#✎ hazel's self inserts

[ch4rryc0smos]

YOU WITH THE DARK CURLS / YOU WITH THE WATER COLOUR EYES ! — DEAR ARKANSAS DAUGHTER | LADY LAMB.

── .✦ ❝ H A Z E L E L E A N O R A - A D E L A I D E V E L L I C H O R . ❞

𓇼 — xxv | cancer | infj | british 🖇️

appearance ; pale skin, mole under the left corner of her bottom lip, emerald green eyes, sharp features, 5'11 [180 cm], athletic [or sleeper] build, barely noticeable scars on hands. scars over most of her body, most visible on back. dimples when she smiles hard. ombre [brown-blonde] hair.

beliefs ; time is finite but the soul isn't. life exists even when you do not anymore, you are infinite in the ways stars are reborn from the dying fumes of another, you are stardust. cosmic child, why do you fret?

⋆ ─ look for what brings you joy, exemplify it, you do not owe the world your bones, your blood, and yourself. ⋆ ─ live as if it's your first time. time does not wait.

personality ; realist, calm & collected, intuitive, cerebral, meticulous, diligent, compassionate, observant, vigilant.

positive traits ; caring, in tune with other's emotions. compassionate, [mostly] voice of reason, empathetic, kind, selfless.

negative traits ; anxious, bottles up her emotions, skeptic [has trust issues], struggles with boundaries.

quirks ; fidgets when she's nervous | voice gets a bit louder and faster when she's talking about her passions | likes to fidget overall | has a [slight] oral fixation.

likes ; flower crowns, writing, reading, coffee, cats, foxes, nature, people watching, deep conversations, psychology, biology, anthropology, autumn, planetariums, museums, kenji sato.

dislikes ; arthropods, heights, loud noises, narrow-mindedness, extreme temperatures, snobby people, arrogance, dishonesty, people who do not take accountability.

deepest secrets ; she actually just wants to make her parents proud, but she also despises them ─ but she doesn't, it's confusing. she wants to give her brother what she never got.

⋆ ─ she wants simple things, she wants a home where she isn't at a requirement to wake up at the crack of dawn, a home where there's silence when she wakes. she wants peace. ⋆ ─ she doesn't like the government, or authoritarian rule in general.

── .✦ ❝ B A C K S T O R Y . ❞

BORN in the heat of summer, hazel vellichor was meant to be the light in her parent's lives. meant to bring them success, and to become the joy they sought out when they decided to have her. but it seemed that, she would end up being everything but the light they wished for. throughout her mother's pregnancy, her father was absent, working in l.a, and he had asked for a son, a man to continue his legacy.

when she was born, aurelia, her mother, was sent into a frenzy, knowing well that hazel's father would not be happy. when he arrived, he was met with the face of his newborn daughter. he was enraged, blamed aurelia for bringing a burden onto the family.

the vellichor family moved to the u.s when hazel was just a month old, so her father could focus on his business, not having to worry about the family reputation back at the u.k.. hazel grew up to be a calm and collected child, mostly keeping to herself until she was five.

that's when it changed, kenji sato moved to l.a with his mother, emiko. and eleanora, hazel's grandmother welcomed the boy and his mother with open arms. which to the young girl, meant that they were safe. they were friends.

one thing leading to another, he became a constant in her life. she thought that for the first time since moving here, it wasn't as lonely, and as depressing. for two years, he was her rock, and she was his. they promised each other, one night under the blanket of stars, that they would never forget each other. that they'd stay at each other's side for as long as possible.

it wasn't long.

at seven, hazel was told that she'd be moving back to the u.k, to the vellichor family house. she didn't know they had one at all. and she wanted to question it, but knowing her parents, their volatility, she didn't test the waters. she complied to their wishes, packed, until the thought of leaving was unbearably loud in her head.

so she escaped to the one place that she knew would provide her with comfort, with solace. kenji's place. she told him about what was going to happen, she expected anger, not silence, not minutes that she could hear ticking, and not him hugging her and asking her to please not take her bracelet off.

when hazel moved back to the u.k, she considered those the most dreadful years of her life. she studied, tried mold herself into the perfect daughter for her parents, a prodigy, a trophy child, took every elective, tuitions, everything. she barely made friends, her only constant then was maple, her best friend. throughout middle and high school, she focused on her studies, on achieving the best. and then her mother got pregnant again, right before she'd be graduating high school.

she knew that her sibling would not be spared the torture that was the vellichor family. and she thought that they would be the undoing of the plan she'd so meticulously created, to be executed the day she turned eighteen.

she turned eighteen, moved out. despite her parent's curses and reprimanding. she left. but that didn't unchain her from their shackles, she went on to become a public speaker.

which brought them fame; all they've ever wanted.

── .✦ ❝ C U R R E N T . ❞

ONE of the greatest speakers the world has ever seen, a public figure, and an advocate. hazel vellichor goes on to fulfill her parent's wishes, unwillingly. but the public doesn't know that. they see her flourishing, they see her joy at being a voice of reason, at speaking up, and not falling victim to capitalism, and what it makes of humanity.

she thinks that nineteen might've been true freedom, and ever since then, it's only been getting better, even the travelling, all the calls don't feel bad. nothing could ever be as bad as living under her parent's roof, and seeing their faces every day, and hearing the words that jabbed into her ribcage, left bruises along the muscle of her lungs.

she's living the life she asked for, until she gets into contact with a hayao sato, someone who apparently knew eleanora hyde, her grandmother. it's been so long since anyone's mentioned her. hazel misses her. she ends up going to japan, for an event, and there, mr. sato helps her re-explore her love for science, something she learnt to sacrifice for the sake of commerce, for speaking, for the publicity her parents wanted her to achieve.

there, he mentions ultrawoman. the role hazel's grandmother once held. her mother should've been the next one in line, but aurelia didn't want the role under any circumstance. hazel promised her gran that if she ever became ultrawoman, she would do her justice.

she didn't think the time would have arrived so soon, that she would be required to accept the role bestowed upon her. but she wouldn't deny it. she would do what she was asked to. that's something that never changed with her, she thinks she was made to serve others, something about it felt right.

what she didn't think about was how hard it would be to find a balance between being a public figure, and being a literal superhero. or how much harder it would be when the person that's meant to help you has too big of an ego himself.

ultraman is clumsy, self-centered, and clearly has no idea what to be doing, but hazel has no idea that he's her childhood best friend that she had to leave behind.

at twenty-five, she is required to figure out a whole new part of her life, one that's always existed, and a part that she had to leave behind. she has to dust off the shelf she refused to visit previously.

and she has to uncover a new story, including him.

𓇼 — appears in reverie [complete], saudade [complete].

★ ; i love my girl, THANK YOU!! my ultraman: rising s/i, everyone. this post took so long, can't believe i'll have to make these for my other s/i's too... save me. i also had picrews, but i couldn't find a place to insert them. anyways, here's hazel!!! i have a playlist for her too!

ch4rryc0smos © 2024

[ch4rryc0smos]

REVERIE | 01

WOKE UP AT DAWN.

synopsis ┊kenji sato returns to japan, leaving behind everything he's ever known. and fate plays a cruel joke on him, when hazel vellichor walks back into his life, albeit not by choice. she makes a trip to japan, for a charity event, for another speech, and somehow; media wrangles her in for more drama. what they don't know is that she's ultrawoman, and kenji's ultraman, and there's more than to the eye here. they're well intertwined and every time they tug away, the knot gets tighter. everything leads them to each other, and now japan is in their hands, and they have to unravel every secret they refused to acknowledge prior to this. and they have to accept every role bestowed upon them, whether they like it or not. somehow, all of this leads to is them learning that there was always more to their friendship, and that they were truly two puzzle pieces, fit right next to each other.

genre ┊ childhood-friends-to-strangers-to-lovers, slight angst, tooth rotting & chaotic fluff, co-parenting (?)

pairing ┊ken sato x fem-self insert/oc, ken sato x public figure!self insert, ken sato x childhood-friend!self insert

warnings ┊ mild cursing, mentions of drinking, trauma, heavy topics (?), events in ultraman: rising take place alongside this story.

word count ┊2k.

author's note ┊first part out!! currently in the process of writing number three but, here we have this <3 ken truly comes into the picture in three, so... just a bit more waiting! i also have a playlist for this, if anyone wants it :') the title of this chapter's from 'suntescobar' by lor [again]! happy reading!

prev. | next.

L.A would of course be filled with surprises. So when Hazel receives an email asking her to ‘join’ a baseball game, as a VIP spectator, the first reasonable thing she can think of doing is call Maple. Her trusted best friend. Although, right now that is a doubt too. Considering that Maple would probably have biases, what with her love for sports, and especially baseball. Hazel waits patiently, tapping her fingers on the marble kitchen island, the sun sinks lower behind her, and it casts a beautiful golden glow down the whole room. She watches, as for a moment, her hand looks like it gains colour, and life. 

And then a sole ring interrupts the silence, and she picks up. “Maple, I—” 

“I can read, oh my gods, you said yes, right?” Maple asks her, and the last time she remembers hearing so much shuffling from her best friend on the other side was the eve of her eighteenth birthday. And that felt so long ago. Seven years, even she didn’t think it had been so long. 

“No.” she practically anticipates the groan that interrupts Maple’s shuffling. 

Then there’s silence. “Then, say yes!” 

“Maple, I don’t know,” she begins, running a hand through her hair. “What exactly will I do there? A philanthropist? A speaker? What relevance do I even hold in such a crowd?” she dares ask. Maple is probably bound to lecture her ears off now, but it doesn’t matter anymore. This game was in a week, flat. And she needs to send an answer within the next two days. 

“Can’t you imagine? It’s the influence! And oh, it would be so fun.” Maple sounds like she’s right about to start floating, like dreamland is in the corner of her vision and she’s about to taste cloud nine. Hazel still doesn’t get what exactly her best friend’s seeing, but she’s willing to listen, she supposes.

She sighs, “you know very well that I don’t do well with crowds and loud noises.”

“Absolutely ironic for the fact that you’re a public figure,” Maple says. Well, Hazel really can’t deny that either. 

“I don’t exactly do it because I want to,” Hazel tries to reason. “Okay, listen, I do like advocating, but public speaking is genuinely so nerve-wracking.”

“Okay, Shakespeare.” Maple’s eye roll is so loud, Hazel doesn’t even need to be on a video call with her to hear it. “You speak like you were made to be speaking, you literally… enchant crowds.”

“I’m not a magician, I’m just someone who wants to make a change.”

“You’re rich.”

“Irrelevant.”

“Just say yes!” Maple sounds so insistent, this time it’s Hazel that groans. 

“Well, fine.”

And she regrets agreeing to this more than she can emphasise. A week passes her by like a gust of wind, and suddenly it’s the day of the game and she receives a message that alerts her about some ride of hers arriving in thirty five minutes. And she’s panicking. As she pulls on a white button up and clumsily buttons it up, her hair falls over her eyes and shoulders, and in the heat of L.A, she hates it so much she doesn’t think she would regret chopping her hair off. She pulls on her belt and she’s clipping it into place when her phone dings again. She glances at it, ten minutes. 

Whatever deity is up there, she is so thankful to today. Her hair doesn’t look hideous, even in a bun. And she blows at the two strands that decide to violate her face. But it doesn’t matter. Soon her purse is slung over her shoulder and she’s sprinting out and into an elevator, and she’s smiling, and maybe it’s relief, or the fact that she’ll have Maple absolutely biting her head off later for details and a second-to-second analysis of the game. As if she’s a critic. Maybe for the government, but she thinks that’s where it ends, really. 

The car ride is rather peaceful, and she’s humming under her breath as they pull up to a stadium that practically leaves her in awe. She doesn’t watch any sports, but gods, this is magnificent. She’s being led inside and she watches the walls and her mind’s wandering just a bit while she tries to listen to her guide. And she thinks she’s about to slip away completely, but one specific question has her rooted back to reality. 

She was acting like a child anyway, how stupid of her. What would Aurelia say if she saw her ogling? Not that her opinion matters, anyway. Hazel hates having to convince herself again and again. It gets tiring, quick.

“Would you perhaps like to meet the top player after the game?” Hazel’s head snaps up to meet a pair of brown eyes, warm, like honey. 

The question takes Hazel by surprise. “Oh, no, it’ll be fine! I think this is a great honour as is,” she opts to say. It really was, she didn’t want to overstay her welcome anyway, plus… What would she say or do?

“As humble as they say you are,” Her guide huffs, a playful smile playing on his lips as he leads her down to the front rows. And the cameras that surround them aren’t anything new, of course. But it never seems to feel any better. It doesn’t now, either. She doesn’t know what humility he’s talking about, because to her, this is common sense, but again, who was she to question anything anyway?

She situates herself on the seat marked for her, and notes that she might as well be the last one to be in her seat. She catches a few eyes but looks away. Watching the players as they find their positions, she thinks she can ignore the camera being pointed at her face fine enough. 

Which it seems, she did do, by the middle of the game. She’s captivated enough, and that’s when she realises that someone out there would probably look into it too much, and they would think she’s in love with some random player. She shakes her head, stowing the thought away for her to worry about later. 

All around her, she can hear screaming, and talking, but there’s one name that she can make out, and it’s just distinct enough for her to be able to tell.

‘Ken Sato’ is being screamed by fangirls from every corner. And it’s actually so funny to Hazel, but she feigns her poker face anyway, and acts like she won’t be laughing about this with Maple once she’s back in her hotel room. 

This Ken Sato though, seems to be relishing in the fame, and Hazel would be lying if she says she doesn’t want to roll her eyes. A bit cocky, but alright. He did seem to have the talent to back up that fat ego of his. 

Other than the screaming, and the winks being thrown right, left, and centre, the game goes on to be pretty uneventful, for Hazel, at least. She’s growing tired of the same way it’s going, and when at the end she’s asked if she still doesn’t want to meet the best player, she can’t be happier to say yes, she does not want to meet him. 

Hazel really isn’t given much reprise, even in the car ride back. Maple is already on her tail, and she’s gushing about Ken, and asking if Hazel caught his eye, because apparently she charms men like she collects awards. Which, in the British woman’s mind is just… nonsense, at best, an exaggeration. 

“Did he notice you?” Is one of the first few questions Maple asks, and when she hears Hazel’s sigh, all she does is press on. “Please tell me he did!” 

“He did not.” Hazel shakes her head, watching outside her car window as the L.A scenery flashes past her, and how devoid the night sky looks, no clouds, no stars. It’s just sad, to her.

“I’m sure he’d wink if he did!” Maple says, and Hazel raises a brow at her phone, wondering what this was supposed to mean, she really did not care whether he noticed her or not, so why is Maple so pressed about it?

“I really don’t think it matters anyway,” Hazel says, trying to reason with her dumbass of a best friend, and then her phone pings, and she lowers it from her ear. “Maple, I think I’ll have to cut the call short, I’m getting some messages.” 

“Urgent?” she asks.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.” And that’s all that it takes for Maple to hang up. Instinctively, Hazel taps onto the messages from Mr. Sato, apparently. Usually, he calls her, so if he’s sending messages… It must truly be important. 

Hazel, I’m so sorry for such an unprompted message, but I'm afraid your trip to the US might have to be cut short. I really need a visit from you right about now, especially considering that you’re my last hope. 

And that really gets her thinking, What does he mean last hope? Surely nothing’s gotten… that desperate. She sends a message in reply, going ‘Mr. Sato, if it’s urgent, feel free to call me.’

She knows he’s probably worried about disturbing her, but she has nothing to do, and she’s sure that at some point she’ll be receiving a message that goes something along the lines of ‘you offended some political leader, get out.’ Well, good for them, she’ll be leaving before they get the chance to ask her to, or rather; force her. Things like these are one of the reasons she doesn’t visit the US often, as scarcely as possible, actually. 

Mr. Sato calls, and she’s quick to pick it up. “Thank you so so much, Hazel—” He begins, but she’s quick again, to cut him off this time.

“It’s nothing, Mr. Sato, what’s wrong?” she asks, her free hand’s fingers drumming along her thigh. She always seems to be doing that when she’s nervous, it’s one of her many nervous habits, and what is even worse, to her is that it’s also one of the many things she gets from her parents. 

“My son refuses to pick up any calls of mine, and…” he trails off, but Hazel knows. She’d been one of the first to hear about his injury, and she still feels so bad about it. 

“I know, Mr. Sato, you’ve told me, remember?” she starts, trying to comfort him. She hears some shuffling from his side, and then she hears the creaking of a bed. She sighs. Letting him continue.

“Kenji refuses to pick up my calls, check my messages, nothing.” Hazel feels pity when she hears him say those words. And she promises him that if there’s anything she can do, or anything that he wants, she’ll be here for him. Especially if his own son wouldn’t be. Again, maybe she shouldn’t be judging so harshly, but she felt truly bad for Hayao. 

“And Hazel?” His voice cuts through the buzz in her mind, and she hums a yes in response. “You don’t have to call me Mr. Sato, just Hayao is fine.”

Well, she thinks that’s disrespectful and she will not be doing it. She says as much to him.

“Then, uncle.” 

She knows arguing with him is not going to work, so she doesn’t push any further. Instead, she just accepts it. “Yes, uncle.”

He seems content with that, and says he’ll be waiting for her, patiently. And she can’t lie because she wants to see him too, he was like the only other constant in her life, outside of Maple. Before she knows it, she’s back at the hotel, and she thanks the driver, passing her a tip before she exits the car, catching the glint in the woman’s eyes. 

Packing, re-booking her flight, and she’d be ready to head back to Japan. Her phone rings in her pocket, but she pays it no mind, making a mental note to deal with it later. She doesn’t even realise it when she’s done ridding the hotel room of all the life it had while she was there, not until she’s standing up straight and questioning whether she has arthritis or not.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[ch4rryc0smos]

REVERIE | 00

WHO WILL BE HERE?

synopsis ┊kenji sato returns to japan, leaving behind everything he's ever known. and fate plays a cruel joke on him, when hazel vellichor walks back into his life, albeit not by choice. she makes a trip to japan, for a charity event, for another speech, and somehow; media wrangles her in for more drama. what they don't know is that she's ultrawoman, and kenji's ultraman, and there's more than to the eye here. they're well intertwined and every time they tug away, the knot gets tighter. everything leads them to each other, and now japan is in their hands, and they have to unravel every secret they refused to acknowledge prior to this. and they have to accept every role bestowed upon them, whether they like it or not. somehow, all of this leads to is them learning that there was always more to their friendship, and that they were truly two puzzle pieces, fit right next to each other.

genre ┊ childhood-friends-to-strangers-to-lovers, slight angst, tooth rotting & chaotic fluff, co-parenting (?)

pairing ┊ken sato x fem-self insert/oc, ken sato x public figure!self insert, ken sato x childhood-friend!self insert

warnings ┊ mild cursing, mentions of drinking, trauma, heavy topics (?), events in ultraman: rising take place alongside this story.

word count ┊1k.

author's note ┊i'm actually really REALLY nervous to post this, but i'm doing it! i think i'll be writing it as i post, so that's... that. it might take me some time, who knows :') the title is from 'the sun is not my son' by lor! :D i might make a playlist for this little project <3 happy reading everyone!! [ps, should i have a taglist?]

next.

Eleanora Hyde smiled, big. Her granddaughter watched her with confusion. Then, the doorbell rang, and Dorian was quick to let the door swing open, and from the first glance, Hazel knew that the smile on his face was the practised, and fake one, the one he reserved for anyone that wasn’t his pawn. Yet. His daughter eyed him with disdain, but then her gran brushed past her, and her thin arms enveloped a woman she didn’t recognise. Whose name she learnt was Emiko Sato. And from behind her, peeked out a young boy, with hair that was raven, but shone under the light of the moon, with eyes that glowed like purple gemstones. And then, the woman Hazel knew as “Emiko” was gently pushing the boy out from behind the safety of her knees. He stumbled forward, and Hazel’s mother gripped onto her shoulder, tight. 

Greetings, manners, discipline. Right. 

She stepped forward, holding out her hand. And she just knew that sick smile was on her mother’s face, even if she didn’t bother to look up. Apparently, the boy himself thought so too, because one glance at Hazel’s mother was enough for him. His eyes flitted between everything behind them, but she held his gaze when their eyes next met.

“I’m Hazel, nice to meet you,” she whispered, catching the tremble in her voice and hand mid-sentence, willing herself to gain some composure, she was Dorian Vellichor’s daughter, he did not accept such tomfoolery, even from a five year old. 

The boy glanced at her hand, and then her face, and then he clasped her hand in his, shaking it, his own lip trembling. “I’m Kenji.” He smiled, well, as much as he could, that was. She did not mind. 

“You’ve grown quite a lot, Kenji.” Hazel’s gran shakily sat down, now eye-level with the boy, her hands clasped onto his shoulders, and he watched her, arms limp at his side. He smiled tightly, nodding his head. 

He probably didn’t even know her. Hazel sighed at the thought, letting the screen of her laptop fall close, the light now no longer illuminating her otherwise dark room. The pitch black enveloped her, yet that didn’t last long. Her phone vibrated on her bedside table, and she reached for it. Eighteen was in five minutes, and so was the beginning of executing her plan. 

“Maple,” her voice sounded, albeit quietly. There was no one to hear her, what with her parents heading out, although her mother was pregnant. And going out to fancy restaurants and drinking didn’t make it better, but who were they to pay any mind to a to-be-eighteen year old’s words? 

Her best friend rustled on the other side, probably trying to find a comfortable position on her bed. How she always did when she called Hazel. She knew their calls always lasted long, and there was no denying. “Hazel! Are you excited?”

She was far from it. The prospect of freedom danced on her tongue, freeing, as it suggested, and yet, all the worries flooded her senses and left her nerves alight. She felt like she was on fire, the steady beat of her heart the only constant in the room, with her. 

“Yes,” she said. The lie echoed against her walls, but Maple didn’t know the guilt that rattled her best friend’s bones. Or the fear clawing at the flesh in her throat, and the air that wasn’t entering her lungs.

“You sound really solemn for someone on the verge of freedom,” Maple pointed out, Hazel laughed, a bit fake. And her stomach twisted into nervous knots. A trait she got from her mother, that laughter. She hated every bit of it, and every part of them that would always exist in her, in her blood, and in the way she lived, but she could not spend any longer moping. 

Her green eyes stared back at her through the reflective surface of her phone. “I promise, I’m fine.”

Maple knew she wasn’t, and she promised her a home, and she promised Hazel safety that she knew the girl wouldn’t get otherwise. But she also knew that Hazel would not reach out, or seek help until she was battered and bruised, and death was grinning at her, eye-to-eye. 

Eighteen when it first hit, was fear, and then freedom. And then it became a spiral that led her to where she is now. Twenty five whispers behind her back, and her suit fits her just a bit too tight. The scent of her just brewed coffee wafts through the place, and she inhales, deep, and slow. The same phone she had when she was eighteen is waiting patiently for her while she strides around her room, feeling her nerves send small waves of nausea rolling over her senses. But she has done this many times before, and nothing could go wrong now. She is human after all and mistakes happen, well, to some extent. At least. She hopes. 

She shakes her head, holding it high, letting her feet carry her to the kitchen island, the mug of coffee slotting right into the palm of her hand. A content sigh slips past her lips, and Hazel thinks this is exactly where she’s meant to be, travelling, advocating and weaving her words together to form sentences, stories that she hopes will educate people. Or do something along the lines of it. 

As she walks out of the comfort of her hotel room, Maple’s words of reassurance are the only playing in her mind. The city sounds like mindless background noise as her feet carry her to the venue, the click of her heels almost inaudible in comparison to the chatter that surrounds her.

She is so grateful that this city has seen just enough public figures to not spare her a second glance, she feels normal, for once. And L.A welcomes her again, for the fourth time in many years. The last time she visited, she had been twenty. Five years later, nothing really seemed to change. 

Only she seems to have changed, but that was the least of her worries when her presence was requested in front of a crowd of around forty thousand people. She promises that she’s going to make this worth it. Every word she speaks is calculated, and it matters here more than anywhere else.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[ch4rryc0smos]

⊹ scent of summer — a. donaldson.

synopsis — tennis, college, and everything in between. a celebratory party that leads to the same quiet night, just this time with unspoken words that finally leave their prisons.

genres — friends to lovers, tension, mutual pining, late-night conversations, teasing, friendly banter, admiring, friend of a friend, domestic fluff, tooth rotting fluff.

pairing — art donaldson x friend!self insert, art donaldson x mutual friend!self insert.

warnings — mentions of being drunk, if that counts.

word count — 2.4k.

author's note — i love writing oneshots, they are so fun, i swear. and i also love art very much, if it isn't obvious yet. i saw this challengers series here, and i really want to write one now, but i simply don't have enough time, i've realised. i had to put another one on hold, and over that, it requires planning. i might just die. anyways, happy reading!

masterlist.

The crowd cheers, and Marion’s ears won’t stop ringing, no matter how hard she tries to make it stop. She’s also trying to act like this isn’t totally hurting her (it is, but Art can’t know that). Art’s mop of blond hair is glistening, shining even, under the sunlight. It beams down on him, the warmth spreading under his palms. Every time he gets a bit too close to where she’s sitting she’s almost sure she can count the sweat droplets rolling down his forehead, the skin wrinkling in focus and his lips forming a pout. Every time he spares her a glance, she feels the smile bloom all over, and instead nods at the court. 

Don’t get distracted, she thinks. Tashi sighs beside her.

Tashi, her superstar-model of a best friend turns towards her, giving her a tired look. “I don’t know if you being here gives him a confidence boost or if it distracts him more—”

“I’m hoping it’s the first.” Marion’s eyes are glued onto Art’s fluid movements. He hasn’t glanced at her once since the last time their eyes met, and she’s glad. Because he looks like he has the upperhand right now. And she hates how mushy his grunts of focus make her feel. They make her feel all fuzzy and her brain turn into pathetic mush. She huffs, turning away from the teasing eyes that Tashi has focused on her. She stares at the way Art practically bounces from one place to another, his eyes darting back and forth. 

Marion’s leaning forward, breath caught in her throat as Art goes for the winning strike, his groan full of so much relief Marion has to grip onto Tashi’s hand. Her best friend grins, laughing and throwing her hands up. Marion topples back onto her seat, laughing out in relief alongside Tashi, eyes stuck to Art’s approaching figure as he jogs up to them. 

“Must’ve helped him loads, with you in his sweatshirt,” Tashi whispers into her ear when she notices the general direction Art is walking in. She slips her hand out, sitting up straight.

All while Marion feels the warmth pool in her face. She huffs, looking away.

“Hey—” Art has to stop and take a deep breath, his voice is shaking slightly. 

He’s not been that unfit, surely.

“Not hitting the gym recently?” Marion says, standing up so she can ruffle his hair. He grins at her like he’s not seen her in ages. She shakes her head when he tries to wrap his arms around her. She is not hugging him while he’s got sweat all over him that makes him look like he could be the ultimate beacon of light, with all the reflection and the gleam of his pale skin.

“I want a hug,” he says, his racket hanging at his side.

Marion looks behind him, his sulking opponent storming away, she fights back her grin, focusing her gaze on his, smiling softly. “Not until you get a shower. You better scrub off that stench, Mr. Donaldson.”

He grumbles in indignation and hands her his racket, telling her he’ll be back soon. She knows exactly what to do. She waves off Tashi who’s already talking to Patrick, animated as she narrates the game that Zweig has also just watched anyway.

Marion weaves her way through the retreating crowd, she walks into the quiet of the campus walls, walking up to the room where Art camps out before games. She drops his heavy bag onto the floor, and stuffs the racket into it. She frowns at the crumpled tissue paper she forgot to throw away, dropping it into the dustbin stowed away in a corner, hidden from the public eye. She closes her eyes and lets her behind hit the chair stationed next to a metal closet. Her eyes flutter close and she relaxes into the cold of the room. 

And then footsteps echo outside, quick as they came, the door is thrown open and Marion opens her eyes to meet Art’s gleeful face. 

“Hey,” she whispers, smiling up at him.

“You good?” He stops in front of her sitting figure, looking down at her. She nods, standing up. “How was the game?”

“Shouldn’t I ask you that?” she mumbles into his shoulder, momentarily forgetting that he’s yet to take a shower. “You better let go of me, Art.”

“Why?” he mumbles, almost whiny while he tightens his grip around her waist. “I want to celebrate with my favourite girl.”  

“Later?” she cards her fingers through his messy locks of blond hair, unintentionally melting in his arms. He pulls her closer, supports her full weight against him, somehow not wanting to collapse onto the floor. 

Marion doesn’t get him sometimes, but she doesn’t question it. She hears him mutter something, and let go. She smiles. 

“By the way,” he starts, rummaging through his bag, “Tashi, Patrick and I will be having a little party at our dorm later tonight, you should—” 

He’s interrupted by her phone pinging incessantly. She glances at him apologetically, and pulls it out. Lo and behold, it’s Tashi. Talk about the devil. She skims the message, it’s something about what Art was just mentioning. Marion laughs.

“Tashi mentioned it,” she says.

Art raises an eyebrow at her. “Well, I was doing it before her.” 

Marion grins, shaking her head as she steps up to him, planting a gentle kiss on his jawline before she takes the run, sprinting out of his room, and towards her dorm. She makes a mental note to reply to Tashi later. She expects her best friend to probably be with Patrick, either dissecting the game, or eating his face. And either way, she doesn’t want to deal with them, not just yet. 

Whenever they have these little parties, they’re timid, alright, but it never fails to end up with Art and Marion alone, the former listening and Marion speaking to her heart’s content, spurred on by Art’s nice gaze, and his interest, and the late hours of the night that ask her to open the windows into her mind.

To him. 

But the next day, neither of them talk about the way they’d end up curled in each other’s embrace, smiling like they’re on cloud nine, holding each other’s faces, pressed together.

When Marion reaches her dorm, she’s not surprised when she’s greeted by silence. She unlocks the door and steps in, a steady flow of sunlight flooding in from the window that she’d left open earlier in the morning. The air is humid, Marion now feels sweaty. She blows air into her t-shirt, shivering as she stares at her reflection on the mirror on her closet. Tashi’s tennis attire is thrown across their beds. Marion grins, picking it up and tenderly placing it on a corner. 

Now, she has to get ready. She wishes Tashi was there, to help her. 

She isn’t the best with things like this, and she would appreciate the emotional support.

Well, it never appears. 

The night air clings onto her skin as she wades her way through campus, feet carrying her down the same path that leads her back to his place. And Patrick’s place. Tashi had called her earlier, letting her know that she’s already with Patrick, that she didn’t realise the time passing when she was with her boyfriend. Marion laughed it off.

And now she treads through silence, the stillness of the quiet night making her stiff, but she continues anyway. 

She’s ever grateful to safely reach her destination. Her wrist reaches upwards to place three measured knocks on the door, she waits, bouncing from heel to heel. And then the door cracks open, locks of blond greet her before a face does, then Art appears in his entirety.

A smile breaks onto his face the second his eyes set on her. Oceans crash against the shore, a forest dances in the distance. She smiles back at him. 

“I hope I’m not late,” she says, scratching the back of her neck.

He shakes his head, “not at all, don’t worry.” He holds his hand out for her. She accepts it graciously, letting him tug into the threshold of his dorm room. Laughter caresses her senses, her eyes immediately straying towards the direction of the sound. Tashi and Patrick are on the floor, grinning as Marion approaches them.

She notices Tashi taking a swig out of a beer can. And then her eyes inch upwards, and when she notices her best friend, she starts grinning. Marion sits down beside her. Tashi places her hands in Marion’s lap. The Brit holds them gently, playing with her fingers.

“Mari’!” she says, smiling, brown eyes staring into hers. 

She blinks at her, “Hey, Tashi—” Marion starts, but is rudely interrupted by Patrick. Who is somehow slurring his words already.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” He wiggles his eyebrows at her.

Marion shakes her head, face-palming. And suddenly the pressure of two palms are on her shoulder. She turns her head around and she’s nose to nose with Art Donaldson, kneeling behind her. He smiles. Marion sighs, tapping his nose, making him move back.

“Mari’...” he elongates the last vowel, pouting.

“You’re not drunk, are you?” she asks, glancing at the other two, who look considerably wasted, for the measure. 

“Not quite.” Art nuzzles his nose into her shoulder, breathing deeply. She turns around to him fully and wraps her arms around him. 

She laughs softly, “I can’t be the only one who isn’t drunk,” she whispers, eyeing the other two with mock disdain. Patrick grins, giving her and Art a look that plainly goes ‘just kiss already’, Marion looks away, trying to ignore the way her cheeks flare up. 

Tashi on the other hand, is staring at Patrick, and then glancing at Marion. And she shrugs. 

One thing leads to another, a cigarette break for Patrick has him going with Tashi to who knows where. But they’re not back, and it’s been a while.

“Don’t think they’ll be back any time soon,” Art mutters, face pressed into the crook of Marion’s neck. The latter nods in agreement, running her hands on his bare skin under his thin cotton shirt. His hands are on her waist, also under the warmth encapsulated by his sweatshirt that’s hanging loose on her skin. His hands are warm to the touch, and she shivers, but doesn’t ask him to let go. 

At some point through the night, the window was thrown open, and it’s been like that since. Warm air wafts through the open window, the scent of summer lingering in the room, clinging to their skin. Marion’s chin rests on Art’s head, he’s tracing random shapes onto the skin of her sides, her eyes flutter close.

She feels shuffling, and suddenly warm air—No, a warm breath is fanning right against her face. She opens her eyes a sliver, to meet Art’s eyes, his lips inches away from hers. His hands have her caged against the headboard of the bed. She stares up at him. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks him, voice barely above a whisper.

“Nothin’, you jus’ look pretty,” he mumbles, pressing his forehead to hers. She has to reach up, wrap her arms around his neck. She wants to turn her face away before she’s sure she’ll bloom into a scarlet mess, but Art’s fingers find their way onto her right cheek. She instinctively leans into the touch, how she does often, more often than she should.

“I don’t,” she breathes into his fingers, turning her head slightly so she can place kisses on his fingertips.

“You always do,” Art counters, turning her face back so he can look at the entirety of it. He breathes softly, she’s back to counting every smile line, eyelashes, stray strand of hair, anything, so she doesn’t have to stare at the way his lips are parted.

The way he looks incredibly kissable. 

And the way that makes her heartbeat stutter. 

She shakes her head, Art tilts his head.

“Please,” he whispers.

Her breath hitches in her throat. She thinks she knows exactly what he’s asking, but she’s scared to say anything, to just say yes. 

“Please what?” she breathes out with a shaky voice. He shuffles, pressing closer against her. Her eyes close.

“Look at me.” His hands trace the expanse of her face, cupping it. 

She opens her eyes. The look in his eyes is so plain, she nods. 

He leans down, captures her lips in a gentle kiss, pulling her as close as he can. She wants to crumble in his arms, he tastes like summer, or whatever she thinks it tastes like. His lips are warm, but soft, his breath makes her heady, tint of peppermint making her head spin. His hair is tickling her face as he presses ever closer, trying to seemingly memorise the way her lips move in sync with his. Her arms are pulling him closer by the neck until they’re practically moulded into one another. Hands weave into his hair, tugging at it. 

He groans softly.

The butterflies erupt in her stomach. 

When he pulls away, her chest is rising and falling quickly, shaky breaths slipping past as she stares at his red face, eyes barely open. He’s grinning. She chuckles.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers.

“You’ve said,” she whispers back, reaching out and pulling him closer by the nape of his neck. There’s no resistance, he just crumbles onto her, his head nuzzled against her shoulder, where he’s now peppering feather light kisses. 

She presses her face into his hair, drinking in the scent of… the beach that infiltrates her senses. He is summer, to some extent. She reckons.

“No but, you just…” he trails off, breathing softly against the crook of her neck. She glances at the clock hanging on the wall, 01:44 it reads. 

“Mhm, whatever you say,” she hums, closing her eyes, relaxing, Art’s weight pressed against her. He snakes his arms back around the skin of her waist, under the sweatshirt. She relaxes into his grip more, feels the exhaustion tugging at her consciousness.

“Wear my sweatshirt more often,” he whispers, voice quiet, the tiredness lining every syllable. 

She nods against the headboard, holding him closer. 

The strong scent of summer is wafting in from somewhere now, and she can hear a door creaking open, can hear the quiet murmurs of people from somewhere, but she ignores it. Marion’s mind is consumed by the urge to sleep and by Art’s comforting weight, and the way his chest is rising and falling against hers. 

Summer surrounds them, and sleep speaks in quiet whispers to her. She smiles against the top of Art’s head, doesn’t care if there are obscenely loud giggles echoing around her, she’ll deal with it later.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[ch4rryc0smos]

⊹ fable — ivan.

synopsis — ember wishes they'd known who they were before anakt garden, because since then, it's been hellish, and only ivan knows when the thought torments them most.

genres — friends to lovers(?), tension, mutual pining(?), yearning(?), admiring, childhood friends,, domestic fluff, requited love(?), fluff.

pairing — ivan x friend!self insert, ivan x childhood friend!self insert.

warnings — none, it's just kind of angsty.!

word count — 1k.

author's note — this one was harder to write, the initial prompt wasn't much for me to go off of, but i did, and i managed to, now i have another idea, so let's go! have fun reading, chat :)

masterlist.

Ember watches as the stars twinkle. They look real. They look beautiful. Unlike them. Their hands fiddle with the grass tickling the back of their legs. Ivan occupies the empty space beside them, but he’s quiet. And the stars don’t speak either, they blink, they twinkle, glimmer, anything but speak.

“Do you think I actually have family out there, Ivan?” they ask, hope does not blossom in their heart this time though, as it hasn’t, for the many previous occasions. They’ve learnt to expect less from Anakt garden. It might look like it’s a haven of its own, but it’s far from it. It’s always been like that.

Perfect displays, perfect everything, and yet they feel like nothing will ever be fine in their lives. 

“You do,” Ivan whispers, his raven hair is covering his eyes, but Ember knows he’s looking at them. They sigh softly, balling their fists on their lap, the almost-silken white fabric of the uniform crumpling under their fingertips. 

The “moon” hangs itself in the sky, or whatever the sky is, and the stars twinkle, as if to mock them, that while they’re alone—Technically, not counting Ivan—Even something like the stars are together. They are a nameless painting, a destination-less traveller, and an aimless being, in the heavenly realms of this universe, they mean nothing.

And when Ivan looks at them, and then holds his hand out, a red flower sitting in his palm, they stare at him, puzzled. He nods, and they hold their hand out. He gently places the flower into their palm and closes their palm, balling it into a fist. 

“Ivan?” they whisper his name.

He hums in response.

Ember sighs, head hanging low. “I feel like a Jane… John doe.” They laugh sadly, “I don’t remember what exactly you call them, but I think you get the point, anyway.” 

Ivan nods, “I do.”

Ember’s eyes are weighing more by the second, but they will them open, stare at the seemingly endless blanket of navy that was their fake display of a sky, Ivan’s arm wraps around their shoulders and pulls their head to his instead. And as soon as their head has a stable place to rest on, they can barely fight the exhaustion they’ve been trying to fight back for the past hour, or few. It’s been their thing for the past few days, but now Ivan’s fingers are carefully carding through their hair and it falls over their shoulder. Their mind is too tired to care about how uncomfortable it feels.

But Ivan cares, he brushes his hands over their collarbones as he pushes the hair back, and the slight breeze hits them, comfortable, cold. The stars blink at them. 

They start again, “I hope that.” A smile spreads over their face and they hold their hand up, pointing at a random star somewhere. “If I have siblings out there, they’re the stars.”

Ivan chuckles softly. “Really?” His hand is gently running up and down their arm, and it feels nice. It feels like being loved, if they know what that is. Maybe they don’t? There was a time where they didn’t even know their first name, sometimes they still wonder if it’s Ember. “Ember?” he whispers their name. They crane their neck so they can meet his eyes. “I hope the stars are your family too.”

They smiled softly at him, “Thank you.”

“I hope they’re always watching over you.”

They gulp, trying to fight back the impending weight of all their repressed emotions. Nothing goes unnoticed by Ivan, he leans forward, cradling their face and pressing it into the comfort of his shoulder. Over the past few months, he’d caught up on the fact that they were uncomfortable crying in front of everyone. They were meant to be the star.

Perfect, like everyone that walked out of these damned gardens. And the aliens made sure to turn them into the porcelain doll they needed, and knew exactly how to torment Ember. And they knew that Ivan dreamt of freedom. Of a fate they’d given up on trying to reach. 

They weren’t foolish anymore. Even when they noticed Ivan longingly staring at the huge metallic door that they’d seen slide open once, and that was when they watched as some other human was forced into this hellhole. 

It was a pitiful day. 

Their body is pressed to Ivan’s side, and he holds them close, his hand halts where it meets theirs, and he taps their palm. They open their eyes, and he mouths some words to them, they smile softly, feeling the weight of his fingers between theirs as they intertwine. 

“Thanks,” they whisper, voice quiet, they think their voice is quiet, but any care has left them and they just want to rest now. They’re too scared to sleep, too scared to do anything, to move. And somehow Ivan finds them in the depths of the night, when they’re spiralling the worst. So they thank him. For dealing with me, for being here, for being my support in the emptiness of this… universe.

“What for?” he asks, relaxing his grip on their hand, but it’s like instinct when they tighten their grip instead, they don’t want him to let go. They need him to let them know that he won’t go. 

He doesn’t let go. As soon as his fingers tighten around their hand, he holds their hand close, presses his palm to the back of theirs. “Everything.”

“That’s too general, don’t you think?” Ivan leans down to get a good look at Ember’s face. They smile at him, he smiles back. 

“I want to thank you,” They start speaking again, “for many, many things.”

“You don’t have to,” he says, laughing. And he’s going to say something, but Ember holds up a finger to his lips. They’ve never done this, but his lips are soft. They don’t know softness outside of the arms that currently hold them together, and they can’t think of softness because the only type they know of is in their occasional dreams. In the dreams that they know will never be true.

“Oh.” They smile at him, pulling their hand away. “But I will.”

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[ch4rryc0smos]

⊹ warm — a. donaldson.

synopsis — their hearts know who they beat for, and they're done waiting. every moment they spent away from each other, they will make up for it, some way or another, yearning never truly dies out, does it?

genres — friends to lovers, tension, mutual pining, requited yearning, admiring, best friend's friend, domestic fluff, requited love, fluff.

pairing — art donaldson x friend!self insert, art donaldson x mutual friend!self insert.

warnings — none! all fluffy!

word count — 1.5k.

author's note — this took me a bit to write because i've been busy and so horribly tired, but i've got a new idea, and i have something planned, so bear with me, i hope you enjoy!

masterlist.

The warmth of Art’s hand is encapsulated in Marion’s as he holds her pressed close to his side. His arms are tense, Marion can tell. She always could. Even when he used to play tennis. Marion isn’t necessarily wearing anything light, so even with the breeze teasing her, she shouldn’t be too cold, but Art wants to take his chances anyway. Marion looks up at Art, he’s staring ahead, but smiling softly. She misses his fluffy hair, flowing with the wind. Of course it made sense to cut it short for him to play tennis, but she misses seeing it get in his face when they’d have walks in the morning breeze while it assaulted them. She doesn’t realise she’s been smiling at him until he turns to her, and he raises his eyebrows. She looks away.

“Nothing,” she whispers. He isn’t convinced, he brushes a stray strand of hair out of her face, and then he leans down, so now they’re eye-level. “Art!” 

He continues grinning. Even at thirty one, he’s still acting like he did at twenty. “What’s wrong?”

“Hm,” Marion hums, feigning confusion, and then she flicks his forehead. He gasps softly and she erupts into laughter. This feels a bit immature, but it feels nice, to have him back, to just be, with him, in his arms. He still hasn’t let go of her waist. He pouts softly and Marion’s knees are about to give out. “Nicely cropped hair? Not really like you, Donaldson.”

“Hey…” he whispers, nuzzling his nose into her shoulder. She chuckles, wrapping her arms around his back and holding him close. The night hides them away from any prying eyes and it’s like being eighteen and going out together for the first time all over again. Just this time, she’s not in his sweatshirt and a random pair of jeans she stole from Tashi. This time, she’s still in her work outfit, courtesy to Art arriving too early to pick her up. 

Just like the day they reconciled. 

Marion presses a kiss to the side of Art’s head, and he melts in her arms. “I love you,” she whispers into his neatly cut hair. “Miss your messy hair, though.”

Art turns his face in her direction and their noses brush. He grins, leaning in until his lips are lightly grazing hers. Marion feels like mush in his hands. One of his hands slides up her body, and then cups her face. His palm is a warm contrast to the wind that’s ebbing and flowing between their bodies, entangled in the middle of the footpath. 

“I love you more, Mari’.” He gently moves back, instead opting to snake his arms around her shoulders, still covered by his jacket. He himself is in a casual shirt, a bit formal, a bit unlike him, but Marion knows he’s just trying to impress her, as if there’s any reason for it. “Do you want me to grow my hair out?”

“Art,” she starts. “You don’t have to ask me what do with your own hair, if you want to grow it out, you can, if you don’t want to,” her voice has grown to a hushed whisper even in the emptiness of the streets they tread and her hand finds its way to his as she intertwines their fingers. “You don’t have to.”

Marion shouldn’t be surprised, but she can’t help but notice the way Art relaxes, he squeezes her hand and then raises it gently to his lips, pressing feather light kisses to her knuckles.

He meets her eyes, her heart flutters like she’s a teen still. “Do you want me to grow it out?”

“Art.” Marion shakes her head. 

“Mari’,” he whispers back. 

She huffs, looking away, but smiling nonetheless. 

“Yeah, I do.” She sighs. 

“Then, I’m growing it out,” says Art, tone definitive.

Marion just shakes her head and stares ahead, at the streets, the singular cars that pass by every few minutes. It’s getting closer and closer to midnight, but these two are seemingly in their own world. And Marion personally, wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Art—”

“Want to get ice—”

Both of them start speaking at the same time, Marion stops, but so does Art. She nods. Art’s face breaks into a grin and grips her hand tighter. And then suddenly, he’s picked up pace, and Marion laughs, all surprised, but she’s not opposed to the idea of running with her Art down a random pathway on a random Tuesday, when the clock’s close to spiking midnight. He’s got that athlete strength and she’s close to losing her breath already.

“I can’t breathe—” she begins, voice breaking from holding back her giggles, she’s clinging onto Art for dear life. She doesn’t get how this old man with a whole daughter has the ability to run like this. So much for being an athlete. And so much for her having played tennis at college.

Slowly, Art comes to a halt, and Marion almost tumbles into him, “didn’t you play tennis with Tashi during Stanford?”

“Yeah, but I’m not some pro like…” she has to stop to forcefully inhale more air. “Like you.”

“You flatter me,” Art says, wrapping the jacket around Marion’s shoulders again. He’s standing in front of Art, brushing his hands over her shoulders, up her neck. A shiver crawls up her spine when his warm hands find the plains of her face, and he holds her gently. Her eyes dare flutter close, but only momentarily, and then again, she’s looking at him, like he might have hung the stars for her, like he is the moon she adores. Her eyes drop to his lips, but they don’t linger long enough, she looks away, at the space separating them. 

“Look at me,” Art’s voice is soft as he whispers the words, his hands hold her firmly in place, and then he brushes thumb over her lower lip. Marion’s heart rate skyrockets the way it did the first time they looked at each other at anything, anything but friends. 

They were never just friends. Art, with his neatly cut hair, and slightly cherry-tinted face looks at Marion, eyes looking almost glazed over, and she’s staring, lips parted. Her heart is a cacophony in her chest and she’s scared he can hear it, and hates it. This feels reckless, like being in love but not knowing if your heart is ready to settle. If they will, too. But now, they do know.

They’ve spent what feels like a lifetime tip-toeing around the feeling of knowing they’re made for no one else, but now, after so many years, they’re finally giving in. Marion brings her hand to hold the nape of Art’s neck tenderly, using her other hand to brush his cheek softly before she leans in, pressing her lips to his. Right outside a door, leading into a parlour. 

Art breathes into her mouth, pulling her closer, for a moment. His lips are perfectly moulded to the like of hers, and he knows where her mouth ends and his begins but not where their breaths end because they’ve become one.

When they pull away, Art’s grinning, and Marion laughs softly. And her eyes flutter close for just a moment, but then she feels a gust of much colder wind brush against her legs. She looks at Art, and he’s holding a door open for her. She steps through, and his arm latches around her waist again, and he leads her into the parlour. 

It’s that one ice cream parlour.

They’d visit when they were younger. 

Was Luke still the owner? Was he alive?

He was, much to Marion’s relief. She jogged up to the counter, smiling at him.

“Marion! Look at how you’ve grown,” he begins speaking, rather tenderly, as he had then too. 

“It’s not been that long,” Marion says, smiling as she glances at Art, who greets Luke too. 

The corner of Luke’s eyes crinkle as Art’s eyes wander to the ice cream under them. “Still the same, after all these years too, hm?”

“Yeah,” Art’s voice is calm, it’s almost quiet. 

“Same?”

Art nods.

Marion watches the interaction, and something fills her heart. In the quiet of the night, she’s watching the lights of the ice cream parlour reflect off Art’s face, and Luke has more wrinkles, but he’s so enthusiastic. She can’t ignore the way he’s looking at the both of them and she’s so glad her and Art’s intertwined fingers are hidden behind the counter. And then a small cup of ice cream is being pushed to her.

Cookies & cream, how’d he know—

“You two are still the same, don’t change.”

By the time the ice cream is done, they’re staring out at the ocean. The moon glimmers above their head and the stars twinkle for them. Art is holding Marion’s hands in his laps, and she plays with his fingers. The wind hums in their ears, and there’s this warmth blossoming in her guts. 

“I missed you,” she whispers, head pressed to his neck, drinking in his cologne.

He laughs softly, and his body shakes slightly from the force of it. “I miss you.”

“I’m right here.” She presses a tender kiss to a vein on his neck. 

“Don’t go anywhere.”

“I won’t.”

He encircles his arms around her, his warm body pressed to hers, heartbeat steady under her arms. She missed him.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[ch4rryc0smos]

⊹ time & wounds left — a. donaldson.

synopsis — a dreadful day leads marion to a night at art's. with a doubt-filled mind, she finds her conscience speaking more than she is, but he is there to always remind her that she's more than what her cover page shows.

genres — friends to lovers, tension, mutual pining, requited yearning, admiring, best friend's friend, domestic angst & fluff, requited love, hurt/comfort.

pairing — art donaldson x friend!self insert, art donaldson x mutual friend!self insert.

warnings — mentions of doubt, and scars, fear of intimacy, if that counts?

word count — 1.2k.

author's note — i love writing but sometimes i'm just too drained, and it kills me, because i really don't want to be, but at least i finished this. :) happy reading!

masterlist.

Art is tracing mindless shapes on the dips of Marion’s skin, cold air brushing past his fingers, under the thin fabric of her sweatshirt, that isn’t truly hers. It’s his, but neither of them remember the last time they mentioned that. And now of all times, was more inappropriate than ever. Words didn’t escape Marion as she lay corpse-still in Art’s arms, letting the latter thumb her skin and provide her with a stabilising presence. He doesn’t talk. She’s been in his bed for the better half of the past three hours, and he hasn’t left her. 

He didn’t leave for a second. It’s like he knew from the second she walked in, hands shaking, and words not leaving her mouth that she just needed that stability, in some way, shape or form. She just needed to stay wrapped up in someone’s arms, not be asked for anything. And for some reason, Art can provide that perfectly. At first, he asked her if she’d like to be held.

She did, she really did. With his window thrown open, and her back facing the world, she’s more than content (Well, as much as she can be) to just bask in his warmth. The autumn air feels like nothing when compared to the way his arms flex as he shifts her gently so he can access more skin on her back, to rub away at the tenseness.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles against his chest, voice muffled. His fingers still, he squeezes her waist.

“Why, baby?” he whispers against the top of her head.

She sighs, hiding her face in the crook of his neck. “For being so…” she considers her words, letting silence dance in the emptiness in the air between them. Art doesn’t push, he waits patiently. “Pathetic.”

“You aren’t.” He’s quick to say it, as if he truly knows, as if he could form it into a concrete concept that will forever linger, even as time decays. Marion laughs softly, nose buried into the space between his shoulder and his neck, breathing a bit shallow. He starts rubbing circles on her back. “Never.”

“Even if they say it?” she asks. She feels childish, for confirming like that, but, she doesn’t know what else there is to do. She can feel the pressure as he presses his lips against the top of her head, nodding.

“Yes.”

They spend a few more minutes in pure silence. Marion is subconsciously shifting closer to Art. He knows, he notices, and he’s been carding his fingers through her hair, pressing gentle kisses to her forehead and the tips of her fingertips, and every inch of her face that she allows him to touch. The moon glows down on them, and Art is breathing softly. Marion doesn’t want this to end. It feels better than the way she’s been feeling all day, dreadful. He’s holding her like he doesn’t intend to let go, and she likes that more than she’s ready to admit.

“Art?” she breathes against his collarbone. Her hands find their way around his shoulders, and she’s pulling him closer. Even though they’re pressed right against each other. She leans her head upwards, just a bit, his curls start tickling her head. A laugh escapes. 

Art shifts, glancing down at her. Their eyes meet, for probably only the second time the entire night. “Yeah, love?” his voice is a breath, a whisper in the night breeze. It might’ve passed her if she wasn’t intently listening, eyes glued to the way his skin and his features are illuminated by the moon. The way his nose dips, and the shadow cast over part of his face. His hand is rising higher on her neck, she inhales sharply, but doesn’t pull back.

“You…” she starts, but her courage dims. Until he’s cupping her face so she can’t look away. He leans closer, his forehead pressed to hers. “You don’t mind, right?” Marion closes her eyes because she’s far too scared to actually look at his expression. She’s scared he’s disappointed. She doesn’t want him to be. 

“Hey,” he whispers, tracing her jaw with his thumb. “Open your eyes, please.”

Her eyes flutter open. Why does he sound like he’s begging? Why is he frowning, softly? Marion gulps. She doesn’t know what to say, or what to think, she thinks she’s just a bit scared of what he might say, just a bit. A bit—Not a lot.

“No, I don’t mind, not at all,” he says, pushing strands of hair out of her eyes. 

“Even when I can’t seem to… just relax?” She’s referring to every time his hands rose anything above her stomach when they’d just been cuddling. And the way she tensed. And when his apologises tumbled right after. She remembers holding his hands and pressing them to her face, and the way they fell to his shoulders.

“Mari’,” he begins. He pouts, pressing his lips to her forehead. “That doesn’t change anything.” 

But it should. It should. “Really?”

“Really.” He intertwines their fingers, squeezing her hand. “No matter what we do, or don’t, I don’t see you as any different.”

Marion sighs, shoving her face into his neck. Art mumbles sweet nothings into her ear. The moon shines down on them. One of Art’s hands is under her shirt, rubbing shapes into the skin of her back. A smile blooms on his face at the way gooseflesh erupts on her skin. 

“I love you,” the words slip out in the most casual of senses, but they don’t mean anything casual. Marion wraps her arms around his neck, whispering back her own confession. Something about how she barely stutters it out, about how her voice shakes. 

When Art pulls her up, she’s looking right at him. She notices that his face is blooming into a shade of scarlet, he’s smiling, softly. Her heart flutters, she reaches with one hand, and cups his face. He snakes his arm around her waist and pulls her flush against him again. 

He whispers the words again, like they might dissolve into nothingness if he doesn’t keep on repeating them like a prayer. Marion laughs softly, smiling at him, her head being the only part that isn’t pressed right against him. She brushes her nose against his, and his lips part. His breath is warm against her lips. She leans in, gulps.

He raises his head so their lips meet for the better half of two seconds, and then she turns her head away, blushing. Her face feels warm, really warm. She giggles, grinning.

His hand cups the back of her head, presses her forehead to his.

“Love you,” he whispers.

“I love you too, so much,” her voice comes out muffled, but he gets the point.

His chest rises and falls quickly as he laughs softly, relaxing completely against the crumpled sheets, covers thrown aside while his limbs are completely tangled with hers. He’d have it no other way.

Neither would she. His hands run over every dent in her skin, every rough patch, and every spot that is still weak from years and years of the hardening it underwent. He runs his fingers over every healing wound reverently, every second passing by slower than the last because this is a feeling neither of them want to forget. 

And they hope they won’t.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[ch4rryc0smos]

⊹ eighteen — a. donaldson.

synopsis — marion misses him dearly. how she always does, but she doesn't expect to see him, until he decides to reach out first, and who is she to deny? one thing lead to another, and eighteen is happening all over again, but this time, he promises to be hers.

genres — friends to strangers to lovers, tension, mutual pining, requited yearning, admiring, best friend's (ex-)husband, domestic angst & fluff, unrequited to requited love, hurt/comfort.

pairing — art donaldson x friend!self insert, art donaldson x mutual friend!self insert.

warnings — mentions of medication, and insomnia, that's about it.

word count — 2.7k.

author's note — hurt/comfort now. my friend wanted me to, plus i needed some happiness sprinkled in here, so i'm doing exactly that. i'm pretty stressed, so i reckon i need something nice, i hope everyone's well out there!

masterlist.

Nerves consume her body. Her movements are jittery, the pills making no difference. Her hand on the steering wheel is white-knuckled, shaky. Marion hasn’t bothered checking her phone today. She doesn’t want to. Even if there might be any messages from her manager, she’ll get to work in a few minutes. A few minutes of scolding won’t take her already non-existent morale down that much anyway. Music blares in her ears, the radio is off, but she has her headphones on. When she arrives, she’s quick to lock her car and start walking speedily towards her building. People brush her shoulders, she ignores some whistles. Are any of these people from her past? Are these any of the students she might’ve passed at her campus over a decade ago? It would’ve been wild if they were. 

But she doesn’t figure that out. She watches the glass doors leading into her workplace slide open, her reflection greeting her like a phantom, a rather unappealing one. She blinks the thought away, trudges forward. Some people chirp hellos at her, she smiles at them, holding her head low as she continues to her office. On the way, she runs into her manager.

He glances at her, and when she looks up at him, he stops mid-sentence. She doesn’t like that.

“Take care,” is all he says, and he suddenly leaves. Departs. Doesn’t even bother to look back. 

By the time Marion can find the energy to ask him to finish his actual point, he’s left and she’s reached the door into her office. So, she doesn’t bother. She walks in, closes the door behind her and sighs. Another gruelling day of losing her fight to the scoliosis she probably has now, and to capitalism. She already wants to slump her back against the wall, and stay there.

She doesn’t though, she finds her seat at her desk, starts going through her heaps of emails and paperwork. Nothing is there to disturb her for some reason, but she supposes it might be for the better. It seems to be, until she hears a ping. She turns towards her phone, expects a message from just about a few people, but none of them are who she thought they’d be.

She stops breathing when she reads the name, it’s not Tashi. Not any coworker who’s too scared to talk to her in person. It reads Art Donaldson. Well, not quite. She hasn’t changed the way his name appears on her phone since the time she’d first met him. It’s still Artie, with a smiley face next to it. Whatever eighteen year old Marion was going through, thirty one year old Marion still hasn’t moved on from. But that doesn’t matter, because she hasn’t messaged him since the time of Tashi’s injury. At the start, they’d just do whatever they had to in person, then it turned into Art dedicating most if not all of his time to Tashi, and then everything stopped.

The first few years, it hurt, it really did. He’d become such a staple in her life, so when she had to go through the turmoil of her twenties, and when she thought he’d be there but wasn’t, it truly did hurt. 

But just when she thinks she can finally do it, go through her dreadful life, he walks back in? He walks back in, and he just expects to be accepted? (He will be accepted, even if Marion says she can’t). Even if her mind tells her to not tap on the message, she does. She reads it over, thinks it might’ve been sent to the wrong person. Why would Art Donaldson send her a text going ‘hey, are you free tonight?’.

She stares at the words, they start turning into things they aren’t. She’s waiting for them to disappear, but they don’t. By now, she’s completely out of it, doesn’t care what influx of emails are left, her phone is the centre of attention. 

What should she do? What should she—What is she—Panicking isn’t going to change it. Her immediate instinct is to type a yes. It’s true, she’s pathetic, she’s always free after work. She doesn’t even bother going on Tinder, doesn’t bother trying to get someone. They deserve someone who actually wants to love them, but she’s stuck. A few minutes pass as she sits still as a statue. And then her hands shake as she types yes. She’s free. She asks why. She expects at least a few minutes of silence, thinks she can try to calm herself down in the few minutes it might take for a response to come in. But it takes just a few seconds, and something about it makes her feel a type of giddiness that she can only identify as what she felt back in college. 

‘just want to talk’ reads the message. And then a location pops up. 

Marion smiles.

She asks him when he’d like to meet up. She knows this most probably won’t go well. He could just be drunk—But no, he wouldn’t. He’s got training, surely. He’s got work. It’s literally just scraping the horizons of the afternoon. It doesn’t matter what he’s doing though, because he says seven in the evening. 

Marion agrees. It feels great. It does for the first few minutes. Because first, she’s somehow managed to have a conversation with the man that she’s loved for over a decade, and second, she’ll see him in person, for the first time in a while. Honestly, that one was on her, she’d avoid him like the plague, even though she could’ve seen him at least a few times a year. She just decided not to. For a while, it kept her peace intact, so she couldn’t complain, but at some point, the yearning did win over. It sure did. She’d then spend nights awake, thinking the weight of her sheets are him. 

Which was stupid.

It doesn’t matter, though. She’ll meet him in a few hours time. 

And she can tell him how much she’s missed him. Their friendship. Everything they could’ve been were. 

Her issue is that she doesn’t realise how fast the hours pass when she’s busy drowning in work. When she says it’ll be a few more reports, it can’t take that long, but it does. It takes her well over five hours. But by that point, she’s already meant to clock out. 

When she stands up, she’s sure she’s aged a few decades. She can’t care less though, she switches off her desktop and makes her way to the door. She cracks it open an inch, glancing out and glad to notice that no one is there to question her. She steps out. She can hear distant chatter, but it doesn’t seem to be approaching her. Her bag swinging at her side, she weaves her way through the winding building. 

Surprisingly, it’s rather devoid of life. Usually, it’s not this quiet when she’s clocking out. When she’s at the lobby, she meets at least five people, but there’s not one. That unnerves her. She can hear her own breathing and tries to brush it off as she finally steps out onto the pavement. 

Then her eyes catch on the black jeep in front of her. Waiting, on the pavement. It could be just any jeep, of course, but it isn’t. It has that one specific scratch that Art mentioned but couldn’t afford to get fixed. While she’s eyeing it and getting ambushed by a tide pool of memories, the window rolls down. Neat strawberry blond hair is peeking out. Her muscles tense under her shirt. It feels tight, it probably looks horribly wrinkled.

He smiles and her heart can’t help but skip a beat. He places his arm out, glances at both sides, and beckons her closer. Marion watches him silently as he unlocks his door and steps out. His smile widens. She doesn’t want to wait. She doesn’t wait. With a few quick steps, she’s only a foot away from him.

“Hey,” he starts.

He doesn’t get to say anything, she reaches a hand forward, out of instinct, to brush his shoulder. But then she stops herself. This isn’t college. This isn’t the night after the parties. She can’t do that. If he intended to say anything, he doesn’t. He stops, frowns softly. 

Shit, she hates that she wants to wipe it off his face. 

“Art,” she breathes his name. His eyes flicker up to meet hers and they stare there, for just a second before he’s scanning the entirety of her face, drinking in every detail. Like he might commit it to memory. As if he already hasn’t. His hand reaches for her. When their fingers touch, her hand almost jerks back, but she doesn’t let it. She lets his hesitance wash over, lets him intertwine their fingers, press his palm into hers.

It feels wrong, but so right. She knows he’s married, but this is what she’s wanted for way too long. He tugs her closer, almost has her stumble into his chest, into his warmth, but then he leads her to the passenger seat, opens the door for her. 

“My personal Uber?” She grins. Even if it’s been a few years, she’ll always take the chance to tease him, to joke. That is one thing that’ll always feel natural with him. He seems to melt into her words, he nods, smiling all lopsided, but still appearing as charming as ever.

“As always,” he says, holding the door open and waiting until she’s situated so he can close the door and find his place in the driver’s seat. When he sits down, and shifts the gear, Marion can’t help but stare at his hands, at the veins that seem to be ever more visible now. Her face grows warmer, and she looks away.

“Hey, don’t do that,” he whispers. He doesn’t have to be quiet, but of course he is. That does something to her. She can’t help but turn to look at him, he’s smiling softly, like she can fix all his issues. “I miss you,” he says.

Not I missed you. I miss you. He’s missing her, even though she’s right here. She wants to hold his face, but she doesn’t. 

“I miss you too, I missed you,” she replies. Her voice shakes. This reminds her awfully of when they were eighteen, and couldn’t see each other for a few days. She remembers the way they clung onto each other the next time they saw each other. Whispering ‘I missed you’ and refusing to let go. They rocked back and forth, paying no mind to the outside world. This feels oddly like that. 

But Marion doesn’t mind that, she likes the feeling of nostalgia that washes over her. 

“I know I’m a bit early for seven.” Art laughs, scratching the back of his neck as he’s driving through the city. “But I just couldn’t wait.”

Friends don’t say that kind of shit about each other. Marion blushes anyway.

“Of course not,” she says.

He pouts at her. “You aren’t excited to see me?” he asks.

She laughs, “of course I am, dumbass.”

His face breaks into a smile. Most of the ride is spent in silence. He hums under his breath and Marion stares out the window, drinking in the sights she just never had the time for, and didn’t want to see previously. At some point, Art’s hand finds its way onto her thigh. She feels the guilt immediately.

She lets a few minutes pass. “What about Tashi?” she asks then. Her voice is shaking far too much for her liking, but she can’t stop it. Art squeezes her thigh. He’d always do it when he knew she was nervous. How has he not forgotten?

“We’re…” he starts, stops to inhale, and looks down, they’re parked on some backroad. Marion looks at him, tilts her head to the side. He shakes his head, laughs sadly. “Getting a divorce.”

Marion gasps. “No…” she says, not able to believe it. 

“Yes,” Art affirms, turning to face her, his lips trembling.

Oh. Marion doesn’t care anymore, she reaches out, cups his face, and shifts so she’s closer to him. He melts into her hands. She rubs her thumbs over his cheeks. “I’m so sorry, I’m so… sorry,” she repeats the apologies. As if this was caused by her. 

“It’s okay. It wasn’t working out, anyway. She’s goal oriented and she’s here to do things, to achieve heights. I’m past my prime. I just want my family… and to retire.”

Marion smiles, even if her heart breaks a little.

“Oh, Art,” she says, presses her forehead onto his.

“Missed you so bad,” he whispers. Her heart skips a beat.

She nods. “I missed you too.”

“You know,” he starts… His hand finding the nape of her neck. Her eyes are caught on his. She stares into the endless pits of cerulean. Oceans that swirl wildly, that glisten under the warm glow of the sun. She nods, asking him to continue. “I miss eighteen. I miss us, what we were. Then.” He breathes, inhaling deeply. 

His warm breath brushes against her face. She feels the gooseflesh erupt all over her skin.

“We’re not that young anymore, Art,” she says. Both of them know this very well, but they don’t care. It’s like when he mentioned that he’s getting a divorce, whatever restraint either of them were holding fell apart. They look like they’re two seconds away from kissing each other, relearning each other’s taste after over a decade of nothing even close to touch. 

“I know, but I want us back.” His fingertips are warm, they weave their way into her hair, letting her horribly loose bun fall apart. He cards his fingers through, detangling every knot gently. Just how he used to, when they were eighteen.

It’s like they’re messy teens all over again, sitting in this very same jeep, giggling in the middle of the night after he almost dropped his ice cream all over him. Marion leans closer.

Art doesn’t move back. He smiles. His eyes drop to her lips. And she has to gulp to stop herself from inhaling sharply. His smile widens.

“God, I love you so much,” he whispers, grazing his lips over hers for a moment. He shifts in his seat, getting even closer. It’s a miracle they aren’t kissing already. But Marion doesn’t waste any more seconds. She’s so sick of all these years she spent away from him. 

She presses her lips onto his, the warmth making her feel all dizzy. His lips are soft, they’re warm, they kiss her just the same, just a bit more urgently now. “I love you, I love you too.”

“I…” he pulls away for a second, smiles at her while their foreheads are still pressed against each other. His hair, despite being short, is still tickling her forehead. She giggles softly. “I was such a fool for waiting, for not taking the chance at eighteen.” 

“You were.” Marion smiles. If she’d been feeling any bitter feelings, they’re pushed to the back of her mind. Right now, she just needs to bask in his warmth, in the fact that he wants her again. At how right this feels to her heart. She can think about anything else later.

“I promise I won’t do that, ever again,” he whispers against her lips, diving in for another kiss, another peck to the lips. “I’ll give you everything I could’ve at eighteen.”

“Will you?” she asks. She knows he can, and that he will, but she still asks. The fear that flickers in her eyes for just a split second makes him frown. He kisses her again, finding that it’s just as addicting as it used to be. 

“I promise. On everything.”

Marion smiles. “I better get what I’ve been waiting for the past thirteen years.”

“You will.” 

Art is holding her so tenderly, he’s holding her like he just wants to make up for everything. For not choosing her when he should’ve. He kisses her like he’s going to show her that he’s learnt. That he’s better. He kisses her like she’s the oxygen he’s been deprived of for so long. But, he kisses her just how he used to. He’s just her Art. 

He always will be. At eighteen, and at thirty one. That’s a fact that won’t change. He won’t let it. And Marion doesn’t want it to, either.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[ch4rryc0smos]

⊹ noceur — a. donaldson.

synopsis — the past still haunts marion. she never let go, she yearns, and wishes, but hope does not truly exist. she's learnt to accept it, finally. she thinks so, until everything comes back to her, to become her ruination. to ruin the order she created to fight back her wants.

genres — friends to strangers, tension, one sided-pining (is it really?), unrequited yearning, admiring, best friend's husband (huh?), domestic angst, unrequited love, hurt no comfort.

pairing — art donaldson x friend!self insert, art donaldson x mutual friend!self insert.

warnings — mentions of medication, and insomnia.

word count — 2.3k.

author's note — i had to return to my angst roots, they feel so right. plus i'd been itching to write some masterpiece angst anyway. it just felt right. most of this might feel like inner monologue, but i just couldn't help it? anyways, no hate to tashi, by the way! we love her :)

masterlist.

Tennis has not been a staple in Marion’s life, but insomnia has. Much more than she’d like it to be. She’s barely been to any games, but it’s all on purpose. She’s been telling Tashi she’s been busy. That she’s got work. She never wanted to go into corporate, Tashi seems to have forgotten that. Once Stanford came along, tennis had become the one sport she loved, learnt to integrate into her life, and she succeeded, for the most part. Until Patrick and Tashi happened, until the injury. Until somehow the imminent fear of Tashi being everything Marione ever wanted to be ended up true. 

Twenty and college went from being what Marion thought would be the best years of her life to dreadful later years that left her yearning. Yearning for a man that she once thought wanted her too. But of course not. She’d been foolish to assume he would. A selfish want, a yearning that was always meant to be unrequited. Especially considering that tennis and Patrick had been Art’s world. And Tashi was the sun when those were the Earth. Marion can’t even find it in herself to dislike her best friend. Tashi’s been her rock, her anchor. And she was the first person to notice her. Ironic, because the same girl woman has recently been the last person to realise that Marion’s been spiralling, downwards. How she’s some main character from a novel, but she doesn’t seem to be anywhere close to getting her happy ending.

The man she thought would be hers is the furthest thing from it. He’s married, has a daughter, and Marion knows he’s struggling, but at least he’s got someone. She can’t even help but think that at least Tashi is better than she could’ve ever been. Marion is so glad that she’s Lily’s mother. She’s so glad that Lily has someone like Art there. As a father. 

The one thing Marion still doesn’t know, or have. She’s so glad, she’s so glad for her best friend and her husband and their daughter. But she hates the way her heart clenches every time she thinks about it. She hates the way insomnia has rooted itself into her life and how she spends endless nights awake, thinking about everything that was right in front of her, but never hers. 

Life feels like being in a museum with relics that have been taken from you, like standing on the other side of the glass and banging her fists on it. Begging for what’s rightfully hers. But is it really? The lines between her rationality and her human instinct to want have blurred a while ago. Now she’s just a pointless heap of flesh that has a conscience. 

One which she doesn’t use enough.

Her life is the same cycle, pointless. But she doesn’t mind. She also refuses to visit a therapist, much to some people’s chagrin. She doesn’t want to sound like a twenty year old fool still pining for her once love of her life. Also current love of her life.

It’s honestly so pathetic, she thinks. All of it just feels a bit wrong. 

Even more so when the last time Tashi texted her first was four months ago, and suddenly when the one night her exhaustion wins her mind over, the next morning it’s Tashi’s message that greets her first. Before the sun, before the birds, before clarity.

Her alarm hasn’t rung when her eyes flutter open, the curtains are drawn close, and she sits up immediately, glancing at her digital clock. It’s four in the morning. A whole hour before her alarm. She never changed it from when she was in college. When Tashi would wake her up in the mornings to train. When she tried out sports and was not ‘lady-like’. When something as simple as hitting a ball with a racket with her best friend had become her freedom. And her saviour. Had become the one thing that connected her to the one man that somehow managed to win her over.

The one she was still yearning for. 

Sometimes, the negativity made her wish for her life before anything. Before Stanford, before Tashi. Mostly, before Art. But she thinks she wouldn’t have ever been the person she is now if not for  that. And she could never wish anything bad on Lily. 

Lily prefers to spend days with her over her own parents. Guilt floods Marion’s guts when she thinks about herself, because how could she ever do anything to hurt Lily? That’s when she realises she’s already read Tashi’s messages at least five times, but hasn’t processed it.

It’s reading something along the lines of ‘I’m sorry I’ve not been able to keep up, you know how it is with coaching Art and taking care of Lily, and tennis. Would you want to come along for his next game? I think it would be a great way to reconnect’. Marion can’t lie, it sounds nothing like Tashi, but something in her heart snaps. She types a yes. Just a yes.

A dumb yes.

A few hours later, when she’s a bit more aware of what her body is doing, she receives a call. And it’s from none other than Tashi. Who breathes deep, and heavy. Marion knows she’s stressed. She can always tell. 

Even after all these years.

“Hey,” Tashi starts. Marion hasn’t had the heart to speak first. It scares her, it scares her so bad. Like being ten and waiting for her father to return after his meeting, after he cleaned up her childish mess and the way his voice rang in her skull, the way the tears poured once she was in the safety of her bedroom. 

She collects her breath. “Hi, Tashi.” She hates how dead her voice sounds. How lifeless she sounds. But since picking up the call, she hasn’t moved an inch. And she can’t ignore the way she can hear the laughter of a man and young girl in the background. 

When Tashi tells Art to be careful over the phone, it somehow still makes Marion’s stomach drop. He says something, but their voices have just become background noise in her mind. The rest of the call is spent in one-sided conversation. Marion agrees to everything her best friend (was she really?) said.

She doesn’t know how she’s the one that always gets wrangled into situations that leave her heart feeling a gaping hole, but yet again, it ends up being her. She’s meant to be scheduled for an Uber that would pick her up the next day, the next game. But she refused. She couldn’t bear to deal with it.

She’d rather drive herself to her own demise, even if she doesn’t trust herself to be in her right mind.

It appears she was correct, she isn’t. From the moment she’s awake, it feels like a fever dream. She can hear birds at four in the morning. The sun hasn’t risen a sliver, even after an hour and half. Her clothes feel tight. She almost drops her medication, ends up taking two more pills than she needs to. But it doesn’t matter. At least her heart rate is more decent. She practises a smile as she walks out, keys in hand.

She’s ready to face the day. She’s ready to grieve her way through. 

Her car ride is silent, except a few sniffles, a few curses, and the rustle of her makeup as she reapplies before she has to finally leave the comfort of her car, the safety of it. She should’ve expected it when she sees Tashi standing, ever calm, collected. Her daughter’s next to her, practically bouncing as she waves excitedly at Marion.

Marion quickly makes her way over, glancing at both sides as if there would be any cameras to capture her hideous appearance. Lily sprints over when there’s only a few metres left between them. Marion holds her arms open, holding up the young girl when she runs right into her arms. She brushes Lily’s stray strands of hair out of her face, holding her closer.

“How’s my best girl been?” Marion asks. 

Lily grins at her as she tells her how she’s been having fun with her grandma, how she loves the hotels. Marion listens. Tashi walks up to her, and she leads her inside. Marion just wishes her stomach would stop dropping. At some point it’ll be buried more than six feet under. She hates how when Tashi starts leading her down a rather empty hallway, she knows it’ll lead to Art.

When she sees him again, after years, her breath is still stolen. It’s like being nineteen, twenty. It’s like meeting him for the first time. Lily runs up to her father. The white shirt Art’s wearing seems a bit too tight on him, and Marion doesn’t like that she’s staring. She averts her gaze, feels shame. 

Footsteps that shouldn’t be so loud but are nonetheless, fall against the floor. She counts every one of his footfalls.

“Hey,” he whispers. 

She hates how quickly she looks up. Words die in her throat when their eyes meet. Still blue. They don’t look as warm as they used to, but it’s him. He’s still in there, somewhere. Even if his eyebags make him look like he’d be anywhere else. Marion thinks he looks like a man who’s lost all his passion for what he does.

She hates that she knows exactly how it feels. Because it hurts, hurts so intensely. It makes you feel devoid, because tennis had once been something the both could bond over, along with the idiocy of being in college and being in love but never quite admitting it. 

She still regrets that. Wonders how it would be if she just told him. Hates that at thirty one, she’s still grieving her what ifs. 

“I hope you’re well,” he says. It feels unnatural. 

They never had to ask each other if they’re fine or not. They’d know, they could always tell. Marion thinks he can tell she’s not been doing well. Or maybe he can’t. She hasn’t seen him in years. Instead, she spends her nights awake thinking about how it would be to meet him. She doesn’t know if he remembers anything about her, but she knows she could never forget anything about him. 

He was her whole world, and sometimes she thinks that if she said he still is, she wouldn’t be lying. 

“I am,” she lies. Doesn’t even bother. He smiles, it’s taut. It’s forced. It’s nothing like him.

He plainly looks like he wants to retire, and nothing more. Like that could be the best thing to ever happen to him, if it does. Marion knows it would be selfish of her to want, but she thinks that if he still loved her, she could spend every morning holding him in her arms, and running her hands through his hair, and making him a cup of coffee, and laughing, and joking. And doing all the things she thought they he would.

He nods, and says he has to prepare before the game. She knows it’s a lie. At least that hasn’t changed about him. He used to do it when they were younger, and he still does. She sighs, lets him go. Tashi appears at her side, places her hand on Marion’s shoulder, the latter flinches for some reason.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

“It’s okay.” Tashi squeezes her shoulder. 

Tashi’s words echo in her head over the course of the game. She watches Art move with proficiency, with vigour. With power. But she can’t ignore the way his hands jitter in the moments before he has to react. Her eyes catch on the way the sweat glistens on his skin, the scars that peek out from under his shorts, and the way his serving style hasn’t changed one bit. 

He ends up winning, and their eyes meet again. For the umpteenth time that day. It’s like all the years that they spend apart, they’re making up for it now. With every lingering glance getting longer. It feels unbearable, having to just watch him breathe, not having him already in her arms. 

She wishes that she would’ve held him then, when she could’ve, instead of complaining about him being all sweaty. 

Her heart soars to her throat when he starts jogging towards her general direction. She stands up, followed by Tashi. Her arms are limp at her sides as she watches Art hug his wife, his daughter chittering beside them. She doesn’t even realise she’d been staring until Art looks up, his eyes meet hers, and he smiles softly. 

She missed the way his lips turned upwards so bad, she doesn’t even know how to explain it. But she knows it fills her heart with glee. Pure glee. He holds his arms open, and they look vacant, like they can hold her just how they used to. She hesitates, he doesn’t move an inch. He waits as patiently as he always has. 

She’d hate to make him wait longer. 

She steps into his embrace, his arms find their way around her waist. She’s clinging onto him, mumbling about how she’s so proud of him, for everything. Whispering the rest of her words, about how she wished, and wished, and wishes. It feels just so right to be back in his arms, and she just doesn’t know what to do, she doesn’t want to let go.

Her heart flutters when she realises he doesn’t want to let go either. She drinks in his cologne, it hasn’t changed much over the years, Marion realises.

The post-win interaction felt like a dream, felt so right. But the night that followed, and the week that followed didn’t. Her insomnia only turned up multiple notches. Her queen sized bed felt empty. It always did, but now the crumpled sheets beside her just felt emptier, colder. 

They felt devoid of someone she knew she couldn’t ever have. Not now, not for another eternity.

Or another lifetime.

The thought kept her up at night. Most nights.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[ch4rryc0smos]

⊹ selcouth — a. donaldson.

synopsis — just another car ride with art, but it turns to something more, marion doesn't know that she's not the only one waiting, well, not until he makes it painfully obvious.

genres — friends to lovers, tension, mutual pining, late-night car rides, teasing, friendly banter, admiring, friend of a friend, domestic fluff, tooth rotting fluff.

pairing — art donaldson x friend!self insert, art donaldson x mutual friend!self insert.

warnings — none, it's all fluffy!

word count — 1.7k.

author's note — first oneshot on this account, and it's my beloved art <3 i adore that man so much, and he's oh so pathetic, how can i not? /pos. he's so loveable. also, i still have to introduce my other s/i's, so that's that. one day, i hope

masterlist.

Marion has zero recollection of how she found herself in this situation—Or maybe she does have an idea. And most definitely remembers, but just doesn’t want to recount. Something about sitting in Art Donaldson’s jeep after meeting up with her best friend Tashi Duncan makes her palms grow sweaty, and makes her shirt cling onto the back of her neck. She ignores all the gooseflesh that rises along her skin, eyes straying back to his face every few seconds, heinous gaze meeting the sharp edges of his jaw. He doesn’t even seem to notice the way she can’t keep her eyes off him. He taps his fingers along the steering wheel. She doesn’t know where his black shirt ends and the seat beneath him begins, she’s too focused on the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple. 

She doesn’t know what exactly is brewing itself into existence in her stomach, but it’s treading somewhere between regret and giddiness that settles in her gut. How she even finds herself in such a predicament itself is a question of its own. One day she’s accompanying Tashi after her party, and the next thing she knows, her best friend has two lap dogs, one of whom Marion sadly has a soft spot for. An insanely delicate one. 

Sadly for her, Tashi notices, and somehow in some way, she manages to get these two going—Which isn’t actually surprising to Marion either. She’d been gravitating towards Tashi’s blond friend since day one, well, day one of meeting him and Patrick; the overconfident brunette. As luck had it, Art seemed to gravitate towards her too.

One thing led to another, and they’d go out without Tashi and Patrick more often than the other two knew of. Art and Marion never uttered a word though. Quiet car rides, going to Art’s favourite restaurant, ice cream at three in a parking lot. Even spending nights studying together when Patrick found himself tangled with Tashi. 

And all of that led to this. Another car ride. It’s nothing new, Art is ever the same. He took Marion to their local smoothie place, ordering their same strawberry shakes without a doubt in his mind. She waited behind him, and when he turned around, he flicked her forehead before he handed her the drink. 

She’s absent-mindedly chewing on the straw, trying to not stare, rather impolitely too. Usually she talks, and Art listens. This time though, she’s humming, and he’s silent as he taps his fingers on the steering wheel. 

She stops her mindless chewing, turns to him and clears her throat. “Art?” she calls out, voice quiet over the senseless rambling of the radio. 

“Yeah?” he murmurs back, voice almost breathless as he turns his head towards her, eyes still plastered on the road ahead. 

She takes that chance to really catch the entirety of his face, committing it to memory. She knows it’s already there, but she just has to, all over again. She drinks in every feature, the curve of his nose, and the chiselled jawline, and his faint smile lines. The way his eyes crinkle as he evidently smiles because she’s talking to him.

It’s such a simple concept, truth be told, but the butterflies that erupt in her stomach would beg to differ, she knows that. And as she’s caught up in the webs of her mind, he turns to her, icy blue eyes settling on hers. Her breath hitches in her throat. 

She curses herself for it but turns her head anyway, glancing at the window as she ignores his reflection staring at her serenely, or as serenely as he can while he tries to act clueless and fight back a grin. But she can catch the twitch of his lower lip from anywhere, even if that is the reflection in the dark of the outside world. 

“Don’t do that,” he says, placing his hand on her thigh, something he’s always done on their car rides. It’s never felt wrong, or out of place, but now it does. It doesn’t feel wrong per se, but it feels different. And in all the right ways too. Tingles shoot up her spine but she raises an eyebrow at him when their eyes meet again. 

She gives him a mocking look, “do what?”

“Don’t turn away.” He stops at a red light, leaning onto his steering wheel, pressing the side of his face into it. 

Her heart winces, why’s he doing that? He needs to stop—Immediately. 

“I’m not turning away, I’m literally facing you,” she says, rolling her eyes. 

“You’re pretty cute when you try to lie and end up redder than a tomato,” Art begins. Marion hates herself for letting the warmth flood her face at the words, she doesn’t even deny it. “Did you know that?”

He masks it as a question as if it isn’t some sort of confession, or that’s what Marion’s delusional mind is making of it. She gives him an incredulous look. “Didn’t, but I didn’t need to know it either, sometimes sharing is not caring,” she emphasises the not, intensely. 

“But I think it is.” He moves his hand from the plane of her thigh to instead have his index finger tilt her chin up. 

Marion doesn’t like how intimate it is because she doesn’t know how it’ll end. She can either be kissing him by the end of the night, or not talk to him as he drives her back to her dorm. Even if it were to go for the latter, he’d be nice enough to drive her back, she knows that much. 

“It isn’t, Art.” She sighs, even though she doesn’t truly mean the words anyway.

“Really?” She focuses her eyes on his face, not his Adam’s apple for once. 

She hums in response.

“Yeah?” he says, nodding. 

And then he leans in.

Her breath hitches in her throat for the second time that night. He smiles softly, letting go of her chin as he turns back to the steering wheel. That makes her pout, albeit subconsciously. When she catches herself in her rolled down window, she stops immediately. But she doesn’t miss Art’s little chuckle-snort. 

She turns back to him. “Art Donaldson.” 

His back straightens immediately, he coughs, looks away. This time Marion reaches for him, and turns his face towards her. She’s so grateful they’ve driven off into some neighbourhood and she doesn’t have to worry about any crashes. She expects every bit of smugness to have been wiped off Art’s face, but instead he reaches for her wrists and grasps them, holding her in place. 

Really close to him, leaning over whatever of the car that separates them, and eye-to-eye with him.

“Yes, Mari’?” he whispers, leaning closer. Marion tries to even out her breathing because she can already feel the erratic beat of her heart getting louder and louder, banging against the prison of her ribcage, muscles working overtime to provide her brain with blood because it’s all getting a bit fuzzy. Everything other than his face is out of focus to her. 

“Nothin’,” she manages, shaking her head. Then he leans down and closer until his nose is practically brushing hers.

She’s counting every eyelash of his, can count every line in his iris, and feels his breath fanning against her face. She’s so sure he’s doing it on purpose. It’s making her mind spin.

“Really wanna kiss you,” he starts, smiling softly. She wants to kill him. “But ‘m afraid you’ll think I’m the worst friend in the world.” She wants to kiss those lips until he forgets how to breathe. 

“Kiss me, you idiot.” She’s barely breathing, and she can tell by the way she sounds breathless.

“Yeah?” He gulps. His eyes crinkle at the corners. 

He wants to, he wants to kiss her. Her heart swells, she tries to fight back her grin, but when he grins too, she doesn’t stop herself. 

She nods. 

It’s like some dam breaks in Art’s mind. His eyes are raging oceans and no longer peaceful lakes that glisten in the sunlight. It’s moonlight breaking over wild waves as his lips meet hers, rather hungry, asking to swallow her whole, wanting to, even. But she doesn’t fight the waves threatening to have her heart, she lets them wash over her. Her hands weave their way into his hair and pull him closer, as much as possible. Until their breaths become one and he’s holding her neck tenderly as he fights back breaths so he can kiss her for longer. 

When they break apart, their foreheads are pressed together and Art’s eyes are half-lidded, but he’s smiling, and Marion’s hands haven’t left the back of his head. Art is caressing the back of her neck. She leans in closer, nuzzling her nose with his. He huffs a shaky laugh.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he breathes, eyes darting over her face, like he’s drinking in every detail for the first time, all over again. 

She laughs, closing her eyes. Which leads to her not being able to tell when he kisses her again, only this time it lasts just a second. His warmth is engulfing her face for a moment, and suddenly it’s gone. Not gone, literally—But it’s not overwhelming her senses anymore. It feels strange.

For the longest time, it felt strange when his hands would cup her face and he’d tell her she deserved better, now it feels strange because he isn’t holding her face. 

“Should’ve done it sooner,” Marion says.

“Would’ve.” Art shrugs.

Marion reaches up to touch her lips, they feel numb, tender even. Whatever that kiss was, she can say for sure that it was marvellous. Completely marvellous. So much so that she doesn’t even realise when her phone is ringing incessantly. She’s caught up in her mind, Art’s eyes dancing in her line of vision as she relives that memory as much as she can, in her head. 

“You… want another kiss?” he asks her, face tinted red when she turns back to him. 

She nods, grinning. 

Tashi’s call goes unanswered for the next hour. Instead, constellations are found, and one warmth cannot be deciphered from the other. Proximity has become a joke, and it is nothing more than a fickle concept. At least in Marion and Art’s little world they’ve created in the jeep, that is. 

Something unfamiliar, something strange, but so marvellous, Marion thinks that. And she thinks Art does too.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[ch4rryc0smos]

SAUDADE | 00

SO THAT I CAN FIT AGAIN.

synopsis ┊all the years that kept kenji sato and hazel vellichor apart, all the hours spent yearning, or not. all the time wasted, when they could be no more than a few metres apart. love didn't come to either of them naturally, but here they are, as life wrecks them, tests them, for everything they are, and need to be. hazel seemingly forgets him, and yet all he thinks about, is her. how would he feel if he was to know that his yearning is pointless? he doesn't know that it's not. that she's just trying to heal from the years she spent trying to figure out what's wrong with her. trying to heal, and she thinks it's even less possible when he walks back into her now perfectly created theatre play of a life. then he promises her love, healing, and kindness. all the lies she was used to. but a fool remains a fool, at least in her case. And she lets him back in.

genre ┊ childhood-friends-to-lovers, slight angst, tooth rotting & chaotic fluff, domestic fluff

pairing ┊ken sato x fem-self insert/oc, ken sato x public figure!self insert, ken sato x childhood-friend!self insert

warnings ┊ mild cursing, trauma, heavy topics (?), events in ultraman: rising take place alongside this story.

word count ┊1k

author's note ┊prologue of saudade, here we go, chat! i also need to work on my other wip but i wanted to get this out first, too much procrastination happening under one roof so i'd love to get this out of the way.

next.

Everything is far too loud. And it’s confusing. And Hazel doesn’t get why she’s getting yelled at now. At seven, her father looks like a tower, and he looks like he’s going to fall onto her, and have her crumble beneath his hands. At seven, nothing is more terrifying than the way his accusing finger points at her, at the fear that lines her face, and at the way her hands shake. Every movement of hers is a mistake, not the practised perfection. And as her fingernails get sticky, she continues peeling off the tape she didn’t put on right. She doesn’t know how she’s meant to cope. Because her gran is her whole world, and Kenji, next door, is her whole universe. Or whatever that means. To her, she thinks it’s a big thing, and she thinks it’s him, anyway.  

And she’s meant to leave them, how can she do that? She doesn’t know how to move, how to live and act somewhere else. She doesn’t know. And she ignores the way her hands shake when she’s reapplying the tape, she inhales shakily, tries to act like she’s a big girl, like she doesn’t want to cry.

The big girl act doesn’t last long, because the next time she gets yelled at, she’s running out the door, and she doesn’t want to look her mother in the eye anymore. She doesn’t even realise it as she’s slipping on her sandals, but she knows where she’s going. And it’s next door. She’s been trying to keep the dam from overflowing, but she spills, with every stumbling step, it breaks more. 

By the time she’s reached his house, she’s wiping aggressively at her eyes as she rings the doorbell and waits. When Mrs. Sato opens the door, she’s kind, but she stops talking. That makes Hazel’s spine straighten. Silence never means anything good—

Arms wrap around her, and she’s pulled into a chest. And Mrs. Sato’s comforter’s scent wafts into her scents. Hazel inhales shakily. She’s being comforted by Emiko, and her hands go up to wipe away her tears. She opens her eyes, and Emiko’s smiling softly. 

When Hazel’s eyes finally focus fully, she looks behind the woman who’s holding her in her arms, and there he is. He’s standing, and he’s frowning, head tilted to the side. His footsteps were loud as he ran through their house, but now he was silent. Hazel didn’t like that. Silence terrified her, so much. But then he’s tugging at his mum’s shirt, and she puts Hazel down.

Next thing she knows, he’s tugging her down the hallway and into the safety of his room. She’s never missed it as much as she is now. It’s like it’s all the same, still decorated the same. His bat’s still on the floor and the shelf is littered with pictures of him, but it feels so bad to Hazel. Because she’s never going to see it again, and that’s so messed up to her. 

He makes her sit down, and he holds her hands in his. She doesn’t know what to say, or rather, where to start, but she does anyway. She starts, through tears, telling him what’s going to happen tomorrow. Why she’s been showing up less. Why she isn’t as ‘stylish’ often. And she’s fidgeting with her bracelet again. They made each other matching ones, two years ago, a month into them knowing each other. And she just realises, it’s a nervous habit of hers. She also hates that Kenji hasn’t said a word since she’s started speaking. That messes with her, honestly speaking. When their eyes meet, she can’t openly notice any signs of anger. But in the way he’s balling his fists in his laps, she’s learnt to know that he is most definitely not happy. She can’t even think she’s looking into it too much, because she always is. 

She’s always looking into everything too much. 

She regrets every word she left unsaid the next morning. Now she doesn’t have any time, any time to go back to him, to apologise. To tell him that she doesn’t actually want to go. That this is going to break her heart. She doesn’t know a lot about hearts breaking, at seven. But she thinks this is just like one. Because it hurts so bad to watch his form get smaller and get smaller as her parents get driven away. And her heart feels so heavy, she wants to get out. She wants to cry. She wants to do so much, and feels like she can’t do any of it. 

She also doesn’t know that he cries the most as soon as he gets back into his room. That he hasn’t touched the spot on his bed where she sat, because he thinks he should’ve said something. Not let his anger and sadness and emotions mess him up. What if she needed him? All the what ifs didn’t make him feel great.

At eight, he didn’t know better.

And he didn’t, anytime soon. Not at ten, twelve, thirteen, or fourteen.

Neither did she. Across the ocean, she feels fucked. The guilt eats away at her, every day. And it’s so messed up, but here she is. Trying to work through, or at least try her best to. Even with all the smarts, all the grades, she is struggling. She’s barely holding on, what with barely any sleep, and endless tuitions, and getting fucked with everywhere she goes. Either for being a Vellichor, or for wearing a bracelet that looks like it was made by an eight year old (it was). But she’s willing to try. 

She hasn’t lived long enough to let go now. And she promised Kenji, some few years ago, she said she’ll be here, whenever he needs her. Which, is ironic. Because she isn’t. But she doesn’t have the privilege to linger on that. 

She needs to get a move, even if from across the world, she needs to get her life together.

Whatever it takes. She says. Or, has to.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[ch4rryc0smos]

𝙎𝘼𝙐𝘿𝘼𝘿𝙀 𝙈𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏 ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

★ ─ the saudade masterlist, dear readers! i need to get my life together, start working on oneshots instead of torturing myself with series', really.

★ ; thank you to everyone who is here for this, and was. to everyone that stayed, i appreciate you so intensely. i love you, and thank you for choosing to make this a part of your reading experience, it means a lot to me, really. <3

₊˚⊹ ⁀➴ 𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐔𝐍𝐀.

I. ONLY HOURS TO MAKE UP.

00 -> so that i can fit again.

01 -> beyond our youth.

02 -> grow over all the things.

03 -> stranger, who knows all my secrets.

04 -> miles to go.

05 -> are you staying?

II. YEARS SPENT APART.

06 -> you're half of me now.

07 -> i'd quite like to go home now.

III. TIME IS FICKLE, SO ARE YOU.

08 -> come back around!

09 -> they tell people that they're not engaged-

10 -> i'll let you stay.

₊˚⊹ ⁀➴ 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

— complete. 13:45 / 15.09.24 / sunday.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[ch4rryc0smos]

REVERIE | 20

I KISSED YOU UNDER THE STARS!

synopsis ┊kenji sato returns to japan, leaving behind everything he's ever known. and fate plays a cruel joke on him, when hazel vellichor walks back into his life, albeit not by choice. she makes a trip to japan, for a charity event, for another speech, and somehow; media wrangles her in for more drama. what they don't know is that she's ultrawoman, and kenji's ultraman, and there's more than to the eye here. they're well intertwined and every time they tug away, the knot gets tighter. everything leads them to each other, and now japan is in their hands, and they have to unravel every secret they refused to acknowledge prior to this. and they have to accept every role bestowed upon them, whether they like it or not. somehow, all of this leads to is them learning that there was always more to their friendship, and that they were truly two puzzle pieces, fit right next to each other.

genre ┊ childhood-friends-to-strangers-to-lovers, slight angst, tooth rotting & chaotic fluff, co-parenting (?)

pairing ┊ken sato x fem-self insert/oc, ken sato x public figure!self insert, ken sato x childhood-friend!self insert

warnings ┊ mild cursing, mentions of drinking, trauma, heavy topics (?), events in ultraman: rising take place alongside this story.

word count ┊1.4k

author's note ┊this is actually reverie's last part. i'm just a bit emotional because i've finished it. i finished it a while ago, but posting it made me feel like it was still being continued. but it's over. this is the epilogue, and it's reverie's end, but kenzel aren't going anywhere, i think i'll participate in selfshiptober, so if that happens, you'll most probably be getting many oneshots, some including them <3 happy reading.

prev.

Ken can’t stop looking at Hazel. Who he intends to marry. Or propose to, at least. She’s smiling at him. She’s wearing her floral print dress as they bask in the sun, hands working to weave together flower crowns. Ken’s eyes aren’t focused on the flowers, rather on the way her lips form a light pout and her eyes don’t stray anywhere but to the stems she works to weave. A smile is playing on his lips, and he’s so lost in her concentration, he doesn’t even realise she’s done until she turns towards him, and their eyes meet.

Something about the fact that she doesn’t know what’s going on his mind, and the fact that his heart beats faster when she smiles. And then she holds his hand, intertwines their fingers, and tugs his face closer. Then there’s some rustling, and when he reaches up, he feels the fuzzy feeling of flower petals. Hazel leans closer, and presses a feather light kiss onto his forehead. He latches his arms around her waist, pulling her closer.

Her soft gasp of surprise is muffled against his chest. And he chuckles. Her hair tickles his neck, but he weaves his hand through it. She leans into his touch, and he places a kiss on the top of her head. One of her hands finds its place onto his chest, right over where his heart should be. 

Ken curses himself for letting his heart rate increase. He thinks he might be blushing and closes his eyes.

“Are you flustered, Kenji?” Hazel asks, and she sounds like she might be laughing. He looks down at her, and the smile on her face makes his heart flutter. Hazel’s grinning. Ken leans down, he can’t help but capture her lips in a kiss. She leans up, and then it’s her hands in his hair and he’s pulling her by the waist, even closer. And she’s practically on his lap. 

He doesn’t end up answering her question, but with the way she’s blushing, and the way she’s panting, he doesn’t think she wants the answer anyway. He stands up, holding her up. And she holds onto his shoulders for support.

“Put me down!” she says, hitting his shoulder lightly, and he just laughs instead. He’s carrying her somewhere and despite every protest, he continues. At some point, she does make a valid point that he doesn’t know the U.K well enough, but he doesn’t care. He’s listened to everything she’s said, about her childhood here, and if he can create positive connections to everything that’s affected her here, negatively. He wants to. 

He intends to, today. 

The simple thought of it makes him want to laugh out loud, with joy, at the aspect of finally being able to devote himself to her. He always could, yes, but he didn’t realise it until she walked out of his life the second time, and now he promises that he’ll be what she needs. 

At some point, he finally places her on the ground, and now they’re not in a meadow anymore, they’re at the garden that Hazel said she’d been last before she left the U.K. How that was the last time before she started travelling and speaking, she thought of her childhood. 

How adulthood kind of started right here. 

She turns around to Ken, and it’s like eighteen washes over her, again. But it doesn’t feel scary, how it did then. Instead of frowning, or crying, she’s smiling at him. At the fact that he remembered. She’s a bit confused when he asks her to turn away, to close her eyes.

“May I know why?” she asks.

She’s so polite he almost just wants to tell her, but he laughs. “No, darling. Just trust me, okay?”

She nods, turning around. Ken sighs shakily, getting onto one knee over the stone pathway, a bit worn with age. He pulls out the box, eyes the velvet cover as he opens it. He smiles at the moss agate ring that sits in the plump cushion. He holds it up. Smiles at the back of Hazel’s head as she waits patiently.

“Turn around, my love.” Ken’s heart might just fall out of his chest as he says those words, and it doesn’t get any better when Hazel turns around, and she’s smiling softly but then her eyes widen, and she claps a hand over her mouth.

She thinks she might cry. She doesn’t even know if she’s smiling anymore, but she’s happy. So happy, she can’t even think right. She doesn’t know if she’s understanding this correctly but he holds up the ring, moss agate, but as he’s saying it, like her eyes. She drops to her knees, clutching onto him, wrapping her arms around him, gripping onto his shirt with dear life. He falls on his ass, but he holds her. Her head rests in the crook of his neck, his cologne faint now but the scent of nature lingering on his skin.

Flower petals fall around them, scattered scarcely as they drop from her flower crown, and from in between his curls and the crevices of her dress, but she’s still clinging onto him for dear life.

“I promised I would be all yours, and I promise now that I’ll stand by you, for as long as you’ll let me,” he says, and she can’t think he’d ever practise this, because it feels like those words that you say when you’ve spent too long in your room and the dust is visible in the ray of sunlight and your eyes meet as you’re messing with something on the wrinkled bed sheets, duvet thrown across the bed. 

Those ‘I love you’s that transcend written and practised speech, those words that aren’t meant to hold so much value, but weigh more than a heart that grieves. 

“If you’ll let me,” he continues.

She thinks he’s outrageous.

“I’m yours, Kenji. As long as time allows me, I’ll be yours,” she whispers against the crook of his neck, and her heartbeat is loud against the quiet breeze that catches her hair. 

“You’re mine?”

“All yours.”

“Then, say yes,” he murmurs against her hair.

“Yes, yes, yes. As many times as you need me to say it, yes!” her voice is growing in volume, and he cups her face in his hands, making her look up.

Emerald and amethyst, meet once again. The books have lost count of all the gazes they’ve shared, and writers couldn’t use a million words to describe a single second of what they felt when their eyes met. How that feeling stayed the same, and never got old.

How when he brought her hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss against her knuckles, her heart fluttered, how it has for a while now. Then the ring appears in her vision, and he slides it on.

It fits her finger perfectly. And the stone is the colour that her eyes are. 

He doesn’t resist when she crashes her lips against his, noses pressed together, breaths merged. Bodies pressed so close, considering them two would be a joke. 

“You’re my wife now.” 

He sounds elated, and he’s grinning, even while he’s panting and his chest is rising and falling rather quickly. His hands are in her hair, and he’s tucking the stray strands behind her ear. 

She runs her fingers down his face, his jaw, and he leans into her touch, turning his face to place light kisses against her fingertips. 

She hesitates.

“Promise, I’ll stay.”

Those words become a part of his wedding vows. She doesn’t know that just yet, but knows that even if they didn’t, it was a promise that would linger in the mornings he spends in her arms, and the alarms he misses to watch her sleep, or the breakfast he tries to make and shows up to the bedroom with his clothes stained and a little clip holding up his hair. 

He loves the way she laughs when he does these things.

And he vows to be the reason they happen, and to give her that simple sort of happiness for as long as life allows him to. He says that in his wedding vows too. And he’s never been a romantic, but for her? Always.

She is a reverie, and she is his. He didn’t know devotion, until he met her, again. And now all of his was for her. For his reverie. His daydream. And his anchor in life.

And everything she is, is a part of him. Two halves of one. That’s what they were. 

It’s always been like that. They just didn’t know all those years ago. Now they do, and they wouldn’t trade it for the world, they say.

They know they wouldn’t, when their eyes meet, after the tears clear up, they know that they would find each other, every time. Somehow. Some way. Every, time.

THE END.

— H. 

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[ch4rryc0smos]

YOUR MOUTH IS VICIOUS AND YOU'RE PROUD OF THE SOUND YOU MAKE EVERY SECOND I'M AWAKE / EVERY SECOND I'M AROUND ! — NOW IT'S OVER | DOGPARK.

── . ✶ ❝ B L A I R E F L O R E N C E C A L L A H A N . ❞

☼ — xvii | cancer | infj | british-australian 🪐

appearance ; slightly tanned skin on exposed parts with freckles over shoulders and face, mole under the right corner of her bottom lip, forest green eyes, 5'10 [177 cm], athletic [or sleeper] build with thinner legs, barely noticeable scars over arms, thighs and back, scars over most of her body, dimples when she smiles hard. dimples on her lower back when she stretches. ombre [brown-blonde] hair, prefers her hair short [in a jellyfish cut], but isn't allowed.

beliefs ; materialistic wealth doesn't define anything but your worth in the eyes of capitalism. humans are made to express individuality, not succumb to capitalistic beliefs and submit to slave-like treatment.

⋆ ─ living isn't a linear experience, take it with grace, give it time, and maybe it'll learn to love you too. so, live. ⋆ ─ good and bad don't truly exist, the world is not black and white, it's grey, it's a canvas, and you're the artist.

personality ; gentle, intuitive, charismatic, vigilant, observant, meticulous, boisterous, collected, diligent, loving, realist, nurturing.

positive traits ; compassionate, selfless, empathetic, kind, accountable, notices other's emotions & fluctuations in behaviour[s].

negative traits ; anxious, bottles up her emotions, skeptic [has trust issues], struggles with boundaries, overworks, cares too hard, thinks she has to always be the one to rely on, can't accept her negative emotions, has unhealthy coping mechanisms.

quirks ; fidgets all the time | stutters when nervous | bounces from heel to heel when waiting in queues | gets louder and faster when talking about passions | has an oral fixation | tilts her head when she's focusing | taps her foot unconsciously when waiting for people.

likes ; nature, psychology, sociology, anthropology, freedom of speech, anarchy, deep conversations, late-night car rides, coffee, biology [many branches of it], museums, gardens, aquariums, deers, red pandas, art of living, knowledge, economics, connor murphy & evan hansen.

dislikes ; arthropods, heights, loud noises, narrow-mindedness, extreme temperatures, snobby people, arrogance, dishonesty, being under pressure, confrontation, disorganised places, normalising shitty behaviour and attributing it to mental illness.

deepest secrets ; wants to be seen for her true self, wishes her worth wasn't determined by productivity, wishes her parents would've seen her as more than a trophy daughter.

⋆ ─ she just wants actual connections, the one thing she somehow barely has. ⋆ ─ she doesn't want expectations to be placed on her, she doesn't want to be a prodigy, she wants peace, and calm, and people who actually care.

── . ✶ ❝ B A C K S T O R Y . ❞

ONE of australia's greatest kids, a prodigy made to wow the southern hemisphere, when blaire callahan moves to us, a whole world and hemisphere away, she doesn't know what to do, where to start. living in an esteemed society, high art culture surrounds her everywhere she goes. she's never truly known what friendship is because status is what determines who she is, what she is, even.

she hates how stuffy her life feels, how lonely she always feels, and how she lets her worth be decided on whether she performs well or not, what is this, a circus? she feels like the clown, that's for sure.

primary and middle school pass by as breezes, decent enough as long as she doesn't engage with anyone, ignores the one kid that goes to a nearby school and apparently threw a printer at his teacher in second grade. little blaire didn't know that mentioning that would just be the start of her meeting the murphy family.

one faithful day, she makes the mistake of mentioning this unknown kid to her ever nosy mother, and she somehow finds out it's connor murphy. some guy she'll have to meet now because his family is apparently rich! and oh, they're nice too, but it doesn't matter. and did she mention connor has a sister?

when she finally meets the family, the first time, it's awkward, zoe, connor's sister is a lively kid, she clings onto blaire the second they meet, and connor is, to say the least, out of it. he doesn't want to be there.

blaire resonates with it. and that's how they bond. the two run from the snobby dinner party, they sit outside, on the porch. they're awkward kids, don't speak, but they do know that they understand each other better than the adults ever could.

and that's how it started, few visits occasionally, until blaire moves to connor's school. it's the most public school-esque school she's ever done so much as seen. but connor is okay with it, well, as okay as he can be while hating it viscerally.

he gets bullied, blaire finds out. she hates it, she doesn't care who these people are, she doesn't like them. she spends a while defending connor, and then she meets evan. an anxious wreck, someone who doesn't want to be noticed, but of course she notices him.

so does connor, well, he notices before she does. but she's quick to follow. connor isn't big on befriending him, but she is. she wants him to feel seen, because she never has, not until him. she gives evan the best version of herself, and they form a friend group, a little trio, just them. and no one can hurt them, or can they?

── . ✶ ❝ C U R R E N T . ❞

LAST year of high school, on the path to be valedictorian, or whatever it is in american's high school, blaire callahan is looking to do what she was meant to do when she was younger, back at australia. she's friends with alana beck, a prodigy, but no one knows what these two go through. only connor and evan know blaire better than she seems to know herself.

but connor has been falling apart recently, and even if he acts "rad" and says it's just the usual, she knows. she always will, and evan does too. he's much more observant than he lets off. and blaire likes it. these two are scared for connor, they're worried, but blaire feels empathy. she's been here before, and it hurts.

it hurts bad to see him like this. it hurts so bad to see him like this, and have zoe be so angry. she's always been friends with zoe, and she doesn't like what connor has done to her, but now she's torn. and evan has to help her steer this ship away from this path, the one that'll lead them to their demise.

she's torn between two people, no, three, and three worlds that she'll have to navigate. and her parents too, and it's just so draining, so draining. she has to learn how to live, with herself, and with them, and with everything.

she hates high school, she says.

but she doesn't, she just hates how everyone she seems to care about is struggling, but she's ambitious, she will do anything to keep them afloat. and she will, no matter what, she doesn't care what happens to her, she's going to do it, for herself, for, connor, for evan.

she's been close with cynthia and heidi, connor and evan's mothers (respectively), but she doesn't know if she should tell them, maybe not yet, she thinks. the time will come.

and the universe will let her know, she believes in it. she believes in time, or does she? she hopes she does.

it doesn't matter though, she's going to figure out. this is blaire callahan the world is talking about. she's going to rock it.

── . ✶ appears in to be seen is to be loved [wip].

★ ; decided to make this post before actually putting the fic up (i haven't even finished the fic, i'm sick). i fell ill so i'm much slower, but it's okay, meet blaire everyone! another one of my girls <3 i've got some works with her in it in the plans, so!

ch4rryc0smos © 2024

[ch4rryc0smos]

⊹ wake up — a. donaldson.

synopsis — art is marion's best friend, of course, but he's also the reason she believes in love, and he will be the reason she loses hope in it.

genres — friends to (not) lovers, tension, one sided-pining , unrequited yearning, admiring, best friend's (to-be) husband, domestic angst, unrequited love, hurt no comfort.

pairing — art donaldson x friend!self insert, art donaldson x mutual friend!self insert.

warnings — none, it's just angst, but nothing major, i think

word count — 2.3k.

author's note — i am finally back with something new, trust me, i've been doing things in the background, just, it's been pretty hard, not going to lie, otherwise, i've been on it. this was requested by a friend so, for you <3

masterlist.

The weight on Marion’s shoulders is heavy. It’s debilitating to her as she carries the mounds of flowers she picked out herself. And on any other day, this would mean something great. She’s never hated the texture of petals on her fingertips, until today. All it does now is settle a deep pit of sickness in her stomach, and she thinks she could be anywhere but where she is, right now.  She could be choosing the flowers for her own engagement party, but no, she’s choosing flowers for the party Art is throwing Tashi. 

Where he’ll propose.

With a beautiful emerald ring.

And he said it looks like her eyes! Marion’s eyes. How ironic because it’s not her finger it’ll be going on by the end of the night. The first message in the morning was one from Art, and the one she’ll end her night on will be one from him too. He’s just the perfect man like that, wanting to give the best. To his future wife. Who isn’t her. Won’t be her. 

She doesn’t want to be the girl that stays up to talk to a man that won’t ever be hers. She’d much rather be the girl that notices the notification pop up and makes a mental note to reply in the morning, unbothered. But of course, she’s the girl that has no dignity and stays up late into the night messaging him, wondering why he’s not asleep yet either. 

He tells her he doesn’t realise time is flying when he’s dreaming of all the things he can do, and that she makes him forget time is real. She didn’t need to know that, because she knows well that it’s a lie. A lie that she still basks in during the early hours of the morning. A delusion that she sinks deeper into as her covers hug her tighter than him. Well, no, his hugs are incomparable, but she needs to move on. She doesn’t even move from her bed, moving on is much further away. The sun peeps in from the cracks in her curtains, and she turns away from it. Ignores the flashing alert of nine AM staring through her forehead. Tashi’s bed is empty, has been, for hours. Marion remembers the exact minute she woke up, and the minute she left. The way Marion’s muscles gave up for a minute there, and she lay there motionless, watching her best friend scramble around with skill, and aim. 

As always.

Thankfully, the sun hadn’t made its cameo yet, then, but now it has. If she doesn’t wake up, she’ll call herself the laziest person from Stanford, and Art is probably counting on her. To perfect his engagement. To be there to cheer him on. He’s always been anxious, and that probably won’t ever change. And Marion knows it. She thinks that even in a few years time, he’ll still glance around when he doesn’t know what to do, and he’ll look for someone he knows. 

But she probably won’t be that someone. Even if he knows her. She’s scared that once he’s engaged, she’ll just be a photograph from the past, a footnote from a previous chapter, and a scribble written down urgently and paid no mind to. 

When her mind finally finds the energy to force herself to sit up, she stares at the bedsheets, white, crumpled. She pushes them off to fight her exhaustion back. She did sleep last night, why is she so tired? Was it because that was one of the first nights in a few weeks she didn’t spend half of her time messaging Art? He said he wanted to be prepared and not exhausted to propose. 

How adorable. Her stomach churns uncomfortably. She fights back pitiful laughter as her feet hit the cold floor. A shiver crawls up her spine. It means nothing when she is itching to throw herself back into the comfort of her sheets. But she doesn’t, because that’s dumb.

Because she’s going to be productive, she’s going to make this day memorable. And to do that, she can’t stay sulking on her bed, no matter how comfortable. No matter how badly she may want to. So, she does what any good person, or friend does and forces herself to get ready to face the day. She even prepares her own breakfast, but this time, like most other times, she cooks an extra portion, how she always does, for Art. 

She doesn’t even know if she’ll meet him where she always does. What if he’s not waiting outside the tennis court? What if he’s busy daydreaming and either she’ll be interrupting it or she’ll be left to be embarrassed? She can’t think about that right now. What she needs to do now is get a grip on herself and take her extra portion of sandwich and churros Art. 

She treads her way through the campus. She doesn’t like how natural it feels when her feet carry her to the court. When she hears the breathless grunts of force blending in with the morning hush, minus the breeze whispering in her ears. Her face lights up before she realises it. She can feel the smile tugging at her lips the moment her eyes land on the mop of blond hair. His blue eyes glisten when he turns towards her general direction. She almost stills the moment their eyes meet. Early morning ocean, waves drowning out the sand of the shore. She finds that if she’d previously been feeling any resentment, or any negative emotion, it’s gone, it’s dissolved into the pit of her stomach and she hopes it won’t resurface.

It can’t, not right now. Later that evening maybe, but right now, she truly doesn’t need to deal with that. She feels heat crawl up her face when she realises that she’s walking far too quickly, she’s bounding over even. Art breaks his routine, and he’s walking over to her with the same energy.

It does something to her heart, something that is wrong. 

“Art!” she speaks his name, her smile stretching far wider than it needs to. More than it needs to for some friend of hers. Just some friend. But he’s enthusiastic too. He drops his racket to the floor, she flinches at the side, but within the next moment, his arms are wrapped around her. He’s warm, even at this time, he’s all warm. He’s sweaty too.

Marion doesn’t move. 

“You’re up early, no?” he asks, grinning, also knowing well that she never sleeps in this late. And he still hasn’t let go either. There’s this jittery feeling to the way his arms trace shapes on the lower half of her back. 

“Shut up,” she whispers against his shoulder. She pulls aways slightly, bringing her hand with the paper bag forward. She holds it out to him. He glances down at it, and smiles. “Worried your engagement won’t go well, Artie?” 

She uses the nickname when she knows he’s nervous. It always calmed him down, for some reason. And it has the exact same effect this time too. He accepts the bag and looks in, his smile widening when he realises what the contents are. 

He pulls the churro out first. Instinctively, Marion reaches for his hand, shaking her head. “No, actual food first, Mr. ‘I’m an athlete!’.” She pushes the churro back in. Art pouts at her, but she’s long immune to it, or is she? 

She is, she’s convinced she is. 

Before she knows it, Art has the sandwich unwrapped and takes a bite. She sighs, taking a hold of his other hand, tugging him away from the court. She makes a mental note to get his equipment later, but right now, he needs to eat… and get a shower.

Definitely get a shower. Marion doesn’t judge, but she’s surprised by how quickly he finishes his sandwich. One second she’s checking her phone for any messages she might have ignored, the next he’s somehow reaching for a tissue and their hands brush because of course the tissue box is right next to her hand. She looks up. His eyes meet hers, and he smiles softly.

Her heart winces. 

“Lover boy needs to be ready for his proposal, no?” she says. 

He grins at her. “I am though.”

“Not like that, you aren’t.” She eyes him up and down, trying to give him a look of disgust but she really can’t manage it. 

Art scratches the back of his neck.

The next few hours are spent at his dorm room, thankfully vacated minus his and Marion’s presence. She waits on his bed as he showers, and when he’s done, she’s still wrapped up comfortably in his sheets. But then he steps out, with just a towel hanging around his lower half, and her face is suddenly warmer than the surface of the sun.

She forgets how to speak, and every word that she might’ve ever known dies out in her throat, right then and there. She clears her throat, and looks away.

“Are you okay?” Art asks, and somehow he’s already at the foot of the bed? He’s sitting on the edge of it, right next to her. She can feel the bed creaking and the mattress shifting as he weighs it down. And then the warmth of his fingertips meet her cheek. He gently turns her face towards him. He looks genuinely worried. The words that were previously assumed dead are suddenly fighting their way back up her throat. 

“Yeah, I–I’m good!” she says, a bit too quickly. She’s an idiot, but she also can’t keep her eyes off the way the sun is slipping in through the windows and how the rays are hitting his muscles just right, how he looks like he’s shining.

Oh what a lucky woman Tashi is.

The thought makes her stomach sink, but Marion brushes it off, away from the forefront of her mind with a laugh. When she laughs, it thankfully convinces Art too, that she is in fact sane, and okay.

Marion never considered herself a diva, or fashion expert, but she’s really proud of his outfit for the evening. She didn’t even feel the time passing as she helped him get ready. He told her that he needs her to be his personal assistant when he finally goes pro. Or he needs Marion to be there in his life forever.

It took a turn deeper than it needed. And that’s why she’s now silent as she waits patiently for Art to appear with Tashi at the location Marion had spent so long trying to fix up. The little beach that the two apparently had first had a conversation on. 

Well, it’s not apparently. Marion remembers it really well. Far too well. 

She can’t stop kicking the sand beneath her feet. Her thoughts are too loud, and her clothes feel uncomfortable. And they won’t feel comfortable, not any time soon, at least. They never do, until she has something, or even someone to distract herself with. But she knows well that all of this is just wishful thinking on her behalf. 

But she’d rather indulge in wishful thinking than accept that her hearing isn’t faulty and that she can hear laughter, Tashi’s laughter, echoing from a distance. Curse this place for not having enough walls to absorb all the sound. It makes her feel just a bit selfish. But she isn’t selfish, no, she isn’t. 

She stands further away, watches as Art and Tashi approach the location, the fairy lights sway softly with the breeze that greets Tashi like the morning sun greets the waking world. She’s glowing, even in the dimming sun as it sinks below the horizon in shame of her beauty. Or that’s what Marion thinks. 

Art is grinning at her, his eyes glued to the frame of Tashi’s face, and what is Marion doing? Hiding behind a tree to jump in if something goes wrong? Yeah, it’s fucking embarrassing. But Art said he wanted her there for emotional support. She doesn’t know why he needs that, he’s got enough game anyway. Her 

Her breath hitches in her throat as she watches Tashi and Art, moving in synchronisation when they seat themselves on the same rocks they did the first they’d met. Tashi is talking animatedly, but Art is fiddling with his pants pocket. Marion wants to facepalm herself.

She turns away, to watch the sunset, she already feels like a creep, and watching this doesn’t make it feel any better. She closes her eyes, lets the soft sound of laughter consume her mind, lets the breeze consolidate her aching heart. Just for the moment. Until it dulls out.

The laughter is gone, and silence engulfs her being. Then she’s compelled to open her eyes and of course they’re drawn back to the only other people here. And her heart sinks to her stomach when she processes what she’s seeing.

Art, on his knees. Holding up a ring.

Tashi isn’t moving an inch, she’s glancing around. 

Marion dips behind the tree, pressing her back to it and clutching onto her sweatshirt. One image keeps on replaying in her mind. The ring.

It shouldn’t mean anything, it could’ve been a mistake. But. It’s green.

It’s green in the way moss agate is. It’s green in the way the forest is.

It’s green in the way Art says Marion’s eyes are. 

And it feels like an arrow’s been thrusted into the threshold of her heart. 

Wake up, she wants to say, but this is all real, and it feels like a play, strung along by the mightiest of gods. All out to hurt her, to some capacity.

She wants to wake up from this nightmare.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[ch4rryc0smos]

DID YOU BURN DOWN THE HOUSE TO EXCUSE ALL THE PAIN YOU WENT THROUGH / AND IS IT BETTER NOW THAT YOU'RE GONE ? — FORGET ABOUT US | CLINTON KANE.

── . 𖤐 ❝ S A G E H E C T O R V A L E N C I A . ❞

⿻ — xxviii | cancer | infj | british-american(?) 🧶

appearance ; pale skin with summer freckles, mole under the right corner of her bottom lip, emerald green eyes with central heterochromia, 5'7 [170 cm], thin build with strong forearms and calves, scars over most of her body, most visible on arms and thighs, dimples on one side of her face, more visible than the other dimple. ombre [brown-blonde] hair, curtain bangs that have grown out a little and blonde part of her hair dyed blue. long, layered hair, now overgrown.

beliefs ; whatever life throws at you is just another trial, maybe from god, if there is one, maybe from mother nature, you don't know, probably never. humans are feeble beings, and like blackholes, can collapse from within; from the simplest misguidance.

⋆ ─ anything that is alive, or has once lived; has the ability to turn evil, if it so much as wills. ⋆ ─ the world never stops for you, and all you can do is move with it, unless you want to be left behind.

personality ; gentle, intuitive, vigilant, observant, meticulous, collected, diligent, careful, inquisitive, proactive.

positive traits ; compassionate, selfless, empathetic, kind, accountable, notices other's emotions & fluctuations in behaviour[s], fast learner, quick to cover up for others, quick-thinker.

negative traits ; anxious, bottles up their emotions, skeptic [has trust issues], struggles with boundaries, overworks, cares too hard, thinks she have to always be the one to rely on, can't accept her negative emotions, has unhealthy coping mechanisms, brutally honest sometimes, severe overthinker, finds it hard to let go.

quirks ; fidgets all the time | stutters when nervous | bounces from heel to heel when waiting in queues | gets louder and faster when talking about passions | has an oral fixation | tilts her head when they're focusing | taps her foot unconsciously when trying to focus. | tends to go statue still when honing in on senses | gets quieter when worried | tries to act boisterous and confident | bites lip when nervous.

likes ; nature, psychology, sociology, anthropology, freedom of speech, anarchy, deep conversations, late-nights spent with those they care for, real food, biology [many branches of it], history, gardens, aquariums, deers, red pandas, art of living, knowledge, economics, sal fisher.

dislikes ; arthropods, heights, loud noises, narrow-mindedness, extreme temperatures, snobby people, arrogance, dishonesty, being under pressure, confrontation, disorganised places, being treated like a slave, devourer's supporters, liars.

deepest secrets ; doesn't actually have a will to live and if she's used as a sacrifice, she'll accept her fate. she thinks that the only way she can be remembered is by servitude, so she finds no worth in her personality.

⋆ ─ thinks her personality amounts to nothing and until she does something for someone, they'll forget her. ⋆ ─ wishes she could've ended the devourer's and their plans, and works towards it, sometimes she still think her friends only like her out of pity.

── . 𖤐 ❝ B A C K S T O R Y . ❞

PERFECT little sage valencia is born to her mother, a blessing from the devil, for the devourers, their perfect little blessing, the only instance they'd ever use this term, otherwise it's unholy, but she'll be the only holy thing they'll ever embrace, and they'll do it with pride. because she'll be the reason they ascend, won't she?

she grows up hearing about the great things her father has done, and how she'll be the perfect successor, she doesn't even know what the word successor means until she suddenly has to leave behind her posh, but lonely life. she moves to the tiny town of nockfell, tightly-knit, nothing like what she's used to, but has to get used to.

the whispers follow her around, they won't stop. they don't. she doesn't know anyone, but they know her, and only a few years after moving in to this god-forsaken town, she meets a little boy by the name of travis phelps, explosive, not like an explosive, rather; like a nebula.

they grow close, he's scared, she doesn't know enough, perfect, because they bear the brunt of the devourer's expectations. sage thinks he'll be the successor because she finally knows what it means! but one faithful(less) meeting confirms that no, it's her. she's the forsaken one, the perfect guinea pig to be controlled by her fragile strings.

as the years pass, she's learnt to detach from it all, act like she isn't real. the only times she feels real is when she's leaning against the gravestones at the cemetery behind the church, and travis is fiddling with sandwiches or his sweaters, or the rare, cigarette. he doesn't smoke though, just stares at the weird thing between his fingers.

sage is far too bothered by the wars waging themselves in her mind for her to care. they talk, only occasionally, and they never mention it again, but they do it, again, and again. until fifteen. at fifteen, a new person, well, a few new people enter her life, or maybe they've been there for a while, but she's never experienced a connection as close as this.

along with ashley campbell, todd morrison, and larry johnson (all of whom she's always known through her detours to the addison apartments; her haven when hell is her home), she meets sal fisher. a boy that looks like he might be out of a dream, but has lived a nightmare. and something about the way she learns that he's intertwined in the devourer's dirty business makes him seem endearing to her.

and he is, he truly is. especially when she first talks to him, and it's like a spark is ignited. everything that happens after that, it's like they've been through it together. and to some extent, they have. once involved with the devourers, always involved with them.

to the point that she starts regretting him. he's always deserved better, and gods forbid she's the reason he loses his life. when she finds out the cruelty he's meant to be facing, she makes it her goal to save him.

she will.

── . 𖤐 ❝ C U R R E N T. ❞

IF only she'd done something. it felt like it'd been years since she last saw him, but it was just a few months ago that she was sitting with him in his room at his house. that they thought they could finally do something, be someone(s).

but they're nothing, and no one. he's been in that awful prison, for months. she can't believe it's only been a few months. she feels like she's been deprived of him for months. she misses him. nothing feels the same. she doesn't even want to commit to her cause as much as she used to.

all because he's gone. and every day, the doom, and the exhaustion catches up to her more. especially without, him.

sal fisher has been incriminated wrongfully, and it kills sage to even think about it. she feels pathetic, but she needs to do something, something more than writing letters she wishes she could give him because every day without him, with the fear of not knowing how he is, gets her even more antsy.

she's no longer the respected, looked upon successor of the devourers that she once might have been, she's just sage. a messed up woman, a teenager still fighting somewhere in there. and one of these days she'll be nothing more than a sacrifice. she's not devoted like travis is, she's not fighting back on the front lines, she slithers in the back, tries to find ways into the cracks threatening to break open.

she wants those dams to break. is this why she's been told she's like her father? because at heart, she's just violent. without him at least. when he's not there to ground her, when his warmth isn't there to consolidate, she spirals. she spirals downwards.

and to be fair, the world does too. in all the time sage and sal spend apart, the world gets ever gloomier. the plague spreads, it's everywhere, the darkness seeps through walls. is he okay? has it gotten to him?

all sage can do is hope, hope against all odds that she's strong enough to last until she has gotten rid of it. she doesn't care for what becomes of her then, only what remains of the world.

she works, tirelessly, searching, and doing all she can. for him.

will she ever succeed?

── . 𖤐 appears in blood sport [wip].

★ ; sally face how i missed you (can't work on my wip for it until december thanks to studies!!). i finally managed to introduce her, trust a work will be released from its cages soon enough. her and sal are pure tragedy, so have fun chat. <3

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