#✎ 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]

⊹ 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 | 10

I'LL LET YOU STAY.

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 ┊0.8k.

author's note ┊and saudade comes to an end, officially. it's been a while- not as long as reverie, yes, but a while. for now, i'll work on my last series for a while to come, and post oneshots in the meanwhile, happy reading!

prev.

Ken’s head is practically in her lap when the doorbell ringing interrupts their moment of intimacy. He sighs, and starts pouting. She pats his shoulder, shoos him away, telling him that she won’t disappear when he shows up again. 

He doesn’t spend too long at the door. As soon as the door closes behind him, he rushes back to her and places the bags on the table. When she reaches for them, he shakes his head. She sighs, pulls her hand back. She feels like a little kid, but that’s okay. He returns with plates and utensils quick enough. 

She doesn’t watch the food as it’s placed on the plates, instead, she’s watching his careful motions. She doesn’t even realise he’s done until he snaps his fingers in front of her. She clears her throat, and looks away. Not for too long though. His index finger slides under her chin and turns her face towards him.

“Didn’t know the view was that good, baby,” he mumbles, leaning down so his voice is a whisper but still heard by her. 

“Shut it,” she says.

“Only if you help me with this.” He gestures at the food, which she now notices is Strawberry and chocolate chip pancakes. She raises an eyebrow at him. He holds out a fork for her, and she accepts it tentatively. 

He sits down beside her, pushing a plate towards her. She’s not usually this awkward but right now, she doesn’t know if she wants to take a bite herself or feed him instead. She thinks the latter might be better. She picks up a small bit of the strawberry and pancake, holding it up to his mouth.

His eyes widen slightly, but then he breaks into a smile, accepting it graciously. 

“Didn’t know you were all about that,” he says, voice muffled because the dumbass apparently doesn’t have the decency to swallow his food before speaking. 

At his words though, she smiles softly. And when she goes in to get a bite for herself, he stops her, fingers wrapping around her bracelet-clad wrist. The smile on his face threatens to spill beyond his face. His eyes are on the bracelet, but they don’t linger there for too long. 

Next second, Hazel has a bit of strawberry being held up to her mouth. She blushes, but his hand that was previously holding her hand is now on her jaw. His thumb is tracing so nicely, she leans into the touch. And accepts the bite.

He cheers, although quietly. 

The rest of the food is eaten like that. They feed each other, from their plates, and don’t question it. Ken gives her his strawberries because he notices she likes them, and doesn’t take the ones she offers because he wants her to have them.

Everything about the moment and him have her swept off her feet, well, that would be, if she wasn’t sitting already. 

When they finish eating, instead of telling her that there’s something on her mouth he leans in, captures her lips in a kiss. And when he pulls back, and she asks him why he did that, he just shrugs. He tells her there was something there. 

She holds her hands up to her face, trying to hide the blush that decides to torture her for the third or fourth time she thinks that day. He only grins, pulls her hands away and replaces them with his. Only to pull her closer, until she’s off her chair and on his lap instead. 

A moment like this makes her realise that she wouldn’t be doing this with anyone else. That she never had. That everything she seems to be, is also a part of him. She’s so glad that she didn’t chicken out on Maple’s suggestion. 

Her heart feels full. And Ken’s looking at her like she’s the only person ever. Like he’s never seen anyone else in his life. She presses her face into the crook of his neck and laughs. In pure joy. It confuses Ken, but he doesn’t question it.

Some unadulterated form of joy is festering in her heart and she doesn’t extinguish it. She lets it continue to consume her veins and body, because it doesn’t feel like a disease anymore, it feels right. 

When they were younger, she didn’t know that she’d find him again, but she’s so glad she did. 

Seven year old Hazel can’t be any happier. At twenty five, she’s finally found her other half again. 

Ken’s hand wades its way through her hair, and they’re hesitant but she tells him that there’s nothing to fear. That she wants him to hold her however he pleases.

She realises that he’s scared. He thinks that if he takes one wrong step, she’s going to leave, and he’ll lose her again, for the third time. He isn’t willing to do that, not another time.

She promises him that she’s staying. Through any fear, she’s staying. She says she’ll try to not mess them up. She doesn’t know if she can trust herself, but for him she’s willing to try. 

For him, anything, she says. 

For her, everything, he says. 

He’ll be everything, for her, and she’ll do anything for him.

THE END.

— H. 

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]

LEAVE EVERYTHING THAT IS WORTH A SINGLE CENT / AND TAKE ME INSTEAD / PRAYING TO WHATEVER IS IN HEAVEN ! — FEMALE ROBBERY | THE NEIGHBOURHOOD.

── . ✧ ❝ S O L E I L V I E L L A - E I R I A N . ❞

✸ — xlvii | cancer | infj | british-french ⏳

appearance ; [naturally ivory] olive-tanned skin, mole under right corner of her bottom lip, freckles on their back obscured by whip marks and scars, jade green eyes, 5'10 [178 cm], athletic but sleeper build, dimples when they smile, dimples on their back, long & wavy ombre [brown-blonde] hair.

beliefs ; if something is meant for someone, it will find them itself. do not let others deter you, they're not the ones that linger, ever. self sufficiency is one of the most, if not the most important virtue to survival, no matter what happens.

⋆ ─ the world is far from white and black, and sometimes the differences between greys is subtle. ⋆ ─ karma is real, you reap what you sow, so play it safe; or don't, but be ready for any consequences that might be thrown your way.

personality ; cerebral, vigilant, fast learner & notices changes very easily, gentle, a bit guarded off, selfless, observant, diligent, meticulous, collected, intuitive, charismatic, nurturing.

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

negative traits ; anxious, bottles up her emotions, skeptic [has trust issues], struggles with boundaries, overworks, cares too hard, doesn't share a lot, far too independent.

quirks ; fidgets when distracted | looks away when nervous | bounces from heel to heel when waiting in queues | gets quieter when she's thinking too much | has an oral fixation | tilts her head when she's focusing.

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, whales, art of living, biochemical engineering, journalism, leon kennedy, carlos oliveira & luis serra.

dislikes ; arthropods, heights, loud noises, narrow-mindedness, extreme temperatures, snobby people, arrogance, dishonesty, being under pressure, confrontation, disorganised places, being treated like a slave, being belittled and invalidated, disrespect.

deepest secrets ; wants to be free again and see a world that isn't tainted by humanity's selfish greed to be on the top of everything. at heart, they want nothing more than to be free and to have saved those that she cared about.

⋆ ─ at some point in her life, all she wanted was to be a biochemical engineer and speak publicly about how the government fooled society. ⋆ ─ at some point, they just wanted a family and a husband, nothing more, just a simple life.

── . ✧ ❝ B A C K S T O R Y . ❞

NOTHING comes easy in life, and soleil viella-eirian learnt that the hard way. she doesn't exactly remember when she moved to racoon city, but she still thinks that was the end of the beginning; that's where her downfall began. and a part of it will always blame her father, and whatever affiliation he had with albert wesker.

growing up in the family they did, she always envisioned herself going into biochemical engineering, being a great scientist, chemist, whatever it was, and bringing some sort of change to this otherwise complacent and dormant world, like it's a virus, and she'd become the cure. but if she really thinks about it, it's no more than the blur it always has been.

before america, it was london, scotland, and france, and the minutes in between where she'd lay down on her bed and one day hope to do nothing more than actually settle down for once, a thought that seemed so distant, and still does some days. she grew up with the name of umbrella corporation at the tip of her tongue, always, a sacred liberty granted to her father, a privilege in the small city he'd come to reside in.

she reckons she doesn't have the right to complain, she grew up with good education, a roof over her head, and silence from their parents, nothing to disrupt the peaceful haven racoon city should've been became for them. they passed high school with valedictorian, if they remember correctly, and her friends were overjoyed for her, at least the ones that had the decency to act like they were happy for her, and didn't laugh about her cursing in french under her breath when she got mad.

throughout her childhood and university years, she spent time at campus, away from home, or whatever it became, and at the headquarters of umbrella corporation, her father trying to train her into becoming the perfect poster girl for them, and also their most valuable weapon. but she had other plans, she would go on to become the greatest biochemical engineer the world had seen, and the most known public activist america would see in the near future. the world was in shambles and she wanted to be the one to start a new era of change.

she thinks that's where they saw her as their perfect little weapon, something they could destroy, but something that could destroy too. she was the perfect prodigy, still shining in university as she planned to get her dual degrees; biochemical engineering, and communication. she got the first, even managed to finish her PhD in biochemical engineering, and was getting her second in communications. for once in her life, she thought she would do something, when she was away from home for more often, wasn't being asked to look at weird looking micro-organisms and overhearing jokes about how she'd be injected with them.

being at university was the breath of fresh air she desperately needed, until it wasn't. until every other day, someone disappeared, and more diseases spread, until there was an outbreak, and what to her, was an apocalypse. and suddenly her father wants her back, needs her to become the next scientist for the corporation, needs her to hide something from the government. and yet, her disdain for their government could never overpower their disdain for their father.

that's the week they became a rogue, previously with ties with the government because of their mother, and ties to the corporation because of their father, they became a rogue vigilante, an agent of sorts, trying to bring change, and capture proof, and evidence, and do all that they could with what they knew. with that half-written thesis that would probably never see the light of day.

quite often they'd find themselves pondering, wondering about if they could actually bring some change alone, if they could always stay a rogue and make their rogue status into something more.

it was one of those faithful days they infiltrated the umbrella corporation branch they knew by heart, treading through the ruined halls, broken down, gurgles surrounding their every movement. and she knows, soleil knows she won't ever forget the feeling of running out of ammo and realising she didn't bring enough extra. the feeling of scrambling through the building, feeling the pitifully slow, but terrifying footsteps of the infected getting closer with every breath, and having to resort to killing them.

she didn't think twenty would be anything like this, but here she was. it was that night, that she met him. she met a blond man, with exhaustion etched into his features, and too many hours of lost sleep and not nearly enough experience in the way he moved, but the softness of a human who actually cared in the way his hands cradled her face. and that one night, she let him.

or maybe a few nights. maybe to the point that she'd know his name was leon kennedy. and she misses the way his stupid giggles felt against her back when they'd be hiding away in the dark, and when his hands would feel when they held her tight against him as if he was scared to lose her. he was the first to make her feel wanted, and she never wanted to let it go.

soleil never wanted to let go of his insistent questions, and his begging; him asking her to join as an agent to the government, become an fbi agent, anything to keep him company because god knows how long it's been since he last had someone that wasn't a dead body on him. and who was she to deny him that.

who was she to deny him a pair of lips and stolen moments when they didn't matter.

── . ✧ ❝ C U R R E N T . ❞

MANY years it's been since then, since the night she met leon kennedy, but soleil had to give it to him, he sure had a mouth on him. and he convinced her. she's lost count of the days since she'd become one of the most, if not the most esteemed agent of the government, with that sweet mouth and those glinting eyes, perfect to convince the opposition, and coax them into spilling all of their details, her specialty.

and she knows leon loves her for it too. loves the mouth on her that only he knows like it's his salvation. and he loves everything about her. but no one outside of their small circle of friends knows it. even the government, especially the government, they're the last ones that should know the woman who retrieved the cure is the same one who made leon, one of their most renowned agents, almost lose his life for them. and yet, he'd do it again, for her, anything for her.

they're also growing older, not just soleil, but also him, and they're getting less naive, less reckless, but more restless. every mission leon goes on, they accompany him, because they ground him. he turns to look at them, and all at once; he stops overthinking when their eyes meet his.

and yet, when they run into ada, he embraces her the way he does them. no, they're not jealous, they've never been, but it's in this moment, early thirties, late twenties, hell, they don't remember their age anymore, but it's in that moment that they realise that if there's something going on between them and leon, she wants him to herself. and he realises the same night when she's not melting into him the way she had for the past few years. and when he realises, he knows he won't let that happen. his lips are persistent as they press into every bit of skin he knows and can feel in the dark.

when he next takes her along to rescue ashley, his voice is quiet as he reassures her of the things she won't ever say. he tells her, again and again, that if there's anyone he's choosing, it's her, only her. and she still thinks the words linger, even after nine years, even though he's thirty six, and he still wakes up every morning to her in his arms, she thinks about the words like they might've not been true.

but leon kennedy will not let that slide, and even at forty something, he makes her the centre of his world again, even when the world's going to shit, he's got her, and she's got him.

sometimes the world goes quiet when they look at each other, and they think it'll be okay, even if they've spent their whole life working on it.

maybe soleil is enough for leon, and there's nothing else they need, and maybe her quiet whispers in french are his undoing, and will always be.

── . ✧ appears in wires [wip], leaving tonight [wip]

★ ; i'm finally back, i missed being here, doing things. hopefully i'll be working on three other s/i intro posts sometime soon, if not that, at least some writing for leon and her. as for the age, i'm taking it as them still aging, not just what leon's age was in re6 !! that's why it's the way it is, she also uses she/they, hence the ping pong i was playing with pronouns <3

ch4rryc0smos © 2025

[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

ch4rryc0smos © 2024

[ch4rryc0smos]

I WOULD RIP MYSELF APART / IF IT WAS GONNA HEAL YOUR SOUL ! — BREAK MY HEART | MATT HANSEN.

── .☘︎ ❝ M A R I O N V A L E N T I N E R O S E V E L T . ❞

𖦹 — xx | cancer | infj | british ⏳

appearance ; pale skin with freckles over shoulders and face, mole under the right corner of her bottom lip, forest green eyes, 5'11 [180 cm], athletic [or sleeper] build. barely noticeable scars on hands and knees, scars over most of her body, most visible on back. dimples when she smiles hard. dimples on her back when she stretches. ombre [brown-blonde] hair.

beliefs ; things happen for a reason. lingering on what is done does not change it. made of stardust, why do you let yourself burn out? you exist infinitely, in all things, do not forget yourself.

⋆ ─ life will love you, if only you love yourself first. it is there for you to live, so don't just exist. ⋆ ─ your heart is beautiful, even when you think it is not, it is fragile, and you must tend to it, tape those cracks back together, and live.

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

positive traits ; compassionate, selfless, empathetic, kind, voice of reason, 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.

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.

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, art donaldson.

dislikes ; arthropods, heights, loud noises, narrow-mindedness, extreme temperatures, snobby people, arrogance, dishonesty, being under pressure, confrontation, disorganised places.

deepest secrets ; just wants to be someone's first choice, wants to be the person someone chooses to share their joy with first, wants to be seen for more than whatever is seen at first glance.

⋆ ─ she's always wanted the best for everyone around her, she thinks she owes them that, and tries to supplement a need that was never fulfilled for her. ⋆ ─ she hates big expensive parties, all thanks to her parents hosting them.

── .☘︎ ❝ B A C K S T O R Y . ❞

ORIGINALLY from manchester, u.k, marion rosevelt is born to two rich parents, with the world in their hands, and power in their hearts. she grows up, a spitting image of the perfect prodigy she is expected to be, she is born into the world and from the moment she learns how to walk, the expectations pile on her shoulders.

she grows up, studying in the most esteemed schools in london, having moved there early on so she could receive the best education. she was forced to attend parties, receptions, every event her parents could think of, she was not allowed to befriend just about anyone.

she spent a lifetime having her life nitpicked by the second. everything she'd ever know about herself seemed to be a lie. at least that's how it seemed until one faithful business dinner. sitting awkwardly in her seat, she stared ahead at her untouched plate. nothing about the adults piquing her interest until a daughter is mentioned. a young girl, much like herself.

she finally listens, learns about this tashi, who is promised to meet her the next time mr. duncan (she learnt is his name) visited. and he became the only adult to have ever kept a promise, with marion. so, the next summer, her life finally felt like flowers that blossomed in the spring and not the dried up leaves that scattered the pavements in autumn. she met tashi, tan skin, eyes filled with the same warmth her movements radiated.

for the first time, marion has a friend, a friend who actually likes her too. who she likes as well. it felt like a dream. even more so when tashi somehow convinced her father to take marion along to the u.s. wildly enough, she's never travelled anywhere else. and from going to the u.s for vacation, it turned to her father having a staple business there, to living there for months on end, if possible.

she moved schools many a times, never bothering to befriend people because she knew she'd get hurt when she did finally leave. but just one time, at fifteen, probably one of the worst years of her life, she made a mistake, of not ignoring her seatmate, who for once, wasn't tashi duncan, her best friend. instead it was, art donaldson. who somehow, someway, found his way into her guarded heart.

the rosevelts never liked him, but she did. it didn't last long though. she should've known, she bared her heart, and all that happened was that it broke. and tashi was there, to console her, but her parents thought her a fool.

she tried to not think of the blond boy that used to sit next to her in physics and biology, the one who'd share his food with her, the one who somehow was the only other person (other than tashi) to know when she wasn't feeling her best.

the years passed, and soon enough, she had graduated, simultaneously moving between the u.s and u.k. but then tashi wanted to move back to the u.s for university full time, or as she called it, college. she wanted to go to stanford, play tennis professionally soon. marion didn't want to be left alone again.

when she finally moves to the u.s full time, along with tashi. the last person she expects to run into is art donaldson.

── .☘︎ ❝ C U R R E N T . ❞

ONLY second best to someone like tashi, marion rosevelt takes the world by storm. from her first year at stanford, she's been the one to look up to academically, the one to be. she came from the u.k, and she has the u.s wrapped around her little finger, they say. but they don't know the truth. tashi does, and she scoffs every time her best friend gets catcalled.

of the many things marion might've expected while studying at stanford, the last would've been to run into art donaldson again. something about seeing him in statistics, and noticing him walking with this other guy she'd learnt from tashi is called patrick zweig, it tugs at her heart strings.

she tries to put it off, every time in class when their eyes meet, when tashi takes her to tennis games, when she's cheering on her best friend. and the one time she noticed he was cheering on her too. marion doesn't know how to feel. especially about the way patrick keeps on grinning at art, about tashi. marion's best friend. the looks don't feel right.

and she vows that the next time she sees him do that, she'll punch him back into his place. she hopes she won't have to see him again, but then tashi has a party, she's been sponsored by adidas, and for some reason, despite knowing that marion values her scores and her peace, she forces her to accompany her.

the boys (art and patrick) approach tashi, marion's noticed them staring, they'd been doing it the whole night. she scowls every time. she leaves her best friend alone for just a second to get a refill, and when she's back, tashi's gone off somewhere, and when she finds her, she's talking to art and the guy he's always with for some reason. it's like art and patrick are connected at the hip.

marion builds up the courage and finally approaches the back of the mop of strawberry blond hair. she taps on his shoulder. he turns back, and her heart is suddenly stuck in her throat, but she ignores it and smiles at tashi, averting her gaze.

that night, she has to accompany tashi, and the boys to the beach. her best friend practically has them dancing around her finger, hearts in their eyes. something about the way art looks as he smokes and grins, while marion is sitting away on the sand, further away. the way she looks away every time his blue eyes meet hers, she can't bear to keep on looking.

she doesn't want to stay a second longer, but then tashi agrees to come over when the two ask for her number, and marion doesn't trust the dorms that aren't theirs. so she walks her best friend to their door, leans on the wall beside her and tries not to laugh when she hears all the scrambling, the yells of 'oh shit!' and a few things dropping.

and then the door swings open, two breathless boys, a brunette and a blond, staring, lips parted, at her best friend. she tries to shrink into the wall. thankfully for her, they don't seem to notice. she doesn't know what tashi does in there, but she doesn't leave, she stays.

waits.

her best friend walks out, grinning, lips red. marion eyes her up and down. tashi mentions art, blond boy, whatever. tells marion that she knows her eyes have been on him since the first time she noticed him around campus.

marion doesn't say anything, she isn't forced to, not until she visits art's games with tashi, finding out that the latter had made some bet with the boys, and now she's going out with patrick. that leaves marion in an awkward position, lots of time alone, with art.

but something about their silence feels natural, something about him is so alluring, all these years later, well, three. but still, ever the charming.

apparently, all of this is in tashi's plans, that's what marion finds out one night, but she can't care to complain, not when she's with him.

not when she can have him for more than a just a few fleeting moments. when her arms can hold him, and he lets her.

she can learn to have him around again, and she will.

── .☘︎ appears in selcouth [complete], scent of summer [complete].

★ ; finally another s/i post, thought i could push out two, but i BARELY managed this one, not even kidding, one of my friends watched me make practically the whole thing, you can ask them. this is mad, i'm telling you, but anyway, meet marion <3 i love her.

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