politician with the family name of Rengoku. Some of your contacts had called him a swordsman -- had his family once served as samurai?

The possibilities proffered more questions than offered answers, leaving you to simmer in your own curiosity for several minutes until the young fire-haired boy emerged from the house and hurried towards you.

"He says you can see him -- he's also happy to know you're okay."

The boy -- Senjuro, you later learn as his name -- quickly explains how to get to Kyojuro's room, though you're too lost in the warmth in your chest from the too-simple notion 'he's happy you're okay' to pay all that much attention past the first two turns. But you thank him all the same and shuffle towards the house, leaving Senjuro to continue sweeping up with only the slightest, softest curiosity in his eyes.

Once inside the house, you’re taken aback by how… empty it feels. You’d expect a home as large as this to be busy with people — whether family or workers tending to it. You find neither, greeted instead by silence and an unnerving amount of peace.

It doesn’t take long to start trying to recall the directions that the young Rengoku boy had given you. A turn down the left hallway, past the third door and then… ah?

You couldn’t quite recall after that. Left or right? Was there another hall, or was Kyojuro’s room along the outside? One question bumbled into another until your unsureness twisted itself up into a ball of knots. Despite the confusion, you didn’t want to seem even more foolish by moving back to Senjuro and asking for directions again when he had gone out of his way to describe them once already. So you stand there, frozen by your own indecision at the edge of a corner-

Until someone suddenly turns it, running straight into you with enough force to leave you stumbling backwards. You would have fallen on your ass if it wasn’t for the fact that the same offender reached out suddenly and grabbed your arms, which were otherwise holding with a vice grip on the wrapped bundle still against your chest.

“I’m so sorry!” a bright voice offers, soft but merrily. “I didn’t see you standing there. Are you alright?”

It takes a moment for your thoughts to straighten and your gaze to fix upon the person who had both run into you and kept you from toppling backwards.

Blonde hair with firey tips, eyes brighter than rubies and sharper than a fine point. Though his face is covered in bandages and there’s a patch over his left eye, the recognition feels like icewater dumped over your head.

“K-Kyojuro Rengoku?” you ask, embarrassed in the stutter of your own voice.

“Yes?” the man tilts his head. You’re not able to say anything further before he suddenly winces, pulling his arms back against his body and drawing your gaze down over the rest of his body — as well as his multitude of injuries. Broken bones and layers of bandages seemed to but scratch the surface for all that he is dealing with, which made you feel the heavy weight of gratitude twice, no, three times over in his saving your life.

“Shouldn’t you be laying down?”

Kyojuro merely laughs. Though the sound must pain him, it doesn’t muffle the blossoming warmth of the noise as it fills the air around your ears. It’s strange, in a way; does the sound of his voice often have this effect on people?

“I’m well enough to walk,” he finally says, pain and aches hidden so dutifully behind his eyes that you have to second-guess yourself whenever his lips press together in a brief, but tense line. A smile, however, quickly moves across his face. “I thought it would be easier if I met you halfway so you didn’t get lost! You are the one who came to visit me, correct?”

You nod.

“Y-yeah. I’m uh. One of the people you… saved. On the train, a few weeks ago. I wanted to thank you and… maybe get to know you a little bit.”

The man watches you silently as you explain yourself, but not for a moment does a sense of judgement press on your shoulders from his attention. He simply listens, politely waiting for you to finish before responding.

“It must have been hard to find me,” he comments almost idly, some mixture of amused and impressed. “How did you manage it?”

The question is filled with an odd sort of praise, so you lower your head down until your eyes are on the ground and your mind is a shambling mess trying to piece words together.

“I uh. I have some friends in high places, you could say.”

“Well!” he chuckles. “That almost sounds like a threat!”

“Oh no, no no no no-” flustered, you immediately raise your eyes up and begin waving one hand about frantically as if to dissuade the notion entirely. “I promise I didn’t mean that as a— I mean, my family—… I…”

Your broken explanation is cut short when Kyojuro reaches up a hand towards your face, index finger curling ever so gently beneath your chin that you barely feel the heat of his skin against yours.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, and for a moment you feel your heartbeat go still. “I promise I meant it only as a jest. You went to great lengths simply to see me, and you certainly didn’t need to.” His hand slowly lowers, but your gaze is held to his as if bound by unseen threads. “Simply knowing you are safe is a plentiful reward in itself.”

“I- I uh. It’s not-” the words fall broken and useless from your lips like shards of glass with no hope of coming together to make a cohesive sentence. Perhaps it’s for the best, since you’re not even sure what you can try to say in response to such an earnest notion of safety from someone who didn’t even know your first name.

And that is what finally pulls your thoughts into clarity.

You step back, providing just enough space between yourself and your savior so that your mind can clear and your heart can stop beating so damn quickly. Once you regain a sense of sensibility you all but glare at the man.

“My name is-” you say, brows knitted and stance firm as you all but aggressively introduce yourself to the man who had sacrificed so much of himself for your safety. For the safety of hundreds.

And Kyojuro watches, and listens, and then he smiles.

“That’s a nice name,” he says, then chuckles again, then bows his head for a moment. “Though you seem to know already, I am Kyojuro Rengoku. It’s quite the pleasure to meet you then! Properly meet you, at least. One less train involved.”

As the words settle humorously in the air, you watch Kyojuro turn and make a gesture to follow behind him. For a moment you’re confused, but he turns his face back to you and nods in the direction of the hall a few steps ahead.

“You wanted me to rest, yes? We can do so overlooking the back garden. I figure you’d like to sit and talk for a while-” and then he pauses, as if a moment of realization is just now moving across his thoughts. “…unless there is somewhere else you need to be?”

Bashful instinct presses at the root of your tongue to agree, perhaps even to make up some silly excuse for why you couldn’t stay for long. But then your eyes catch and hold onto a gaze that seems like brilliant rubies, and his voice echoes so warmly in your ears. And then you remember noting how empty the house felt when you stepped inside of it, devoid of anyone but what might be the last few members of the Rengoku family.

How lonely.

A shake of your head and motion of your legs happen before you can even think.

“O-oh no, I… have the day free. Though of course I didn’t assume you yourself had the time to entertain anyone, with you… healing up, and all.”

Kyojuro smiles for a moment before leading the way down the hall, his motions a bit stilted by injuries, but proud all the same. You held a deep respect for the man and his willpower despite knowing so little about him — and you certainly wanted to know more.

“I actually enjoy the company,” he says, just as you move in-step beside him. “And you are the first person from that accident to try and find me — perhaps the only one! So, if you’ll humor me for a bit of your time… I would like to learn more about you as well.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him smiling. Despite the countless injuries that undoubtedly leave him in pain, some perhaps permanent, the man continues to smile as wide and as bright as the sun itself.

And you are glad to have met him.

#kny #kny x you #kny kyojuro #rengoku kyojuro x reader #kny x reader #fic #readerinsert #sfw #sfw writing #writing #sfw fic #rengoku x reader #rengoku kyoujurou #kyojuro #demon slayer #demon slayer spoilers #mugen train spoilers

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luminnara · 3 years

Text

Goddamn, Shit-Sucking Vampires | Lost Boys x OC CH 1

Summary: Vera is an unusually vicious bloodsucker who's never stuck in one place for very long...until a mysterious feeling pulls her right to the murder capital of the world: Santa Carla, California. Now, she needs to figure out why exactly she's there, where she fits in amongst the boardwalk's nighttime denizens, and how to cope with her own personal vampire-related problems. Poly Lost Boys/OC, starts just before the movie

Also posted on AO3

My requests are open!

Chapter one | Chapter two

Warnings: Blood, gore, smut, all that good stuff

Vera had been to a lot of cities, some of them twice, some of them three times, some even more, but none of them were quite as unique as Santa Carla. The boardwalk was crawling with lost souls, kids with nowhere else to go, and she was one of them; no family to call her own, no real friends, barely any possessions…Vera was a wanderer, a lone soul, a lost girl. She drifted from town to town, hanging around for a day or two if nothing interesting happened before moving on...and honestly, nothing very interesting ever happened.

Sometimes she took the bus, if she had the money from odd jobs or pick pocketing her meals, but for the most part, she was left to her own devices. She traveled on foot when she had to, avoiding major highways unless she was feeling up to a fight. During the day, she took refuge under bridges if she was broke, or motel rooms if she had a little cash. If she felt particularly frisky, sometimes she even managed to seduce locals into helping out, but for the most part, she only had herself as company, traveling by night for no reason other than an insatiable wanderlust and nobody else to spend her time with.

Nothing had ever held her in one place. She had started traveling a long time ago, when she realized she had no reason to stay in her hometown. Plus...people started to grow a little bit suspicious when they noticed too many bodies cropping up. The world was changing, and for someone like her, it was best to stay on the move.

After that, it became a habit, and she got used to wandering and never having a place to call home. Did it ever bother her? Sometimes, when she was resting, it did. She could stop and look at the stars, with some kind of foreign aching in her chest, but it was rare that she thought about it. It had started up years ago, and she had forced herself to get used to it. She had never found any cure, and while she lingered around the east coast, it had finally dulled to a strange, quiet pain. A constant throb in her chest, next to her heart, some kind of strange tightness that she was happy to forget whenever she could. It was becoming more frequent, though, as she neared California, and she chalked it up to the fact that she had been alone and hungry for far too long.

She would have to do something about that soon. She hated feeling hungry.

Vera hopped off the bus when it stopped in Santa Carla, a coastal town that boasted a crowded boardwalk and just the kind of nightlife she needed. From the road, she could see the bright lights of a Ferris wheel and even a roller coaster, and she couldn’t help but smile. She had always liked fairs and carnivals. They were fun and exciting, and good places to pickpocket. Plus, the chaos made it easier for her to go unnoticed.

At the bus stop, she was greeted with boards and telephone poles covered in missing persons ads, and it was an oddly comforting sight. She would fit right in.

“Murder capital of the world, huh?” she said to herself, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. She had seen the graffiti on the back of a big WELCOME TO SANTA CARLA sign on the way in, and the flyers only added to the town’s reputation.

Yeah, this place was worth checking out.

The pier was bright, neon signs and carnival rides lighting up the night. Kids and adults alike were enjoying their summer, stuffing themselves with treats or screaming their way around the roller coaster. It all looked fun, she had to admit, and maybe once she had a chance to grab some cash she could hang around and enjoy herself. She could use a break from running constantly, and she was finding that the boardwalk was already making her happy.

As she walked through the crowds, Vera spotted every kind of person, from middle aged parents toting along a family of four to dirty vagrant children to punks to a couple of weird kids lurking around the comic book store. There were pizza places, cotton candy carts, all sorts of dine in restaurants and bars...Santa Carla seemed like it had everything, but mostly, it was a good place for someone like her to spend some time.

She sat herself down on a railing, trying to ignore the hunger pains she was feeling as she people watched. Beyond the homeless kids and the weirdos, the boardwalk was full of partygoers, and it looked like summer vacation was in full swing. There were a million smells in the air—cigarettes, weed, funnel cakes—but none of them really caught her attention. She let out a sigh, leaning her chin on her hand. She hated being indecisive about dinner.

“Ugh, Surf Nazis,” a woman whispered to her friend as they ran by.

“Gross,” the other wrinkled her nose.

Vera looked past them to the men that were shouting about their asses as they left and she snorted.

“What’s wrong, girls?” One of them yelled.

“Come back, we’ll show you a good time!” Another cackled, tossing an empty beer can over his shoulder.

Vera rolled her eyes. Disgusting, pathetic creatures, all standing around a trash can as they smoked. They smelled awful, she realized with a wrinkle of her nose, and it wasn’t just from their smoke. They were nasty, leering at girls and laughing loudly with each other when the women they were bothering scampered away.

Well, they weren’t her first choice, but at least she had found a meal.

She hopped off the fence and sauntered in their direction for a moment before turning, giving them just enough time to notice her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw them perk up, and before long, all four of them were following her through the crowd, shouting profanities as she made her way down to the pier.

“Hey baby, where you goin’?” one yelled, jogging to keep up with her pace.

Vera looked over her shoulder. “Down under the boardwalk...unless you’re chicken.”

She heard a chorus of hoots and whistles and grinned to herself. Men were so easy.

“I call first dibs!”

“I wanna piece of that ass!” Another yelled.

They always did. Vera was a short girl, only around five feet tall, and stocky. She carried her weight in her legs, giving her thick thighs and a round butt that could never quite stay covered by the denim shorts she loved to wear so much.

Boys liked the way she looked. They liked how she seemed so easy to grab, so soft, so touchable. As the Surf Nazis followed her down the rickety stairs to a secluded spot under the boardwalk, their hands were already moving, unbuttoning pants and reaching for Vera as if they were entitled to her. She smiled sweetly as she backed into the shadows, cooing for them to follow, grinning sickly when they obeyed. They always did, like lambs to the slaughter, never clever enough to recognize her predatory gaze and dangerous movements until it was too late.

Sometimes, if they were lucky, they could catch a glimpse of her bra or panties before it was over, but tonight, Vera had little patience for the dirty fingers that tried to pull her shirt off and her shorts down. Their faces leered down at her, even in the darkness, grunting as they palmed themselves through their pants.

She gave them a second to enjoy it before her lips twisted into a sick grin and she reached for them, nails like claws and teeth like fangs. The air was suddenly filled with the sound of their screams, but the waves crashing against the sand drowned the grisly noises out. As she tore into them, she laughed, loving the way they were so terrified now that they had completely lost any sense of power over her.

Boys always liked the way she looked, until she was covered in their friends’ blood.

-o-

David was having a boring night.

His boys were under control for the time being, lounging on their bikes next to him. Paul and Marko were laughing loudly, occasionally punching each other just for the hell of it, and Laddie was reading a comic as he clung to Dwayne. Star had decided to stay home for the night, and nobody was complaining about that; at the thought of her, David growled to himself, grimacing at the reminder of the troublesome bitch. Max had wanted a daughter and a good mother for Laddie, and what had they ended up with? A mopey, whiny little cunt who refused to kill and feed like everyone else.

Feed...damn, he could go for a snack. He could practically taste blood in the air as he thought about grabbing a bite, fangs threatening to lengthen. He hadn’t even thought he was that hungry, but now that he was thinking about it, it was bugging him, and when David got the urge to feed, there were very few things that could stop him. The hunger would sometimes gnaw at him the way it did a newborn, and even Max was occasionally put off by it. It was something he expected from a younger vampire, like Marko, maybe, but David? His appetite could be insatiable, truly monstrous in a way that most others’ weren’t.

The boys picked up on his hunger and he heard a few growls of agreement before he nodded for Dwayne to take Laddie back to the cave. The kid was never allowed to go with them when they hunted, and Dwayne was capable enough to grab something for himself if he didn’t catch up with them. Ever since Laddie had gotten his pesky little hands on their bloody wine bottle, they had been stuck with him, and if Dwayne hadn’t turned out to be so good with the kid, David would’ve been irritated beyond belief.

It all worked out, though, and Laddie fit in well with the rest of the group. David just had to keep reminding himself to be patient.

“Anybody catch your eye?” Paul asked as his brother took off down the beach with their youngest member.

“Absolutely fucking no one.” David sneered.

The tall blonde straightened up to sniff the air. “Get a whiff of that, though…”

David paused, mimicking Paul. He was right. There was a metallic scent on the breeze, the sweet smell of fresh blood. It made him thirsty, and as he led Paul and Marko down the boardwalk, it only grew stronger.

“Shit,” Marko mumbled as they started down the stairs to the beach. Once they had broken free of the crowd, the scent had hit them like a train, and even David was having trouble controlling himself.

“Careful,” he warned, voice coming out with a ragged, heavy breath.

Murders happened in Santa Carla all the time, and not only because of the Lost Boys. It was a rough place, full of drugs and vagrants, and the violence only helped them blend in. Someone had probably gotten themselves in trouble under the boardwalk, and at this point David was just hoping that the killer was still around to sate his hunger. They never fed from corpses, so stumbling across them never yielded any good results unless they were in the mood to rip them apart for shits and giggles.

David was not in the mood.

He led Paul and Marko off the stairs and through the sand, hurrying now as the blood filled his senses. It was so fresh, and there was so much of it...this wasn’t normal, even for the murder capital of the world. What kind of sadistic human would cut someone up enough to spill so much blood? What the fuck was going on under his boardwalk? Sure, it was something he would do, but other than his boys, who could possibly be that brutal?

It was in the shadows of the pier that he finally got the answers to all of his questions.

Just like the blood had, her scent hit him like a freight train. He could tell Paul and Marko were just as confused by the way they stopped and hissed, fangs already out as they looked down at the bodies littering the sand. It was a gorey scene, throats and stomachs ripped open, Surf Nazis gutted with their pants down.

And in the middle of it all, she had the audacity to glance up at David, and then completely disregard him as she turned back to her final victim. She wasn’t worried in the slightest about the three males, and that pissed David off a little. When he would have snarled a warning at her insolence, he found himself distracted instead, head tilted and lips parted as he drank in her scent and checked her out.

She was wearing shorts that barely covered her bloody legs, ratty combat boots on her feet and an equally ratty denim vest over a ripped up black shirt. Her ebony hair was cut into some sort of shaggy mullet, falling around her shoulders. It was long and wavy and glossy, but tousled and messy, no doubt thanks to feeding.

He could only stare in shock at the black-haired girl that was feasting on a Surf Nazi. He couldn’t decide if he was angry at someone else hunting on his turf or happy to find a real female vampire, one that wasn’t stupid and whiny like Star, but the one thing he knew for sure as he took a step towards her was that he was just the tiniest bit turned on.

Paul and Marko could both smell the tiniest hint of their leader’s arousal, and it excited them. They weren’t used to supernatural girls, and the thought of getting a turn with her was enough to make the air heavy with the scent of lust as they followed David.

Paul let out a low whistle behind him. “Shit, first time I wouldn’t mind bein’ a Surfer. I’d take a little of that sugar right now, know what I’m sayin?”

The vampiress lifted her head from her victim and smiled, drunk on blood and high off the hunt. “I don’t usually share meals, but I’ll give you the rest of this one if it gives me a free pass back outta here.”

Paul tensed to take her up on the offer, but David stopped him. “Free pass?”

The girl sat back from the still-whimpering Surf Nazi, blood running down her chin. “Figure you wouldn’t want me in your territory. Sorry. Didn’t realize anybody else was here, else I’d have been moving on already.”

David smirked. “No need, sweetheart.”

She furrowed her brow.

“It’s feeding time, boys. Grab a snack.” David grinned, allowing Paul and Marko to surge forward and rip into the Surf Nazi. He watched with a twinge of annoyance as Paul turned from his meal and pressed his bloody lips to the girl’s, but that annoyance turned into surprise when she kissed back, albeit lazily.

She smiled as her lips moved against his, a hand moving to tangle in his wild hair. Fire tore through Paul and he growled, pushing her down until her back hit the sand and her chest touched his as her breaths turned into frenzied pants.

Hands ran down her sides, hard nails digging into her skin as Paul nipped at her lower lip. With a whine, she arched up against him, tugging at his hair until he snarled.

“Paul,” David growled a warning.

Paul sat back up with an irritated grumble, licking his lips before plunging his fangs into the Surf Nazi and leaving Vera alone.

David had to admit, he had never met a female vampire that wasn’t stuck in limbo like Star. They seemed rare, or at least they were around California, but Max had always told him that girls of their kind were a special breed. He was already feeling a tug toward her, some kind of something pulling at his chest whenever she moved, and before he knew what he was doing, he was crouching down to suck up the last few drops of blood while his boys turned their attention to the killer.

“What’s your name, beautiful?” Marko asked, playing with a strand of her hair.

“Vera,” she answered with the sweetest voice either of them had ever heard, practically a purr.

Paul sighed, leaning in again. He was head over heels already. “What brings you here to our little corner of the world, Miss Vera?”

She blinked, and they were fucking mesmerized by those lashes and those hazel eyes. “Just passing through, boys. Don’t wanna step on any toes.”

Paul groaned. He wanted her to stay. She smelled amazing, and when she had returned the kiss he hadn’t even realized he was giving her, he felt jolts of electricity shoot through every part of his body.

He wanted more.

“Damn, babe, you’re breakin’ my heart,” he said, holding her face so that he could lick blood off her chin.

“No fair,” Marko nudged his brother. “I want a taste…”

David looked up from the drained corpse, listening as his boys slurred with love drunk voices. Max had warned him about females, about those with foreign sires. They could trap you in a web of lust, keep you dumb and happy there for as long as they wanted, rob you blind and kill your entire family...but somehow, he got the feeling that Vera wasn’t even trying to fuck with them. There was no misty, foggy sensation that would signify magic, no eye contact, no focus. As he rose to his feet, he realized he was walking towards her of his own accord, the only spell being that strange, unspoken one that kept pulling him to her.

He had an inkling of what it could be, but he didn’t dare get his hopes up.

“Got a place to stay, darling?” He asked as he shoved his boys out of the way and knelt before Vera.

She leaned toward him, a sweet smile on those bloody lips that told him she was confident enough in her ability to handle them all. She was calm, completely in control of herself, even when faced with three healthy male vampires. Her eyes were half-lidded, long lashes fluttering whenever she blinked.

When her tongue slipped out to lick blood off her lips, David’s eyes widened at the sight of something he had never seen before. It was split in two, each side moving of its own accord easily. Paul let out an eager noise, Marko shoving him with his shoulder to try to get a better look. Vera just laughed at their fascination, pulling her tongue back into her mouth and smiling.

David could feel her breath on his cheek as she took in his scent and he couldn’t help the shiver that went up his spine. He wanted to touch her, to kiss her better than Paul had, to fuck her and hear his name on her lips. He wanted to show her how strong he was, to impress her, to prove himself for some reason. He would kill a hundred surfers if he had to, if it would grant him her favor. He would sit out in the sun and burn himself if it meant he could be hers.

He had never felt this way about anyone, and it was pissing him off.

Vera laughed to herself. She could smell his desire, and she knew that it was because of her. Just like those Surf Nazis, these vampires wanted her, but at least she liked this little pack. What’s more, that aching in her chest had stopped when they showed up, and she had a feeling she knew why.

It was a little bit terrifying, though, and she wasn’t about to stop and think about it.

“What are you suggesting?” She asked, brushing her fingers along his cheek, a smear of blood following.

“Stay with us,” he breathed, blue eyes locked with hers.

“Darling, I don’t even know your name,” she quipped, never shifting her gaze.

“David,” he said with a slight growl as he felt himself getting lost in her eyes.

“David,” she repeated, voice soft and breathy. Her hand moved to cup his cheek and he leaned into it, nose twitching as he smelled the fresh blood in her wrist. It was sweet, sweeter than any blood he had ever encountered before, and all he wanted to do was sink his fangs into her flesh and get a taste.

Vera heard a sigh and finally took her eyes off David. The other two were watching, just off to the side, staring hungrily at their leader and the new girl.

“And what about you two?” She asked, hand sliding down to the side of David’s neck to keep him in check. She was confident enough in herself to handle him, but at the same time, he put her on edge. There was no way she was going to let her guard down around him yet.

That was the thing about female vampires, though; they had the uncanny ability to always put on a facade, and Vera was no exception. David made her nervous—they all did, honestly—but she wasn’t about to let them know that.

“Paul,” the tall blonde said quickly, rushing forward as if he would die without her touch. He pressed his nose against her throat, breathing her scent as if he was starving.

“Marko,” the smaller one followed, desperately reaching out to touch her hair.

“Paul,” she purred, earning a growl. “...Marko…”

Another growl.

They acted like they needed her, all three of them, but they were behaving themselves. She had no doubt that if she gave them the go ahead, she would be naked within seconds, but for the moment, they were listening to her. She had never experienced something like this before; usually, other vampires ignored her, or threatened her until she left their territory. These boys seemed to adore her, and she had to admit, she liked it.

“Paul, Marko,” David said roughly. “Clean up so we can go home.”

With a groan, the younger two did as they were told, dragging Surf Nazi corpses into the ocean before wiping their hands and faces clean.

“You’re their leader,” Vera said, more as an observation than anything else. “Are you their sire?”

David smirked as he helped her to her feet. “Depends on how you look at it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “There’s only one way to look at that, David.”

He melted when she said his name, leaning in to catch another whiff of her scent. It was sweet, like honey, sticky and sick, and all he wanted was to drown in it. “What have you done to me, Vera?”

She smiled and took his hand, raising it to lick blood off of his fingers. “Nothing on purpose, I promise.”

“Whatever it is, I don’t mind,” Paul suddenly grabbed her from behind, arms snaking around her waist as he buried his nose in her black hair, inhaling deeply and letting out a happy sigh. The feeling of her there in his arms, pressed up against him, was enough to make his fangs slide out again, and he couldn’t help but swipe his tongue up the side of her neck.

David snarled, snapping only inches from his brother’s face. “Behave.”

“You say as if you are,” Vera snorted, giving David a gentle push and easing her way out of Paul’s grip. “But you boys are all very sweet. I don’t mind the attention.”

“Oh, you have our attention, sweets,” Paul whistled as she turned and bent over to wash her face and hands at the water’s edge, giving them all a good view of her ass. A low rumble rose in David’s throat as he appreciated the sight, and Marko echoed it.

“So greedy,” Vera mocked as she straightened up again. “Are you this nice to every bloodsucker that hangs out on your boardwalk, or is it just me?”

“Just you, that’s for sure,” Marko said, almost cackling.

“The others aren’t so delicious,” Paul cooed with that signature laugh.

“Oh, aren’t you a charmer?” Vera said, walking back to them. Now that her arms and legs were clean of blood, they could see that she was covered in tattoos, and David wondered if she had them as a human before she was turned, or if she had found some way to make the ink stay in her regenerative skin.

Paul gave her a cocky grin and David rolled his eyes. His brother was such a flirtatious bastard. He was a lady killer, literally, even more than David was, but Vera didn’t seem to mind his advances. She seemed comfortable with Paul, taking it all in stride.

It made David just the tiniest bit jealous.

“Come with us.” He said it more as an order than an offer, extending his hand out to her.

“Unless you got somewhere better to go,” Marko joked.

“And there ain’t nowhere better,” Paul snickered.

“There aren’t too many places to hide from the sun on a boardwalk,” Vera snorted. She was finally coming down from her high, the thrill of the hunt fading again and giving way to her less monstrous personality. “I was going to have to find a good spot anyways…”

Now that she wasn’t operating solely on instinct, she could take a moment and think about her situation. Three male vampires, none of whom had tried to kill her for stealing prey in their territory, seemed to be absolutely obsessed with everything about her and wanted her to go home with them. One had even kissed her and she had kissed him back, because it had felt so right. She allowed them to touch her, to taste her skin, to share her meal. They were stronger than her, and they outnumbered her, but she still felt like she was...in charge?

David, the definite leader of the little pack, was looking at her hopefully. His face was stony, but she could see excitement in his blue eyes, and when she smiled, there was a spark of something in those irises.

“Just don’t kill me in my sleep,” Vera joked as David took her hand and began leading her back up to the boardwalk.

“No promises,” Marko leered as they followed.

“You look good enough to eat, babe,” Paul growled playfully, lunging forward to cop a feel of her ass.

Vera only laughed, but David snarled dangerously at his brother, moving his arm to Vera’s shoulders and pulling her against his side.

“Relax, you big angry beast,” Vera said with a grin, raising her hand to his chin and giving a teasing scratch.

David huffed and Marko hooted with laughter. “Damn, she’s way more fun than you, David!”

“I dig this chick,” Paul snickered.

“You better share her,” Marko whined.

David smirked as they climbed the stairs back up to the boardwalk. Could he manage that? He only ever shared things with his brothers, but even then, he was terrible at it. Vera had some kind of magnetic pull on him, yeah, and his mouth watered at the thought of keeping her around, but Marko and Paul were both obviously into her...and she was into them.

She was into all of them.

He needed to talk to Max. He honestly hated having to ask his sire for help or advice, and he avoided it whenever he could. Max had never been very nurturing, despite wanting everyone to act like a big family. It worked out for the boys, sure, but Max was…not a great father. A patriarch, yes, always seated at the head of the metaphorical table, but he was cruel and cold towards David, and he had been from the very start. He thought they all needed a stern hand to keep them in check, and David didn’t like that.

Still, Max let them run free, and he knew more than David did about their own kind. He was helpful, sometimes, in his own way, and his son was going to have to defer to him. He had questions about Vera, about the pull he felt toward her, and Max was the only one with the answers.

As they returned to the boardwalk and joined the crowd of humans, Vera was pleased to see that the sea of people parted for the boys. They stepped aside, glancing with mixtures of emotions at the little pack. Girls looked dreamy, parents grabbed their children, Surf Nazis raised their lips in sneers. Was it because of their reputation, or did the humans somehow know that they should be afraid of the predators that stalked Santa Carla? She hoped it was both. She hoped that these boys were wild and rowdy enough to rule this boardwalk, and she hoped that they liked her enough to keep her around.

She glanced up at the sky, a few stars twinkling despite the light pollution from the city. For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t itching to hop on a bus or hitch hike to the next town. For once in her life, Something was occupying her mind, and the wanderlust was giving way to another, completely foreign feeling. The ache in her chest was gone, but it was replaced by a strange, burning, almost longing that she had never felt before. It was almost similar to the emotions she experienced during bloodlust, but she was in control of herself. Her fangs weren’t poking through, her eyes weren’t shining...she was happy and her hunger was sated, so where was this coming from?

She was still avoiding the one train of thought that would bring her to the right conclusion. It was just too much to consider, especially with everything happening so quickly all of the sudden.

They came to a halt when they reached their bikes, Dwayne already back from dropping Laddie off. From the looks of it, he had grabbed a bite on the way, jeans stained with fresh blood that the humans would just assume was from a fight.

Vera stopped. There was another male here? She was finding it hard to believe that she had stumbled across a pack of four males without any females, but she couldn’t smell much in the way of estrogen on them. It was just odd; vampires didn’t usually live in bachelor groups like these, but she supposed it wasn’t entirely unheard of. It was just strange that they hadn’t found any girls they wanted to keep around for all eternity.

Most people got lonely eventually. Maybe these four were all actually lovers...but she hadn’t seen any marks that would mean they were claimed, and she hadn’t smelled or sensed anything that would lead her to believe that they were serious.

Odd.

The one leaning against the bike was tall, long dark hair falling around his shoulders and a curious, but serious, expression on his handsome face. She felt frozen under his gaze, uncharacteristically nervous, like a deer in the headlights. It was like he could see right through her, and she didn’t know if she liked that or not.

“Dwayne, this is Vera,” David said as he tugged her along. She found a way to make her legs work again and followed, letting a smile curl its way onto her lips when Dwayne bowed his head to her.

“And she’s tough,” Marko said, bouncing over to his bike.

“And she’s gorgeous,” Paul took her hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss as he passed her.

“I can see that,” Dwayne said, his voice deep and smooth, a seductive smile on his lips.

David narrowed his eyes, but tried to hide the movement with a smirk. “Keep an eye on her. I’m going to visit Max.”

“Oh, I’ll keep both eyes on her,” Paul winked as he beckoned for her to sit behind him on his motorcycle.

David rolled his eyes, desperately trying to not make a scene. “Control yourself. I’ll be back.”

He pressed a kiss to Vera’s head, inhaling deeply before leaving her side and stalking off down the boardwalk. He could already feel his sire tugging questioningly at his consciousness, curious as to why David was so eager to speak to him. His son had always been good at blocking him out, keeping his mind locked down unless he needed something or there was trouble that called for Max’s attention. The others were more open, but Max didn’t have as strong a link with them, and while David was supposed to be his prodigal son, he was so...secretive. Private. Closed off. For him to be willingly heading to the VideoMax store for anything other than annoying him or hitting on Maria out of boredom, something very important had to be going on, and Max was beyond itching to know what it could be.

“Who’s Max?” Vera asked, joining Paul to perch on the back of his bike.

“David’s sire,” Marko answered.

“A grouchy old bloodsucker,” Paul grinned.

“He runs the video store. He hates it when we crash.” Marko laughed.

“But...that cashier is pretty cute,” Paul said, thinking of Maria. “I’d love for a bite of—”

He was cut off by the breath leaving his body when Vera wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head against his back.

Marko hooted with laughter at his brother’s reaction and Dwayne let out a chuckle. Paul was absolutely speechless, and Vera wasn’t even making skin on skin contact with him.

Until she felt him tense, smirked against his back, and slid her hands under his mesh shirt.

If Paul could blush, he would have. He would have been a shade past tomato red. The feeling of her fingers running over his abs was all he could focus on for a moment, and all he wanted was to kiss her again, feel her again, maybe get a little tongue action...

“You’re supposed to behave yourself, Paul,” Marko taunted as he caught a whiff of the lust in the air and felt his brother’s excited thoughts.

“Yeah, yeah,” Paul snarled. “I don’t need this shit from you.”

“I’m just repeating what David said,” Marko said defensively. “You’re the one who can’t keep it in his pants.”

“Well, aren’t you just the perfect little angel?” Paul shot back. “I’m the one with a goddess on his bike, might I remind you.”

Marko scoffed, lip raised in a nasty little snarl. “Not for long, Paul!”

Vera smiled as they bickered. Paul’s arousal hung in the air, but she didn’t mind; in fact, she liked it, and she hugged her arms around him tighter as he squabbled with Marko. She was eager to get back to wherever it was that they called home, and she was eager to sleep surrounded by them and feel truly safe for once. She was used to being alone, and she wasn’t scared of it, but she was always on edge, always ready to run or fight. It made her a light sleeper, and the concept of not having to worry was more tantalizing than any of these boys were on their own.

#goddamn shit sucking vampires #the lost boys #lost boys x reader #lost boys x oc #david lost boys #dwayne lost boys #paul lost boys #marko lost boys

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zombryz · 3 years

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chile, I want my guts DESTROYED by Broly or Whis. Ik saying Whis is a stretch, but idk, he's so fine to meeee. thank you 🥰

Hi Anon! I’m sort of a Whis girl myself (˵ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°˵) please enjoy this lovely Whis one shot ~

TW: smut, and some fluff ✧

Lord Beerus’ planet was honestly really pretty. It was concealed within a nebula and it appeared to be upside down although when you were within it you were always right side up. Strange, but beautiful. There was an enormous tree growing in the center which at the base held Lord Beerus’ castle. Every morning you would take in all its glory with your daily meditation ritual that Piccolo taught you. You have been here for going on four months now. Because you were human you had no need for training, but Goku and Vegeta insisted on you coming along to cook meals and to keep them company. The Saiyan’s would be so lost without you. You had originally rolled your eyes at the invitation but you couldn’t pass up traveling through the galaxy. Lord Beerus and his attendant, Whis, didn’t seem to mind. They were always in the mood for a good meal. It was also a perk having a destroyer on your side, imagine if someone on earth had looked at you the wrong way. Gods, not even luck would be able to help them. It had grown a bit lonely though, your daily routine consisted of; waking up, meditating, watching Goku and Vegeta train with Whis, prepare breakfast, go back to meditation, watch them train some more, cook lunch, talk to Lord Beerus when/if he woke up, sometimes watch godtube with Lord Beerus, cook dinner, go to sleep, repeat. Your routine was becoming tiresome and you ached for a change.

This morning you had been meditating, your regular schedule, you looked down to see Goku and Vegeta going head to head with Whis. Obviously, Whis had dodged every single attack made by the pair of Saiyans. Your hands were on top of your knees while you were sitting in a criss-cross position. You had lifted one eye up to watch them train. The Saiyans hadn’t interested you as much as Whis did. He was so smooth and had such a calming presence. You felt as though nothing could penetrate his defenses. Vegeta once told you that Whis was the one to train Lord Beerus and so that piqued your interest. While watching them train you had usually fixed your eyes on either Goku or Vegeta, but this time you couldn’t take your eyes off of Whis. Something about him was so elegant and intoxicating. He must’ve felt your peering eyes because in the midst of taking on four fists to the face he looked up at you, making eye contact causing you to immediately close both of your eyes. Shit, you’d been caught peeping. You hoped with his many talents that he couldn’t read minds, that would be embarrassing to explain to him the dirty things you had been thinking at that moment.

Finally, it was dinner time. You had cooked up a large enough meal for your makeshift-god family. You made mountains of ramen, it all looked and smelled so delicious. The spices filling up the room causing your mouth to water. You grabbed one bowl for yourself and let them all dig in.

“Thank you, Y/N,” Whis looked at you with sincerity in his eyes. He held direct eye contact for a moment. This was a different look for him, usually, he stuffs his face and would give thanks after.

“You’re welcome, Whis,” you replied, giving a gentle smile. This interaction caused your heart to thump in your chest. He had singled you out before you were nothing more than the cook. If you were being honest with yourself you didn’t even know if he knew your name.

After dinner, you found yourself in your bedroom, one of the many rooms in the palace. This always confused you because Beerus didn’t seem to be one for having guests over. You had just gotten out of your nightly shower patting your hair dry with a secondary towel. When you walk out of the bathroom that was attached to your bedroom, you see none other than the Angel himself, Whis. You froze, your first thought was that maybe you were seeing things. Why was Whis in your bedroom? He was standing there with his scepter in his right hand while his left hand was behind his back. There was a moment of silence before he began to speak.

“I am not supposed to be doing this but after the way you looked at me today it confirmed it,” he trailed off at the end. You weren’t really following.

“Whis, what are you talking about?” You questioned, raising a brow in confusion. He seemed a little nervous himself and you were glad you weren’t the only one having a mini panic attack.

“I have felt attracted to you for a while now, Y/N. Today, when you looked at me during training your body language had confirmed that you feel the same.” He said this time sounding more confident than before. Your heart started racing, you thought this was just some silly crush but now an Angel was standing in your bedroom confessing how he feels about you. Your face was turning rosy when you realized you hadn’t responded to him yet.

“Oh, um. Y-Yeah. I’m sorry if that complicates things for you. I didn’t even think Angels were capable of liking mortals.” You finally answered, unsure of where this was going to go. You were beginning to feel the weight of this whole conversation, not even thinking about the fact that you were still in only a towel. Angels definitely didn’t understand social cues, otherwise, this would be way more awkward.

Without responding Whis hammered his scepter to the ground ordering it to undress you. Your towel dropped to the ground and you had no intention of covering yourself. Your cheeks had become completely red now, you were standing in front of the angel completely naked with your hair still dripping wet. Whis leaned his scepter against the wall and started undressing, removing his long black cuirass first and then his maroon robe not long after. Still in shock, you watched him remove every bit of clothing he had on until you were both standing nude and at each other’s disposal. Standing in silence you felt that this was oddly romantic, his eyes wandered down your body appreciating every part, every curve of it with a hunger in his eyes that you had never seen before. You returned the favor by letting your eyes trail down his body, starting with his perfectly chiseled jaw, just under was his glowing blue halo that fell at his collarbone, his arm muscles looked like they had been crafted by the gods themselves. His chest was perfectly swole and slender. His torso ended in a beautiful v-shape. He was standing with both hands behind his back, allowing you to take in his glory. When your eyes went lower you realized that he was already as hard as a rock. His dick was big and long and a lighter shade of blue than the rest of his skin. It looked so supple in the moonlight, his tip was a brighter pink and it had an iridescent glow of pre-cum at its tip. You wanted so badly to get on your knees, sucking off the Angel right where he stood. Your body tingles at the thought causing you to shiver.

Whis lifted two fingers and motioned for you to come to him, without even having to move your body you were flying to him through the air using his abilities. The space between you was very limited now and this caused your breathing to quicken. He towered over you and you couldn’t help but want to be dominated by him. Whis on the other hand was calm and eager. You stepped closer to him, that’s when you noticed his halo was preventing you from getting any closer. To fix the issue, you stepped underneath and into his halo so that now he shared his space with you. The halo was now wrapped around the both of you causing you to be forced closer together. Chests now touching, you looked up to see his face illuminated by both the moonlight sneaking in through the window and his halo that was humming a low buzzing noise next to both sides of your faces. The feeling was euphoric. He made one last gentle look at you before his eyes turned needy, he leaned down to kiss you. It was passionate and fiery, both of his hands came out from behind his back to grab and cup your face. His tongue wanting to explore your mouth so you slightly opened yours allowing him entrance. A moan escaped your lips sending him into a fury. His kisses became sloppy and hungry. His hands traveled down to your breasts, toying with your already hard nipples. He slightly pinched at your nipples before grabbing a fistful of your breasts causing him to inhale deeply. Growing impatient he reached down to pick you up so that you would be closer to him. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you to your bed. Halo still around you both it was the most intimate you had ever felt with anyone. It was as though you were tied to each other, causing an unbreakable bond. Whis slowly laid you on the bed, you were already soaking wet and ready for him. This time you grew impatient and reached for his cock, once you had him in your hands you lined him up to your entrance making sure to slide him up and down to gather your wetness. Whis kissed you between moans, the moment he slid in you both inhaled deeply feeling the pleasure of him inside of you, your lips still pressed together. With a few more pumps you grew comfortable with his size, you wanted him to quicken his pace.

“Whis, faster. P-please,” you breathily mewled in his ear, he didn’t hesitate. He began thrusting into you harder and faster causing you to throw your head back in pleasure which only caused him to fall closer to you because of the halo. As he continued fucking you he snaked his hands up to your breasts, with his halo it was difficult but he needed you in his mouth. He leaned down slightly, bending his body enough to grab one of your breasts. He began flicking his tongue over your sensitive skin, you were quite literally in heaven. With his free hand, he began circling your clit with his thumb. Gods, this felt so good. You bucked your hips into him desperate for release.

You wanted to make him feel good too, you motioned for him to switch places. With a quick shift you were straddling him, his cock still deep inside your walls. You moved slightly as you got comfortable in the new position. His halo created the perfect closeness you needed to ride out your orgasm. Whis sat up and kissed down your neck and collarbone. He planted sloppy kisses all over your face. He kissed the tip of your nose and forehead, causing you to smile while you bounced on top of him. This reaction made him smile sweetly in return. You continued to grind against him, he lifted his lower body slightly to give you a greater closeness than you had before. While you were riding him he wrapped his arms around you holding you down on his cock shoving his length entirely inside you, holding you still while he thrust into you this time. A loud moan came from the back of your throat causing him to quicken his speed. You were reaching for release and god was he giving it to you, he kept massaging your breasts with one hand while holding you tightly in the other. You rode out your climax, clamping around him, milking his cock, not worried about if anyone else in the palace could hear your moans of pleasure. Whis wasn’t far behind, he quickened his speed steading out his thrusts so that he could come. He held you down on his cock shoving in and out of you while you bounced on top of him. His cock hitting the end of your walls each time. With his eyes closed, he threw his head back causing you to be pulled into the nook of his neck and shoulder. You planted kisses on the sides of his neck as you rest your head on him while he came hard inside of you. He felt so good. Without getting off of him, he remained inside of you, you could feel his warm cum spilling out from the sides of your walls and down your legs but you didn’t care. You were both panting, you were still laid against him quite comfortably where you were. You were in a hugging position and never wanted to move out of this spot. After a minute or two you sat up, still straddling him you took both of your hands and cupped them around his temples, pushing his tall, white hair down while you reached up to kiss him on the forehead. After the kiss, you pressed your forehead against his. He was your angel and you never wanted to leave this halo.

#dbs whis #whis #fan fic smut #fan fiction #dragon ball super #Bryannawrites #angel #whis imagine

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drowningbydegrees · 3 years

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This is my @thewitchersecretsanta gift for @kat-atomic, who mentioned liking modern AU’s with witcher powers etc. and humor. I hope this delivers! Thank you so much @goodheavensgwen for betaing this! <3 Note: This is largely fluffy and ridiculous, but there’s some canon typical mention of blood and injury.

Read on AO3

There are very few things Jaskier can genuinely say he enjoys about working the night shift at the diner. There’s the 3 a.m. rush of customers when all the bars close who usually tip pretty decently. There’s the fact that Triss, the night manager, doesn’t mind if he spends his downtime writing music when his sidework is done. And there’s the occasional regular Jaskier finds himself enamored with.

Like the one on the sidewalk just outside, for instance, who Jaskier privately suspects is some sort of cryptid. With good reason! He only ever seems to turn up in the quietest part of Jaskier’s shift. He doesn’t look old by any stretch of the imagination, and he doesn’t strike Jaskier as the sort to commit to any sort of high maintenance beauty regimen, all of which is at odds with the silvery white hair that falls just a touch past his shoulders. If the hair weren’t noteworthy enough, his unnaturally gold eyes are haunting, like nothing Jaskier has ever seen. Not that he means to look, mind you, but they’re the kind of thing that sticks with Jaskier long after the man is gone. Appearances aside, there’s something about this particular customer that discourages questions and he always pays with cash, so despite coming in on a somewhat regular basis over the last year and a half - not often enough that Jaskier can work out any sort of pattern, but enough that there’s a table Jaskier has more or less decided is his - Jaskier doesn’t even know his name.

The blood is new though.

“Holy mother of- Are you okay?” Jaskier asks when he looks up and sees the man trudging through the door. Is that a limp? It’s hard to tell if he’s hurt or just exhausted. It seems like maybe hurt because that’s definitely blood matting his hair. Probably. Jaskier vaguely remembers hitting his head on the slide when he was little and it looking a bit like that, anyway. And if that’s blood, it suggests that the substance making the guy’s shirt stick unnaturally to his body is also blood, which kinda tracks with the fact that one of the sleeves is ripped to shreds.

The guy freezes, leaving Jaskier with the distinct impression that he’d hoped to come in unnoticed. As much as Jaskier enjoys listening to his gravelly voice, there’s nothing comforting about the reply. “It’s not mine.”

“Right. Okay. That’s- That’s a completely normal and not concerning thing to say. Also, I’m going to go ahead and call bullshit because your arm is… umm. Oh fuck! Your arm. Just, uhh… hang on a sec, okay?” Jaskier rushes off to the kitchen for the diner’s first aid kit, a few bar towels, and, after a hurried explanation to Triss, one of the work uniform button down shirts. First aid isn’t something that was really covered in training, but leaving someone bleeding in the foyer is almost certainly some kind of health code violation. Whatever the case, not wanting his favorite customer to bleed to death in the middle of his shift wins out over entertaining the notion that said customer might possibly be dangerous.

The foyer is empty when Jaskier returns, which admittedly makes more sense than the guy having stayed put. He’s undeniably mysterious, but he doesn’t seem unhinged enough to just wander in here like that without some kind of reason. Jaskier pokes his head into the restroom, assuming the man has gone there and… isn’t wrong. It’s just that he’s also not in a state of dress Jaskier would expect in a public space. The tattered remains of his shirt sit in the sink, and without the fabric to hide it, the gashes at the back of his shoulder, just where it meets his arm, are rather prominent. Oddly, that quells any real concern Jaskier might have had about what events led him here because they look like claw marks rather than anything human. Equally prominent are a really quite alarming number of other scars that litter the man’s back and chest from what Jaskier can see in the mirror.

The man has never struck Jaskier as particularly polite. He speaks very little. He never smiles. He always looks vaguely put upon when Jaskier tries to be nice to him. So it’s strangely endearing to see that, despite Jaskier being pretty sure he communicated he’d be right back, the man still looks sort of surprised to see him. That surprise only grows more visible when he sees the supplies Jaskier is holding. “I thought you might want to get cleaned up.”

The look the man gives him, like he’s expecting some kind of catch, makes Jaskier’s chest ache. Honestly, who does he interact with that getting help when he’s clearly injured is… not the expectation? The guy offers a quiet thanks that is very, very at odds with the whole possible (but probably not) serial killer vibe he’s got going on at the moment when Jaskier sets the supplies on the counter and starts to head back for the door.

“Do you need me to call someone for you… uh, sorry, I don’t actually know your name,” Jaskier finds himself asking, not sure why he can’t bring himself to just leave.

In the mirror the man’s brows crinkle in confusion, or maybe exasperation and he shakes his head. “No.”

“Are you sure?” Jaskier asks, watching the man awkwardly try to balance a pad against his wounded shoulder and wrap gauze around it without nearly enough hands. “It kinda looks like those might need stitches.”

“I said no.” Definitely exasperation this time, probably at Jaskier, but maybe also at his current predicament. Tape would be better than the roll of gauze, but there isn’t any.

“Right. Okay…” The reasonable thing to do would be to go back to work and just leave the guy to it. It’s not his job. They don’t know each other. The guy’s insistence on not wanting him to call for assistance should probably be suspicious. But, Jaskier has never done the reasonable thing once in his entire life and he doesn’t intend to start now. If he can’t get the guy actual, maybe qualified assistance, he also can’t bring himself to walk away. “Can I help?”

The man shifts in obvious discomfort, but eventually he concedes with a terse nod. He silently holds the pad against his shoulder while Jaskier unrolls the gauze and tries very hard to keep his eyes mostly averted. It’s that or Jaskier is going to end up ogling the guy’s quite frankly gorgeous everything and this really doesn’t seem like the time for that.

“Geralt,” the man says sort of out of the blue as Jaskier winds the gauze around the injury. It startles Jaskier into looking up. “My name.”

“Oh!” Geralt. Jaskier repeats it in his head. It’s nice to finally have a name to go with Geralt’s unfairly pretty face. He’s being rude though, Jaskier realizes, and shakes his head and ties off the bandaging. “I’m Jaskier.”

“I know,” Geralt says softly, like it’s some sort of confession.

Right. Of course. He’s probably introduced himself a dozen times. But customers usually forget his name, so it makes Jaskier smile anyway.

“So… Geralt. I don’t want to pry or anything.” The way Geralt tenses, Jaskier is sorry for opening his mouth. But, contrary to what everyone else in his life seems to think, he is not entirely without a self-preservation instinct. He’s not blind to how weird this whole situation is, even though he’s pretty sure Geralt didn’t actually kill anyone. “Did something happen? You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you?”

“No.”

“Right.” It seems whatever strange set of circumstances made Geralt inclined to talk to him has passed. “Well, that’s illuminating.”

Geralt’s expression scrunches like he’s just bitten into a lemon. “It’s not important.”

Inexplicably, that hurts. Not for his own sake. Geralt has no reason to confide in Jaskier specifically. It’s just that it seems like Geralt’s default assumption that he won’t be trusted, coupled with literally everything else Jaskier has seen tonight, paints a sort of lonely, heartbreaking picture. Or, maybe that’s just Jaskier’s inner poet talking. He’s never entirely certain. All the same, he offers what he hopes is a friendly smile. “Suit yourself, but you should know if you don’t tell me, I’m going to make something up and it will be absolutely ridiculous.”

Geralt’s expression smoothes out into a careful sort of indifference. Jaskier is sort of tempted to linger, but there’s really no excuse, and the longer he stays, the more likely Jaskier is to say something that’s just going to embarrass them both. Reluctantly, he steps away. “Well, I’ll just, you know, leave you to it.”

***

By the time Jaskier comes back out into the dining room, Triss looks like she’d been about thirty seconds away from coming in to check on them herself. As he assures her that it’s not actually as bad as he’d first thought, and no she really doesn’t need to call an ambulance or anything, Jaskier finds himself very, very glad he had been in too much of a rush to share his initial concerns with her or he suspects this conversation would be going very differently.

But Triss lets things be, and Jaskier tries to get back to normal.

It’s very convenient, Jaskier thinks, that Geralt always orders the same thing. In retrospect, that might be because he’s some kind of world champion at avoiding conversation at all costs, but Jaskier assumes he’s just a creature of habit. Probably. Either way, Jaskier puts in an order and pours a cup of coffee, glad for something to busy himself with while he waits.

Much to Jaskier’s surprise, Geralt looks more or less himself when he emerges from the restroom. His hair is wet, probably from rinsing the mess out of it, but with long sleeves covering the gash Jaskier had patched up, only the slight unevenness in his step gives away that anything is wrong at all. That and the heavy sigh he breathes out when he finally sits down in the diner booth. Jaskier has heard that one before and wonders if Geralt makes a habit of coming in here when he’s hurting or if that sigh is just one born of exhaustion.

Geralt’s expression does a funny thing when he sees the coffee mug. It might be surprise, but Jaskier can’t think for the life of him why. “Thank you.”

It’s the same quiet, sort of reluctant tone Geralt had thanked him with earlier, and dear lord is no one ever just kind to him or something? Nevermind that this is literally Jaskier’s job. He wants to ask, but he can’t imagine the question going over well, so Jaskier leans against the side of the bench opposite Geralt and smiles, gesturing at the uniform shirt. “It’s a good look. You might have a real future here.”

By some miracle, that pulls what Jaskier thinks might be a smile from Geralt. It’s a small, subtle thing like Geralt isn’t quite certain how the expression fits on his face, and gone almost immediately, but it was there, if just for a second. “I’ll keep it in mind if I ever need a new line of work.”

“I mean, if my line of work tore up my wardrobe like that, I’d probably have noped out already,” Jaskier jokes.

“Hmm,” Geralt replies, staring resolutely into his coffee mug.

“So, I gotta ask,” Jaskier ventures when a few seconds pass and Geralt doesn’t glare at him for lingering. “Not that I mind, but there are like, a dozen places I’d be more apt to patch myself up than a diner bathroom.”

“Everything else is closed,” Geralt says from behind his mug, amber eyes briefly fluttering shut.

“Of course. That explains… Wait. That doesn’t explain anything. There’s literally a hospital two miles down the road. I’d probably-” Jaskier pauses when Geralt’s eyes crack open again, fixating on him. Something about it makes Jaskier far less certain of what he’s saying, and it comes out with a questioning sort of uptick at the end. “You know, try… there?”

“They don’t tend to be keen on my kind,” Geralt replies gruffly.

Jaskier has no idea what that means. “Uhh… uninsured?”

“A witcher.” Geralt glowers at Jaskier, but he says the word like it’s physically painful, a mouth full of broken glass.

Jaskier has never met a witcher, he’s pretty sure, but he’s heard the stories, same as everyone. Witchers are supposedly nearly as dangerous as the creatures they hunt, more monsters than men and never to be trusted. They’re not quiet and unobtrusive and startled by acts of kindness, surely. So, either Geralt is not what he seems or the stories are bullshit, and given the way this particular witcher looks like he’s braced for a blow, Jaskier is willing to bet it’s the latter.

Jaskier can’t help wanting to understand what kind of life Geralt must live that this is where he ends up in the small hours of the morning, injured and seemingly alone. It makes him privately furious, but somehow he doesn’t think the spectacle will be appreciated, even though it’s on Geralt’s behalf. Maybe especially because it’s on Geralt’s behalf, judging by the efforts the witcher goes to to be unobtrusive. So, Jaskier doesn’t say the first thing that comes to mind about how rotten humanity is. Instead, he says the second thing that comes to mind, which is equally unfortunate. “Well, that explains your eyes.”

Geralt’s expression goes stormy, and Jaskier only belatedly realizes he must have taken that as an insult. But about the time Jaskier opens his mouth to explain, Geralt seems to gather that he might have misunderstood. His brows crease as he looks at Jaskier, as if trying to puzzle something out. “What about them?”

“They’re beautiful,” Jaskier blurts out, which, oh that was not what he meant to say at all. Melting through the floor would be great about now. Or maybe disappearing entirely. Really, anything but standing here with Geralt staring at him like he’s grown a second head. Scrambling for an excuse to leave that won’t look like he’s running away - even though he definitely is - Jaskier forces a smile, taking a step backwards. “I’ll just… go get you some more coffee.”

Suddenly discovering his escaped sense of self-preservation, Jaskier doesn’t come back with coffee. His curiosity is tempered by embarrassment, so he stays away until Geralt’s order is up and he has an actual legitimate reason to drift back to the guy’s table. Jaskier does his best to straddle the line between friendly and professional as he sets down the plate. He has every intention of leaving Geralt to eat in peace, so Jaskier startles a little when Geralt speaks up before he can leave. “It was a basilisk.”

“A… like the ‘turn you into stone’ kind of basilisk?” Jaskier turns back and sort of wishes he hadn’t because Geralt looks rather sorry for having said anything.

“That’s just a myth. They don’t do that,” Geralt counters. Jaskier waits for him to expound on that further, but he doesn’t.

Jaskier has never seen a basilisk either, so it seems entirely natural to ask, “Then, what do they do?”

A funny thing happens. To Jaskier’s complete and utter surprise Geralt talks. Not in the teeth pulling miserable way he’s said most everything else, but like it’s a conversation he genuinely doesn’t mind having. Jaskier keeps half an eye on the door, but it’s Monday night, so it’s no great surprise that no one else comes in.

In the absence of other customers to tend to, Jaskier eventually just slides into the seat across from Geralt to listen. It’s not subject matter that Jaskier has ever considered, but it’s interesting if only for how it relates to Geralt. Huffing out a laugh, Jaskier cuts in. “To hear you tell it, people are as stupid and superstitious as they are… unkind. I suppose next thing you’ll be telling me is that vampires don’t actually burn up in the sunlight.”

Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs for definitely not the first time tonight. Honestly, Jaskier is coming to be just a bit fond of it. “They don’t.”

“Wait, really?”

Jaskier is thrilled to discover he doesn’t even have to press for details. Before he knows it, he’s learned more about vampires than he even thought there was to know. Along with fiends, leshens, and what might possibly be the entire list of contracts Geralt has taken in the last month. There’s a consistent thread through all of it that leaves Jaskier warm and maybe a bit embarrassed that he’d ever thought Geralt could be dangerous. “You don’t talk about them like they’re things you kill.”

“I don’t if I can help it. It’s not their fault humans sprawl out into the places they live.” Geralt thumbs at the handle of his coffee mug, staring at the contents that have long since gone cold.

Desperate to drive off the strange sense of melancholy creeping in, Jaskier grasps for some other direction he can steer the conversation. Hastily, he runs through what Geralt has talked about already, and gets a bit stuck on a concerning thought, given how often the witcher is here. “So, are there a lot of monsters around here?”

Crisis averted, Jaskier thinks. Geralt’s shoulders tense across the table, but at least he doesn’t seem sad anymore. “Not really.”

That really just brings more questions than it answers. “Oh, well that’s a relief, I guess. I’d hate to be out hiking and get eaten by a noonwraith or something.”

“Noonwraiths don’t live in forests. Don’t even live, really. They’re...” Geralt makes a face that Jaskier assumes means he’s caught on that it was a joke. That said, Jaskier admires his commitment to finishing anyway. “More like trapped spirits.”

“You’re the expert,” Jaskier says agreeably, not quite managing to stifle the urge to laugh. “So what is it that keeps bringing you here, then? Do witchers have territories or something? Do you live around here? Actually, no. That’s a stupid question. If you lived around here you wouldn’t have wound up here like that…”

He expects the look of annoyance he seems to have gotten very good at drawing from Geralt so far. What he doesn’t expect is the way Geralt’s gaze darts away, looking at pretty much anything but Jaskier. “No.”

“No what?”

“All of it. This is just on the way to a lot of the places I end up,” Geralt clarifies with a heavy sigh. It’s a lie, Jaskier is pretty sure, because this podunk down isn’t really on the way to anywhere, and the rest of Geralt’s answer confirms as much. “... ish.”

“The coffee isn’t that good,” Jaskier teases. He doesn’t get it, but he does like Geralt, no matter how taciturn the witcher might be.

“It’s not.” Geralt tenses where he sits, and Jaskier thinks maybe he ought not to have pressed. As strange as today has been for him, it’s probably been awful for Geralt. Only Geralt doesn’t look upset. If anything, he ducks his head, a bit sheepish, muttering something under his breath.

Jaskier doesn’t even realize he’s leaned in closer until Geralt’s eyes widen just a fraction. “Sorry. I didn’t catch that.”

The way Geralt scowls, not at Jaskier but just in general, he thinks he’s not going to get an answer. He especially doesn’t think he’s going to get this particular answer, and yet Geralt very abruptly surrenders. “I don’t come here for the coffee.”

Oh. Jaskier bows his head to hide the smile that tugs at his lips. Somehow, it’s comforting to think that Geralt, who faces down monsters and seems generally put together is as awkward as he is. So much so that it takes him a second to even realize Geralt is maybe flirting with him. Definitely trying to judging by the vaguely terrified, deer in the headlights expression on the witcher’s face.

“I’m much better off the clock.” Jaskier immediately slaps a hand over his mouth, but it’s far too late. This is the point where Geralt realizes he’s made a terrible mistake. This is the moment where he decides maybe not to come back.

Whatever Jaskier expects, it’s not Geralt’s laughter, a surprised huff that sprawls out into something more concrete. It’s the loveliest sound Jaskier thinks he’s ever heard, and he can’t even bring himself to mind that it’s a little bit at his expense. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Before Jaskier can say anything, flirtatious or otherwise, there’s the familiar chime of someone coming through the door. Not that he needs the door to alert him. The raucous laughter does a good job on its own. That’d be the 3 a.m. crowd.

“I should… get back to work,” Jaskier reluctantly concedes and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t imagine the faintly disappointed look on Geralt’s face.

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs just as Jaskier is about to leave, softly enough he almost misses it. When he turns to look, the witcher’s jaw works for a moment before he says, “Thank you. For all this.”

“Any time,” Jaskier replies, not entirely surprised to find he means it. Even if nothing comes of their newfound camaraderie, maybe he’ll get a song out of it or something.

The 3 a.m. rush keeps him busy after that, and Jaskier only really makes it back to Geralt’s table to refill his coffee and bring him the check. By the time things slow down, Geralt is out the door, which is a good thing, honestly. He’s gotta sleep some time, Jaskier supposes.

Jaskier watches Geralt’s car disappear before he goes to clean up the table. As always, Geralt has left everything neatly stacked (yet another reason he’s Jaskier’s favorite customer). There are a few bills, and it’s only as he’s pocketing them that he notices writing on the receipt Geralt left behind.

A phone number is scrawled across the slip of paper, but it’s the note underneath that makes Jaskier grin as he pockets it for later.

Just in case you run into any noonwraiths in the woods.

(Fic Masterpost)

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #The Witcher #my fic #This was ridiculously fun to write #thewitchersecretsanta

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blackbirdos · 3 years

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It is almost cold on the balcony when Kutkha steps outside, and, as usual, the stars cannot be seen well through the thickness of the light pollution. He should be asleep, but the city is not, and there are probably a hundred other people just like him creeping outside for some air, to quell their churning thoughts. Kutkha inhales a shaky breath then moves over to the railing, stooping so that he can lean his elbows on it and look down into the dark street below. He likes the cold in a way he can’t explain. Before Earth, Kutkha had never shivered from a chill or sweat from the heat of the sun. Therefore, the temperature is unfamiliar to him, but unfamiliarity makes Kutkha feel the most like himself, devoid of the perfect prison he was born in. Difficult to explain, but nonetheless, truth.

Kutkha finally exhales. The feeling of it does not alleviate the weight in his chest, nothing has for a long while, but he can distract himself by watching lonely figures pass along the sidewalk far beneath him. The street lights cast them in long, cartoonish shadows, and they come and go, drifting off to their homes or work or lives. Kutkha does not know. Sometimes when he is out here, he likes to guess what their lives might be like, what his life could have been like if he was just like them.

Would he be happier if he had been born here? If he did not know what he knows?

He does not know.

Kutkha shifts and the railing creaks beneath him, then he stands up, drumming his fingers off the painted wood. What would a human do if up late with a restless mind? Perhaps play a game, watch a show, read, but nothing has been able to distract Kutkha from the ache in his chest, the need to move. He has tried everything else already; sometimes it is easier to just give in.

And so, he thinks.

His mind wanders first to the smell of old paper and bad coffee -- though all coffee is bad in Kuthka’s silent opinion. Logan is sitting across the table from him and frowning down at a journal that he’s referred to several times as ‘bullshit’, but has continued to read. It is endearing. It is also not the first time Kutkha has decided to step out of his metaphorical shell to spend time with Logan. The both of them come from vastly different lives, but they mesh well together in private, as both of them find silence companionable.

It is nice, Kutkha had thought at the time and thus thinks now upon reminiscing, and it is fulfilling to be a part of someone’s peace. He thinks of Logan’s struggles, of his journey to fit into this strange, unforgiving life, and relates to it immensely, but the two of them never speak of it.

There is no need to. Instead, Kutkha flips the page in his book and frowns at a diagram. They, after a while, talk about the finality of dust. To start as the leftovers of dying stars, to end, someday, the same.

Kutkha shuffles from foot to foot, drawn out of his memory by the honking of an impatient car down on the street far below. He turns to his dark apartment, intending to return inside and maybe… sit downstairs and read something, but he stops in distraction. He is wrong about his earlier assessment: the sky is especially clear tonight and he can see more stars than usual, though it is nothing like when he’d gone camping. The barest, ghost of a twinkle stands out of the clear, grey-blue sky. He is drawn to them in a way he is drawn to nothing else.

He steps up to the metal ladder that leads to the roof, climbs it gingerly, and stands with his eyes to the moon. Perhaps he could have simply teleported to the spot, but there was something inexplicably attractive to physical exertion, to the feeling of getting something done and feeling his muscles work in his body. He can feel the blood in his fingers, rushing along, and it is enough to remind him that he is indeed alive and standing there.

On the roof, the city yawns open before him. He walks to the opposite edge, watching out across dark buildings, and distantly the glitter of water in the bay. There is a breeze that ruffles his hair and he closes his eyes, overcome with the feeling that maybe it could blow him across the stretch of lights, across the sea, somewhere else.

Instead, he thinks of another time.

Emmett’s house smells like some unknown dessert as Kutkha steps inside, gingerly kicking off his shoes by the door as he had a dozen times before. Today, they will be building a model garage for the model house that had been in the works, and Kutkha’s fingers itched for the complicated embroidery that Emmett had promised. Kutkha bends to say hello to the little dogs that run up and greet him, but when he looks up, he notices another person coming to say hello alongside Emmett.

Oh, it’s Gardner. Kutkha feels strange about him in a way he can’t place, but not negatively. Kutkha vaguely recalls Emmett mentioning his presence days before, and Kutkha is happy to make room for someone a little new. He tells himself perhaps the strangeness is just a form of unfamiliarity, though Kutkha knows it is not.

He remembers what Gardner said about himself some time ago, plain and bare, and Kutkha understands intimately. To be a part of something huge and fearsome, to play a role bigger than yourself, not precisely knowing the consequences until it’s too late. Kutkha watches Gardner struggle to paint adhesive to the back of a small piece of wood for a tool cabinet and feels safe, here, despite the hesitance of others. It is a small normalcy that ends too soon.

The chill of the night time finally gets to Kutkha, just a little, and he finds that he’s tucked his bone-white fingers in his underarms for a modicum of warmth. It does not help much. It is just a distraction from a distraction. It’s now long past the time of just catching fresh air and Kutkha should go inside, maybe make some tea or, if truly despondent, put on a coat and go for a walk. He could see some of the kittens in the alleyway that have been too skittish to coax out from under the dumpster -- maybe this time one of them will take the step and accept the gentle offer of cheese.

Instead, Kutkha exhales, watching the steam roll off his lips. Breathing is second nature, as it is with most residents of this planet, but Kutkha finds that when he holds his breath, the sharp pang of need hardly comes. He does not know what to make of it, the idea that his habits are only learned and he keeps them only for comfort.

Still, inside of him is warmth somewhere like with anyone, as told by the steam.

Another memory flits through Kutkha’s mind, one that is shorter and more precious all the same. He and Amin are entertaining Alex for the evening, and Amin has run upstairs to take a phonecall. Alex is visibility enamored by the click-clack of Amin’s paws on the steps as he disappears from view.

“So, what have you been up to? I feel like we’ve barely talked even though we’re always in each other’s space,” Alex asks him after a beat of silence.

“I don’t know,” Kutkha answers. He looks at Alex who is looking at him oddly, like Kutkha is some kind of question he can’t figure out. Alex has big, bright eyes that give away every emotion. The next words slip out of Kutkha on accident, “Biding my time, mostly.” “Biding your time? What does that mean?” Alex asks immediately. He always speaks faster than his brain can comprehend words. “Hey, you know, I feel like you used to talk a lot more when I came over. Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Kutkha replies after a beat. His mind is spinning from his strange admission. The question is so simple and so complicated all at once. “My mind has been racing all the time. Things are… okay, though. Thank you for asking. How have you been?”

Miraculously Alex drops it. Maybe he understands how it feels to be afraid to answer a truth you aren’t ready for.

In hindsight, Kutkha should have said more when someone had given him the opportunity, when he didn’t have to hide behind a veneer of shame that he was not entirely grateful he was here. The time is passed. He no longer has the energy to explain to himself or others how he feels about his place in the universe.

There is order and chaos, space and time, and he is none of them. He has seen countless histories unfold and snuff out like the wick of a candle on its own wax. He hates knowing. He wishes that he could just --

A sharp inhale and Kutkha shakes his head.

He remembers Lilius. He remembers the small victories, of Wil giving Charlie a big hug, or the rebels crying and singing in celebration before Kutkha is strong enough to bring them home. He remembers how everyone meshes together, how bonds are formed, how much he has struggled to be normal, to stand all of this.

He thinks of everyone coming home and finding a place within each other. He knows they are all grateful of Kutkha’s ability to have brought them there. He knows he is loved and wanted, that he has people to rely on, that he has a home, but he cannot escape the fact that he does not belong here.

He does not belong here.

The thought hits him like a brick. He bares his teeth.

Another memory, and he is laying in bed next to Amin midday during a rainstorm. Amin is half-dressed and asleep, the front of his chest gently brushing against Kutkha’s shoulder blades whenever he breathes. Everytime they touch, Kutkha is jolted with teases of memory, of Amin’s family, his parents, his siblings, various other things that only made sense to a dreamer. A room full of kucing sharing a traditional meal from their planet, only now crucial ingredients replaced with similar Earthen ones, and eaten on paper plates with plastic forks instead of carved ghilka wood.

It is all Amin knows, but Kutkha has seen the alternative. He has never spoken of it and Amin has never asked, but Kutkha has heard the ringing dialogue of an ilmir king and the striking of stone upon flesh. He has heard the rattling magic in the bones of the planet, the sprawling jungles and cities and deserts. He has seen what Amin will never get to see, what he was supposed to have, what he could have if it wasn’t for Kutkha and the purpose he was born into.

Kutkha lies still, unable to move. All he can think about is that it is a burden to know. He does not want to know, but he cannot forget.

It is a long time before Kutkha moves from the cold, empty roof back down onto the balcony and into the apartment as quietly as a ghost. The gray-blue darkness around him is tinged with the faint pink of morning and he has again not rested as he has not rested in days. He kicks off his shoes, hangs up one of the sweaters he’d borrowed off of Amin’s nightstand and glances back towards the sliding glass doorway he had shut on the way in.

He sees himself as glassy and transparent, a dark shape, superimposed over the outside world. A figment of something not really here.

Something that doesn’t belong, but something that has nothing else to do but stay.

#standalone #writing #kutkha #unfortunately ur character might be mentioned in here! fucked up

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sasa-writes-fandom-things · 4 years

Text

Home alone - Part 2

Fandom: BNHA

Pairing: Shouta Aizawaxf!reader

Summary: After a steamy love making session you look forward to round 2 but quickly you realise that something changed.

Words: 2.2k+

Warnings: SMUT, explicit sexual content, fluff, established relationship

A/N: I never did a part 2 or anything but here we are. Thank you for sticking around! Hope you enjoy this. It made me so uwu and soft and Taylor Swifts new album helped so much.

Click here for part 1 > You could read this as a stand-alone if you wished tho.

The TV still flickered and bathed the lonely living room in cold white light. Faint light danced across the empty hallway indicating movements in the bathroom. The small room was filled with steam and the air felt pleasantly humid. The wetness stuck to you like a second skin, making you feel all sticky. But that wasn't the only reason you felt that way. Your tits were currently pressed against the fogged shower glass, leaving a nice and sexy print on the door. Shouta had told you to get cleaned up but the minute you stepped inside the shower you knew that he would follow you; ready for round 2. His stamina was something you were grateful for. Sex with him was satisfying to the very end. It happened every so often that your love game stretched out to the early hours of the morning.

One hand was wrapped around your neck holding you in place, as if you had any desire to move. His other hand gripped your hip to gave him more leverage. "Will you behave this time?," he murmured into your ear. You nodded your head and faced him; looking into his lust blown eyes. "I will be a good little slut." He squeezed your hip and started his haltered movements again. "We will see," he said sounding almost bored. Somehow his movements felt mechanic and you tried your best to blend it out, to focus on the delicious way his cock stretched your aching cunt. But after a while of monotone fucking you placed a hand on his lower belly, stopping him. "Is everything alright?," Concern was written over your face when you turned around, already missing the feeling of his dick inside you. Shouta avoided your questioning look as best as possible but given the narrow space it was a lost cause. He clicked his tongue in frustration and looked at you with a pained expression. "It's nothing," he tried to dismiss your concerns, already trying to turn you around again. You pressed your body into his and cupped his cheeks. "I am not blind or that needy, that I wouldn't notice the change," you reminded him playfully but your eyes stayed serious. A dry laugh escaped his lips and he reached behind you to open the shower door. He knew the mood was soured and that you wouldn’t take no for an answer.

While reaching for a towel to dry yourself off, you turned to your boyfriend once again. "Will you tell me what robbed me from a mind blowing orgasm?" Shouta stopped in his tracks and sighed heavily. You could feel his resistance crumble but he stayed silent. It made your heart clench. After all those years he still didn't trust you completely. "It's not that I don't trust you," he mumbled as if reading your mind. He walked past you in all his naked glory. "It's just... that I can't let you in."

You followed him into your shared bedroom where you caught him sitting - now dressed in a sweatpant - on the bed, face in both hands. You put on some clothes yourself and joined him. With caution you pried his hands off and the look in his eyes made your heart sink deep into your stomach. You felt tears prick the corners of your eyes but you blinked them away angrily. Now was not the time to get emotional. Shouta looked at you and you could see that he was deeply worried. "They are kids for crying out loud and I am their teacher. It is my duty to protect them. Not the other way around," he choked out lowley. He wasn't used to laying his heart open, all those years it was only him and that was okay. But now there was someone else beside him. You placed your hands around his broader body, your arms not reaching around fully but you hugged him tightly nevertheless. All those apathetic looks and the annoyed comments he made about his pupils couldn't fool you. Deep down he cared so much for them that it nearly broke him into pieces everytime one of them got hurt. But right now in the dark bedroom Shouta didn't feel like falling apart and with a baffled look he realized that it was because of you. Your warm embrace kept him together, made him whole again. Overcome with a rush of emotion he grabbed you and pressed you tightly against himself, littering your face with kisses in the motion.

After the initial shock over this outburst of affection you couldn't help but giggle. You stopped him littering kisses everywhere he could reach and just looked at him. Slowly you traced the scar under his right eye, scooping closer to give it a quick peck. Then you continued to trace his nose with your index finger and after that you gave his nose a quick peck. With an honest smile Shouta let you do your little trace and kiss thing. By this time you two were lying almost completely on the bed, wrapped up in each other's embrace. He caught your hand and placed a gentle kiss to your knuckles. And after a long and meaningful look in which he tried to lay every emotion he felt for you, he leaned in to capture your lips in a soft kiss.

There was no rush to the kisses you two shared. Lips were connecting and parting without haste. It was a tender moment, shared between two hearts realising that they were one. Hands were exploring without urgency. Words were whispered heavy with meaning and thick with love. Bodies were pressing against each other with care and attention.

"I love you so much," Shouta confessed without shame or reluctance. You carded your fingers through his loose locks and smiled up at him. "I love you too," you responded lovingly, kissing him for the umpteenth time. He deepened the kiss, letting his tongue dart out and licking over your bottom lip. With a sigh you let him in, his wet muscle found yours in an instant. The air started to feel hot around you and you had to break the kiss for those hot air. "You and your wicked tongue will be the death of me," you chuckled lightly. "I am told that I have a sharp one," he grinned back at you. Your eyes scanned his face but the looming thoughts seemed to be gone for now. All you could see in his beautiful eyes were love. The sincerity took your breath away, it was not often that your beloved let his emotions be so visible - so out in the open.

Again Shouta connected your lips with his, engaging your tongue in a heated battle. Although it was far from sweet and innocent it felt different. As if something changed, his kisses were demanding but giving at the same time. His hands roamed your body, groped your tender flesh but they also held you and caressed you with awe that you couldn't help but wonder what had happened to your boyfriend. "You know I am not one for sharing my feelings and I am not comfortable expressing them with words either," Shouta looked at you during two deep and mind-numbing kisses. "So please let me show you tonight what I realized. Let my body tell you how I truly feel." His honest gaze and confession brought tears to your eyes and all you could do was nod with a strangled sob.

The air was charged with desire and love, it was an addicting mixture. Your lips found his for another kiss and you felt drunk and high of all the emotions he showed you. You never thought that you would cry during sex, not in that way. But every touch and movement hold a new meaning, it was as if you two had just met. It felt new and exciting but yet so intimate and familiar. Shouta peppered your skin with soft kisses, nipping at your weak spots or letting his wicked tongue glide over your perked nipples. You were so overwhelmed that all you could do was lay there and let this man worship you. Another strangled sob tried to escape your throat but a tender touch on one of your weak spots turned it into a gasped moan. You could see a smile lingering on his lips and in his eyes when your boyfriend looked back up at you.

“Just like that, Shouta,” Your thighs squeezed even tighter around his hips. Holding him in place, you didn’t want him to move just now. All you wanted, was savouring the moment of him on top of you, his bare chest pressed to yours and his cock fully sheathed in your cunt. “You feel so good around me,” Shouta moaned out and buried his head in the crook of your neck. You nudged his cheek with your nose, whispering into his ear with a playful smile. “Likewise.” A muffled sound which sounded oddly like a laugh made its way to your ear and hearing the man you loved laugh made your chest swell with pride and more love - if that was even possible. “I need to move, kitten,” his voice rasped over your ear sending a shiver down your spine. You bucked your hips up in a sudden motion, making him groan out loud. “What was that about behaving?” You only shot him a cheeky look before kissing him again. He spread your legs wide, placing his hands on your beautiful thighs, holding you in place. Whenever he bottomed out fully, he made sure to capture your gaze. Those demanding and calculated eyes kept you pinned to the bed. His gaze burned you, seared over your heated skin and pierced right into your heart. You inhaled sharply unable to look away. The intensity only fueling your desire and pushing you close to the edge. “I - want - you - to - remember that - I - will - always - love - you,” he emphasized his words with long, deep snaps from his hips, making his head of his cock kiss your cervix every time. Your fingers travelled down your body, reaching for his hands on your thighs. Interlacing your fingers with his, you freed your thighs from his grip. Now you were able to meet his harsh thrusts with your hips in response to his words.

Just one more kiss, just one more push and you would tumble over the edge into pure bliss. Shouta was close too, you could feel his cock twitching inside of you. You couldn’t help but dig your nails into his shoulder, earning a guttural groan. Your name fell from his lips like a mantra, his movements becoming quicker. He was pounding into you with erratic thrusts now, dragging over your g-spot so deliciously. Every time his cock was hitting you so deep you could feel the coil tightening inside your belly, ready to snap any minute. You tried to match his pace and move your hips in rhythm with his harsh thrusts, but it was no use. He altered his pace every time you tried to coming up to meet him. It wasn’t fair, every roll, snap and thrust made you crazy. Tears pricked your eyes and you didn’t bother to wipe them away. His eyes were closed and his face showed signs that he was holding back his own release. A gentle smile curled your lips and you brought your fingers to his neck, pulling him to your face. You licked over his ear, knowing that it was one of his weak spots. “Cum for me, Shouta,” you purred next to his ear. This was all he needed, with a deep growl he emptied his balls deep inside of you. His body went tense, he tried his utmost not to crash on top of your body. His arms were placed on either side of your head, holding him up while he was coming down from his high. You enjoyed the feeling of his cum painting your walls. Seeing him come undone by just a few words from you, shot a new and thrilling shiver right to your core. You mewled under him and rolled your hips in dire need of release. Your soft whimpered “Please.”, didn’t went by unnoticed. Shouta chuckled at your neediness. “Always my needy little kitten.” His skilled hand found your pulsing clit and with a few flicks suddenly your vision were blurry, white lights were dancing in front of your eyes and static filled your ears. Your whole body went rigid and now it seemed that all strength had left you. Heavily panting you needed a few seconds to recover from that intense orgams.

You could feel the bed dip and something wet was placed between your legs. Through your weary mind you registered that Shouta had cleaned you with a washcloth. Warmth were spreading through your body and the strength was returning to your limbs. The second time the bed dipped, your boyfriend layed next to you. His hair was tied into a loose bun and he was caressing your cheek. “Thank you,” he ushered lowley. You looked at him questioningly for a few seconds but then you understood. A smile reached your lips. You grabbed his chin and dragged his lips to yours. “Always and as many times as you need,” you whispered before sealing his lips with yours.

__________

Tagging: @enjifuckersupreme @yukiimanic @vaseshipghost @callmekda @karebear5118 @devilslittlebabygirl @bakatenshii

#sasa writes #bnha scenario #bnha smut #bnha fanfiction #mha scenario #mha smut #mha fanfiction #bnha x reader #mha x reader #shouta aizawa #aizawa shouta #bnha shouta aizawa #aizawa shouta x reader #home alone #home alone part 2 #hawtn'horny

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localswordlesbian · 3 years

Text

look at you (strawberry blond)

Jon suddenly brings up the idea of returning to the Scottish Safehouse, years after the events that first happen there. That house holds a lot of memories, and perhaps this will be a sort of second chance...

(also known as my dumb ass keeps forgetting to post my fics to tumblr so i’m gonna spam them)

read it on ao3 or below the cut

“We should go back to Scotland.”

Martin turned his gaze from his book to look at Jon, whose head was resting in his lap. “What?”

Jon kept his eyes on his own book which he was holding out in front of him. “I was just thinking about it,” he mused. “It’s been a while since we were there, and I figured now that everything is over, perhaps we’ll have a nicer time this time around. We may even see more good cows,” he added with a wry smile.

Martin chuckled, running his fingers through Jon’s hair, twirling one of the light pink strands around one finger. “Should’ve known you only wanted to go for the cows,” he teased, and Jon laughed. “Seriously, though, what brought this on?”

Jon didn’t answer for a moment, as if contemplating the same question. “I suppose I was thinking… well, Daisy’s safehouse was the first time we were, ah, together? Together and not on the run, though that didn’t last long,” he added bitterly, and Martin’s heart ached. “I suppose I’d like to go back, perhaps give it another go, when we actually do have all the time in the world.”

Martin considered this. He had loved Scotland, and the quaint little cottage that Daisy had used as a safehouse, where he and Jon had lain low after Jon had helped Martin escape from the clutches of the Lonely. He remembered the little village nearby fondly, with the cobblestone paths and small shops – he especially remembered the little tea shop run by an old lady who had always given him a little extra tea on top of whatever he bought. Grimly, he wondered whether she was still alive.

“Martin?”

Martin looked at Jon, who had closed his book and was looking up at him, a strand of his hair still curled around Martin’s finger. “You know what?” he said. “Let’s do it.”

The sounds of the train rattling along the tracks kept Martin awake as he stared out the window – raindrops ran down the glass, and Martin found him unable to tear his eyes as he watched two stream downwards. He was reminded of being a child, watching two raindrops race down the window of the school bus as he was on his way to school on the rainy mornings that were essential to the London experience.

Some stray warmth was beginning to seep into his fingers where he was clutching them around a piping hot cup of tea, still steaming enough to fog up his glasses if he tried to take a sip. He tore his gaze from the window to stare, amazed at the sensation and how it seemed to hesitate, his hands not quite warm and certainly not hot, but almost as though a ghost of something comforting lingering just over his skin.

He knew the tea was hot enough to burn him if he wasn’t careful, yet only the barest hint of warmth seemed to reach him. Still, it was progress. His fingers had been like ice since he and Jon had left London, as if some part of him desperately wanted to keep some part of the Lonely close to him even as he sped as far away from it as he possibly could.

He turned his gaze back out the window, holding onto the feeling of warmth long after the tea had gone cold. He didn’t even bother to drink it.

“It’s weird, coming here by car.”

Jon turned to look back at Martin as they walked up the small hill to Daisy’s cottage. “Yes, I suppose it is,” he mused. “Though it doesn’t seem to have changed much.”

He was right – the cottage was the same as it had been the last time they’d seen it, its red bricks as sturdy as ever despite being abandoned for a couple of years. As they walked inside, Martin could see that the interior hadn’t changed either – same shabby furniture, long-unused fireplace, cramped kitchen, and wooden shelves cluttered with more cobwebs than books.

Jon went to place his bag in the bedroom, but Martin stood in the living room for a long moment, letting himself take it all in. The cottage may not have changed, but there was something much heavier than dust hanging in the air, and Martin felt the familiar feeling of a painful nostalgia settle over him. The memories were almost tangible, and they hurt.

It had been almost a week, and Martin wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to be doing.

He knew they were in Daisy’s safehouse to lay low, to hide from the consequences of freeing Martin from the Lonely. He knew Elias – Jonah – was searching for them, likely knew exactly where they were, and London was no longer safe for them.

He also knew he and Jon were… something. He wasn’t entirely sure what to call them – were they boyfriends? Martin almost laughed at that. Somehow, the gravity of what they’d been through to get to this point made that question, that label, seem almost ridiculous. He’d nearly become a meal for the literal manifestation of loneliness, and now he had run away to Scotland with the man he’d been in love with for years and he was wondering whether they were boyfriends.

He was standing in the kitchen, preparing two mugs of tea, the same way he’d been doing for the past few years. It had become such a force of habit that sometimes, after work, he’d caught himself accidentally making double the tea he needed. The memory brought a slight smile to his face as he poured the boiling water into the mugs and watched the steam curl up and vanish into the air.

He heard footsteps behind him and turned in time to see Jon come out of the bedroom, his nose buried in a book. Martin felt a flutter in his chest, and he smiled as Jon looked up and met his eyes. “Tea?”

Jon nodded, and Martin handed him one of the mugs before turning to finish his up. He hardly registered when Jon moved to get past him, muttering “Excuse me,” as he maneuvered into the small space, until he felt Jon’s hand on his back.

Martin felt all of his muscles seize up as he flinched, hard. His hip hit the counter as a gasp escaped him at that contact, and although Jon moved his hand away immediately Martin could feel the phantom weight of it clinging, as though branded into him.

The memory of touch, of casual touch, was so foreign to him now and he could hardly remember the last time someone had touched him of their own volition – had it been Tim, slinging his arm over Martin’s shoulders on their way out of the Institute for their weekly Friday night drinks? Or perhaps Sasha, touching her hand to his as he handed her a mug of tea, gently squeezing his fingers in thanks? Maybe even Melanie, placing a hand on his shoulder when he’d learned the news of Jon’s fate after the Unknowing?

And then there was, of course, the Lonely, and even the months leading up to it. His work for Peter Lukas had involved distancing himself from everyone he’d known, making human connection a foreign concept in his own mind, forcing him to convince himself he liked it alone, that he didn’t crave the easy interaction most people could have with others, if only so that he could retain his sanity. That long without any sort of human contact – it was bound to damage a person.

Martin, it seemed, was no exception.

“Martin?” he heard Jon ask faintly, his ears ringing and his entire body shaking. “Martin, are you okay?”

He slowly turned his head to where Jon was standing, in front of him but not touching him, his hands in front of him as though he wanted to reach out but was afraid to. Jon’s eyes were sad, and Martin hated seeing Jon sad. “I’m fine.” His voice sounded far away, even to his own ears.

“No, you’re not,” Jon insisted. “I–I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that, I should have asked.”

“It’s not your fault.” Feeling was coming back to Martin’s body, and he felt his shaking subside. He felt – off. He didn’t know how to describe this feeling of detachment that, although fading, left the feeling of Jon’s hand and an emptiness in his chest.

“Martin,” Jon’s voice was soft as he said his name, and when Martin looked at him he saw a man with worry and compassion and love in his eyes, and he knew he wanted to be cared for the way he’d been caring for others for so many years. He looked down at Jon’s hands, unsure of how to form words.

Turns out, he didn’t need to. Jon lifted his arms, and at Martin’s nod, wrapped him into a hug, and Martin let himself weep.

“What are you thinking about?”

Martin was shaken out of his thoughts by Jon, who returned from the bedroom wearing a jumper that looked oddly familiar. “Just about the last time we were here,” Martin confessed. “Also, isn’t that my jumper?”

It definitely was – it hung loosely off of Jon’s thin frame, the sleeves ending well past the tips of his fingers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jon huffed. He walked over to where Martin was standing and slowly put his arms around Martin’s middle, giving him plenty of time to move away.

Martin didn’t move away, simply embraced Jon back. “You know,” he began. “For once, I’m really actually starting to see the progress I’ve made.” Jon hummed into his shoulder, and Martin continued. “Before, I couldn’t see it as clearly. It was hard to recognize where I started from, what with being in a completely new place in my life and how long it took to get there. But here, where it literally all began – god, I can still remember the first time you touched me, when you put your hand on my shoulder when I made you tea.”

“You nearly leapt out of your skin,” Jon said, his voice quiet.

“Yeah. It was terrifying, experiencing, I don’t know, actual human contact after months – maybe years, even, completely isolated. And now… now here we are.”

“Here we are indeed.” They were silent for a moment. “I’m proud of you, and I’m happy with the progress we’ve made.”

“Me too, Jon. Me too.”

The nearby town was really more of a village, Martin thought. After spending his entire life between the busy streets of London, this felt like something straight out of a cartoon, and although he knew it was typical of big city tourists, he couldn’t help but find it charming.

He’d gone into town alone today, already having explored the area with Jon a few days prior and wanting to visit a couple of the shops on his own.

The clouds hung a moisture in the sky that made the air around him feel thick, and Martin couldn’t help but shiver at how familiar it felt, and not because it was always raining in London. He decided to focus instead on what he could see – the weeds poking out from between the cobblestones under his feet, and people; lots of people, making their way into bakeries and grocery stores as well as little shops and stopping at stalls along the side of the street. Seeing all this life, this vibrant environment made as it was by the people made Martin smile a bit, and he finally drew a deep breath and kept walking.

Finally, he saw the shop he was looking for, an unassuming spot near the market with flower baskets hanging from the edge of the roof. Smiling, Martin made his way inside and was greeted with the familiar scent of mixed tea leaves and old wood.

An elderly woman sat in a chair by one of the walls displaying several different types of tea, and she looked up at the sound of the bell above the door being rung. She smiled at him and stood. “How can I help you?”

Martin walked over to her, examining the stock on the shelves. “I was just hoping to buy some tea,” he explained. “Is there anything you’d recommend?”

The old woman pondered this, seeming to look him up and down in a way that made Martin feel a little jumpy, like he was a specimen being studied under a microscope. The woman hobbled over to the shelf and lifted her cane to knock a bag of tea off the shelf.

“Oh!” Martin exclaimed. “Let me get that.” He reached up and grabbed the bag she was poking, a bag of Black Cherry tea. “Thank you.”

The old woman held her hand out for the bag, and Martin passed it to her. He watched as she rustled around under the counter, cursing under her breath as she pulled out a jar of what seemed to contain the same type of tea as was in the bag. She opened the bag and began scooping more in before closing it once it was filled to the brim. Then, she told him the price.

He paid for it and took the bag, bewildered as to why she’d added more. “Thank you,” he said, almost hesitantly.

The old woman smiled at him. “For that man of yours,” she explained. “You two came in here a few days ago.”

Martin was surprised that she’d remembered, and the words “man of yours” caused a blush to creep up his cheeks. “Ah, yeah, um… yeah,” he said lamely, and the woman smiled. “Thank you,” he repeated.

“Enjoy,” was all she said before returning to her chair, and Martin walked out of the shop.

“Oh my god!” Martin exclaimed, a laugh escaping him. “They’re still here!”

Jon chuckled as Martin took off running up the hill, the wind from the sea stinging his face as he approached the fence, behind which stood several fluffy highland cows.

The pair had walked through town that morning, remembering their time spent there years ago. Martin had asked that they stop by the tea shop, and was unsurprised to find out that the old lady had since passed away, leaving the shop to her son. Despite knowing it was likely, Martin was saddened by the news. All in all, the town had remained as it had always been, quaint and buzzing with life.

Jon made his way up the hill, where Martin was already reaching out to pet one of the cows, a dark brown creature with fur covering its eyes. It let out a deep moo as Martin wrapped his arms around its neck, burying his face in its fur.

“I really don’t think that’s sanitary,” Jon commented.

“Shut up, Jon.”

Jon chuckled before walking over, reaching out to pet the cow as well. The creature seemed delighted to be receiving all of this sudden attention, standing still while two random humans petted and hugged it. “This really does bring me back to the good parts of last time.”

Martin nodded in agreement. “It wasn’t all bad,” he mused. “Even when it was mostly bad.”

Jon laughed dryly. “Yes. I only wish it could have lasted longer.”

“Jon.”

“I know it wasn’t my fault.” Jon was deliberately keeping his eyes trained on the cow, his fingers buried in its fur. “I know that. I just – I do still wonder, sometimes. I feel that perhaps I didn’t take enough advantage of the time we did have. Even at the Institute… I feel like such a fool, sometimes. It was all right in front of me, and I didn’t see it. And when I did see it, you were… gone.”

Martin watched him, sadness filling his heart and making his chest feel heavy. “I know. It’s a bit funny, actually. Thinking about it now. We could have had an incredible office romance, but instead we got trapped in our hell of a workplace by not one but two evil eldritch bosses. What a drag.”

Jon snorted. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

Martin placed his hand over Jon’s, right on top of the cow’s head. The cow, for its part, didn’t seem to care that a deeply personal moment was going on – it still loved the attention. Martin could hardly blame it. “We have time now,” he said simply. “I know it’s… it’s easy to look back and see all the pieces you missed on the way to where you are now. But now we don’t need to worry about any of that, so let’s enjoy it, yeah? Not often you get a second chance.”

Jon smiled up at him. “You’re right.”

The day the world ended, Martin had been looking for the cows.

He could still remember the moment it all changed, as though someone had flipped a switch and launched Martin into a realm of nightmares – in a way, that was exactly what had happened. Martin’s first thought once he came to his senses was Jon. Racing back to the house, his heart pounding at the thought that Jon might be dead, that he might be gone, that Martin might return and find him–

Years after the world ended, Martin stood in that tiny kitchen, preparing two mugs of Black Cherry tea while Jon washed the dishes from their dinner, humming a song Martin recognized but couldn’t remember the name of. When Jon needed to get past Martin, he placed a hand on his shoulder, and Martin would turn and smile at him. They’d share a quick kiss as they went about their chores, and once they were done they would sip their tea, put a record to play on Daisy’s beat up old record player, and enjoy each other’s company.

Martin could still feel the phantom hand on his back. He wondered if he’d ever feel like a person again .

Martin stood as an upbeat song played, holding his hand out to Jon, who accepted the invitation with a laugh that filled the room with lightness and joy and love. They danced until they were too tired to dance, collapsing onto the couch in fits of laughter, holding each other and not letting go.

He knew his days here were numbered. He knew they didn’t have forever.

He knew they’d have to return soon, go back to London and back to work and back to the life they’d spent so long building for themselves. But they could enjoy themselves here in Scotland just a little longer.

He wished he could ask Jon how he was feeling. He wished he could remember how to interact, how to have a relationship with someone he cared about. He wished he could reach out, tell Jon how he felt. Ask him if he felt the same way. He knew he couldn’t. He didn’t know if he ever would.

That night, they were laying in their bed, about to go to sleep. Jon’s head was nestled on Martin’s chest, rising and falling with each of Martin’s breaths. Just as he was about to drift off, he heard Jon speak. “Martin?”

“Hm?”

Jon paused for a moment. “Thank you.”

Martin craned his neck to look at his boyfriend. “What for?”

Jon shrugged, causing his shoulder to poke Martin’s. “I don’t know. All of it.”

Martin smiled. “You’re welcome, then. And thank you; you know, for all of it.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

They drifted off, safe in each other’s arms, knowing with full certainty that whatever the night brought, whatever horrors might resurface in the realm of dreams, that morning would come and they would be able to savour it for many more mornings to come.

#tma #the magnus archives #fic #tma fic #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #fluff

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idle-writer · 4 years

Text

it’s a date

IT’S A DATE!

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

warnings: too much cliche none

word count: 1.5k-ish

A/N: This is in response to @the-ss-horniest-book-club ‘s 24Hr. Surprise Drabble Challenge. Theme is Summer Dates. Hope you enjoy reading! :)

Too hot. That is your first thought upon waking up, tossing your blanket away as sweat drench your body, your sleep shirt clinging uncomfortably to your back.

“FRIDAY. Can you please lower the temperature in my room please?” You ask the ever reliable A.I., hoping you’ll be able to get more sleep. It has been less than four hours since you returned from your week long mission (which you manage to finish in four days) and you want nothing more than snuggle in your bed away from the summer heat.

“I apologize, miss. But the cooling system is under maintenance.”

A frustrated groan leaves your lips, knowing you will not be able to go back to sleep, you jump out of bed and decided to raid the fridge for ice cream.

“Ooooh looks like someone woke up in the wrong side of bed.”

You choose to ignore Tony’s teasing and head straight to the fridge. Another frustrated groan when you see no frozen sweet delights.

“Seriously?!”You shut the door of the fridge, closed your eyes and softly bang your head on the door, the cold metal door oddly comforting.

Suddenly, instead of the hard cold metal, you feel something soft and warm touch your forehead. Looking up, you are met with the familiar ocean eyes you’ve grown to love. Bucky is standing next to you, his right hand cushioning your head from the metal door, his brows furrowed in concern. “You’re gonn’ hurt yourself, doll.”

You’re not sure if it’s still the summer heat or the fact that Bucky Barnes is standing next to you in very close proximity with his skin touching yours and his stupidly cute way of saying doll, but the warmth gets worse and you struggle to compose yourself. Instead of giving him an answer, you just dumbly stare at him, noticing a single drop of sweat that slowly trailed the side of his face down to his chin. Your eyes flicker quickly to his parted pink lips, and you unconsciously lick your own.

“Doll?”

“S-sorry, this heat is making me crazy, Bucky.” You turn away from him to hide the blush that is starting to creep up your face, grabbing the collar of your shirt to quickly fan yourself. “And there’s no ice cream.”

Bucky gulp, catching a glimpse of your covered chest through your over-sized sleep shirt. Turning his eyes away when he sees you looking at him, and you can’t help but notice the faint blush on his cheeks. “I-“

Whatever it is Bucky was going to say is cut off by someone calling both your names. Sam approaches the both of you, a smirk on his face. “I swear to god, you two are always in your own little world when you’re together. Tony was just saying we can all go use his rooftop pool. As apology for the ‘accomodation difficulties’. So... Pool party! You guys coming?”

“NO!”

Your answer is so abrupt, even Bucky was caught off guard, a surprised look on his face. Sam, on the other hand, is squinting his eyes at you as if he’s trying to read your mind.

You are not comfortable spending time half-naked. You should be used to it but you’re not, especially since you spend your time with gods both literally and figuratively of good physiques. You clear your throat, an attempt to cut the awkward silence, “I mean. I’m not coming. But Buck, you can go if you want.”

Bucky slightly shook his head, his stare not leaving you, “I’m not really in the mood.”

“Okaaaaay, your loss. If you change your minds,” Sam pointed up with his thumb, “we’ll be there.”

He waved goodbye to the both of you (to you mostly), before disappearing behind the door.

You must have looked gloomy even after Sam left because Bucky asked you what’s wrong, in which you answered, “There’s no ice cream in the fridge.”

A brief silence followed by a hearty chuckle he seldom use but you oh-so-love to hear. He is grinning at you, “Then let’s go get some, doll. Meet me at the lobby in 10?”

You can’t help but return his smile, “It’s a date!”

He took you to an ice cream parlor he and Steve used to go to when they were kids. Even he was surprised when he found out a few days ago that the place is still operating.

After you got your orders, you both decide not to stay and chose to visit the park instead, sitting under the shade of a big oak tree. There aren’t a lot of people around. They’re probably staying indoors away from the heat, you thought.

“You got a little something here,” Bucky leans forward, thumb brushing the corner of your lip before licking the cream off his thumb as if it’s the most natural thing to do.

Bucky’s eyes widen just as yours are upon realizing what he has done. He misinterpreted your shock, kicking himself for making you feel uncomfortable. He is about to apologize when at the exact same moment your soft laughter filled his ears. Something you usually do but he still loves to hear.

“Thank you, Bucky,” You grin at him, “That’s some romantic comedy move you got there.”

He shakes his head at your silly comment, settling his gaze at random things around the area, your smile focused on him too much for his old man’s heart to bear.

“But seriously, Bucky. Thank you.”

He chance a glance at you in the corner of his eye as you stare at your fingers fiddling absentmindedly on your lap. “You didn’t have to. But thank you for accompanying me. I’m sure it’s probably more fun to spend time with the others in Tony’s rooftop pool. I mean. It’s Stark’s rooftop pool-”

“Stop.”

And immediately, you stop.

“Did you want to go?”

Afraid your voice will crack, you answer him with a silent nod.

“Then why did you...” He cut himself off, pausing for awhile, “Can I tell you why I didn’t want to go?”

“You know of my past, right? I have scars,” He try to smile but there’s so much bitterness in it, you almost feel your eyes sting. “They’re not pretty, doll.”

The silence that followed made it seem as if you can see the painful memories come flooding back inside his mind. Your heart aching for the pain he felt before and the pain his memories are causing him. Showing his scars means showing his weakness and pain.

Gathering your courage, you’ve decided to come clean and make him feel he’s not alone.

“Can I also tell you why I didn’t want to go? I… I’m not really as built and beautiful as you guys,” you start, a sigh escaping you. “Now that I say it out loud it sounds stupid. I’m sure our friends will not judge me. And compared to your reas-“

“This is not a competition, sweetheart,” he gently chided.

He softly brush the stray hair away from his face, hoping you’ll look him in the eye, which you did almost instantly when you felt his fingertips touch your face. “And besides, everything about you is beautiful, doll.”

------

It is already dark when Bucky and you returned from your ice cream date escapade. While you were walking towards your own rooms, Bucky asked if you still want to go to Stark’s pool. When you said yes, he smiled and said to meet up in 10. Before he can disappear from his room, he stopped by the door and grinned at you, mirroring your actions from earlier, “It’s a date.”

And that is how you end up here. Maybe love heat can really make you do crazy things. You clutch the towel at your chest, and with a shaky breath, you walk out of the changing room. No one is around except the lone figure on the far edge of the pool. Letting the towel fall and pool over your feet, you walk closer.

Overseeing the city lights, Bucky’s back is turned to you. Even with only the moon illuminating the night, you can see the scars running through his back and his left shoulder where they are more prominent. Scars he sees as weakness, but you see them as strength. A testimony of his courage.

He turn his head slightly to the side, making you catch a glimpse of his profile, you can barely make out a smug grin on his lips. “Can I turn around now, doll?”

You yelp in surprise and immediately jump in the pool, an attempt to hide your body last minute. You slowly swim towards him, sinking as you approach until only your nose up are visible. Bucky chuckles at your antics and as you reach his side, your eyes widen at the view. You are in awe at the sight of the different colored city lights as they blend perfectly with the night sky and the constellations above.

You are unaware that you’ve stood up, exposing your chest up to the chill air and shivered. Bucky put his arms around you, his warm chest pressing at your back. You look up at him, a fond smile on your face, “Bucky, it’s beautiful.”

And as he looks down at you, with your eyes twinkling like the constellations above, he knows. What he’s looking at is beautiful.

#hbc drabbles #hbc 24 hour surprise drabble challenge #hbc summer loving challenge #Bucky Barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x you

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cookie-cutter-communications · 3 years

Text

The doors to Roguefort's manor would creek quietly as the four of them would enter, Roguefort seeming utterly spent after all that had occurred. Aloe, too, was exhausted... But awake enough to withstand being awake for longer. Seeing the thief nearly stumble after taking a few steps in, the scientist would speak up after closing the door behind them and Mint. "I suggest putting both Cyborg and yourself to bed... We can take care of the bloodstains tomorrow." The response was a slow blink, one that felt more contemplative than truly being out of it. "Right," they would reply, shifting their hold to ensure that they wouldn't drop Cyborg, "And you, could you make sure Mint adjusts to living here? I know you may not know the place well, but being left with one's own thoughts after coming out of thoughtlessness can... Be frightening."

"I take it you are speaking from experience?" "...I would be vague about such a thing, but I am sure you understand from your own experiences as well, don't you?" There was a small scoff from the researcher, followed by a dismissive wave of the hand. "Just get some proper rest... I will tend to Mint, and perhaps we, too, can rest in due time. After that amount of husks being lost, I am sure that we will have some downtime before they try to rear their heads around again." "That's a comforting thought..." "Shh, shh... Go get some well-deserved rest, before we have a longer conversation than we should."

It would take a moment of silence, but Roguefort would inevitably nod and make their way out of the entry hall that spanned way further than it needed to. So big for so few people residing in it... A place like this was unsuitable for so few, now that they thought about it. If there were others grouped here, this place could easily fit at minimum fifty people in here, but all that remained here were four little rebels.

It was with a grimace and a sigh that Aloe would turn their attention to Mint, that of whom was staring at the ceiling. "What are you looking at?" They would inquire, looking up to see that despite how well-lit the room was, the ceiling itself was darkened as if some sort of haze or overbearing shadow was above them. The only thing visible, truly, were the bottom bits of chandeliers, whose lights were hidden from sight. Aloe could feel the hole in their chest ache at the sight. "It's dark up there..." Mint would murmur. "Do you think the ceiling lights are lonely?" "...The ceiling lights cannot feel, Mint. They are objects without nerves or the capacity to even have a consciousness." "Huh... Weird... But, um, if this room is all bright and stuff, then how come we can't see most of what's up there?"

"That is... My fault, I think?" Aloe would quirk a brow, staring into the darkness above them. They could feel Mint grip their hand tighter for just a moment, as if he was about to speak in response, but wasn't quick enough to get the words through. "Wherever I go, this always occurs... Where I come from, every room and hallway had high ceilings to obscure my wires in the darkness... Made the methods more effective to fix, surprise those that come out of line while not knowing what to expect, or even knowing and... Not being able to react in time." The more Aloe spoke, the more hollow of a gaze they would begin to show. Though thankfully once they paused, they shook themself out of their daze. "Apologies, I tend to ramble when the chance presents itself. Now, would you like to...?"

Huh. Mint seemed to be staring into the darkness above him without a word. He seemed oddly content, even after a description such as that. Aloe knew that this, what was he, a musician? They'd have to ask more about him sooner than later, since this one was unlike any other thoughtful individual they'd encountered... Not that there were many. "Mint, look at m-" "There's something moving up there." The tension in Aloe's body grew considerably at that sentence, gaze snapping up at the ceiling to see a wire wriggling about above the two of them, as if taunting both of- or, more than likely, just the researcher themself. Though an oddity that they spotted as they would think of sending that chord back into the darkness... Their wires weren't hooked anymore. They were just double-barbed at the tip. There would be a very brief thought that their death had done something to those but, that...

"I'm hungry." An abrupt and casual interjection to their thought process would come from the one that stood next to them. Did he not even notice the retreat of the wire? How their hand had held tight to his? Ah... They should likely let go of that sooner than later, once they could ensure that he wouldn't get lost. They... were not the type for hand-holding.

"Hungry, you say at a time like this..." Aloe murmured, tugging at the other's arm to make sure that attention was actually on them. "There is a kitchen close by if you would like to have something to eat before we also depart for rest... And perhaps while we eat, we can discuss more matters about each other?"

The gaze that stared back at them felt empty. Ah, not entirely, but it was still... Off. It may take some time before this musician was able to show more than a thoughtless stare or a default smile. There was a small squeak-like noise of joy out of Mint as he would nod, some minor swaying side-to-side present. Aloe would observe this action inquisitively, but would not verbally question it just yet. Rather than dealing with the mystery now, they would gently guide Mint along to where they believed the kitchen to be. They sure hoped that they remembered that, at least... and that their wound wouldn't act up whilst they would cook.

"Is there any food that you enjoy in particular? Such as ice cream, microwave meals, etcetera?" "Mmm... No. I've never thought about it, really!" "...Of course you haven't."

#rogue.fort #cy.borg #a.loe #mint.choco #written by you know who #cookie run au #it is cute to see you two attempt to be kind to each other and have each other learn when all this will simply go to waste #two ticking time bombs lurk within this group- and yet no one sees such a thing. how entertaining!#just wait until one goes off and shatters the group's dynamic like a gemstone... into many beautiful and broken pieces

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azure7539arts · 4 years

Text

Sword

Pairing: Q/James Bond (00Q)

Prompt(s): Fantasy + Tradesman (for the AU prompt table)

Warning: None

Summary: Once upon a time, there was a prophecy of destruction and resurrection. But that would be a story for another time.

Or: Bond sought out a blacksmith for help. A duel ensued.

A/N: this was supposed to be a drabble... And here we are. Special thanks to @10kiaoi and @solarmorrigan because you two have been hearing me whine about this for days. I’m also very grateful to everyone who has given me words of praise and encouragement throughout my writing process! I hope you all enjoy this!

“Come back in a week, and pick out your champion.” His voice was deceptively soft for the ramrod iron spine behind those words. “Should your warrior prevail, I will consider giving you help.”

Suddenly, Bond felt his blood boil. “A week? Seclusion or not, surely you must be aware of the civil war that’s raging across the country even as we speak.”

The blacksmith hummed, that blazing fire from the forge just off to the side casting a burning glow on his person. He seemed almost indifferent yet incredibly focused at the same time, and Bond didn’t understand—

“I’m highly aware. Just as much as I’m aware that you and your men have barely scraped through that last battle by the skin of your teeth.” Bond barely swallowed back an indignant hiss, battle-wearied and tormented. The sheer exhaustion and heavy casualty they’d suffered under the hands of the enemy were bleeding his patience dry. “Raging civil war or not, you can’t tell me you don’t need time to regroup. And I’m not so cruel as to strike you when you’re down in the mud and defenceless either.”

Bond’s hand tightened around the hilt of his broken sword.

And for the first time, the blacksmith smiled.

A sudden chill descended over the sweltering furnace heat of the workshop.

“One week from now at dawn break precise, Lord Bond of Skyfall. No more, no less.”

The promised day arrived overcast, windswept with the phantom stench of blood in the air, and the blacksmith stood a lone figure in the meadow, a sword seemingly too heavy held in the loose grip of his hand.

Whatever it was made out of, the blade shone like a bright beacon under this angle of light, pure and unblemished like fresh fallen snow, and Bond couldn’t keep his eyes off it.

“Are you serving as your own champion?” the blacksmith asked, his voice steady and slicing right through the hissing air currents. No pretense of pleasantries.

At least Bond could appreciate that.

Alec shifted warily behind him. He’d asked to fight in Bond’s stead before, many times over the course of last week, in fact, but Bond had turned him down every time. Not least because of the still healing gash in his side.

Bond had come here to ask for a personal weapon, and a weapon he shall get for himself—through his own damn efforts and no one else’s. The troop’s eyes were on him, and he wouldn’t fail. Not right now.

Not like this.

“Yes,” Bond replied simply.

“Good.”

The fight began in an instant, absolutely without preamble, and by the time their weapons made impact with a loud screech of metal on metal, Bond could still hear the surprised cries of his men not too far away. He gritted his teeth and retaliated using brute force to thrust the blacksmith backward, the twang of that clash just now still traveling up his arm in an uncomfortable, numbing ache.

(He’d been skeptical at first, considering the near unbearable youthfulness that had been evident before his eyes, but now, Bond understood why this blacksmith was revered to be one of the legendary masters of the realm.)

Unsurprisingly, the man landed on his feet without trouble, already springing forth by the next breath drawn, and Bond flexed Alec’s borrowed sword, charging straight ahead also, never one to let himself fall into a state of disadvantage if he could help it.

From that point on, the fight progressed in an almost surreal manner.

The blacksmith engaged with a strange leisured fervor—languid but intense, razor sharp yet unhurried. It was as though he was watching—assessing—and the realization raised Bond’s hackles for the first time. He didn’t mind being watched; he’d grown up practically in the eyes of the public, but it was a different thing altogether when he couldn’t tell what he was being watched for.

At least the stormy depths of those cryptic eyes with their ever-changing colors didn’t seem to conceal any malicious intents. And Bond would know; he’d encountered too many backstabbers not to.

“James!”

Bond barely dodged the upward swing that had been close to slitting his throat clean open. Distantly, he wondered if he really had gotten lucky there, but whatever the answer was, the tip of the sword managed to nick him anyway, fresh blood spilling bright red and hot from the veins. He clutched at his neck with a sharp hiss now, eyes narrowed and chest slightly heaving with elevated breaths.

Annoyance flared a bright solar burst underneath the rapid beating of his heart, but Bond calmed down from the sole comfort that his challenger wasn’t doing too well, either. Bond smirked, all teeth and a little predatory.

He had landed a rather vicious kick himself, and judging from how the blacksmith was somewhat hunched over right then instead of reassuming his initial firm, unwavering stance, Bond must’ve caused a bit of damage, too.

Mutual points for both parties, so it would appear.

Bond looked down to eye at those small indents that had started to chip off from the body of Alec’s once intact sword, and lowered his sticky hand.

“Let’s finish this.”

Despite the fact that the blacksmith’s techniques were a combination of oddities that Bond hadn’t really witnessed before, he still had his real-world experiences from being in and out of active combat for the last ten years or so. Still had all his knowledge from starting out on his courses for martial training twice longer. And Bond could see, with observation and a survival instinct honed through the countless storms of his youth, where the openings of his opponent lay.

That was more than enough.

Bond swung, then, with a turn of his arm, sharply twisted the motion upward.

Alec’s blade fractured with a resounding clang, but in that singular moment in time, Bond couldn’t find it in himself to be concerned. He reached out and snatched the blacksmith’s flung sword from midair.

It settled into his palm a perfect, balanced weight.

“Impatient bastard,” came a whispered breath.

But Bond couldn’t quite hear it. The words, much like the subsequent clamoring of his men, morphed a jumbled mess in his ears as a whiplash of energy seized up the length of his arm in a shock of lightning from where he was gripping this sword. Glowing runes began materializing along its steel, and Bond sucked in a gulp of air through his teeth.

What felt like just a flawlessly crafted weapon a second ago now bore a sheer familiarity that rendered him incredulous. The sword felt right in his hand, as though itself a newly added extension of him, and its metal rang a vibration that burrowed deep like a blood covenant woven through his very flesh and bones, a humming song of satisfaction and protection.

When Bond realized to lift his head back up again, caught up in the tail end of a dizzying spell, it was to find both himself and the blacksmith encased in a ring of fire. From the looks of things, Alec and his troops were currently trying to find a way to get past the flames, with very little to no success.

The blacksmith stood before him, unbothered by the razing chaos all around, another smile tugging at the corner of his lips while specks of amber seared gilded brands of molten iron in the pools of those eyes.

He was far too calm. Too knowing.

“I won,” Bond said, voice low and unexpectedly hoarse.

“And the sword has chosen you as its first and final master.” He nodded, amused. “It was practically trying to leap out of my hand the second it tasted your blood.”

Bond frowned, storing away the casual implication that the sword—his sword—was at least partially sentient for later inspection.

He had more important matters to investigate at the moment.

“It’s yours to keep now. You can even give it a name—”

“Did you put a curse on this?”

The other man blinked, momentarily blindsided and flustered for the first time since they’d met. “What—A curse? Why would I do that?”

“Then, what is your play here, Battlemage?” Bond ground out, nearly spitting the word. “Posturing as a simple blacksmith.”

Said Battlemage stopped now, head tilting to the side, expression sharpening into a simmering stillness and lethality that sent a shiver up Bond’s spine. While Bond maintained that he was the one spearheading this interrogation, the immense presence of that unblinking stare still made him feel stripped bare and oddly vulnerable. Not unlike a pinned up specimen trapped under a cold and merciless gaze.

(He would quickly learn, after this, that he’d be better off not having this particular side of the battlemage directed at him and his men. For obvious safety reasons.)

“I didn’t posture as anything. I create weapons for my own pleasure,” he replied slowly. “I’ve never claimed to be a blacksmith, nor have I ever called myself one.”

Bond paused, mouth twisting. He recalled their last encounter, knew this to be true. Regardless, there were still too many questions left unanswered. And in a war of this calibre, he’d rather not needlessly risk his followers’ lives and well-being. “That still doesn’t explain what you’re trying to accomplish. Why are you doing this?”

“The opposition has taken to deploying sorcerers to decimate your troops and allies because your king has deprived his people of magic for so long, it’s now become a weakness to be exploited. By one of your very own.”

Such a blatant tone of derision jarred, and Bond clenched his jaws in an involuntary response. However, at the same time, only Alec had ever spoken to him in this kind of straightforward manner, but not really quite so, even then. Not quite like this.

“But you’re not your imbecilic king—you’re a pragmatic man. You understand that this situation requires a proper measure of counterattack,” the Battlemage carried on, that lilting quality to his speech belay the ripping knives behind every word. “I can be that counterattack.”

It was Bond’s turn to stare. To say that he was startled would be an understatement. True sorcerers were already few and far between, but actual battlemages were of a different breed altogether.

Skilled in not just the arts of war and physical combat, they were also rumored to possess great enough magical capabilities to change even the tides of battles on the precipice of imminent defeat. The appearance of a battlemage had only been recorded throughout the known history for a handful of times, all of which were critical turning points that had marked either the end or the beginning of an era.

The most important thing?

No side with the support of a battlemage had ever lost.

“Why?” Bond swallowed. Anyone else would call him a fool for being stubborn, for keeping on pressing. One shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, and all that. But Bond didn’t do blind trust—he refused to. “We don’t know each other. There’s no reason for you to help me.”

The Battlemage looked a hair’s breadth away from rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Let me ask you this, then: what made you decide to seek out my help?”

“Because—” Briefly, Bond considered lying, but went against it in the end. “Because your reputation precedes you.”

The answer seemed to lend the Battlemage a gratified edge. “And the same goes for yours.” A fresh gust of wind blew, and Bond realized that the unnatural fire surrounding them was finally easing down to a manageable dwindle. “Besides, my weapons have never chosen wrong.”

The Battlemage extended a hand. “So, what do you say, O’ Lord Bond of Skyfall?”

His mind went blank, but somehow, Bond already knew what to do. As though right from the start, this had always been how it was meant to go.

Bond took the offered hand and felt the promised inevitability of it rest upon him undemanding, steadfast and strong.

He understood it now.

The outcome of the product would only ever be as good as the craftsman who created it.

“How should I address you?" he asked.

And the Battlemage smiled. "You can call me Q."

#my writing #00q #teambondvillains #007 fest #007 fest 2020 #watch me as i bs my way through this #we're ending this here bc it got long #maybe i'll continue this if people are interested???#i have more ideas but oh well lmao #this is a good place to stop as any

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the-truest-sentence-i-know · 4 years

Text

it is a terrible thing to be alone

Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia

Pairing: Edmund Pevensie x Caspian X (Casmund)

Summary: aka the four times Edmund missed out on love, and the one time he didn't

Word Count: 8.5k

ao3 ||| ff.net ||| wattpad

one

The first time was in his first year at boarding school, age ten. School was hard for him – the social aspect at least. Children can be mean to the point of cruelty and Edmund hardened himself to withstand it all.

But then there was William Massey. Where Edmund was all bristling sharp angles with an even sharper tongue, Will was soft and smiling. He dealt with bullies with a dignity that Edmund – knuckles bruised by previous interactions – could not help but admire.

So they became a team, partially out of need and survival, but also because of a string between them, invisible, but always taut.

And between sneaking out at night and stifled laughs and silent looks and the adrenaline that overcame the fear sometimes when being chased by bullies, Edmund began to understand what the older boys meant about ‘fancying someone.’ And when this realization came to him – as they stood panting in a broom closet as footsteps thundered past, grinning at each other – he was afraid Will could tell. He feared that he would be able to sense the way his chest fluttered a little differently when Will grabbed his hand to pull them out into the hall and sprinting off in the other direction.

He was afraid the other boys or teachers would tell as well – by the way his eyes lingered just a little too long on Will’s shining blond hair or his deep brown eyes.

Because, while he was not entirely sure on the specifics, he knew that this was bad, that he should not feel what he felt.

“Are you alright?” Will asked one day during gym class. “You’ve been acting a bit odd.”

Edmund felt panic rise in his chest but shoved it down with an eye-roll. “What do you mean?”

Will shrugged. “I dunno.” He looked at him with more intensity than Edmund thought he could handle. “You just…” He tipped his head to the side, then shrugged again. “I dunno.”

And Edmund tried to act normal, as not odd as he could. But the more he tried, the more he overanalyzed every action and word and look.

On his bad days, he was irritable.

On his good days, he thought – or, hoped – that Will felt something too.

His good days became few and far between.

One day, after provoking yet another fistfight with another boy, Edmund returned to his dorm from detention, where Will was waiting for him. They sat beside each other on the floor.

“Why’d you hit him?” Will asked finally.

Edmund shrugged. “I was angry.”

“At him?”

“No. Just angry.”

Will nodded and looked over at him. “That’s going to be a marvellous bruise,” he said, lightly touching the skin around Edmund’s left eye.

Edmund flinched at his touch.

“Sorry,” Will said quickly. “Did that hurt?”

“A bit.” It was an understatement. What hurt more than the growing bruise was the ache in his chest that had told him to flinch in the first place – an ache that combined his feelings for Will with the fear, frustration, and, frankly, disgust with himself. Inside him, Will had become associated with so many negative feelings, it was difficult to just see him as he used to, as the blond boy who was determined to not stoop to the bullies’ methods.

Will redirected his gaze to Edmund’s hands, which twiddled nervously in his lap. “Did you bloody your knuckles again?” he asked, reaching out to grab his wrist. “Or are they just bruised?”

Edmund pulled his hand away and quickly shot to his feet, turning away from Will. “Please don’t touch me,” he said, running a hand through his hair. His breathing was shaky and his hands a little sweaty. Every negative word he had heard associated with his feelings screamed in his brain.

“Ed, what –?” Will asked, laying a hand on his shoulder.

Edmund spun around, pushing Will’s hand aside. “I said, don’t touch me!” He pushed Will, but harder than he had intended, sending him sprawling onto the floor.

He expected Will to stay down, to look up at him with betrayal in his deep brown eyes. If he had done that, perhaps Edmund would have felt sorry quicker. Perhaps things would have gone differently.

But he didn’t.

Will, who had avoided every fight all year, clenched his jaw and sprung to his feet. “What is wrong with you?” he snapped, an edge to his voice the Edmund had never heard before. “I’m trying to help.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Since when? We’ve been friends all year, Ed. What’s changed?”

With the feelings for Will had come the actions – the little excuses to touch him, to be around him. Edmund was terrified he might do something out of line, something observable, something not allowed. So he did something he would get good at – self-sabotage. “Maybe I realized I don’t need you.”

“No wonder you have no other friends, do you chase everyone else away too?”

And then Edmund did the other thing he was good at: he punched Will, square in the jaw. Will stumbled back a few paces. He looked at Edmund, looking angry and betrayed and confused about why Edmund was doing this. “Well, congratulations,” he said, bringing his fingers to his lower lip to see if it was bleeding – it was. “You now officially have no friends.”

After he slammed the door behind him, Edmund sank onto the floor, tears pricking his eyes. He no longer had to worry about doing anything that wasn’t allowed, but at what cost?

two

The second time was in Narnia, a handful of years after the coronation. Edmund was a young man, growing into his position and earning the respect of every person he met.

One of these people was Zuhair el-Tahir, a nobleman from Calormen who often accompanied trade delegations and was close with the Calormene ambassador in Narnia. He had an open, friendly face, an eye for art, and a love of philosophical conversations.

He and Edmund would spend hours walking in the gardens together, discussing a wide range of topics. He was keen in a quiet way, soft words piercing to the core of a topic. Edmund loved the way he spoke, his slight accent curling the familiar sounds into something new.

And, of course, Edmund would practise his Calormene as well. Zuhair was a patient teacher, and when he laughed at an oddly constructed sentence, it was a kind laugh.

One day, Edmund returned from one such walk with Zuhair to the sitting room he and his siblings shared.

“And how is Zuhair today?” Susan asked as he came in.

“He is well,” Edmund said, walking over to where she and Lucy sat on the couch having tea. “He told me the most fascinating thing about –”

“You call everything he says fascinating,” Lucy interrupted. She mimicked Edmund, “You won’t believe what Zuhair told me today. That reminds me of something interesting Zuhair said.”

“He’s an interesting person, Lu,” Edmunds said rolling his eyes.

“I swear, you spend more time with him than with us,” Lucy said.

“Are we talking about Zuhair again?” Peter asked, entering the room. “Has he replaced me as your brother yet?”

Edmund rolled his eyes again. “You guys are the absolute worst. The one time I actually have a friend and you won’t leave me alone about it.”

“Of course, we’re happy you have a friend,” Susan said in a gentler tone.

“It is, however, our prerogative as your siblings to tease you about it,” Peter added with a grin.

Although he knew what his siblings said was all in good fun, it sometimes made him remember that first year at school. It felt like such a long time ago, but some memories were still clear in his mind.

And the more he thought about it, the more he realized that perhaps what he had felt for Will was similar to his friendship with Zuhair. In fact, he was quite certain that his feelings for him were at least a mix of platonic and romantic – if not more.

Edmund had tried to avoid romance; he considered it distracting from his duties, and besides, it was not like he was lonely, he had his siblings. There had been interested parties, either fathers on behalf of their daughters, or women themselves. He had turned them all down – as kindly as he could.

He was sure they were all very nice and may have made good wives and queens but had just not thought that was what he wanted. He had not felt for them the way he thought he should about a prospective wife

But Zuhair was different. His vibrant formal clothes and light makeup that Calormen sometimes wore at important events would make Edmund’s knees weak. He looked forward to every opportunity to spend time together. Every touch gave him a secret thrill, just as they had so many years ago. But there were more touches now.

Calormenes tended to be more affectionate, more comfortable with physical touch, even between men. Edmund had learned the common greetings; embraces and kisses on the cheek were common.

While it was nice to be able to interact like this with Zuhair, it also complicated things for Edmund. Actions that he would have associated with more romantic feelings did not mean the same in Calormen. He was not sure of Zuhair’s feelings and was afraid that he might someday misinterpret something and not only ruin their friendship, but also throw a wrench into Narnia and Calormen’s relationship.

But even with all these fears – and the vague memories of the apple-cheeked blond boy from his past – Edmund began to suspect that his feelings were not one-sided.

One evening, as they walked on the parapets of Cair Paravel, he was feeling particularly confident and asked, “So, is there any young lady back home anxiously awaiting your return? You have been here for a long time.”

“Are you growing tired of me, Edmund, that you ask me this?” Zuhair said with a smile.

“Of course not, I am merely curious.”

“My father expects me to marry the Tisroc’s grandniece.” Edmund tried to hide his disappointment, but Zuhair continued. “But I have no plans to do so, so I am afraid your majesty will have to tolerate my presence a while longer.”

“Good,” Edmund said. “I quite enjoy tolerating your presence.” He searched Zuhair’s smiling eyes hopefully.

“And you?” Zuhair asked. “I heard the Lord of Muil returned home unsuccessful in obtaining your hand for his daughter. How many is that? Thirty-seven?”

Edmund laughed. “That sounds a bit too high to be correct.”

They stopped at a spot that overlooked the countryside surrounding the castle, all forests and fields and farms.

“Did none of the many, many ladies catch your eye then?” Zuhair asked. “Or were your reasons for refusing political?”

Edmund looked over at him, trying to see if he was asking what he hoped he was. “It was not political,” he said, slowly. “I… I was simply not interested.”

Zuhair nodded, looking at him intently. “It was the same for me back home. Here, as well actually. None of the ladies interested me.”

They were dancing right around it now, and Edmund felt like he could not breathe. He did not want to get his hopes up, but, by the Lion, it seemed quite obvious.

He tried to think of something to say, something charming with a hidden meaning. But his mind was blank, so he quickly cleared his throat. “I should be going. Peter – he uh, wanted to talk to me about… something. I’ll, I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow.”

And he very nearly ran off, leaving Zuhair standing alone, slightly confused.

Edmund closed his bedroom door behind him, leaning against it. He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. But all he saw behind his eyelids was Zuhair looking at him intently, waiting for him to confirm something he had never told anyone, something he had never even said out loud.

He certainly was not ready now, since the mere prospect of telling even his closest friend had sent him running.

Edmund arrived at breakfast the next day to find Zuhair’s chair empty.

Lucy noticed his confused expression. “Zuhair left for Calormen late last night, something urgent apparently. I assumed he’d told you.”

He shook his head. “I suppose he must have been in a hurry.”

“Are you alright, Ed?” Lucy regarded him with concern.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said absently.

“Your Majesty?”

Edmund and Lucy turned to see a pageboy approaching them with an envelope.

“El-Tahir Tarkaan asked me to give this to you at breakfast, King Edmund,” he said.

“Thank you, Leo,” Edmund said, taking the letter. He turned to Lucy. “I had better read this now, my apologies to Peter, Su, and the lords and ladies.”

Lucy nodded and Edmund hurried out of the room. He did not open it until he was safely in his study, with orders to the guards that he remained undisturbed.

Dear Edmund,

I apologize for my hasty departure, but I feared I may have crossed a line with you. I am not normally so frank and straightforward with my feelings. I hope you can forgive me for my lapse in judgment.

I realize that what I implied is not accepted by many, in both of our countries.

If you desire it, we will never see each other again. But I would like to say one last thing: If my assumptions about you were correct, I hope you will be able to someday trust someone with that part of yourself, if not with me then someone else. It is a terrible thing to be alone.

Farewell, my good friend,

Zuhair el-Tahir

Edmund sat back in his chair, tears forming slowly in his eyes. Zuhair’s last sentence had struck him in the core and all that time of hiding, of shame, of loneliness, seemed to suddenly come out into the light. He felt seen in a way he never had before.

He quickly pulled out a piece of paper, a pen, and an inkpot. If he hurried, the letter could catch him before he got to Archenland.

Dear Zuhair,

Please do not apologize for your words. You were correct in your assumption, but I was not quite ready to admit it yet. Perhaps in writing it will be easier.

I want you to be the person I trust this with, so I beg you to please return.

I anxiously await your response, either by letter or in person.

Sincerely yours,

Edmund Pevensie

Letter in hand, he rushed out to find his most trusted messenger. “Go after Zuhair,” he said. “and give him this.” He added, quieter, “I trust your discretion with this message.”

She nodded. “Of course, Your Majesty.” She hurried off toward the stables, nearly running into Peter.

“Ed, there you are!” he exclaimed. “The White Stag has been spotted in Lantern Waste! We’re going out to hunt; the girls are already in the stables!” His eyes shone with excitement.

Edmund nodded. It would probably be good to distract himself from waiting for Zuhair’s response. “Very well, let’s go.”

three

The third time was a crush, really, not a lot more. Edmund had been happy to return to Narnia since it was the place he had started to feel like himself again. But it was a very different Narnia they had come to – a Narnia where Zuhair had been dead for at least two hundred years.

So while he and his siblings all mourned the losses of their old friends and acquaintances and old life, he mourned, for the second time, what could have been. He had often imagined having stayed home from the hunt, Zuhair returning to Cair Paravel, and them living their lives, while likely in secret, at least together. Instead, Zuhair had likely returned to find Edmund and the rest missing. He wondered if he had returned to marry the woman his father had chosen for him or had eventually found another man.

In his time back in England, Edmund had learned to accept who he was and the things he felt. It was a slow, almost imperceptible process, but by the time they were sitting on the train platform before being pulled away by magic, he found that his shame had lessened remarkably.

And then they were thrown into a war – a brutal, bloody one that seemed hopeless – to put Caspian X on the throne.

Caspian reminded him of Zuhair a bit, in appearance at least. He had long black hair and his olive skin was a few shades lighter than Zuhair’s. And, of course, he was younger, but so was Edmund now.

As a person, Caspian was different. He had a quiet fury about him. His royal upbringing made him calm and dignified, but Edmund could see what bubbled beneath the surface: anger at what happened to his father, outrage at the plight of the Old Narnians, and determination to set everything right. He held a lot on his shoulders and Edmund, remembering what it was like to suddenly be king at a young age, felt he understood him.

He thought Peter was too hard on him. Although they were technically the same age, Peter had more experience.

And though Caspian was a natural leader, Peter expected too much of him sometimes, and Edmund could see that it irked Caspian how he sometimes treated him like a child.

Just as he had in the old days, Edmund became the mediator, and thus spent a lot of time talking to Caspian, trying to make peace between him and his brother.

“Your brother can be immensely infuriating,” Caspian said. They were up above ground – Caspian always seemed to gravitate toward open air after an argument with Peter.

“Yes, I know,” Edmund said patiently.

Peter’s words still hung in the air, ringing in both their ears. You invaded Narnia, you have no more right to lead it than Miraz does! You, him, your father; Narnia’s better off without the lot of you!

“But you don’t,” Caspian said. “You’re brothers, it’s different.”

“I ruled under him for fifteen years, Caspian,” Edmund said. “I know.”

The argument had been a variation of the one they had been having for over a week. Peter wanted to attack Miraz’s castle, while Caspian didn’t Edmund thought both of them had a point, but since Caspian knew their enemy and was technically the leader, and Peter had more experience and was well-respected and admired by everybody, they never fully came to an agreement. Today it had turned personal, and Edmund knew they had both taken it too far this time.

Caspian looked at him curiously. “What was Narnia like in your time? I’ve heard stories, but you were actually there.”

“I think we should probably focus on the present,” Edmund said. “If you don’t recall, we are in a war.”

Caspian laughed dryly. “I’m sure Peter and I will make up again, we always do. I want to know about the kingdom I want to restore this country to.”

Edmund sighed and sat down beside him, letting his feet dangle off the edge. “It was… light,” he began. “I don’t think people called it the Golden Age just because that’s what you always call good times, but because there was no real darkness. There were tensions and even battles with other nations, but nothing like this.” He looked at Caspian. “You can’t expect your rule to be like that. The defeated Telmarines may grow restless, they may try to rise against you. There will always be tension there.”

“You’re certain we’ll win?” Caspian said after a moment of quiet between them.

“Lucy is certain will win,” Edmund said with a smile. “And she tends to be right.”

“It must have been difficult to leave,” Caspian said.

Edmund nodded. “It was. Lu and I had lived in Narnia longer than we had in England by the time we left. It was our home.” He thought of Zuhair. “Does Narnia still have contact with Calormen?”

Caspian shook his head. “We know of it, but since Archenland wants nothing to do with us – understandably – no one has been there in a long time.”

“It’s wonderful there,” Edmund said. “Much warmer than Narnia. The language is fascinating, and the clothing and architecture are so different.”

“I must make sure to establish a relationship with Calormen then, as well as Archenland.”

“They are a valuable ally and trade partner.”

They were quiet for a moment. “Very well, you may make peace between Peter and me now,” Caspian said, touching a hand to Edmund’s knee. “Try and convince me that storming my uncle’s castle is a good idea.”

“It isn’t,” Edmund said suddenly.

Caspian stared at him. “What?”

“I think you’re right.”

“But your brother –”

“Is more experienced in battle, I know,” Edmund said. “But you know the castle, you know your uncle. You’ve told us that the castle only has one way in and out, and the gryphons can only carry one person at a time. If something goes wrong, which, let’s face it, is likely, we could lose a lot of people.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Caspian said. “But if that’s what you think, why aren’t you telling Peter that?”

Edmund hesitated. Why did he go to Caspian first? “Peter said some things that were out of line. You were angry. I wanted to make sure that you were alright.”

Caspian looked at him curiously. He exhaled and smiled faintly. His features softened in a way that they hadn’t in weeks, and as Edmund noted how his eyes looked lighter out in the sunlight, he realized why he had come to Caspian first.

“Thank you,” said Caspian, his voice gentle. “But you should really talk to Peter, he’ll listen to you much more than me.”

“Right,” Edmund said, standing up. He started to go back underground but turned back. “For the record, I think you’ll be a great king and deep down, I think Peter does too.”

Caspian nodded and Edmund just managed to pull himself away from his deep brown eyes. This was really, really not the time.

The rest of the war passed in a flash and Edmund tried very hard to not be distracted by Caspian. He tried to ignore how Caspian fought like a thunderstorm, blades flashing like lightning and a roar rumbling at the back of his throat. He tried to quell the surge of pride in his chest when Caspian refused to kill his uncle, thus deliberately showing how he would be a different, better king.

And when they rode victorious to the Caspian Castle, he tried not to think about how they would probably have to leave soon, and he had not had the chance to sort out his feelings, much less say anything to Caspian.

So he didn’t say anything.

The evening was spent dining and dancing, reminding Edmund of their coronation all those years ago. And of course, Caspian was a good dancer. Edmund watched him spin first Susan then Lucy across the dance floor. His graceful movements were so much different from the hacking and slashing swordsman he had grown to know.

Lucy finally dragged him to his feet to dance. “Are you alright, Ed?” she asked, face flushed. “You look like you’re a thousand miles away.”

Edmund smiled. “More like a thousand years.”

She nodded, understanding.

Some time later, Edmund noticed that Caspian was missing from the main party and set out to look for him. He found him in a side hallway, looking out a narrow window. Joining him, Edmund saw that the window was pointed east, toward Cair Paravel.

But instead of looking at the rolling nighttime countryside, Edmund looked over at Caspian. He looked more earnest, more mature now. The fury in his eyes had died a bit and he looked at ease.

“Tired of the party already?” Edmund asked.

“I just needed some air.” He turned to him. “How long will you and your siblings be staying this time?”

Edmund looked out the window, avoiding Caspian’s eyes because if he saw what he hoped to see in them, ignoring the growing warmth in his chest would get a lot more difficult. “I don’t know.” He glanced briefly at Caspian. “Has Peter said something?”

Caspian shook his head. “I know you have your own world, but I wish you would stay and help while everything is settled.” He exhaled a laugh. “That makes me sound selfish, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Edmund said. “I wish we could stay too.”

“We’ll go.”

Edmund felt his stomach plummet at Peter’s words. “We will?” He had thought he would have more than a couple days of peace in Narnia before having to leave.

“Come on,” Peter said, looking solemn and slightly sad. “Our time’s up.”

He glanced over at Caspian, who looked like he was trying to hide how crestfallen he was. Edmund probably was not doing as good of a job of hiding it, because Susan nudged him and said quietly, “Don’t worry Ed, you and Lu will be coming back.”

It was not as heartening as she meant it to be. The last time they had left and come back, Edmund had missed an opportunity he could never get back. And it looked as though history was going to repeat itself.

But there was nothing he could do. So, he shook Caspian’s hand firmly, just like Peter, and wished him all the best.

And he forced himself to not look back, as they walked through the doorway, only forward, toward England, and school. It was just a crush; he’d get over it.

four

The fourth time was when Edmund realized he had not, in fact, gotten over it.

The painting in Lucy’s room felt like a cruel joke. It was a very Narnian ship, as they had both observed upon arrival, and Edmund was not sure whether he would rather sit looking at it all day or avoid it at all costs.

For in addition to its very Narnian-ness, it reminded him of a conversation he had had with Caspian.

“Were the Lone Islands a part of Narnia?” Caspian asked. The challenge to Miraz had just been drafted and Emperor of the Lone Islands had been among Peter’s titles.

“Are they no longer?” They stood in one of the many passageways of Aslan’s Howe as Edmund waited to leave to deliver the challenge.

Caspian shook his head. “Telmarines have always feared the water. That is why the castle is built inland and the forest was allowed to grow wild. No one has gone out to sea in… years.” He looked pensive.

Edmund sensed there was a story there. “Who were they?”

“Seven of my father’s closest friends and allies,” Caspian said. “Miraz sent them out to sea to get them out of his way. None of them ever returned.” He smiled sadly. “Even so, I have always been intrigued by the idea of sailing.”

The look in his eyes after he said that was how Edmund imagined he would look on a ship. Eyes focused on a faraway spot, slight smile on his face.

So when, after being barged in upon by Eustace, the painting began to move, Edmund thought he was imagining things. Until Lucy gasped. Until sea spray hit him int eh face, bringing him farther back in his memories, to sailing on the Splendor Hyaline.

That was when he began to hope. As the bedroom was engulfed in water and slowly transformed into open ocean, he hoped that this time, Narnian time would be kind to him.

Then the ship was bearing down on them and several sailors had dived into the water and Edmund realized, at about the same time as Lucy did, that there was a possibility they did not wish them well. He swam desperately, pulling his arm out of the grip of a man he didn’t recognize. From somewhere to his right, over the splashing of Eustace, he heard Lucy’s surprised voice, “Caspian?”

His heart stopped as he heard Caspian’s response, clear as day. “Lucy?”

“Ed, it’s alright,” Lucy called out, although he had already stopped resisting his rescuer. “It’s Caspian!”

He didn’t get a good look at Caspian until they were on deck. His soaking clothes clung to his skin, his shirt especially leaving nothing to the imagination, so much s that nearly made Edmund look away in modesty. He looked more than a year older than the last time they had seen him. Edmund suspected that more than a year had passed in Narnia. Caspian had never been a particularly shy or overly uncertain person, but he was much more comfortably confident now. As they went through introductions and explanations, he saw how Caspian interacted with the crew and felt that surge of pride again. Caspian had grown into his title, and it fit him perfectly.

In days, it was as though Edmund and Lucy had been on the voyage all along. There was no stiffness or awkwardness with Caspian, Drinian or the rest of the crew.

And Edmund decided that he liked peacetime Caspian. While he had admired Caspian’s strength and determination in wartime, this Caspian laughed more, an utterly joyful sound that sent a nervous stutter through Edmund’s chest.

It was some of the most relaxing time Edmund had spent in Narnia. He and Caspian sparred, bodies close and hearts thumping, and swam in the waves, wrestling and trying to push each other under, and when the sun set, they looked up at the stars. He and Caspian soon found that the Telmarines had created new constellations which were different from the ones he had been taught as a young king. They stayed up into the early hours of the morning, exchanging the legends they saw told in the skies.

And so, they would lay, side by side on the deck of the ship and on various beaches, not touching, but close enough that if either shifted they would briefly brush arms. Edmund would stare very deliberately upwards, and a moment of silence would pass between them before their conversation continued.

When they finally went to bed, hammocks swinging next to each other, Edmund would try not to overanalyze everything that had happened since arriving.

“And have you managed to find a wife in those three years?”

“No, I have not,” A small, maybe coincidental, possibly entirely imagined, glance at Edmund.

Drinian’s knowing looks following them, as though he could see into Edmund’s heart.

Lucy’s ever cryptic observations springing up when Edmund least expected them. “You seem different, Ed.”

“Well, we’re in Narnia,” he said quietly. “We’re always different in Narnia.” She had always been observant, good at reading people.

She nodded. “It’s a good different.”

And every look Caspian gave him, every word they exchanged, was locked in Edmund’s memory, pieces of evidence in the essays he composed to convince himself of the thing he didn’t believe possible. He wished it were like a puzzle or a math problem that if he got all the pieces he needed in the right spots, he would see the answer, the big picture.

“What is the name of your country again?” Caspian asked one evening as he, Edmund, and Lucy sat around the uncompleted map of the Eastern Ocean.

“England,” Edmund said.

“What’s it like?” he asked.

“Boring,” Edmund said at the same time as Lucy said, “Different.”

Lucy smiled. “What Ed means is that there isn’t a lot of sword-fighting or sailing ships.”

“Are there different weapons?” Caspian asked. “Or is there simply no need for them.”

Edmund and Lucy exchanged a look. “Oh, they’re needed,” Edmund said. “We have guns,” he said with some distaste. “They can kill a man from a distance and do more harm than arrows.”

“I’m surprised you speak of them like that, Ed,” Lucy said. “Given that you tried to lie your way into the army.”

Caspian looked at Edmund. “Why would you have to lie your way in?”

“Because our dear Edmund,” Lucy said teasingly. “is not yet eighteen.”

He rolled his eyes. “Shut up, they would’ve let me in had you not busted me.”

She sighed. “Honestly, you’re almost as bad as those boys who only enlist to impress their sweethearts.”

“Well, there’s nothing like a man in uniform,” Edmund said.

“So, no sweetheart to impress then?” Caspian asked, his gaze a bit more intent now.

Edmund realized with a start that it was very important how he answered this question. So, of course, he stammered his way through it. “Well- I am not really, erm, interested in the girls back home.”

Lucy looked at the two of them. “Well, if you two are going to spend the rest of the evening discussing the pros and cons of Narnian versus English girls, I think I’ll take my leave.”

Caspian was still looking at Edmund and panic overtook him as he realized he was – once again – not ready to answer the question in his eyes. So, he rose quickly, with Lucy. “It’s getting late.” As if to mock him, the clock struck seven. “I should get to bed. Goodnight, Caspian, Lu.” He tried to keep his pace reasonable as he exited and hardly breathed until he was lying in his hammock. He groaned and pressed his pillow over his face. Wonderful, he thought.

When Caspian came in, some time later, Edmund pretended to sleep. He heard his footsteps stop at his side and stay there for a long moment. After a long moment of silence, he heard him sigh quietly and then murmured, “Goodnight, Ed.”

It took everything in him not to open his eyes to see Caspian’s expression right then. And as Caspian walked to his hammock, Edmund regretted not having done so. Maybe that had been the final piece of evidence he needed.

Caspian’s boots hit the ground with a thump and his hammock creaked as he lay down on it. Only then did Edmund risk a peek through his eyelashes, and he saw Caspian looking up at the ceiling with his brow slightly furrowed, and an odd mix of sadness and hopefulness in his eyes.

And as Edmund drifted off to the swinging of the ship, he wondered if perhaps his wishes had been right after all.

He and Caspian kind of danced around each other after that, only speaking when in larger groups and never interacting with only the two of them. Edmund hated it, but he wasn’t sure what to do about it. A layer of awkwardness had come between them as they both watched each other carefully.

Lucy noticed, because of course she did, and after a few days, decided she had enough. She dragged Edmund from a conversation with Reepicheep (“Sorry, Reep, important family business”) and Caspian from his daily exercise routine – which Edmund had been both avoiding and finding excuses to witness. Lucy, displaying remarkable strength, pulled them into the captain’s cabin and shut the door.

She turned on them, hands on her hips. “Have you two had an argument or something?”

“No,” Caspian and Edmund said at the same time. Then they glanced at each other and quickly looked away.

Lucy narrowed her eyes at them. “Well, whatever this is, you two need to sort it out, and I will sit outside the door until you do.”

“Lucy, please be reaso-” Caspian said.

“No, Cas,” Lucy interrupted. “I am being reasonable. You two need to be on good terms with each other for this journey to succeed.” She spun on her heel, left the room, and closed the door behind her.

Caspian sighed and sank into a chair. “It’s like she doesn’t even know I’m the king.”

Edmund exhaled a laugh, sitting across the table from him. “You’re basically a part of the family,” he said. “So, you’re Lu’s brother before you’re her king.”

He smiled. “I did not expect that acknowledgement to first come when I’m locked in my room like a naughty child.”

They were quiet for a moment as Edmund stared at the table

“So, should we make up some mundane argument and tell Lu that we’ve worked past it?” Edmund asked, finally meeting Caspian’s gaze.

“I would actually like to know why you’ve been avoiding me,” Caspian said.

Edmund blinked. “Me? You’ve been avoiding me.”

“No, I –” Caspian sighed. “Okay, so we’ve both been avoiding each other.” He looked at Edmund meaningfully. Expectantly.

And that was when the destructive urge reared its ugly head again, after being held in check for so long. “Yes,” Edmund snapped. “I have been avoiding you because I didn’t know how to say this to you.”

Caspian sat back a little at his outburst. “Say what to me?”

“This expedition you’re on.” His mind was racing, trying to piece together an argument. “What’s the point, really? What benefit does Narnia gain?”

“My father’s finds were capable advisors,” Caspian explained calmly. “I know they would help me rule Narnia well.”

“Would they?”

Caspian was so taken aback that he simply stared at Edmund.

“Because as far as I know, every Telmarine ruler before you were not a friend of the Old Narnians, so who is to say your father’s friends would be any different?”

“I could convince them,” Caspian said, trying to regain his hold on the conversation. “They’ll listen to me.”

“Like Miraz did?”

When Caspian’s jaw clenched, Edmund knew he had hit a nerve, and although it was what he intended, he felt the guilt of bringing up such a sensitive topic.

“My uncle was a power-hungry tyrant,” Caspian’s voice was tense, like a clenched fist, only just holding back. “there was no reasoning with him.”

“Or maybe you simply weren’t capable.” Edmund’s tone was straightforward, not overly cruel, one he had perfected in his past years of both spymaster and negotiator for Narnia.

Caspian rose slowly. “Do you think you would be a better ruler, you and your sibling who run off to your own country when things get hard?!”

Edmund was on his feet as well. “That’s not true!” His fist banged on the table.

Caspian was walking around the table to him. “You only ruled for fifteen years, hardly enough time to fully stabilize a country after a hundred years of tyranny.”

“That was an accident,” Edmund nearly snarled. “And we came back to help you.”

“Only when I called,” Caspian was right in front of him now, their height difference glaringly obvious. “And then you left, when I needed you. I had a family again and you left me.” His voice, so deliberate and controlled before, was now on the edge of breaking.

Edmund looked up at his deep brown eyes that now swam with tears and something in him shifted. This argument, meant to hurt Caspian and push him away, had somehow cathartically pushed them closer together than ever.

He gently, cautiously, lifted a hand to cup Caspian’s cheek, thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped. Caspian’s entire body seemed to sigh at his touch. “I didn’t want to go,” Edmund said, the gravel in his voice surprising him.

“I know,” Caspian breathed, ghosting a hand over Edmund’s forehead, pushing his hair out of his face.

And as though they possessed one mind, Edmund stood on his toes a bit and Caspian lent down a bit, and their lips touched just a bit before they pulled away. The tender look in Caspian’s eyes, however, sent Edmund up for more and they kissed for real this time.

Caspian held Edmund’s face in his hands like he was afraid he would break, and Edmund gripped Caspian’s collar like a lifeline, and the kiss was everything they needed it to be: a half-made promise wrapped in a lot of hope, backed by conversations in torchlit tunnels and one to three years of longing.

When they broke apart, they looked at each other, mouths half-parted in wonder and surprise.

“I suppose we can tell her we’ve made up,” Edmund said, breaking the intensity for a moment.

Caspian’s laugh at that sounded like it had been trapped in his chest for too long. He leant down and pressed his smiling lips to Edmund’s again.

“I’m sorry I said all that,” Edmund said, more seriously. “I was just afraid of telling you the truth.”

“What truth?” Caspian asked with a small grin.

“That I’ve been wanting to do that since I saw you tackle a soldier off a horse in battle that one time.”

Caspian shook his head, smiling. “We will need to talk about what this is, but for now, we must tell Lucy we are now on good terms.”

“Very good terms, in fact,” Edmund said, kissing him again.

The next few weeks were some of the happiest of Edmund’s life. Between the battles and new islands to explore, he and Caspian would sneak off together whenever they could. They found spots where no one came, the space behind the food rations, the galley at night when the cook had gone to bed, and – when truly desperate – the lowest levels of the ship.

Except they had never spoken about their relationship which Edmund was secretly grateful for. Any talk about what they were would lead to a talk about the future, which had the looming threat of his return to England.

So instead, they took all of the time they could together, both with the knowledge it would inevitably end, but never acknowledging it.

Edmund was feeling better than ever, more confident, less in his head. “Good morning, Drinian,” he said when he ran into the captain one morning, hair slightly mussed and Caspian’s scent on his skin.

“Might I have a word, Your Majesty?” he asked.

Edmund sobered. “Is everything alright?”

Drinian pulled him aside. “Your Majesty,” he began. “You know I have a lot of respect for you, however, I am concerned that your relationship with Caspian may do more harm than good.”

Edmund blinked, he thought that no one had noticed. “What do you mean?”

“I am not blind,” he said dryly. “I know what happens on my ship. And normally, I would not disapprove, Caspian seems very happy. However, I understand that you and your siblings never stay for long.”

There it was again: the ticking clock that swung above their heads like a hypnotist’s prop.

“I am merely concerned for Caspian’s heart at your departure,” Drinian finished.

Edmund nodded but didn’t know how to respond. “Thank you for being frank with me, Drinian. The problem has been on my mind and I am grateful Caspian has around him those who care about him.” And with his diplomatic phrases at an end, he quickly took his leave with a nod to Drinian.

He had just made his way to the bow when Caspian appeared. “Good morning, darling,” he said quietly, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

Edmund looked around the still mostly empty deck. “Someone could have seen that,” he hissed.

Caspian shrugged and smiled at the bright blue horizon.

“You’re in a good mood,” he commented, joining him at the railing.

“So were you, two minutes ago,” Caspian said.

“Yeah.”

He looked at Edmund. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” It really was nothing; if they worried about Edmund’s eventual departure, they would ruin their time together. So Edmund smiled at Caspian, a real, soft smile that he hoped expressed everything he could not say.

Then came Ramandu’s Island. Throughout their conversation with Lillandil, Ramandu’s daughter, Edmund noticed the way Caspian looked at her and felt a slight twinge of jealousy. Once their objective was clear – sail to the end of the world and leave Reepicheep there – and they had cast off again, Caspian pulled Edmund aside.

“I know you’re cross with me,” he began.

“I’m not cross with you,” Edmund said.

“Well, I’d be cross if you looked at Lillandil like I did,” Caspian countered, a little confused.

“I’m not cross,” Edmund repeated. “I quite like her really. I think you should take her up on her offer to go to Narnia with you.”

“What? But she was clearly implying –”

“Yes, I know what she was implying –”

“Do you want me to marry her, Ed?” Caspian’s question was quiet, but that did not take away from its bluntness.

“You could do worse,” Edmund shrugged. “She’s pretty, well-spoken, has friends in high places…”

“I don’t understand.” His eyes were almost too much for Edmund to handle. “I care about you, Ed, and I don’t want to marry a woman I only just met, I –” He sighed. “I lo –”

“I’ll be going back soon,” Edmund exclaimed, panic rising at the almost declaration. “I don’t want you putting all your hopes on me when we both know I’m not going to be here much longer. I’m only suggesting you make plans for the future. You will need to marry and provide heirs and you were clearly attracted to her, so –”

“Is this jealousy then?” Caspian asked, who had looked at Edmund nearly dumbstruck has he spoke.

“No,” Edmund said. “It’s me being realistic and a good advisor. I’m not saying her specifically, but someone. Someone you can get along with, someone you can trust.” He sighed and pressed his palms to his eyes. “I was hoping we could just bask in ignorant bliss until the very end, but…”

Caspian laughed. “That doesn’t sound like us.”

Edmund looked at him and smiled. “No, you’re right. It doesn’t.”

So while the last couple days aboard the Dawn Treader were not quite as filled with secret smiles and sneaking into dark corners, the understanding between them was like a sturdy, but no less soft mattress – not as decadent as a plushy surface but much more practical.

Both set about memorizing every bit of each other, and although it was never acknowledged, both knew what the other was doing. So when Caspian ruffled Edmund’s hair on deck and commented how much it had lightened since his arrival, and Edmund watched how Caspian’s dark eyes flickered in candlelight, it was a reminder of how although they knew their time together would come to an end, a version would always stay. For the rest for their lives, Edmund could see Caspian, the seafaring king looking out at sea, and the lover in dim light, and Caspian could see Edmund, eyes flashing defiantly in a fight or the thoughtful tilt of his head.

Side by side in the rowboat, arms straining with the oars, Caspian and Edmund rowed closer and closer to their goodbye. They walked up the smooth beach towards the towering wave, Aslan’s presence blanketing them comfortingly.

And they did not ask if Edmund could stay, for they knew the answer.

“This is our last time here, isn’t it?” Lucy asked tearfully.

Edmund’s hand grasped Caspian’s without turning his head.

“Yes, child,” Aslan’s sweet, deep voice rumbled. “For you and your brother, it is.”

Too soon, it was time for goodbyes. Edmund threw his arms around Caspian, kissing the corner of his mouth for a split second as he passed. Caspian held him close. “I love you,” he whispered.

The words didn’t scare Edmund this time. “I love you too.” They pulled away, the sturdy understanding in their eyes.

Edmund led Lucy and Eustace toward the opening in the water. Only once they were inside did he turn back. As the water closed over the entrance, he took his last look at Caspian, who stood tall at Aslan’s side.

When they finally left their Aunt and Uncle’s, Lucy and Edmund had one last look at the painting. After having been on the real thing, it seemed to have lost its magic. Or perhaps that was simply because it was no longer a door to Narnia.

Among all the regrets and wishes that piled up in Edmund, a prominent one was that he would never get to see the king Caspian would become. He would have been very happy to know that his favourite Caspian – thriving, happily exploring new islands – became the Caspian known to history: Caspian the Seafarer.

the one time

Although Edmund was younger when he died, Caspian went first. He was an old man, his dark hair turned grey and his skin rippled like the ocean. He had lived a long life, and though it was not without tragedy, its was an overall good one.

Upon his arrival in Aslan’s country, he felt different: stronger, less frail. He felt young again, but in a more idealistic sense. He knew without trying that this body could run faster, swim farther and lift heavier things than he ever could while alive.

He saw his father and mother again, and his wife – who was more his best friend than lover – and those he had known and those he had only ever heard of. But through all this happiness, he kept looking for something. Someone.

“Is Edmund not here yet?” he asked Aslan.

Aslan shook his large head, mane ruffling in the breeze. “Not yet, my child. Recall that time is different in their time and yours. He is still a young man.” His eyes sad and Caspian did not dare ask further.

Edmund was still a young man when he left his world for the last time, and it had only been a few years since he last trip to Narnia. The train ride was already fading in his mind when he arrived.

His siblings were with him, and the other friends of Narnia. Aslan greeted them. “Welcome home, my children,” he said.

They had all gone to explore, but Edmund hung back for a moment, uncertain. “Aslan,” he asked. “In Narnia, how long –?”

“Yes, he is here,” Aslan answered his unasked question. “He has been waiting for you.”

Edmund’s heart leapt and he had run a few steps before turning back. “Thank you.”

Aslan nodded and smiled slightly. “Go on, my child.”

Nearly tripping over his own feet, Edmund ran until he found himself on a beach. The sand was warm under his inexplicably bare feet. Waves rolled gently and the wind carried the salty spray toward land.

And there he was, walking toward him. Caspian, barefoot and bare-headed, not dressed as a king, but a sailor.

All the hurry evaporated from his chest and Edmund walked towards him at a regular pace. There was no need to rush, they had all the time in the world. So when they reached each other, they took a moment to look, seeing the eyes and freckles and hair and smiles that had frequent appearances in their dreams.

“Gotta say, I’m relieved you’re not old,” Edmund said finally.

Caspian laughed and pulled him close, foreheads touching and his hands cupping Edmund’s face.

And when they kissed, it was not desperate or hurried or anything that their previous kisses had been. It was not an end, or even near an end.

It was a beginning.

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