#/dandelion wisps

[ventii-impact]

mfw the lore behind wine (particularly dandelion wine) in genshin only serves to further reinforce venti's connection to memory and time and him being an alcoholic isn't just a funny character trait but also ties into his themes 🤯

[dungeonzero]

Working on a side piece for the tales of Kokuten

[mediumgayitalian]

In his head he is brave enough to say it: gods, you are beautiful in the moonlight. He is. He has made Nico weak in the knees since they were fifteen and new and fragile as spun glass, and he does now. In the moonlight his radiance is much subtler; he is opal and pearl and quartz, he is shining and multifaceted.

Instead he traces the bob of Will’s throat, his long, freckly neck, cratered with burn scars and cupped with a raised white scar from years of endless picking; follows the wild winding wisps of his hair, barely held back by his old sunglasses, compressed in coils around his head like a pen spring squished to the size of its threads, creaking with the weight of its own potential energy, brimming with the imagined burst of its future; memorizes the fluttering flap of his feathering eyelashes, the delicate dips of his deepened Cupid’s bow, the roughened raze of his wide rowdy hands. All of him is in motion, always, but now especially, hands twitching on the wheel, head thrown back, mouth wide and shaking along with his shoulders.

“I really like your laugh,” and it’s quick, vowels tumbling over each other and tripping the consonants, a queue of clumsy hopefuls scrambling over shoulders and clasping hands. The pretty laughter fades and arched eyebrows replace it, poorly hidden surprise, twitching smile lines, and Nico looks deliberately forward, mortification cackling along each of his wire-tense muscles, dancing along the shimmering heat of his face. “It’s. Wide.”

“Wide?” asks Will carefully, craning his neck to glance in his blind spot, whispering chuckles dancing along to the beat of the blinker.

“Wide,” Nico confirms, flicking out his hands. His fingers are not nearly as long, nor as wiry or corded, but the scarring is mirrored. Nicks and scratches and burn marks and calluses, topographic maps of time spent.

Will’s turn is successful — the strawberry baskets dip dangerously from their precarious perch on backseats, but don’t fall, shifting over and around each other to burst tiny globules of stretched taut flesh, rubbing against rough reed ribbons. Nico inhales deeply, and the sweet is almost nauseating, summer fruit twisting in the air along with lavender body wash and Blistex and Texas summer sun.

“You take up space.”

“My laugh?”

Laughter in his words in his hands in his skin, in his eyes, in the coils of his hair, in his grass-stained heels, in the bends of his scar-bleached knees. In the dancing dots of his face arms chest legs. In the dip of his bottom lip, crater under his too-big front teeth. In the jut of his crooked spine and wide hips.

“What about my laugh?”

It is in his words more often than not and in Nico’s dreams even more so. It curls around the blurry edges of his dreams and weaves into daisy-strong chains, dangling from the too-high ceilings of his nightmares, coiling around his arms and chest and back and yanking with the force of breaking ribs, the force of bellows, the force of clasped bloodless hands. Dragging him across trench gouged ground to bright light and clear air and the distant memory of summer rain.

“That you like, I mean.”

“It’s snorting,” Nico confesses. Will reddens, and Nico smiles, under the heat of it grows sunflower and dandelion and tinted brown-eyes Susans. “Um. Loud.”

“Geez,” Will grumbles, “tell a guy the truth, why don’t you.”

Nico has never seen gold under silver nightlight and it fascinates him, how Will sparks and shimmers, how when the sun sets it does not fade away. How the tiny specks of precious metal weave through him like tinsel and glow in veins of sweet summer memory; how the warm night billows and blows around him lovingly, how the breeze from the open window greets him like a precious grandchild, a beloved nephew. Seedchild; beloved of the earth and sun, performer under the moon, the stars.

Will’s wide hands inch across the dash, brushing over the ancient radio dials and dipping over the skipping cassette, pausing by the base of the gearshift and resting, limply, palm open, fingers cracked and spread. Knuckles popping and chittering amongst themselves, hiding in the bent hoods of wrinkled skin. Nico lowers his heavy hands on the heated hopeful hesitance, curling his cool fingers around much longer ones, and squeezing, once, twice, thrice.

“I like your laugh,” he repeats. He rolls his shoulders, hands flexing, twitching, pulling.

Will’s hand tightens. The road opens up and the Atlantic glimmers beside them, moon whispering to its rippling waves, and he smiles, grins, wider than before, and he is laughing, again, and it is wider even this time, as wide as the sparkling silver water.

“I hear you.”

He squeezes.

You are beautiful in the moonlight. You are beautiful all the time.

Nico squeezes back.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Sticking Point 1

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, possible violence, illness, death, bullying, ableism, and other elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are sent in the place of your ailing sister to marry a stranger. (Regency AU)

Character: Loki

Note: I'm hoping y'all like it.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

The chamber is pungent with sweat. A clammy sheen coats Edith's forehead as she gives another rattling cough. You hear the crackle in her lungs and smell the iron of her blood before it stains the crumpled handkerchief your mother dabs her lips with. 

She's been sick for months. Your mother said the summer heat would help her recovery but the drought that followed the spring downpour only seemed to worsen her symptoms. The once buoyant and bright eyed girl lays shrouded beneath a canopy, gulping and gasping, frail and despondent. 

Your fathe clears his throat, startling you from the doorway. You hadn't heard him appear. You glance at him over your shoulder and ser the grimness in his eye, the stone that has not dislodged since your sister fell ill. She always was his favourite. She's everyone's favourite. She is gentle and kind and rare.

Your mother turns to peek at your father's shadow. She gives a nod and rises, beckoning you forth, handing over the cloth and squeezing it into your palm. 

"Sit with your sister," she nearly whispers. The chamber is always quiet, as if speaking too loud might tempt the fates. Alas, it was always Edith who would sing to fill the dearth. She always knows what to do, what to say.

You perch on the edge of the bed as your mother crosses the floor. Not a word passes between your parents as they retreat. Again, the must discuss something dire, as they've done these last weeks. Each time, it only serves to gray their melancholy further.

Edith stares above her. Eyes glassy and distant. She coughs again and a fleck of phlegm lands on her chin. You mop it up as you wonder how her round cheeks could ever have become so taut and worn.

Her gaze drifts, slowly and lazily, a divet forming between her brows as she strains to look at her. The corners of her lips twitch but she hasn't the strength to smile. She gulps back another raspy cough.

"It's… you," she breathes, "my… sister."

Her words come far apart, each summoned with an effort. As you lower the handkerchief back to your lap she wheezes and lifts her hand shakily. She moves it towards you and lets it drop onto yours.

"I love you, sister," she wisps, "I… I remember…" she shakes her head and wets her tongue, "how much you love…dandelions and daffodils… and everything yellow and blooming." 

Her chest rattles as she falls into a fit. She curls her shoulders and clings to you tightly, her brittle nails sinking into your skin. She swallows loudly as she leans heavily against the pillows, her coughs subsiding. 

"I recall… and I know… you are just as… vibrant…" she bends her fingers around yours, "you must… be… for mother."

"No, Edi, you awe," you murmur, your syllables wobby, "and you will be. Again. You will be that for motha and fatha. You have to… I can't."

She groans and lets her head loll, "you will."

You frown. She is wrong. You cannot replace her and she will not die. It cannot be.

You lower your chin, eyes stinging. Your sister always cast a shadow over you, but you don't mind the shade. She always let you stand off to the side, she let you be quiet, she let you be unseen and safe. She is the only person who ever knew the real you and loved you for it. 

"Don't be… sad," her voice creaks, "I'm not."

You peek at her from under your lashes and furrow your brow, to ask 'you're not?'

She reads you as well as ever, "how can I be?" She heaves and gathers her words, "it may be a short life… but rich… and less than… lonely."

You can't hold back. It's more than what she says, it's the resignation in her tenor. Even in defeat, she is blissful. You bend over her and embrace her daintily, resting your head on her chest, listening to dull beat and the hoarse crackle within. You close your eyes and sniffle.

"You will be well again," you avow, "you have to get well." You let your tears flow down and wet her shift. She raises her hand and rests it on your head, petting your lightly, "I need you."

"I will be around… always," she hums, "you will know where to find me."

Her words dangle over you, confounding you. Cryptic but certain. You know she is right, as ever, but you want so badly for her to lie to you. 

🔹

You wake beneath the small glow of a single taper. Your mother holds a candlestick as she gently tugs on your sleeve. You peer over at your sister’s silhouette, her breaths whistling with each exhale. You sit up, reluctant to leave her.

“Come,” is all the wraithlike matriarch bids.

You obey, rising to follow her across the dark chamber. The hallway is lit only by her candle and the light shining out from a doorway further down. Your father welcomes you into his study, an unusual occasion but you sense not a happy one.

He sits behind his desk on the grand carved chair with medieval posts topped with polished wooden orbs. Your mother lowers herself onto a velvet seat and you take another stiff oaken chair, dragged in from the dining hall. You glance between them and purse your lips tightly. 

Your father sighs, long and heavy, steepling his fingers then quickly, letting them twine together. He sits forward and presses his chin to his knuckles. Your mother sits staunchly, staring ahead, sombre and silent.

“It is best in these moments to be pragmatic,” your father begins quietly, pushing his shoulders back as he forcefully clears the frog in his throat, “to think as a family, to consider the legacy of my name.” He looks down, unusually reticent. He moves his head back and forth, grazing his untended stubble across his fingers, “you will have to make the journey to Jade Park.”

Your frown. You’re uncertain what he means. You shake your head and blink furiously. It’s the closest you ever came to speaking out of turn. Though, your father despises how little you ever said.

“She is too sick to travel. Or to marry. Even if the lord in question made the trek himself to meet his betrothed, she would not be able to receive him… if she were still alive.”

You choke audibly and clutch your throat. Your mother lets out a thick breath and shifts on her seat. Your father’s lip curls, irritated.

“The Duke made a contract for a wife, he will have one,” your father declares, gritting his teeth, “whether he be disappointed or not, he cannot claim forfeiture.”

You send your mother a desperate look. You cannot go and marry Lord Laufeyson. He is to be Edith’s husband. You were still to have some time ahead of you.

Your father covers his face and drags his hands up, combing over his hair with a growl. He holds his skull before sitting up sternly.

“And by the lord, speak up! He will not want a mute as a wife,” he snarls.

You shrink. It should have been you. You should be the one sick and dying. It should be Edith carrying on your father’s hopes. You are not good enough for it. Nor are you ever good enough for him. Where he dotes on Edith, he rants at you.

“Speak!” He slams his palm on the desk.

You flinch and push your head up. You fix your posture and unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth as you part your lips, “yes, fatha, as you bid me–”

“As is your duty,” he sneers, “as a daughter must. As a woman!”

He rails as he waves his hand angrily with each word. He slaps it back down and pushes himself to his feet. He stomps away and stops before the faded portrait of his forebear. You peek again at your mouth, her lips are straight as she looks at you blandly.

“Fatha,” you eke out and stand, “I pwomise I will do my best–”

“I cannot hear you!” He spins to face you, “I hear only mindless babbling. No husband wants a mouse for a wife. Let us only hope Laufeyson will accept one sister in place of another.”

“Fatha,” you squeak.

“Wife,” he ignores you, moving back behind his desk, “you will be certain to review her diction. Mute and dumb, how pitiful.”

You wince. No matter your efforts, your words are always skewed. Every syllable is a little longer than it needs to be, and you cannot form a sharp R. It all fools loose and awkward.

“Fatha–”

“Fathaaa,” he mimics and turns his back to you, “Thea, get her away from me. Ready her luggage.”

“Luggage? When am I to leave, fatha?”

“As soon as we can have you gone,” he mutters, “your sister deserves to die in peace.”

You fold your arms, holding yourself as his words sink into your chest. Like a knife, it cuts to the core and you can’t fight the sob that rises in your throat. You spin on your heel and flee. You hear him boom at your mother.

“Be certain she does not act as a child for her husband,” he barks.

You clamour into your sister’s chamber and over to the bed. You lower yourself next to her once more and wiggle close. Your tears fall as you tuck her hand between her arm and her body.

“Sista,” you gulp, “oh, sista, I don’t want to go… I don’t want you to go.”

🔹

You touch your lips as the carriage shudders with each turn of the wheel. You still feel your sister’s cold skin against you. That final kiss you gave. You know for sure that is what it is. You will not see her again. Not above the earth.

You lean against the wall, trembling with the motion. Your mother is across from you, dabbing her eyes with a folded handkerchief. She bawls loudly now and again, a lock of your sister’s hair clutched in her other hand. 

Despite her protests, your father insisted it would be undue for you to go alone and for neither of them to attend the introduction to assure the contract’s fulfillment. So she accompanies you and the single maid, Doreen.

Dread suffocates you in the cramped space. Even as the sun shines between the curtains, it is gray inside.

You put your head down and stare at the pages of the novel in your hands. Your vision is bleary and you don’t read. It is only an excuse, an act. You try to imprint your sister’s features into your head, try to memorise her voice. You never want to forget her. You want to keep every part of her with you.

The wheels roll on into the night. Your mother pulls a blanket around her but you let the cold chill you, almost praying that it might sicken you. That you could take the ague and your sister’s place. You shiver and look out from behind the curtain, watching the silhouettes of hills and trees pass.

The driver stops at the Crescent Hotel just inside the city. You rent a room and spend the night awake. Your mother sobs and snores until the sun rises. 

When you're ready to set back out on the road, your mother is certain to have the maid arrange your hair and check your face. She has you wear a particular dress, a shade of moss with pearl buttons, and a bonnet with a broad brim. Once past the city, it is only another hour to Jade Park.

You sit with hands clutched, the bench rigid beneath you, uncomfortable as your restlessness mounts. On and on until you are dizzy and quivering. You don’t know that you can do this, but you know you cannot say so.

You approach a great wall of lime washed bricks with a grand golden gate with twists at the peak of each pole. Your mother cranes to watch as you get nearer and you wring your hands together until the seams of your gloves sear your skin. The driver greets the gatekeeper and is let through after a brief introduction.

He proceeds through as the clop of the horses like hooves to your fragile mind. Closer and closer. The wheels slow and the carriage jostles as the driver climbs down. Yet another voice greets him, a groomsman who directs him before opening the door.

The driver places a step down for your mother to descend and you come out after he as the groom assists with a helping hand. You nearly trip on the inch tall heels of your shoes and your mother darts a reproachful glare in your direction. You apologise and look up at the square peaks jutting up from the top of the boxy manor.

The walls are a pale beige trimmed with lush hedges. Stone steps stretch before the wide doors and multi paned windows look out onto the sprawling lawn of green, speckled with marble statues, a fountain, and finely kept flowers. Tall trees peek out from behind the grand house and softly wave in the breeze.

Your mother steps closer to you and pinches your arm.

“Shoulders straight,” she girds, “do not gape like a simpleton. If you must, you may hide behind your fan.”

She takes a step forward, then another. Three before you kick yourself into motion. Your heart thumps loudly as you try to keep pace. The groom shows you up the steps and two others appear to open the double door at the top.

Oh my. 

[amuromi]

★ ₊ ⊹ ⋆˙ ┈ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ┈ 7.7k

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐀!𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ┈ I would just like to thank the girlies for showing me the light of the Dominican-French Connie headcanon. Truly a beautiful thing that you’ve all created.

✮ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 & 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!! ✮

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ┈ NSFW! modern!au, hurt/comfort, previously established relationship (childhood sweethearts to exes), pet names (baby, mami, mamita), oral (f!receiving), mentions of birth control, untranslated Spanish, ooc!Connie (canon is only a suggestion)

It’s late, just on the cusp of twilight. The sun is setting behind the skyline in flecks of amber light, flickering over the culdesac like a dwindling candle. Soon the streetlights will come on, buzzing in bright halos over the cracked pavement of the basketball court. It’s so strange to see the changes that had gone unnoticed in years prior suddenly become glaringly obvious. The old pavement of the basketball court has always been cracked and faded, dandelions pushing up between the rivers of dirt that worked their way through the broken concrete. The green paint has long since been washed away along with the white lines and red free throw lane. Somebody–probably the same person that tagged the mailboxes up the street–has made an attempt at renewing the paint job, wobbling lines of spray paint marking out half court and the foil line. The rest of the park is just as neglected, having never been updated since its first installation. The swings are old and rickety, creaking under the slightest weight, and all the plastic pieces of the playground have been bleached pale under the sunlight. But it’s still standing. 

All the pocketknife etchings in the picnic tables and sharpie scribbles on the underside of the tallest slide. This park has always been well-loved. There are memories tucked into the cracked asphalt and carved into trees. Some aren’t even tangible, just the wisp of a thought tucked to the back of your mind that comes loose when you hear just the right song at just the right time. A car driving by with the windows down, in the stifling heat of midsummer. Mostly just bass rattling through the frame of someone’s hoopty as they ease down the block just as it starts to get dark, hollering at someone loitering by the stop sign at the end of the road. Hear just the right baseline at just the right time throws you back to somewhere easier. When the biggest worries in life were getting home before the streetlight turned on. 

Age came through and shattered that simplicity. First crack was sacrificing half the summer to a job at some pop-up carnival that closed as soon as school started, then school started getting serious the closer it got to graduation, and that ceremony sent everybody off in their different directions. Like pulling out threads of a sweater until it starts to unravel. Mikasa went one way and Armin another. Eren stayed local. Coming back together has been like finding a dusty puzzle at the back of a closet and hoping it still had all its pieces. Mikasa graduated the same time as you, but Armin and his big brain still have two more years to go for his bachelor’s. Sasha is fresh out of culinary school and looking to set up something local, a little restaurant somewhere in town. 

What started as a throwaway story post that you expected nobody to see or care about–a simple “back where it all began” when you decided to walk to the park at 1AM–had turned into a rallying cry that brought everybody out of the woodwork. Now, after all the new neighborhood kids have gone home, the park is still full of people. A bunch of twenty-somethings too big to be messing with all this playground equipment. The streetlights buzz to life as the sky goes black, bugs crowding around the yellowish light, but no one moves to go home. You’re all grown. The only thing that can tell you to go home now is a half exasperated text from your Momma wondering how long you plan to be out of the house for. It’s still early enough in the night–hardly past nine–that you don’t need to worry about getting called home because you’ve been out of the house for too long or some other nonsensical reason. And even that won’t bother your Momma who’s out living her own life now that you’re older. Something about a weekend trip with her friend Mr. Vick, which you know from childhood, is something she calls all her dates, like it’s an inside joke that she still goes out and has fun. “Acting grown,” as you’ve always called it. 

And besides your Momma, you don’t really need to worry about much of anything right now. With a degree under your belt, this little return to living at home is only temporary. A brief stop while you’re waiting for everything with your new employment and the leasing office of your apartment to clear. Soon you’ll be working your own little corporate job with an office and everything, and you’ll have your own place away from your Momma’s house, too. Life is sweet and seeing all your old friends is making it sweeter, but there’s still that barest hint of bitterness lingering on the back of your tongue. No one has mentioned it, too busy focusing on who’s here rather than who’s not, but there is one glaring piece missing from the little jigsaw of your old group of friends. One soldier that didn’t answer the call of duty. 

Mikasa and Historia are over on the swings, Eren and Jean are playing one on one on the beat up court, and Sasha and Armin are sprawled out on one of the jungle gym platforms. You’re comparatively alone, sitting at the picnic table all by yourself. It’s like something frozen in time. The same chipped paint and rusted bolts. In so many years, it seems like none of the kids have added anything else to the splintered collage you all left behind. There’s still the little lopsided heart that Historia etched out after being convinced that no one would care if she defaced this particular piece of public property. She was always a stickler with things like that. But the park belongs to you guys more than it does anyone else anyway. It’s always been the property of the kids and it’s almost sad that they haven’t added their own touches in the time since you all graduated. Maybe they’ve hidden their tags in different places. On the underside of the jungle gym written in sharpie, or the frame of the swing set etched into the creaking metal. 

After a while, the sound of sneakers scuffing on concrete pauses just long enough for a shadow to cut across your line of sight, eyes half closed as you rest your head on the table.  

“Don’t tell me you’re tired,” Eren teases. He somehow looks the same as you last saw him yet so much different. He’s bulkier and his hair is longer. He’s sweating, looking sticky as honey under the golden haze of the streetlights as he smiles down at you. 

“M’not tired.” It only sounds the slightest bit fatigued as you mumble the words into your folded arms, but you’re not. You slept in today and even when you woke up you only got out of bed sometime in the afternoon. You’re as well rested as can be, but longing is making you a bit lethargic. Something about a watched pot never boiling. Each minute has stretched to a small eternity as you stare up the ridge of the slight hill that flanks the park. The road is mostly invisible from where you’re sitting but you keep hoping you’ll see someone coming down the dirt path worn through the grass. Eren follows your eyes then kisses his teeth, pushing your shoulder as if to break you out of a daze. 

“If he shows, he shows. Don’t sit here waiting for him.” Eren at least has the sense not to sound pitying. It’s not like he’s had the smoothest relationship in the past four years either. He’s been on and off with half a dozen girls since graduation, never seeming to settle down with any one of them. Eren is lucky he’s easy to like because he’s never been hounded by any disgruntled ex and it gives you hope for your own past, but that candle you’ve been holding is burning lower and lower everyday. Soon it’ll hiss out in a puff of smoke and that’ll be that. Another door closed, another chapter ended. 

“C’mon, you’re not ’bout to spend the night over here looking sad. Come by my cheerleader while I break Kirstein’s ankles.” Eren has always been something like a brother. Older by a couple months, always pretending he was more mature and had all the answers. Usually he’s no more insightful than you, but he means well and tonight it’s a welcomed distraction. You sit at the edge of the court on one of those rickety benches that rocks and sags under your weight, hooting each time one of them scores just so Eren can huff about you “only cheering for him.” By the time they’ve played themselves out everyone has gathered at the edge of the court. 

Armin has settled between your legs, shoulders knocking into your knees as you card your fingers through his hair. It used to be longer. Back in middle school he had a thick mop of hair that matched Mikasa’s. They’ve both shorn off their hair to something more cropped and manageable now, still matching somehow. Historia is leaned up against your shoulder, half-asleep but perking up now that Sasha has started talking about food. Something about everyone coming over to theirs tomorrow for brunch. It’s getting late enough that getting up early is starting to sound like a chore but the promise of a home cooked meal courtesy of your favorite chef has you setting an alarm in your phone. Jean sinks one more shot from half court before wiping his face on his soiled shirt and agreeing to call it a night. 

Home is only a couple minutes away, the path lit by merging rings of light pouring down from the streetlamps. The pavement strewn with grass clippings is far less intimidating than walking around campus at night. Here you know house 13 is Ms. Emma’s and the blue car parked on the corner belongs to Mr. Leroy. There’s nothing haunting the streets but a stray cat that meows at you as you split off from Historia at the end of the block. She lives in the next neighborhood over–where the sidewalks aren’t as cracked and the houses not so weathered–and you watch her drive off until her tail lights disappear around a corner. Your phone pings as the group chat erupts with the obligatory “I’m home” texts. You send your own before turning in for the night, trying not to mull over the missing name in the text chain. 

Morning comes in shades of pink and electric buzzing as your phone vibrates through your alarm. It’s early or at least earlier than you’ve gotten up in a while, but Sasha is already up and texting, reminding everyone that food will be ready by noon. There’s a pang of nostalgia as you get ready in the bathroom that saw you through so many formative years. It smells like your Momma now that you’ve spent so long living in dorms instead of at home. Her perfume and hair products, the sweet smell of vanilla and cocoa butter that clings to nearly every room of the house. Even your own perfume mimics the comforting scent as you spritz yourself in a generous cloud before stepping out for the day. 

A pair of sunglasses sits low on the bridge of your nose as you make the drive to Sasha’s new apartment. She moved out soon after she finished culinary school. A modest apartment that isn’t too far from the restaurant she works at. It’s humble but it’s hers, and you’re proud to see how well life has been treating her. A notification from Sasha pops up as you check your lipgloss at a stop light, asking you to run to the store for her. Something about running out of eggs. Historia chimes in a moment later asking if any of the liquor stores are open so she can make mimosas. You turn right at the next light and bemoan the lack of cars in the parking lot of the grocery store. It’s not so early that no one’s on the road but you hate to be that person rolling up into the store before everyone’s settled into the work day. 

Just make it quick, you tell yourself as you pass through the doors. There’s an immediate gust of frigid air conditioning that raises goosebumps over your skin as you grab a basket. The store is nearly empty as you meander towards the dairy section. There’s a lady pondering over avocados as you pass through the produce. About as old as your Momma, though her hair is finely peppered with streaks of gray. There’s a vague familiarity to her that comes with growing up in the same place. She might’ve been your old daycare lady or a secretary at your elementary school. You push your sunglasses a bit higher on your face, trying to hide behind the wide lens. It’s too early to navigate through a half recalled stroll down memory lane. She barely glances up as you pass, but you still take a sudden interest in the speckled pattern of the tiled floor, skirting past a display of tomatoes until you can dip around a corner. Halfway down the line of aisles you see an old classmate working the seafood counter. There’s a moment of hesitation before he nods at you and you return the gesture hoping that will be the last of the familiar faces you see until you get to Sasha’s place. 

By the time you make it to the self checkout you’ve only seen three more people in the relatively large store. No one that you knew, luckily. The scanner happily chirps to not forget your receipt as you tuck the eggs into your reusable bag, the motion interrupted as you hear a familiar song ghosting past your ears. It’s quiet, muffled, sounding like you’re only hearing it from a distance. It draws your eyes despite the machine reminding you to remove all items from the bagging area. There’s no one behind you to stir up a fuss about you lingering too long at the register, half lost in a memory. In fact the only other person in the self checkout area is a man that looks devastatingly familiar. Even with his back towards you, you could pick Connie out of the biggest crowd. His hair is a bit longer now, grown out of his militaristic buzz cut, and his shoulders have gotten broader since you last saw him, but it’s him. 

The music is coming from him, of course. A relic from a bygone era of your life, a song older than either of you that his mother used to play. A comforting sound from those awkward years of middle school. It’s faint but you can hear the soulful belting of the love song even from a distance. It sends you back to the time when you first met Connie. He’d been on the fringes of your life throughout childhood. That friend of a friend that you’d never formally met until your sixth grade English class when he was sitting next to you and cheating off your answers. It took a few months before you realized he was an ESL student and suddenly cheating wasn’t the worst thing in the world. 

The register chirps at you to pick up your groceries and grab your receipt and you nearly drop your bag and break your eggs in your rush to leave. Connie glances up from his own scanning at the sound of the commotion. It’s only a cursory glance from the corner of his eye but you see the recognition spark immediately. His whole body goes rigid, suddenly lined with tension at the mere sight of you. It’s too early for this kind of confrontation. Four years suddenly seeming too soon to see him again. You’re halfway to your car before you consider that he might not have recognized you. You try to rationalize that he could’ve just been bothered by some random woman staring him down while he’s trying to get groceries. It makes the lack of any notifications on your phone make more sense. The Connie you knew would’ve been texting you, then calling if you didn’t answer quick enough for his liking. He wouldn’t have let you walk away from him so easily. But, after so long, the Connie you knew only exists in memories. Like the song you only remember as a melody, no true words, just sounds and a feeling. 

It’s so strange how a day can sour so quickly. The bubbling happiness of getting to see your old friends has dissipated to a rueful melancholy. You get to see every friend but one. 

Masking your upset is easy when you can blame your lack of enthusiasm on the early hour despite having gotten more than enough sleep. Sasha puts you to work anyway, nudging you towards one end of the counter with a bowl and instructions to scramble the eggs. There’s a debate between Jean and Armin over adding milk to the mix, then Historia starts another over how much cheese qualifies as too much. Sasha bats all their hands away with a spatula, tossing in more cheese with a petty grin as you lament that you’re just following the chef’s instructions. You find yourself humming the song Connie had been playing as you cook, struggling to remember the words in Spanish. 

If anyone notices your overindulgence in the mimosas, they don’t question it. Historia seems happy to play mixologist as she measures out generous amounts of champagne colored with a splash of orange juice. By the fourth glass you’re feeling fuzzy and warm, like floating in a sun-dappled cloud. Mikasa’s shoulder is a nice place to rest as you drift in and out of the movie Armin put on. Some long, pondering art house film that you’re sure wouldn’t have been any easier to understand if you hadn’t only been half conscious through the whole runtime. The morning tastes like maple syrup and melted cheese. Sweet and savory as you try to ignore the soured note of your shopping trip. You try to imagine what might’ve happened if you hadn’t tucked tail and ran, then decide it was better that you had left in such a hurry. Connie had seen you but he decided to go back to what he’d been doing, ignoring you as if you were a stranger.

By the tail end of the second movie you’re sobering up and thinking of an excuse to duck out early. Sasha is back to banging around in the kitchen, cooking a late lunch, or maybe an early dinner, but you don’t have the energy to pretend to be upbeat for much longer. It isn’t quite sadness. That already came and went years ago. But it’s a strange aching like an old injury flaring up with the rain. Some time to yourself will help clear your head as you obsess over every second of the momentary interaction. Had that been a frown at the corner of his mouth or was it simply a trick of the light? Had he even considered following after you or was he glad to watch you go? The alcohol had dampened the anxiety but with each sobered moment it came roaring back to the forefront with a vicious ferocity. 

You make up some excuse about cleaning the house before your Momma gets home from her weekend getaway, ducking out of Sasha’s apartment to a chorus of disapproving whines. There’ll be other days together. You’re staying at home for at least another week and you weren’t moving so far that visits would be out of the question. Fifteen minutes was barely a drive at all, just a quick shot up the road from the high rise you’d closed on. They’ll be able to suffer one evening without you while you get yourself in order. 

Connie is all you can think about as you drive home. Him and the way he’d looked at you in the store. Like you were a ghost, a memory meant to be forgotten. And really, you have no right to be mad because isn’t that what you’d done to him? You’re strangers now. Hadn’t talked in years. What would you even say if you did? You consider the park as you drive past, but the sky has turned a steely gray and you’re not feeling like getting rained on in the name of nostalgia. It smells like lawn clippings and petrichor when you get out of the car. It’s still warm despite the storm clouds, a sticky sort of heat that ruins hair and melts makeup. The first crash of thunder comes rolling through as you lock your car, and you nearly unlock it just as fast when you notice someone sitting on your front step. 

The porch is outfitted with a cute set of chairs your Momma got from a yard sale a while back but Connie has decided to sit on the steps. He looks up at the sound of your approach and you try not to notice the way the hazel color of his eyes have shifted with the weather. They’re pulling more brown than green in the muted light of the storm as he watches you stomp past him. You hear him scrambling to follow after you even over the jangling of your keys as you rush to unlock the front door. But the porch is small and he’s already there by the time the deadbolt clicks out of the way. The weight of the screen door lifts from your back and the cold glass is replaced with the warmth of his breath skirting over the nape of your neck. It’s the closest you’ve been in years, too close to slam the door on him as he follows close behind you. He shuts the door like he lives here, locking it behind him with a sort of finality. There’s still the back door for you to escape out of and you’ve hopped enough fences to circumvent the enclosure of the backyard, but you aren’t about to let this man run you out of your own home. 

There’d been a draining sort of grief settled over you before but now it’s turned to boiling anger. He’s always been a bit desperate for your attention, though he looks a bit confused to be standing in front of you now. His eyes glance around the front room, taking in every detail as if he wanted to commit it to memory. It had been so long since he’d last been in your Momma’s house and you imagine it felt like wiping clean a window to allow the light through, the haze of dirt and lost memories removed as he breathed deep a smell that must’ve lingered in the back of his mind the same way the scent of his cologne lingered in yours. There’s an awkwardness to him that sits far too foreign on his large frame. His hands are shoved into his pockets, deep enough that they’re pulled just low enough for a peek of elastic to poke out over the waistband. You try not to focus on the strip of skin showing above the band of his underwear. If you look too long you’ll get lost in your head and you can’t let nostalgia cloud your judgment when he’s standing in the middle of your Momma’s living room uninvited, looking so fondly at the pictures of you she has framed on the wall. 

Connie seems to know you’re about to speak before the words even leave your mouth because his hand catches your chin. He tilts your head up to look at him as his thumb brushes over your lips, smearing your lip gloss just as soon as your lips part. 

“Not yet, baby,” he says and you can tell he talked to his mom recently. He’s got that little twang to his voice that he gets after speaking Spanish for an extended amount of time, the accent he outgrew somewhere in middle school slowly creeping back into his voice. You hate that you recognize it. That you wonder what he said to his mom, if he mentioned you. She used to keep a picture of the two of you in her wallet. The same picture your Momma still has framed somewhere. She took it down years ago when you’d come home in the middle of the semester with tears in your eyes, babbling about breaking up with Connie. But she never got rid of it, she said you’d regret it someday. Now, you were slowly starting to understand her insistence on preserving the sweet memory. 

The two of you were laid up on a couch, squished together even though you were small enough that there was more than enough space to spread out a bit more. One of your arms is tucked under your head while the other is laid over Connie’s back as he drools on your chest, leaving a wet spot on your shirt. You can still remember the sights and smells of that day. It was the first time you’d been invited to one of his family gatherings. 

His cousins had loved you, prattling on in a quick rush of Spanglish that you tried your best to follow as his mom kept handing you plates of food. Connie stuck close to your side the whole day, translating the slang that you missed and stealing your food when he got hungry. 

So many of your memories with him were so precious. It seems almost impossible that it had all come crumbling down so quickly. All it took was one phone call for your world to come crashing down because he couldn’t even give you the respect of doing it face to face. Maybe because he knew he wouldn’t go through with it if he could see your teary eyes. He always hated seeing you cry. Even just a pout would have him jumping to fix the problem. Any problem but your broken heart. You almost want to push him away as he leans his head against yours but it feels so good to be in his arms again. Almost like nothing has changed. But it has, and you aren’t about to let him pretend like it hasn’t. 

“Not yet.” He says again and this time he kisses you, stealing the words out of your mouth. It isn’t the kind of kiss you’d been expecting, though you truly hadn’t been expecting one at all. It’s deep and searching as if he’s trying to pour every kiss he’d missed giving you in the last few years into one. It feels like drowning and breathing all at once. As if you hadn’t realized you were starving until he gave you food and told you to eat. He tastes sweet, like cake. 

“You can be angry,” he promises between breathless kisses. “Later, you can be angry. But right now, let me pretend I never let you go.” But he had, and it hurt, and you are angry. Yet your hands are pulling him closer. 

“Not here.” He says between kisses, urging you towards the hallway. He remembers which door is yours–second on the left–even after so many years away. It’s damning how well Connie knows his way around your childhood home. He’s spent countless hours within these walls the same as you. It was like a second home for him. Now it’s like he never left as he guides you towards your bed. It isn’t the luxurious queen size you ordered for your new apartment, just a modest double that was just big enough for the two of you. Usually with room to spare because Connie never did like to sleep on his side of the bed. He doesn’t make an attempt at taking up any space after he sits you on the edge of the mattress, retreating towards the door as if he’s suddenly scared to be this close to you. 

It’s a mutual feeling, the excitement and hesitance. It’s like being lethargic and hyper all at once, locked in some shuddering equilibrium that will go off kilter the moment one of you makes a wrong move. So Connie stays pressed up against your door, hands back in his pockets like that’ll be enough to keep his hands off you after he’s already got the taste of you on his lips. He never was one to be satisfied with just a kiss. 

There’s nothing hiding his eagerness as you catch the shape of his dick pressing through the gray fabric of his sweatpants clear as day. The sight is enough to lead you down a well-worn path. It’s easy to go along with his wish, to pretend he never left, when you’re surrounded by the familiarity of the past. It’s like you’re eighteen again, watching Connie fight back tears as you tell him you’re leaving for college. It was the beginning of the end yet you can’t find it in yourself to regret it. College had been the right choice and you’re not sure what your Momma would’ve done if you told her you weren’t going to your first choice school just to stay close to a boy. Even if that boy was Connie. But that doesn’t matter right now. Later, he said, you can be mad at him later. Right now you want to forget all the lost years and unspoken emotions standing between you. 

There’s a bashful hesitance as you shrug off your shirt, trying not to think of how long it’s been since he last saw you like this. You look different, surely, but Connie doesn’t seem perturbed. His mouth falls open as if he hadn’t expected it to be that easy to get you undressed. Of course you should be a little less forgiving, more steadfast in your anger, but that can all come later. For now, you’re nearly tripping over your feet to get your pants off. Connie stays pressed up against your door, hands solidly in his pockets, but his eyes are greedy as they rove over your undressed form. Light eyes drag down your body, taking in the way your bra strap slips off the curve of your shoulder and your panties are slung low around your hips. It’s mismatched, nothing special, but Connie licks his lips and bites back a smile. 

“Show me.” He sounds breathless. “Show me what I’ve been missing, baby.” There’s a soft thud as he head falls back against the door. His eyes are half lidded, lashes fluttering as his eyes take in your state of undress. The slight gravel to his voice has your knees knocking and cheeks warming, and suddenly you don’t feel as confident as you did a minute ago. Connie smirks, a soft laugh falling from his lips. “Don’t be shy now, baby. Lemme see.” 

There’s an awkward tremor to your hands as you slide your panties off, thighs closing as soon as you kick them off your ankle. Connie clocks you immediately, sucking his teeth at your coy behavior. 

“Uh uh, mama. Spread your legs. Lemme see.” There’s something so familiar in his voice, that slow drawl as he looks down at you, that has your body reacting before you can think. Your legs slide open and Connie groans. “There she is. So pretty, baby.” 

He finally pushes off the door to come closer and the sight of him rushes over you like deja vu. It eases your nerves, the familiarity of it all. It’s been a while but not so long that your bodies have forgotten each other. Connie fits between your legs the same as he always did. Falling to his knees the instant he’s close enough to touch. His hands slide up the inside of your thighs, pushing your legs farther open, before dipping over the curve of your hips to pull you to the edge of the bed. 

“Missed this,” Connie says as he buries his face between your legs. “Missed you.” The words are spelled out with his tongue as he laps at the wet heat hidden between your thighs. His short hair still prickles against the palm of your hand as you look for something to ground you as he takes his time to reacquaint himself with your body. He’s mumbling a litany of English and Spanish that hums against your clit as he sucks the sensitive bud between his lips, tracing the shape of his name like he never left. The way he’s gripping your thighs, tight enough that his fingers are leaving dimples in the soft flesh, it feels like he wishes he hadn’t left. 

There’s regret and possession radiating from him as he eats you like a man starved. He catches you watching him as your nails scratch at his scalp, hazel eyes sparkling up at you as you squirm on his tongue. He’s looking at you like you’ve hung all the stars in the sky as you cum. He groans loud and long, eyes rolling as your legs try to snap shut. He lets you, loosening his grip on your thighs just enough to feel your legs lock around his head. Connie has the nerve to look perfectly happy to suffer the suffocation as he keeps sucking at your clit. It’s not until you’re pushing him away, whining about “too much,” that he comes up for air. He’s got a dopey smile on his face, your slick shining on his cheeks and chin. He licks his lips and kisses the inside of your thigh, leaving a shiny, heart-shaped mark. He does it again and again, a trail tracing up your stomach before he buries his face against your chest, tongue tracing hot shapes across the pebbled peaks of your nipples. He’s mumbling something, low and barely coherent as he sucks marks into the plush skin of your breasts. 

“–me.” It’s a slurred mess on his clumsy lips, his attention divided between spouting his little mantra and tracing the shape of his name against your collarbone with the tip of his tongue. “Only me.” He says it over and over. Only me, only me, only me…

“Tell me, baby,” he says, suddenly crowding over you. He’s pushed you up the bed so your head is resting on your mountain of silk-covered pillow. “Tell me it’s only gonna be me.” His voice, usually deep and dulcet, has risen to an almost whimpering tone as he blocks everything but himself from your vision. The bulk of his arms crowds your periphery, keeps your head from moving as he sits nearly nose to nose with you. He’s close enough that you can reacquaint yourself with the pattern of his hazel eyes, easily parsing which flecks are green and which are brown. “Tell me.” 

There’s still a shy hesitance as you thread your arms around his neck, but it’s less about the sudden proximity and more about the sudden outpour of emotion shaking itself awake, like frost melting in the sunlight. Connie has always been familiar even after so long apart, but the emotions he dredges up have been buried beneath years of hurt and the intensity of it all bursting through the wall you’ve carefully built around your heart is almost enough to drown you. Tears come unbidden, burning at your lash line and threatening to make your mascara run. 

“It’s always been you,” you promise him. “It’s only ever gonna be you.” It wipes the slate clean. Anyone you’d been with, anyone he’d been with, in the years of distance are wiped away with only a few words. They didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered but the two of you. Connie nearly drowns you in his next kiss, tongue dancing over yours as he groans into your mouth. You can taste yourself as he sucks at your tongue like he’s trying to reacquaint himself with every facet of your body. It’s a shared sentiment as your lips find that beauty mark at the edge of his jaw that you always pressed fluttering kisses to. He laughs, low and breathless, returning the favor as he finds all those favorite places he liked to put his lips. It’s soft and loving, staving off the inevitable as his dick ruts between your legs. Each thrust has his leaking tip pressing wet kisses against your clit, adding to the mess he’s already made between your legs. His hand is clumsy when he finally reaches between your bodies to guide himself home. 

“Fuck.” The word comes out as a languid drawl as he fills you to the hilt, reaching to hitch one of your thighs around his waist. Your body remembers the shape of his, bending and bowing with the practiced motions, but you can still feel the changes. Connie has bulked up since you last saw him and he was already a pillar of corded muscles the last time you’d touched him. You can feel the softer parts of your body pressing against the hard contours of his muscles as he wraps himself around you. His arms curl under your back, pulling you closer until your hearts are beating in tandem, chest to chest as he stretches you to your absolute limit on his dick. 

“Bésame,” Connie groans, nosing under your chin to lift your mouth to where he needs it. He hovers a hair’s breadth away from your lips, each panting breath mingled with yours. “Bésame, mami.” He says again and you realize he’s waiting for you to kiss him. You’re happy to close the gap he’s left, letting him swallow all the little noises you’re making. It’s reminiscent of the days before when you had to be quiet so your Momma could at least pretend she didn’t know what the two of you were doing behind closed doors. But she isn’t home now, so you’re free to make as much noise as he can draw out of you as he rocks his hips against yours. He isn’t going for speed. Instead Connie fills you with slow, deep strokes that stir up your insides and make you feel him in your stomach. It punches the air from your lungs, leaving you to breathlessly slur his name as your nails leave marks across the broad expanse of his shoulders. 

“That’s right, mami.” His teeth scrape against the shell of your ear. Each gruff sound slipping past his lips echoes in your head as he presses his nose against your temple. “Mark me up. Quiero ser tuyo.” 

“Tú eres mío.” You say, leaving sticky marks along his neck, lipgloss and spit shining between the beads of sweat. Connie groans as you nip at his pulse, hips stuttering as he pulls you impossibly closer. 

“Eres mía, mamita. Dilo, mami, dime.” He’s slurring his words, each one bleeding into the next as Connie fucks you into the mattress. You’re on the cusp of mindlessness as he reaches between your bodies to find your aching bud, nearly too far gone to understand what he’s saying. It’s only because it’s him, only because you’ve heard it a thousand times in what feels like another life, that you know what he wants to hear. 

“Soy tuyo,” you whine as he spells his name on your clit. “Soy tuyo, lo sabes!” 

“Yo sé, mamita.” His voice is damning. You can hear the smile in his tone as he grinds his hips in deep circles, drawing out the inevitable as you teeter on the cusp of a blinding orgasm. It burns low in your stomach, thrumming at the base of your spine as he kisses your fluttering eyelids. 

“Mírame.” He says, tone just short of begging. “Mírame cuando tu vienes.” When you open your eyes, all you can see is Connie. His half lidded eyes and parted lips as you cum with a choked cry of his name. He spits out a gruff “mierda” as your legs lock tight around his waist, keeping him locked in place as your body writhes underneath him. You can feel your muscles tensing, toes curling and back arching as pleasure sings through every inch of your body. You vaguely feel Connie’s fingers fumbling clumsily across your arm, pressing and squeezing like he’s looking for something. When he doesn’t find it, he sits up, lifting your body with him as he sits back on his knees. It draws forward the vague memory of when he used to poke at the little plastic bar in your arm; your birth control. It’s gone now, having run its course in the years since you’d last seen him. 

Still, you keep your legs locked tight around him. 

“Tu turno,” you pant, circling your hips until Connie reaches to hold you still. 

“No puedo, mami. Tienes que dejarme salir.” He says, patting your thighs where they’re still wrapped tight around his waist. It only makes you squeeze tighter and Connie groans, falling on top of you as you tighten around him. 

“Está bien, papi,” you whisper, rubbing soothingly at the marks you’ve left on his back as Connie nearly vibrates with how hard he’s trying to focus on not cumming inside you. Neither of you had been worried about protection before and you’re not worried about it now as you flex your legs, catching Connie by surprise as you roll the two of you over until you’re on top. 

“¿Lo quieres?” You ask, but his hands are already loosening, no longer holding you still. He paws at your thighs, nodding sheepishly like he isn’t sure if he’s truly allowed to want anything from you. He shouldn’t, not after what he did, but that’s a problem for later. All the anger and confusion can come after he does. 

“Dime,” you say just to tease him. It looks like he’s on the cusp of insanity, lips poured and eyes glassy as he stares up at you like you’re the only thing that matters to him.

“Te quiero!” He barely gets the first syllable out before you’re moving. Red lines appear on his flushed chest where your nails scrape for purchase against his muscles, pressing him into the bed as you bounce on his dick. Fatigue is creeping in, singing each stroke with the sting of overstimulation as the pleasure begins to burn away. But Connie’s close. You can tell by the way his vocabulary has shrunk to only a few desperate words, mainly your name, as his fingers dig into the bruises he already left on your thighs. 

“Hazme acabar,” Connie all but whines. “Estoy cerca.” He sits up suddenly, almost knocking you over as his arms wrap around your waist. He’s holding so tight that he nearly squeezes the air from your lungs as he cums with a hoarse shout of your name. It’s thick and graveled, resonating in your chest as he holds you against him. He’s gripping like you’re going to disappear the moment he lets go, looking at you like this’ll be the last time. Later, he kept saying. Later is now as you feel him spill inside you. 

“Lo siento,” he whispers against your lips as he steals a final kiss. It sounds more like a goodbye than an apology and the finality of it digs out the hollow that has been sitting in your chest all these years. When Connie pulls away it suddenly feels like no time has passed at all, like it’s the beginning of the end all over again. Later is now but the anger you felt before won’t come. Instead all you feel is desperation as you cling to him, sticky with sweat, as he lays you across the sheets and kisses your forehead. You can feel him trying to leave again. He carefully detangles himself even as you try to hold onto him, pressing deceptively sweet kisses to your lips as you whine for him to “please, stay.” It’s like he doesn’t hear you as he slips from the bed and pulls on his sweatpants. But when he leaves the room you don’t hear the telltale sound of the front door slamming. Instead, you trace the sound of his steps towards the bathroom, hear the faucet turn on. A few moments later, he’s back. 

“Don’t cry, baby,” he coos as he wipes away the mess he’s made of your body. “If you wanna be mad at me; be mad, but you know I can’t stand seeing my girl cry. No llores, mami.” He insists, wiping away the tears along with the sweat and cum slipping from between your legs. That had been an impulsive decision. One that will have to be dealt with eventually. Later, you think distantly. You can deal with that later. Right now you’re more worried about Connie. He sits sheepishly at the edge of your bed, offering his shirt for you to wear. It feels like a peace offering as you pull it over your head. It smells like him, it smells like home. You watch Connie fumble in his pockets until he pulls out a ring, one you recognize in an instant. 

It wasn’t one of those cheap Pandora princess rings that every girl in your grade got as a promise ring. It was something far more precious. You’d seen his mom wearing it for years before it suddenly appeared in the palm of his hand all those years ago when he asked you to be his forever. He hadn’t wanted to take it back when you broke up. Even as he broke his promise, he wanted you to keep the ring. It’s cold when he slides it back on to your finger, but it fits like it’s always been there, like these last few years had only been a few moments instead of a small eternity. It felt strange to let go of everything so easily. All the pain, all the anger. It shouldn’t be that easy but everything slides back into place as if it is. Everything is different now, yet still the same. You’re different, he’s different. But it reminds you of something your Momma said about distance making the heart grow fonder. She could never muster any trig anger towards Connie because she said this is what you needed. A brief interlude to become your own person after years of entwining yourself with Connie. Now you understand what she meant by all that. It’s too soon to tell if it’s worth it but you suppose you can worry about that later. 

[0v3rcast]

Gnaw (2)

(Warnings: same as the previous chapter, found here.)

One of the largest issues with going from a simulated Teyvat to an actualized Teyvat is the sheer size.

The bridge outside of Mondstadt, which takes the Traveler like fifteen seconds to cross in a sprint? That's a good two minutes of walking at the least.

The rest of Mondstadt is massive, too, of course, but it's absolutely gorgeous. Perfect grass, clear rivers and ponds, rather imposing cliffs...

Maybe the people are a little unfriendly, but hey! The land itself makes up for your now-in-the-negatives social life.

Besides, this much air and sunlight are probably a good thing. You aren't too hot, there isn't like half of a forest worth of pollen up your nose, the breeze is really nice, and nobody's come to try and maul you!

As far as sightseeing tours go, this ain't the best. But it'll do.

Plus, you're pretty sure that the theoretical tour guide probably wouldn't let you pull up all the dandelions you wanted and blow on them to make their seeds go everywhere.

There's a faint gnaw in the pit of your stomach. You've eaten some berries, a carrot you found in a crate, and another Sunsettia, but you just can't shake the feeling.

The best way your mind can think to describe it is that your teeth are dissatisfied. You didn't do enough with this meal. It just sorta happened.

Perhaps you're going insane.

(On a distant cliff, the wind brings your breathing to an Archon, who sets down his lyre and raises a bow.)

There is a faint whistle on the air, one you swear you've heard before. Then it hits you - the sound of an arrow!

By some instinct, you hurl yourself aside, slamming into the grass and dirt.

A brilliant arrow is lodged into the ground at an angle that would have firmly made itself at home in the back of your skull. Had you not just launched yourself aside, you would be dead.

And then you hear another whistle.

You scramble up onto your feet and take off in a dead sprint. Anemo-powered arrows narrowly miss you four times as you zig-zag and duck behind stones or trees.

...you think you know who this is, or at least have a damn good idea.

Venti. Barbatos. Tone-deaf bard. Alcoholic lyre dude. That one.

You curse him out under your breath. The arrows seem to be coming faster all of a sudden.

The next arrow doesn't come down with a whistle. It comes down with a scream. The Anemo-charged arrow, cloaked in a blade of wind, pierces your back and launches you through the woodlands with enough force to demolish trees like matchsticks.

You skid to a stop, a fine path of devastation and upturned soil behind you, and your head lolls up on a shattered neck to stare blankly into the sky as you slip away into darkness.

(Dendro hisses at the other elements, their vast roots curling in anger. "We should have kept them out until this was solved!"

The others say nothing. Talking will do little to protect you, and those who raise their hands against you must be punished.)

Barbatos has a nightmare that night, after killing the one who stole the face of the World-Shaper.

He has been torn from his false face, cast into the heart of a vast hurricane, the wind itself screaming in hatred and rage, every whisper now purely poisonous. Every failure mocked, every mistake repeatedly shoved into his face, and every sin accounted for.

The wind wails, slipstreams like claws raking across his elemental flesh, battering him as he's tossed from gust of wind to gust of wind.

(He is unaware that to any observer, it would look like he was a rather hated captive ball in the world's most esoteric pinball machine.)

A voice tears itself from the monstrous storm around him, echoing in the bone-shuddering blasts of thunder.

Vile little wisp! You would dare to raise a hand against the divine most holy, our maker?!

He doesn't understand, and any chance he'd have to think or speak is repeatedly knocked from his head as he crashes into walls of wind firm enough to be stone.

Immense pressure crushes down around him, stalling him in place as if grasped in the enormous hand of a titan, and he cries out at it squeezes.

He looks up as he tries in vain to wriggle and flee, and he sees. Every part of him freezes in horror.

I am Anemo. The embodiment of sky, of breath. I am the Taker of Voices.

He is brought closer to the core of light at the center of the apocalyptic current.

I had such hope for you. A God of Freedom, one who would see the oppressed liberated from their miseries! One who would cast the sadness and hatred from his people to the winds, where they would be forgotten!

One who would spread the laughter of the First Breath to all corners of this world.

One who would be their protector, hearing misfortune on the winds and striking down those who would spell disaster for us all with the wrath of a great storm.

But you have failed. You have taken up arms against the one you were made to cherish with hatred in your heart.

You have forgotten your own freedom. The freedom to think for yourself, to act without orders. To go against what is known down a new path.

He cries out as some kind of tether is cut from his body, ripped away into the vortex.

You are my Archon no more. I shall find one more suitable to the task.

Perhaps in time, the Maker will find you pitiable enough to reinstate you as my envoy to Teyvat.

Enjoy your freedom, Venti of Mondstadt.

He plummets, the wind abandoning him entirely. The ground opens, a ravenous maw, stones and bedrock ground down like sharp fangs, and he falls into a lightless darkness.

He wakes, screaming and sobbing in equal measure.

He cannot feel the wind. He cannot hear it.

At his side, the light of the false Vision gutters out, dimming until not even a spark of Anemo remains within.

(Within a frozen palace, the light of the Anemo Gnosis dulls, waiting for a host to be chosen anew.)

consciousness returns to you in bits and pieces, your entire body an immense ache. Your joints are so sore you can barely move them without feeling the urge to weep.

Your nose is filled with the scent of the ocean. You can hear waves, and ever so faintly, the calls of birds. You feel safer here, somehow, as though this place is devoid of other intelligent beings.

Your eyes close again, body exhausted and unable to resist the siren call of unconsciousness in a space without threats.

On your back is a new scar, a spiral of gold starting between your shoulderblades and reaching out towards your ribs.

(Gnaw Taglist:

@the-dumber-scaramouche @iruiji @itz-luna @itsredactedlove @thatdeadaquarius @ssak-i @imyme20 @crierofirony

Thank you all very much for your interest.)

[gotstabbedbyapen]

🎄 Epic The Musical Secret Santa 🎄

Dear @salty-lemonss,

I’ve been chosen to be your Epic The Musical Secret Santa! Although I don't know what you like exactly in your gift, I hope you’ll still enjoy this short story. I wish you an awesome holiday!

Take care and Merry Christmas,

Your Secret Santa - The Pen

You can’t return what the wind gave

The howls of rising winds distorted Odysseus’ guttural scream as it echoed from one end of the ship, but his cry of despair could not undo what had been done.

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer!”

“Never really know who you can trust.”

“Never really know who you can trust.”

The sailors that surrounded the opened bag just now were knocked back like ragdolls, their eyes widened in shock as a violent swirl of dark clouds erupted from the container like an unstoppable force unleashed upon the sea and cast a grim shadow over the vessel with a crack of thunder. A storm had coalesced.

“Full speed ahead!”

Amidst the yelling thrown back and forth among the sailors rose the jiggles of laughter as if the horror and huddle entertained them. Little creatures of soft, gray fur swarmed the ship like the blown-away fluffs of a dandelion, dancing merrily in circles and carrying flows of cold, salty mist with them. The winions had come to witness the satirical comedy of men’s greed.

“Let’s see how you escape!”

Their sing-laughs filled the air as they dove between the masts. One sailor yelped as a winion tugged at his hair, loosening his headband and causing it to fall off and obscure his eyes, almost leading him to tumble off the deck. Another angrily flailed at the wind creatures when they darted around him, only for them to snatch the rope he was holding, swiftly knot its length into a snake-like bundle, and toss the tangled mess back at him like a sick joke.

Despite all their effort to adjust the ship’s direction, it seemed to be pushed further and further away from the homeland island, and the crew could only watch it drift out of reach. Odysseus was still straining his throat trying to instruct his men to pull the sail, but he couldn’t focus on the task when another flurry of winions dashed around their next chosen target. Enraged at their meddling, the Ithacan king snapped to the side and grabbed one of them as it sped by, yet his hands only enclosed a thin wisp of vapor as the winion dissipated as soon as he blinked.

The winions gathered in a larger swarm amongst the sky to jeer on the battered crew and the captain who had made a fool of himself. A drenched Odysseus glared up at the wind creatures with clenching fists, only to release them in pure shock to see a familiar emergence between the fluffy hoard.

Adorned in a single-shouldered jumpsuit with glowing turquoise outlines that stood out among the roaring darkness of the stormy wind, jovial Aeolus sat as an amused spectator enjoying the tribulation show below with their characteristic smirk.

Odysseus scrambled to the side of his ship, almost begging the deity, “Where’s the storm taking us?”

“I said to keep the bag closed, but you weren’t compliant,” Aeolus cackled. They put a finger on their cheek and bobbled their head left and right, “If I had to guess?”

The playfulness soon morphed into a menacing grin with bared teeth as the master of winds and their winions launched forward with their hands pushing onto the deck and declared at the constricting eyes of the rain-soaked mortal man, “You're heading to the Land of the Giants!”

Upon their final words like a taunting bid of farewell, the divinities vanished as abruptly as they came, leaving the fleet of twelve ships at the mercy of the crashing waves with no sign of quelling.

[vecnuthy]

to taming demons

@eddiemonth day 4: lost | wc: 680 | G | cw: hurt/comfort, established relationship, depressive episode/social drain/mental low

"You're being quiet."

Their cat Dio raised his head and blinked up at Steve, then stretched all along Eddie's thigh, while Eddie just continued to sit there on the couch, letting Steve's remark go unacknowledged.

The observation wasn't a critique, it wasn't malicious.

It was so soft, meant to light on Eddie's ears like a wisp, and shake down his walls that, honestly, felt as if they were currently made up of dandelion seeds. One wrong breath of air, and he could crumble into the pile of nothing that he could feel trying to pull him in and trap him.

His place on their couch was familiar, as was the press of their cat Dio. His brain told him to respond to Steve's comment in some way, but Eddie couldn't bring himself to move, couldn't prize his jaws apart and coax air past tongue and teeth. He couldn't move his lips to form words.

He just continued to stare a hole in the spot on the rug with his point of unfocus chosen out of convenience and happenstance.

But then, Steve touched him.

His knuckles were soft in the gentle drag across Eddie's cheek with barely-there contact that made Eddie's insides burn and his chest squeeze. Eddie clenched his jaw and felt the muscles flex as he tried to will away the sting of tears in his eyes.

He had never been good at this.

Never been good at facing his feelings headon for what they were. He just knew he felt after not feeling, then became numb after feeling so much. But right now, all he felt was Steve. But that was all he wanted.

He felt Steve's weight settle on the couch cushion as he sat down so close to Eddie that he was almost ontop of him. Even from Steve's sideways position with a leg tucked under him, warmth radiated from Steve and soaked into Eddie's side, making him tucked between his two favorite beings.

Eddie felt Steve shift when he placed his hand on his thigh, palm on display as a offering. And invitation. It was Eddie's choice.

Eddie wanted.

Eddie always wanted, but this was difficult for no good reason other than the fact that it just was.

But this was Steve - the closest person that Eddie had ever had, who met him step for step and pushed when necessary, but knew when grace was due. He sheltered when Eddie was shaken and cradled when Eddie felt broken. It wasn't always easy, but they were always together, even as unmoored as Eddie felt.

Eddie didn't have to be afraid of this, but it terrified him. Steve terrified him constantly, left him overwhelmed and sun soaked in the glow of his affection, but he needed that glow. He needed to acknowledge that the loneliness ungulfing him was weak enough to break through.

He needed to be reminded. To feel.

Eddie felt his jaw clench again, then he somehow dredged up the energy to slip his fingers through Steve's. The warmth from his skin leeched into Eddie's palm like a spray of color exploding into the grey, and he breathed deeply and relaxed a fraction, enough to flow with how Steve guided Eddie's head to face him.

"There you are," Steve breathed out with a little smile that Eddie swore could heal the sick and source world peace. It was already working those little miracles on him now.

Eddie watched as Steve took him in, eyes caressing his features with a level of emotion that was almost tangible, and Eddie craved. He knew that was what he needed. Touch grounded him when he was like this, but he could be reluctant to give into it at times.

But Steve's hold on his hand was so divine.

There was no resistance when Steve pulled him close. He just tucked his head into Steve's neck, breathed in love and acceptance then breathed out doubt and old demons until the only thing left was Steve's hand in his hair and their clasped hands wrapped around his waist.

And Eddie breathed.

[byhimawari]

“Home”

(a RivaMika drabble)

“Make a wish, papa!”

Extended out to him is a little hand holding out a dandelion, the pappus fully bloomed into its puffball nature, loose bristles floating away in the soft spring breeze, a beautiful and carefree sight, just like the bundle of joy that holds it.

She smiles her mother’s smile, an excited glimmer in her eyes that compliments the rosiness of her cheeks, warm and damp from all her frolicking in the vast green fields before them. The young girl tip toes between her father’s legs trying to bring the flower closer to his lips, urging him as she pouts.

“Papa, hurry before the wind blows it away!”

Levi chuckles softly and leans forward to blow gently on the dandelion, the wisps dancing in the air and eliciting chime-like giggles from his daughter’s lips.

“What did you wish for?” She asks excitedly, her curious eyes glistening with so much wonder.

“I can’t tell you, princess,” he wipes some dirt and sweat off her face with his handkerchief, “Otherwise, it won’t come true.”

A long whine escapes her, “Aww, I promise I won’t tell anyone —!”

“Mama, for you!” calls another sweet voice belonging to that of a young boy who comes running back to them from the fields.

Hugging and puffing with a proud and contagious grin on his face arrives the boy, handing his mother a bundle of flowers he had picked from the field himself; excitedly so it appears, as the roots are still intact. Mikasa smiles warmly, stroking his cheek tenderly as she affects his gift.

“It’s beautiful, my love,” she says, her voice soothing and kind, “Thank you so much.”

“I want to get flower for mama, too!” exclaims their pouty daughter in envy.

“Both of you go and gather some more flowers for your mother, then. Let’s see who can get her the most.”

There’s a hint of mischief in Levi’s tone, as he knows just how they will react because, well, they’re his children after all, and if there’s something that they both inherited from him and his wife, it’s their competitive spirit.

“Okay!” Both children chirp before racing off, fusses of who is faster fading into the distance.

Mikasa lets out an exasperated sigh, nudging her husband playfully, “Must you always instigate them?”

“I’m merely giving them more creative ways to bond as siblings,” Levi replies cooly, though with a smug grin pulling at the corner of his lips, “You can’t fault me for that.”

Mikasa could only laugh quietly in defeat, “No, I suppose I can’t.”

“Plus, you deserve more flowers than that,” Levi face softens as he turns to her with that reserved smile of his, taking and stroking her hand comfortingly with his thumb in the pattern she likes, “You deserve a flower field that never ends.”

The glisten in Mikasa’s eyes as she smiles back with a grateful gaze is a reply worth a thousands words. She snuggles in closer to Levi and he instinctively wraps his arm around her shoulder, making the wooden bench they sit upon swing lightly back and forth. Both let out a breath of contentment as they watch their children run and play, chasing one another with flowers in their hands.

The sight warms up Mikasa’s heart like a wonderful dream, except much greater, because it’s no longer just a world built on desperate hope and delusion, but instead a reality — a world where a mother and father can watch their children play freely without the fear of monsters emerging from the woods, a world where the sea is just the sea, and a world where, at long last, 'home’ is definite, always there, always waiting for her, never wavering.

Because home is them.

“Make a wish, Papa!”

“Mama, for you!”

“You deserve a flower field that never ends.”

It will always be them.

Their children’s laughter fills the air as they blow more dandelions into the sky, and its in the very moment she sees them close their eyes to make a wish, when Mikasa finally admits that perhaps, the world isn’t so cruel after all.

"What do you think how life will be if we didn't end up together?" **

Levi smiles and brings Mikasa's hand to his mouth. He kisses their wedding band that is wrapped around her finger. **

"I suppose that's the best part," he says. "We'll never know." **

fin.

————

** = lines written by lovely and beyond talented wife @cryinginthebackseat, whom inspired me to write this drabble from just her snippet alone! I love you! ❤️

[deadkraker]

A Whisper from a Dreamer

I wonder if every dandelion I have sent through the wind whispered how I still long for a warm embrace. And so I begged my friendly, fragile friends once more. These  little wisps of white. Please murmur my wishes to the breeze. My song of love,  my dream of peace.

Dandelion

I saw one dandelion in a field of frost. It wasn’t dead, alive of course. I didn’t pluck it from the ground Or even make wishes to benefit from this astonishment.

And if you can survive Keep turning heads. Keep removing stress. Keep making everyone’s life get better when there’s a trace of you. You might be scared at times But I’m right here. Oh, I’m right here by your side.

You don’t have to cry, dandelion.

This is Perseverance

I live for dandelions That bloom between the cracks Blinding strikes of happiness Thriving in desecration

Have you ever seen a field of them? Reclaiming where they may It nary ceases to amaze They always seem to say:

“Life continues”

three c!tommy-core poems i found while scowering the internet

I'm glad you agree that ctommy should be associated with dandelions.

also 'life continues.' is CRAAZYY. MY GOD. like that is SO HIM UR SO RIGHT. he persists despite everything, because life continues to go on and the earth doesn't stop spinning, and that is scary and sad but it is also hopeful, no matter what happens the world will give him time to pick himself up and try again.

'making everyone’s life get better when there’s a trace of you' is also a good one, ctommy has always been one to leave a mark on everyone and everything around him, everything he has touched holds whispers of him and the land he walks remembers him and so do the people, good or bad he is impossible to completely erase from the memory.

[thecinderninja]

For the ask meme, 🩹 for Venti? Do with that what you will >:)

On Ao3 as The_Cinderninja

The wind played softly with Venti's hair as he sat in the open hands of the statue of Barbatos, high above Mondstadt. From this height, he could see the entirety of the city. It was a view he had witnessed countless times, yet it never lost its charm. Today, however, it didn’t bring a smile to his face.

He’d lost track of time since the Traveller left. They did sit with him for longer than expected, but eventually they seemed to realize the only thing he really needed at the moment was some time alone.

His thoughts were a tangled mess, and he wasn’t sure he had the energy to try and sort through them. Venti, the bard. Venti, the Anemo Archon. Venti, Venti… 

Was at war with himself. 

He lifted his gaze to the sky, letting his mind drift. He tried to summon the familiar sense of peace that the open sky usually provided, but it eluded him. He felt too heavy to grasp at clouds. Looking inwards felt like climbing the steps into a forgotten attic, creaking with misuse, and dusting off the spiderwebs that clung to everything.

Who am I? 

That was the question that had been repeating for the past few hours. The question he usually managed to brush off with a laugh, with a bottle of dandelion wine, with the view of his city, with a strum of his lyre.

Venti the bard. Venti the Anemo Archon.

Those were both answers.

(So why weren’t they satisfying?)

Centuries ago now, (millenia), Venti had taken on the form of a young bard - a mortal whose life had been snuffed out far too soon. (But he had been mortal all along, hadn't he).

That bard had been a friend, a companion, someone Venti admired deeply. In those days, he had been a breeze, a whisper among the reeds, a formless spirit. 

The bard had shaped him into something tangible, something more than an elemental wisp.

But now, all that remained were fragmented memories, echoes of a life that wasn't truly his. The bard was gone, and Venti was left behind; a shadow cast by a flame long extinguished. He was a reflection. An antique mirror, capturing the likeness of someone who no longer existed. 

He tried to remember the bard's face, the sound of his voice, the songs they had sung together. But the memories were hazy, like trying to grasp mist. He couldn't recall the bard's mannerisms, his thoughts, his dreams. 

The essence of the bard had been stretched too thin, leaving only the faintest traces behind. 

Venti's identity was a patchwork of those traces, stitched together haphazardly. He had built his entire sense of self on a script he had lost. He played the role of the bard, a role whose lines were forgotten centuries ago.

What would the bard think if he could see him now? Would he be proud of him? Would he be happy for him? Would he be offended at Venti's misuse of his image, a misrepresentation of him? Twisting his original ideals into something unrecognisable?

Would he hate Venti for the things he had done while wearing his face?

He imagined the bard standing before him, looking at him with those earnest eyes, filled with a fire that Venti could never hope to match. The bard had been passionate, a force for change, fighting every day of his life. Venti... Venti was complacent and fearful.

Would the bard find it pathetic, how Venti never gained true freedom, but stopped fighting nonetheless?

If he stood before him, what would he say? Would he see Venti as a coward, hiding behind a mask, unable to step out of the shadows?

He didn't know. He couldn't know. And that uncertainty crawled under his skin, skin that didn’t even belong to him, a constant reminder of his incomplete existence.

What would the bard do? 

Venti knew the answer deep down - the bard would act. He would stand up, fight, strive. The bard had a fire that Venti lacked, a determination that seemed out of reach. The bard would risk everything.

Venti had too much that he could not risk.

So what was he? A poor imitation, play-acting a role he was ill-suited for. Yet it was the only thing he knew, and he was afraid to give it up. Without the bard's guise, without his memories, what would remain? Just the wind, aimless and formless as it had been before it met him.

The sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the city. Venti watched as the shadows lengthened, feeling kinship with them. He was a shadow too, a fleeting shape cast by a much brighter light that no longer shone.

As the stars began to dot the sky, he felt a kinship to them too. A light still shining while all those who admired it remained oblivious that it had been dead, dimmed, consumed and put out for years. An illusion. A false pretence. Nothing about them was real, not any more than Venti himself.

He took out his lyre and strummed a soft, melancholic tune. Was music even his own? Yes. That much he was sure of. Perhaps he had once learned it from his friend, but that was one thing at least he had made his own. One thing which he loved for the sake of it. The notes floated on the wind, one half of a duet, a call without an answer.

For just a moment, he allowed himself to grieve. He let the tears fall, hidden by the night, and sang for an audience of false stars and those who were long dead, imagining that his words would still reach them after enough years had passed to carry the tune.

As he let himself observe his own thoughts, as he dusted off the boxes in the attic of his mind and decompartmentalized himself for the sake of finding an answer, this was what he discovered;

He wanted to live. 

He loved living. He loved humans, he loved Mondstadt, and he loved being alive. The joy he found in the simple pleasures of life, the laughter of children, the camaraderie of friends, the beauty of a sunset—these were things he cherished deeply. These were things which were real.

These were things which belonged to him.

They were not borrowed or stolen or worn as a costume.

He didn't know how to live as his own person. He didn't know how to step out from under the bard's shadow. The idea scared him. It was daunting to think of forging a new identity after nearly 3000 years.

But did he really need to? 

His contentment was not, on the whole, false. 

Perhaps the bard would be ashamed of what he had become, but Venti wanted to live. And if this was the only way he could do it, then this was how he'd do it. He would rather live as a faded reflection than face the terrifying prospect of finding his own identity. If clinging to the bard's image was the only way he could continue to experience the world he loved, then that was the path he would take.

For the love of life, for the love of Mondstadt, and for the love of the fleeting, precious moments that made existence worthwhile, he would continue his masquerade.

In the end, even a shadow had a place in the world.

[amygdalae]

Gizmo is just a haunted doll. A used tissue. A dust bunny. A mildewy teddy bear. A ghost child. A dandelion tuft. A decrepit little wisp

[boimgfrog]

I get why you people love Kim kitsuragi so much he's so wise and beautiful he's like a wisp of dandelion

[sidekickjoey]

"Hi Chrissy."

Sitting in the cool grass in Hawkins Memorial Cemetery, Eddie watches quietly as the sun shines down on the stone before him. Radiant is the only word that comes to mind as it glistens and stands tall. Then again, no better word could've described Chrissy Cunningham when she was on this Earth, or her smile. It's fitting it would also apply to her grave.

He picks a nearby dandelion and rests it at the base of the stone, just below an engraving of a sunflower - her favorite, he's learned. A few of the fluffy white seeds float up and wisp around the carved petals, giving it life. Motion. It makes Eddie smile.

"I'm sorry I've been sorta' shit about visiting ya'," he says after a moment, a shy little drawl to his voice making him sound quite endearing. Forgivable. "Wayne and I just moved into our new apartment last week and the whole moving in thing's wrecked us. Did you know that man had even more mugs hiding in storage? At least thirty, the maniac!"

He imagines Chrissy's own smile at that one. Sure, she had been scared out of her mind the night she entered his trailer, but Eddie can never forget seeing Chrissy's eyes comically widen at the sight of Wayne's collection of various mugs from around the globe. Most people do as such - even Wayne on some occasions, when he's tired and not prepared to remember his own expensive vice.

Eddie's finger traces the sunflower.

"I wish you could see the place. It's a lot cleaner and bigger than our old shit hole at Forest Hills. Plus, it's got this super big backyard with a tree that I'm thinking of putting a hammock under. I think it'd be a nice spot for writing songs. Isn't that just something, Chrissy?"

A brush of cool air past him has Eddie believing that yes, it is.

He picks another dandelion. Blows the seeds her way.

"I've actually got another something to tell you," he hints, waggling his eyebrows to no one. "It's even crazier than us having a whole house to ourselves, Wayne and I. It might've actually just about blown your mind if you were still around. It's been blowing mine for the last few days, if I'm being totally honest."

The sun brightens on Eddie's back. He takes a deep breath. Steadies himself.

"I, uh...I'm dating Steve Harrington."

The sun continues to shine.

The cool breeze returns.

Life goes on.

Eddie releases his breath.

"I hope you're not like, rolling in your grave below me right now," he chuckles, voice tight and nervy. "I know I'm the biggest hypocrite ever for falling for him, a known jock AND popular kid. It goes against pretty much everything I've stood for or yelled about at lunch. But, it's kind of like what you said about me, Chris. He wasn't what I thought he'd be like. He isn't."

He's way more, as a matter of fact. So much more that it hurts sometimes for Eddie to think about. Makes him question how he got so lucky to meet him, really meet him, in the first place.

"I wish you could see it for yourself," he says softly a minute later, now tracing her name with his pointer finger. "You two probably would've been great friends. He likes sports and doing his hair and goofing around. He's also weirdly good at baking. You were in the baking club, right? I swear I saw you selling gingerbread cookies before Christmastime. The little ones with the candy canes? Right?"

No one answers, but something in Eddie's bones makes that assessment feel right. He looks up to the sky, lets the sun soak into what skin isn't covered up by leather and denim for a minute, and imagines the dreamworld he described. He imagines Chrissy side-by-side with Steve in a kitchen, maybe with Robin if she stuck around or visited during college. He watches them as they get too messy, covered in flour and sticky from dough and icing, and smiles at the fact none of them seem to care. They're all so proud of their work and wanting Eddie to try everything. He can practically hear their laughter, their joy, their lack of care or fear as he does. He lets himself drown in it, just a little. Basks in it.

Stares back at Chrissy's grave seconds later with a piercing twinge of sadness.

Grieves.

Whimpers "You should be here still, Chrissy" to the stone.

Sniffling, he tries to laugh away the tears that have suddenly appeared like a tidal wave. It does no good, though. Not even the sunshine, the beautiful stuff that usually makes Eddie feel so seen and comforted, can whisk them away now that they've begun. He grips tight at his thigh. Desperately tries to ground himself.

"Steve's been reminding me that there was nothing I could do. Says I've been placing too much blame on myself for it all. Maybe I am. It's just that..." he takes a deep breath, "shit, I hate that you were the one made an example of in all of this mess. I'm so sorry I wasn't able to stop it and protect you from Vecna and the Upside Down and all that horrible crap you had no reason to be swept up in because of me. I'm sorry you can't be here and getting your own new boyfriend, or your own degree. I'm so fucking sorry."

A full-on sob hits Eddie then, knocking him off whatever ledge he had been teetering on right into a pit of anxiety and bottled-up sadness. It renders him shaky and a bit blubbery, and as another sob gears up in the pit of his chest, he starts to feel guilty he had shown up in the first place. If he'd just kept his news to himself, hadn't let himself dwell on all the milestones Chrissy would never reach, maybe he would've been okay. Maybe he would feel a little less broken, a little less wrapt with survivors guilt, a little less-

"Hey."

Eddie flips around in a fright to find himself face-to-knee with Steve Harrington.

The boy's face is gentle when he finally works up the courage to meet it. It's the same gentleness that had been there the first time Eddie confessed to wanting to visit Chrissy, and the same that had coaxed him out of the car when his nerves got the best of him. It's also the same that had gazed upon Eddie when he confessed to having a crush, and when he proceeded to say he'd be fine if they never spoke again because he gets why that would not be happy news to hear.

His gaze is somehow never pitying. Always achingly empathetic.

It tears another sob from Eddie.

Carefully, Steve sits down at Eddie's side and wraps an arm around him. His hand soothingly begins to rub up and down Eddie's arm, grounding him the best he can. Eddie leans into it. Hopes Chrissy is okay with having their private conversation shared. Sobs again.

"Hi Chrissy. I dunno if you knew me, but I'm Steve."

Eddie shuts his eyes and buries his face into Steve's shoulder.

"I'm sure Eddie probably already told you, but we're...we're a couple now, so I hope you don't mind me intruding. I know uh...I know he's kinda private about this stuff."

He means Eddie's feelings about Chrissy's death, about Chrissy in general. The whole lot of it. Eddie knows it in an instant - feels the way Steve's grip nudges them closer together in understanding.

"I'm not sure what you were chatting about, but I have something to tell you if that's alright."

Steve pauses.

Bless him, he pauses for the answer that won't come.

Eddie could - no, plans to love him forever for doing something like that for his sake. For Chrissy.

"He's been pretty torn up about you. We all are, but...well, it's hard. I've been through this four times now and that first time is still a lot to think over. But...uh, Robs told me that in movies, ghosts are always like, torn up and stuff about people being sad they're gone. Want them to live their life to the fullest. So, I guess what I'm trying to say is, I'm gonna make sure our guy here does that. For you."

Blinking up from Steve's shoulder, Eddie sniffles. "W-What?"

"Yeah," Steve says, keeping his eyes on the stone. "I'll make sure he has reasons to smile and...and reasons to get through the hard times. I'm gonna' be there to remind him what all that's like, okay?"

"Steve..."

"And I know it won't be easy, but...I think it'll be good. For all of us. Ya' know?"

Tears threatening again, Eddie places a small kiss to Steve's cheek. He feels Steve's grip bring him in even more, almost keeping Eddie in his lap. Comforting him. It's more than he could ask for.

The sun shines on him. Eddie feels it again - wills it to help.

"I can't do it all on my own, though. I could use a little divine intervention here and there, if you could spare some."

Eddie almost corrects Steve. He almost says ghosts aren't divine, how that's reserved for angels and God and stuff. But, on second thought, he figures if anyone from Hawkins was granted an angelic afterlife, Chrissy probably was first in line.

Instead, he listens to the beat of Steve's heart.

"But, I'll try. We'll both try. We promise."

"Y-Yeah," Eddie hiccups. "We promise."

Steve smiles into his hair.

"Got anything else you need to say, Eddie? Or do you want to go grab milkshakes somewhere before we head back to your place?"

Blinking his bleary eyes back open, Eddie gazes at the tombstone. Commits it to memory. Pictures Chrissy giggling and telling them to go have fun.

Really, who is he to tell her no?

"Yeah, I think we're good here," he says, finally. He nods once more to Steve and lets him pull him up to his feet, the shaky thing he is. His arm ends up around Steve's waist as they give a final look to Chrissy, and for a moment, he wonders what she must be thinking. He wonders if she is grateful for their promise, or if she is wishing she could have a milkshake with them, too. Eddie hopes, wherever she is, she can go grab one. Enjoy with them, and above them. He'd like that.

And, after today, he thinks Steve might, too.

They hold each other's hand tight as they leave the cemetery.

They hold hands even tighter when Eddie gets a tattoo of a sunflower the very next day.

[xuchiya]

so innocent: so not pure 01

—--------------  ₊˚.༄ [chapter: 01] ₊˚.༄ —------------------

[i decide to not make it supernatural au, i'm sorry] words: 2.0k warning: childhood flashbacks, mentions of astrology, cursing, smut (public sex) and fluff with maltese yeosang ₊˚.༄ [chapter: 00] ₊˚.༄ - ₊˚.༄ [chapter: 02] ₊˚.༄

   summer 2002

   the morning summer sun was spent perched in their kingdom atop the old oak tree, a poorly excuse built tree house, whispering secrets like dandelion wishes on the wind. moonjin, a wisp of a girl with eyes that mirrored the summer sky– her presences resemble what an angel would look like, so innocent, and yeosang, a whirlwind of freckles and mischief– full of adventures and unpredictable. 

                they were inseparable. they were pirates on stormy seas, astronauts soaring through stardust, their imaginations painting vibrant worlds within the creaking confines of their wooden haven, “did you know that billions of galaxies together, trillions of trillions and trillions of stars in our universe?” her soft pitch voice made yeosang giggle but shakes his head upon hearing her trivia.

          “no that would be impossible …” 

             “but it’s true! stars would look like diamonds on the night sky. it will look beautiful.” moonjin’s admiration to astrology made yeosang curious about what so good about a ball of fire yet he didn’t interfere– seeing the sparkle in her eyes, the same as how stars glow. 

      “why did they name you moonjin if you like stars?” yeosang asks, tilting his head to the side. moonjin shrugs, having no clear explanation about his name, “my parents said i was born on a full moon … but-- i don’t know, they don’t have a special meaning to it.” yeosang watch her reaction carefully until he looks up to see the full moon already peeking from the 5pm sunset, his eyes settled on the moon above then back to the moon beside him, “maybe because there’s only one moon.”

   moonjin looks at him, confused “huh?” yeosang smiles at her, eyes showing his honesty, “you said there’s billions of stars in our galaxy, right? then even if there’s trillions, quadrillions of them– there’s only one moon that shines the brightest amongst them.”

  that moment there, the swirl of cold breeze of the summer night brought two hearts as one. their bond deepened with sticky fingers and shared laughter. building precarious towers of legos, devouring stolen cookies beneath the watchful gaze of a disapproving grandma, their days were a tapestry woven from shared adventures and unspoken promises.

   it was daisies and sunshine but when adolescence came, with its clumsy limbs and hormonal earthquakes, it had a way of shattering childhood castles. sophomore year arrived, cloaked in an awkward silence that settled between them. yeosang's smiles, once as bright, became tinged with a hesitant shyness. his eyes still held those same mischief, though now there’s something more that flicker of something moonjin couldn't decipher– longing, perhaps, or hesitance,  she couldn't name.

      the treehouse, their sanctuary, stood witness to their fractured friendship. conversations, once free-flowing rivers, became stuttered streams, punctuated by long, aching pauses. yeosang still talked to her, of course, but their interactions remained tethered to the surface, ghosts of their vibrant past echoing in the hollow spaces between them.

   moonjin, ever the observer, retreated further into her shell. her quiet whispers seemed magnified by the newfound distance, her words swallowed by the chasm that had blossomed between them. yet, beneath the shyness, a flicker of longing mirrored yeosang's – a yearning for the carefree days of shared secrets and sticky fingers, a silent plea for their laughter to find its melody once more.

     2024 brought more than just a new year for moonjin and yeosang. it marked the dawn of a new era, fueled by yeosang's determined push for change. gone was the lanky boy whose smile masked a flicker of uncertainty; in his place emerged a young man radiating newfound confidence, sculpted by hours spent in the gym and fueled by an unyielding ambition.

  that did not go unnoticed by moonjin, ever the keen observer, became an involuntary witness to yeosang's metamorphosis. the shy glances he used to steal in their freshman year were replaced by a steady, unwavering gaze that sent shivers down her spine. his once hesitant laugh boomed to a contagious one to other people near him, a vibrant symphony that drew surprised smiles from everyone around. including moonjin.

   “have i fuck you so dumb now that you can’t talk, eh?” moonjin was pulled out from her thoughts when her hair was pulled back at the same time, yeosang’s hips thrusting back. they were still on the same position as yeosang continuously slams back harshly, hitting the spot that sent moonjin squealing, moaning under his hold. yeosang lets go of his hold on her hair, grabbing her cheeks mushing them together, tilt her head to the side, “use your words, star.”

  the table keeps screeching each thrust yeosang makes as he picks up his phase, gripping her hips with one hand to keep her on place. moonjin nodded, “yes– yes you fuck me so good!” even if its inaudible, yeosang’s cock twitches from the immense look moonjin was giving. those doe innocent eyes fill with tears everytime his tip reaches her g-spot, mouth gape open struggle to keep her moans on bay, clothes wrinkle her skirt hike up to her waist exposing her milky ass that was now red with yeosang’s handprint.

   yeosang crosses his arms, gripping her waist tightly his veins popping out as he grinds his hips softly then pulling back and thrusting back in swiftly, edging moonjin close to her climax. he repeat the same actions when he felt his high coming, yeosang crawled his grip underneath her uniform to her covered chest; pulling down the bra as he started kneading her breast, pinching, circling her tits in his fingers knowing it takes her to her climax and on queue, he heard her cursing repeatedly, pornographic moans leaving her lips, “fuck fuck yeosang i’m cumming–!” yeosang leaned down pressing himself on your back, hips picking up its speed, going smoothly and swiftly as his mouth ajar broken moans, his breath close to her ears, “yeah? –shit did you just–” just like she mention a while ago, yeosang pull himself up,  his pants were now dripping with her arousal as her juices kept squirting out her cunt, her hips shaking as she chased after her high. 

   yeosang watches her unfolds in front of him, chest heaving, sweat trails down on her foreahead to her chin, her knuckles white from the intense climax. he chuckles, “you did great star … now its my turn.”

   he look behind him to see the chair in the same place, he pulled themselves down on the chair as he squeezed her ass in his hands, “make me cum.” moonjin, still recovering from her high, looks behind her as yeosang leaned back down on the chair; waiting for her to move. She sat between his legs,his cock still resting inside her. Her hands each side on his thighs as she started to pick up her pace. 

   she started bouncing herself on yeosang, hips moving effortlessly to meet his. the view was what yeosang dreamed, watching her ass jiggles each time she comes back down–best part? Seeing how her hole swallow his cock down to the base made him throw his head back, gripping her waist before bucking his hips up, stammering by the pleasure running down his veins as he pump his seeds inside her clamp walls. 

  when yeosang came down from his high, moonjin gradually remove herself; bending over with one hand spreading her ass to expose her puckered pussy which slowly spewed his cum. yeosang bit his lip, cock laying on his stomach twitch at the sight, “i– fuck that’s so hot, star.” 

   moonjin stood up, pulling her skirt down fixing her uniform, turning around to look at yeosang; her face red as a tomato not from the compliment but from the tiresome exertion to the extent of wanting to sleep on the spot but they have to clean up, “yeo come on, let’s clean up.”

   yeosang look at her as his chest, heaves still in his post-nut clarity, “5 minutes …” moonjin shakes her head, grabbing her littered panty on the floor when she felt a hand smacking her ass causing her to yelp, spinning to see yeosang smirking at her. he was leaning forward with his arms resting on his knees, tongue moisting his lips, “nice ass by the way.” 

   moonjin scoffed,“yeah thanks to you, my butt is probably sore tomorrow.” she mumbled, directing the blame squarely at him. yeosang laugh at her amusedly, “you should be used to this by now.” 

   she pouts at him, rolling her eyes dramatically, “yeah so does the slapping my ass whenever we bump into each other …” he extended his hands out with a ‘what’ look, “at least they know i can only tap that ass.”  “shut it doberman!”

  their ruckus continue as they clean up their mess, yeosang has to run back to his locker to change his pants which moonjin covered her embarrass face but yeosang praised her for that. the playful bickering dissolved into comfortable silence, the setting sun casting long shadows over the silent classroom. they idle near the open window, letting the cold breeze whish its way in, blowing their hair gently.

   yeosang leaned against the chair, mesmerised by the celestial canvas unfolding before him. the whispers of the wind carried the scent of salt and sun-kissed sand, weaving a lullaby around him–  the soft blush of the clouds, the swaying symphony of cherry blossom dancing against the fading light. he turned, gaze landing on moonjin, bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun. she stood a few feet away, leaning against the wooden table with an air of quiet contemplation. her hair, a cascade of sun-kissed gold, seemed to catch the last rays of light, turning her into a radiant silhouette against the fiery backdrop.

   yeosang's breath hitched, his heart suddenly doing a double take in his chest. the scene – moonjin, framed by the fiery sunset, her quiet silhouette exuding an ethereal beauty – struck him with the force of a tidal wave. it was as if the world had paused, painted in vibrant hues just for his eyes, with moonjin as the captivating centrepiece. 

    He knew how beautiful she is–heck he witnessed how she went from being the nerdy looking limp kid back in 4th grade then evolving to an athletic appealing young woman she is today.  his gaze traced the line of her neck, the way it curved gracefully where it met her shoulder, her figure down to her milky skin. each detail, bathed in the golden hour's glow, amplified his admiration, sending a tingle through his fingertips.

  he wanted to capture this moment, freeze it in time like a precious butterfly caught in amber. he wanted to step closer, whisper her name into the fading light, and bask in the quiet magic that seemed to swirl around them. but his feet remained rooted to the spot, his words imprisoned in his throat. the fear of shattering the delicate bubble of their shared stillness held him back, a silent observer in his own unfolding dream.

  as the last whispers of the sun faded, moonjin turned, her eyes catching him in a fleeting moment. there was a surprise in her gaze, a flicker of something unspoken that mirrored the storm brewing within him.

     and then, just as quickly, her lips curved into a soft smile, the warmth reaching his eyes even before her words did. "what is it?" she murmured, her voice a gentle echo in the twilight, yeosang swallowed, finding his voice at last. "noth–" he breathed, his gaze never leaving hers. "you–," he hesitated, a soft smile curling his lips, "you look beautiful"

  moonjin's cheeks flushed a delicate pink, the setting sun mirroring the blush on her skin. but her eyes, sparkling with amusement, held his gaze unflinchingly.iIn that moment, under the fading light of the setting sun, yeosang knew that these feelings he had to her were not just any infatuation– they’re more than that and he is sure of those feelings. 

     and he hopes that maybe one day or someday when the time is right, he gets to express those bottled up feelings to her and maybe a pinch of hope if she feels the same way. 

         with moonjin as the captivating muse to his every whispered verse, he’s willing to do more than this.

taglist: @jonghostie , @tigressnamsoon

[dragon-queen21]

Just saw your post about carer venti and like him babying everyone when Aether is gone for awhile and it got me thinking. Do you think that by unintentionally babying people he’s accidentally found out about a few of them being regressors themselves?

Like he’ll go fret over Jean about taking a break and drag her out to go dandelion picking or something and boom he has a baby Jean on his hands. Or he’ll tuck Diluc into bed and tell him a story (he insists it’s to make sure he sleeps, but in reality it’s how he always puts Aether to sleep) and now he’s got a kiddo Diluc who’s sniffling and wanting him to cuddle him to sleep.

Oh he has, 100%

~Let me raise you one. Venti not realizing the power he has to make his friends regress. He doesn’t even fully know that he’s doing it

~Everyone being very aware of this except for Venti himself. Like “ah great he’s at it again.” And grow used to his random bursts of coddling. And maybe Kaeya teasing n that he’s going into “mama hen mode (mama wisp mode???)

~Venti meanwhile is just like “I miss my baby boy… welp time to go bother some people till I feel better.”

~Also the idea of Venti just basically being like “hmm what would I do with Aether” and it working to make Diluc slip is just adorable. Venti would do that a lot I bet. Ends up with two more little ones without fully realizing it.