#Then Come Back The Lost Neruda Poems

[words-and-coffee]

And yet, as they say, the heart is a leaf and the wind makes it throb.

Pablo Neruda, Then Come Back: The Lost Neruda Poems (Translated by Forrest Gander)

[redahlia-writes]

poema xiv. | javier peña

Abstract: When you saw him from the stage, it felt like the world had stopped moving - there was you, and him, and the space between you needing to be filled. Years gone by without the other and still you haven’t been able to stay away from him for more than twenty minutes - not when he looked at you like that, like nobody else was in the room. Not when his lips moved and mimicked yours, and the words you’d once shared became yours all over again.

You hadn’t thought it’d end like this. You hadn’t planned it. But how could you ever be parted from Javier?

Words: 6.6K

Content: f!reader; second chance romance, a smidge of angst and guilt, so much kissing, smut (fingering, unprotected sex, some descriptions of bodily fluids)

A/N: the poem is love poem xiv by pablo neruda (english translation + an analysis i think about daily and have based most of the fic on); spanish translation for the bits that are not part of the poem will be at the end

also on AO3 - masterlist

feedback is always greatly appreciated. you can send it here, too

Javier knows your voice better than his own.

For years, he’s heard that voice in the back of his mind - he recognises the tilt of it, the cadence, the drawl. He recognises the words, an old litany that seems to come from a dream. Even before he turns towards the stage, he knows it’ll be you. It shouldn’t surprise him, really - this was your home as much as it was his. He just didn’t expect you to be here, still.

He wonders whether you’ll recognise him, too, if you’ll even see him - it’s a short lived thought, because when he looks up at last, you’re already looking back at him, words falling from your lips like a chant, a dizzying siren song. For a moment, he wants to flee, thinks he cannot stay and face you, not after all these years - but there’s a warm recognition in your eyes, a quivering to the corners of your lips, and he feels at home at last.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the stage, a long skirt he remembers from your days together draped over you and pooling around you - he hasn’t had much time for art these past years, yet at any time he would look at you and see a painting, something so moving it could bring him to his knees. Perhaps it has, in the past.

You’re not even holding a microphone, the whole place fell silent the moment you’ve reached the stage, eyes turned towards you in reverence - it happened before, he knows, and he missed it. Over and over he’s lost these moments of religiosity, just when he needed it the most. He grips his beer as he listens to your voice, hangs onto each word like a lifeline.

“Mis palabras llovieron sobre ti acariciándote. / Amé desde hace tiempo tu cuerpo de nácar soleado. / Hasta te creo dueña del universo. / Te traeré de las montañas flores alegres, copihues, / avellanas oscuras, y cestas silvestres de besos.”

He’d almost forgotten these words, but as they echo through the place he’s pulled back to another night - less people, less distance between the two of you, a book propped up on your naked back as he read with a smile on his lips, watching as you dozed off, the tip of his fingers tracing the line of your spine with a goosebumps-inducing slow touch.

“Quiero hacer contigo / lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos.”

He mouths the last line with you, remembrance of those same words kissed into the skin of your shoulder, arm, wrist, a sleepy smile his reward as you caressed his cheek. It feels like he’s remembering a past life, yet the images are crystal clear as if they happened just a day before. He chugs down on his beer to quench the memories.

You’ve looked at him through your eyelashes during the whole performance, but at the first burst of clapping your face breaks into a wide smile, head bowed in silent thanks as people you’ve known most of your life cheer you, embrace you with their appreciation - Javier doesn’t join them, a pang of something like a heavy weight on his chest making him turn back around towards the bartender, empty beer at his side as he calls for something stronger. Whiskey, or rum, or mezcal.

“Hello, stranger,” the first sip is accompanied by the voice from his dreams, and he closes his eyes as your body slips into the seat next to his. He’s holding his breath, the alcohol burning his tongue, the roof of his mouth, and his throat when he finally gulps it down.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he murmurs, at last turning to look at you. How often has he wished it would happen? Sitting at a bar so far away from home, he’d turn his head and see you there, smiling at him the way you are in that moment, greeting him with a I missed you and I’ve come for you. Daydreams induced by alcohol, he knew, perhaps the only thing keeping him sane when he missed you the most. “Hi,” he says then.

“And where else could I have gone?” your hand wraps around a glass he hasn’t heard you call for, the drink familiar, always the same - gold mezcal, clean, drank in small sips similar to small kisses. He’s tried to chase the taste of you with it when he was away, but it never felt the same as when he tasted it from your lips.

“You?” he scoffs, shaking his head a little as he lets the ice in his drink rattle softly against the glass. “Anywhere in the world.”

There’s a moment of silence, surprise overtaking your features at the corner of his eyes, fingers curling around the glass - and then you scoff lightly, turning your head so you’re not looking at him anymore. He can see your free hand curling over your knee, a fidgeting motion with the fabric of the skirt that covers your leg whole.

“I stayed,” you say with a shrug, and he knows there’s no malice but he cannot help hearing something more. I stayed and you didn’t. You left me behind. And then, “I missed you, Javi.”

The weight of the world drops on his shoulders and he lets go of his glass, white knuckles turning back to their color as an exhale leaves him. His hand rests on the bar counter and, after a beat of hesitation, you reach for him in silence - you know he’s heard you, can see it in the pout of his lips, the slouch of his shoulders.

“I missed you, too,” he whispers, like a confession meant for a Church and its priest, heavy on his alcohol-coated tongue. Your fingers wrap around his hand, tender yet decisive, squeezing it as he meets your eyes at last - your smile feels like a reward he does not deserve, but it eases the ache in his ribcage. “You were great up there - this place needs a little poetry, every now and then.”

“Ah, I just like to get drunk and have people looking at me for a little while,” you’re beaming, leaning in a little - he knows you’re not drunk, knows it’ll take more than the drink in front of you to get there, too. You’re still holding his hand, thumb rubbing his knuckles absent-mindedly, and it feels like no time has passed, and slipping into the familiarity of your touch is scarily easy. “How are you, Javier?”

“Holding up,” you quirk up an eyebrow at him - it’s not a lie, he thinks, because he couldn’t lie to you, you still know him too well. It’s too easy for you to call him out on his bullshit, and he cannot deal with that tonight, so he sighs. “It’s odd, being back. Slow.”

“I thought Chucho would’ve put you to work right away,” you chuckle, and slowly move your hand away from his. His fingers twitch on their own accord, squeezing your hand once before letting go of you, and he looks away for a moment as he clears his throat.

“Oh, he did,” he nods with a tilted smirk, tapping once, twice the glass, ice half-way melted already. “But it’s - easy. I get to bed and actually sleep, perhaps a little sore, but not -” he stops himself, holding the glass a little tighter. “Doesn’t matter, no point boring you with it.”

“When have you ever bored anyone in your life?” you scoff, and he can see you swinging your legs a little from the high stool, heel tapping the wooden legs as you tilt your head to the side a little. “What is it?” you ask then, gentler.

You still know him too well.

“We’re gonna be here all night, tesoro,” he almost grumbles, the endearment rolling off his tongue before he can think too much about it. You shrug again, picking up your glass and crossing your legs - it’s a dangerous display of balance, skirt covering part of the stool as your knees jut outwards.

“I have nowhere else to be,” you declare, sipping slowly at the drink. Small kisses, he thinks. 

Javier knows he could lay himself bare in front of you - he wants to - and you’d take him as he is, even after all these years, even after all the hurt. Yours, his. What you and Javier had has always been complicated - it was love never made explicit; it was comfort and holding each other all through the night; it was passion that scorched the both of you and left indelible marks on your skins; it was meals filled with laughter; it was his father wondering if he was going to need his mother’s ring.

And then it was all over, the feelings still there, overwhelmingly so, but the distance too great, the fear of impossibility too big and crushing. It was a quiet break-up neither of you really wanted but that seemed like the only solution, and it left a sour taste in your mouths. It was a quick, cold goodbye regretted by both parties - you wished you’d hold him tighter, he wished he’d kissed you longer. Selfishly, you’d wished he’d stay, he’d wished you’d go with him.

That was, until he’d actually started working, and life had become a nightmare. It made him glad you stayed behind, even if it pained him. Even if it meant he could no longer sleep.

That’s what he starts with - how difficult it was to actually sleep there, how each hour was frantic, day or night bleeding into each other, no sense of routine marking the days, weeks, months, years. He won’t go into details, he doesn’t want you to know what it was like, but the drinks keep coming and he cannot help leaning into your support, aching from the knowledge that you’re listening to him, and your hand has found his again, soothing circles making his skin burn.

The monologue turns into conversation, his need to be distracted by the past years presenting in questions of your current life - your work, your home, your parents. The place starts emptying around the two of you, and one or the other is drawing closer, because now your legs are off the stool again and he’s sitting right between your knees, one hand on your thigh, head tilted leaning on his other hand as he looks at you, so close as you are.

He missed you, the truth of the statement was not lost on him before, but it hits him right in the chest when you reach over to brush your thumb across his mustache, smiling as you mock him over his lack of ability to keep crumbs off of his face from the nibbles stolen from behind the counter, an apologetic look turned in the bartender’s direction. It makes his heart jump in his chest, it makes him wonder if he should get up and get as far away from you before he does something you both might regret. And then -

“Javi?” your hand rests atop his on your leg, breathlessly calling his name until he meets your gaze. “Will you drive me home?”

He remembers how it all began - just like this. A drink, two, chatting, getting closer, will you drive me home? That night, you barely made it home - he stopped the car in the middle of nowhere and kissed you, kissed you, kissed you until you dragged him to the backseat, laughing and panting as you barely got some of your clothes off. He fell for you there and then, he knows.

“Yes,” he says, because he missed you so terribly much, and he’s tired, and though he can sleep again it’s never as good as when he slept next to you. So he holds your hand as you get off the stool, walk through the bar, get outside and sigh at the cooler air, tipping your chin back to let the night wash over you.

He leads you to his car, fingers still intertwined, and before he can reach for the door you turn to him, so close he can feel the hem of your skirt brush the top of his shoes. His gaze unwillingly falls to your mouth, and you’re smiling, free hand reaching up for him. He doesn’t hear it, just reads it on your lips - come here, as you tug gently at the collar of his shirt, and he’s leaning forward without need for further instructions.

Javier kisses you - he doesn’t start slow, lips crashing onto yours. It’s desperate and needy, as if he fears it’ll be over too soon, as if he thinks you’ll disappear any moment now and he needs to take and take and take as much as he can, prodding at your mouth with his tongue until you yield, parting your lips for him with a sigh.

Your back is pressed against the side of his car, the hand not holding his reaching up to sink into his hair - it’s homecoming, each piece of you fitting together, your bodies remembering each and every part, each and every movement. 

Neither of you wants to break it off, his hand carefully dipping underneath your shirt as he presses himself into you further and further, your head craned back and resting against the glass of the car, arm hooked around his shoulder for balance. Eventually, your lungs demand air, the world blurred with dizziness once he parts with a gasp - and immediately dives his head back down, open mouthed kisses left along your cheek, and jaw, and neck. It’s easy to succumb to the bliss of his touch, letting yourself be pulled back in time as his lips mold to the curve of your neck when you tilt your head to the side, exposing yourself to him furthermore.

“Did you ever think of me? When you were away?” it slips from your lips before you can stop yourself, a pathetic whine that makes you tense for a moment, eyes opening wide, and then -

“Every day,” he replies, kissing his way across your collarbones, hands gripping your waist so tightly it’s almost painful. You relish in it, the ache that keeps you grounded, that reminds you it’s real, he’s here. “It was unbearable.”

And then he stops, so sudden it makes you gasp when his forehead hits your shoulder, a heavy exhale caressing your skin. He’s still gripping your hip, still pressed harshly against you, but every motion has stopped - he’s perfectly still, almost not breathing.

“Javi?” you whisper, turning your head as much as possible. Your chin brushes the side of his head, and his only acknowledgment of having heard you is a squeeze to your side. Slowly, you drag your hand up the nape of his neck, through his hair again, a gentler caress. “Javi, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean -”

“I’ve missed you every day,” he lifts his head a little, and you stand cheek to cheek as his chest heaves. “But I’m not who I used to be.”

“Neither am I,” his hair spikes up under your touch, and he leans into you to the point you feel your breath shorten. You don't mind it that much. “But you’re still my Javi underneath all that,” he shudders, something between a sigh and a sob leaving his parted lips. “And we can just try.”

Time stretches as you hold onto each other, the parking lot almost too dark for comfort, and then he kisses your cheek - it’s chaste, quick, then moves up to your forehead and lingers there as your eyes flutter shut.

“Let’s go home,” you say in another whisper, and he nods ever so slightly, lips still brushing your skin as he eases his hold on you.

It takes him a moment longer to take a step back, and without his support your body feels weightless. You squeeze his hand still in yours, a reassurance for the both of you, and his lips - raw and red from kissing - bend in a little smile as he opens the door for you. Then it’s you lingering before stepping inside, still refusing to let go of his hand - as you do, he bends over and leans into the car, pressing yet another kiss to your lips that you chase with a sigh of surrender.

Javier’s smiling when he climbs into the driver’s seat - a little one, that spreads the redness of his cheeks further. The alcohol, the kissing, the tender touches - he feels as if his heart might burst out of his chest, and he’s quick to drive out of the parking lot, one hand immediately reaching for you.

His hand rests on your thigh, thumb rubbing circles above your knee and wrinkling the fabric of the skirt mindlessly - it’s a comforting touch, its heavy weight familiar and soothing hat has you melting into the seat with another sigh, eyes fluttering shut as your head tilts slightly to the side and you part your legs ever so slightly. Your muscles twitch, encouraging him forward, and though his eyes remain fixed on the road - it’s not a long way to your house, and Javier seemed determined to make it even shorter - he chuckles, squeezing the soft flesh of your inner thigh in earnest. 

“Tan impaciente,” he hums, but obliges, curling his fingers around the fabric of the skirt until it’s bunched up enough for him to slip his hand underneath. You’re still my Javi - teasing and willing, warm hands knowing exactly where and how to move, a slow drag of his fingertips across your inner thigh as you lean further into the seat, head tipped back - that has him slow the car down a little.

Javier’s touch is electrifying, brushing all the right places as he moves up and up and up, shapeless figures dancing across your skin until he reaches your core. His grip on the wheel tightens as he presses two fingers above your underwear, eliciting a soft gasp from you. He doesn’t linger - he never has, he’s never been mean with it, always reaching for your pleasure before anything else. So he pushes your underwear aside, and drags one finger across your already damp folds with a soft groan until he reaches the apex of your core.

Your body reacts as it always has, writhing under his touch quietly, mouth agape as he rubs at your clit, slow circles with just the right amount of pressure. It’s almost fascinating how, even after the time spent away from each other, he has not forgotten how to make you fall apart on the tip of his fingers, roll by gentle roll, wetness spreading over his fingertips as he quickly glances at you - eyes hooded and hands gripping the sides of the seat, hips rolling to second his movements.

“Eyes on the road, Peña,” you warn breathlessly, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth before your lips part in a quiet gasp, twitching into his touch. “God - right there, right -”

It hits you suddenly, a rippling sensation that starts from the stomach all the way down to your toes, back arching slightly against the backrest of the seat as you grind down on his hand, a silent orgasm that has your chest heaving, mouth open in a silent cry. Javier can’t stop himself from looking away from the road, still touching you slowly, dipping down and down where you’re clenching around nothing.

“Diosa,” he says almost under his breath, and your eyes - that had fallen shut, heavy-lidded - open to look back at him. You wrap your hand around his wrist, pulling him away from you - your knees knock together almost right away, legs numb and shaky. He’s looking at the road again, but glances at the corner of his eye as you bring his hand to your mouth - a gentle kiss against the pad of his fingers first before wrapping your lips around his digits, lapping at your own release with hollowed cheeks. Javier groans again, shifting a little in his seat as he grips the wheel tighter, thumb stroking your cheek down to the corner of your mouth. “We ain’t gonna make it to your house if you keep this up, tesoro.”

You release him with a soft pop, leaning a little towards him so that your cheek is resting against the back of his hand, eyes lifted to keep looking at his profile while the hand wrapped around his wrist moves up along his arm.

“Don’t care,” you hum, hand now brushing the side of his neck - his throat bobs, an askew smirk making its way across his lips yet again. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” you add with a grin of your own, gently scratching the nape of his neck - he shifts in his seat again, rolling back his shoulders.

“I do care,” he turns his head, kisses your wrist, a gentle brush of lips and his mustache tickling your skin. “I want -” the words hole up in his throat, and he leaves one last caress with his knuckles across your jaw before moving his hand away.

I want to take it slow, peel away each layer - one by one, with no rush; I want to lay you bare on a bed and kiss each and every inch of your skin, mark you as my own all over again; I want you over and under and all around and hold you in my arms and feel you fall apart again; I want, I want, I want.

“You,” he manages to say, voice so soft it’s almost drowned out by the engine as he pushes down on the accelerator a little. “Time. I want you and time. Not like this,” he sighs when you brush his hair back, a curving motion in tucking a wild strand behind his ear as it sticks out. In truth, he could stop the car and crumble underneath your touch, but he’s aching for more, for all. He reaches over, pulling your skirt down so it falls back in place over your legs.

And it does not take long to get to your house - because he called you impatient, but every bit of him feels on fire, eager and longing for you, so close, so close, your hand so warm where it’s resting still on his neck, and it’s driving him insane.

So when he parks in front of your place - just like he remembers it, down to the plants on the porch -, he’s out of the car almost before he’s even shut the engine off, and while you’re reaching for the keys he’s there behind you, arms wrapped tightly around you, hands slipping underneath your shirt. One rests against your stomach, the other trails up and up and up, a low chuckle leaving you as you step towards the entrance, steps long and wobbly with the added weight of Javier.

“I still have neighbors, Javi,” you hum as his lips latch to your neck, tilting your head a little to leave more room for his open-mouthed kisses, the tender bites that leave red marks that will be gone by morning. “I would like for them to still think nicely of me,” your front pushes against the door as he presses himself into you - broad shoulders encasing you, hands still exploring and straining the buttons of your shirt, stomach and thighs and his length trapped in his tight jeans hard against you.

“Not the first time we’ve given a little spectacle,” he replies, his whisper a warm breath against your ear that makes you shudder as you unlock the door at last.

As soon as the door clicks open, he’s pushing the both of you inside, maneuvering you around so that he can crash his mouth on yours - he shuts the door just as you drop your keys, reaching with both your arms up and around his shoulders, pushing his jacket down a little. Again he doesn’t kiss you slowly, as if picking up from where you left it in the parking lot - open-mouthed, tongue brushing the roof of your mouth with a groan as he backs you towards the bedroom.

“Shoes,” you warn - remind him, really, kicking yours off before leaning back into the kiss, one hand tangling in his hair as the other falls back down to his chest, working on the buttons of his shirt. He chuckles against your mouth but obliges, steps faltering as he removes his shoes without breaking away from you.

After that, it’s a dance through the house, chasing each other as each layer gets shed and dropped mindlessly to the floor - his jacket and shirt, your skirt, his belt, your shirt, his jeans. By the time you reach the bedroom there’s a trail of clothes left in your path, and the two of you stand still kissing in your underwear, hands mapping each other’s skin eagerly. It’s all consuming, dizzying, and as he undoes the clasp of your bra you’re backing him into the bed until he falls seated on the edge of it, breaking the kiss at last.

Panting, pupils dilated, he looks up at you, his hands fallen to the back of your thighs to nudge you forward. He licks his lips as you take off your bra, too, squeezing your legs once as a half-groan leaves his parted mouth. And then -

“This is new,” he tilts his head a little, eyes trained on your left side. He takes his hand away from your thigh, cupping your ribs as his thumb brushes right underneath your breast, the touch so delicate it has a shiver run down your spine. He traces a circle around the tattoo now adorning your skin, a single cherry blossom that’s starting to fade.

“I was drunk,” you shrug, hands resting on his shoulders. He leans in a little, pulling you forward at the same time, your knees hitting the edge of the mattress in between his thighs. “I forget it’s there half the time,” you admit, and sigh when he kisses the thin lines, dropping your head back. “Javi.”

He adds nothing but a hum, the tip of his tongue darting out to taste your skin, down your ribcage, down and forward to your stomach and down again, following the line of your underwear before stopping at your hip bone. He hooks one finger underneath each side of the last piece of fabric, bringing it down enough to nip the soft skin there, eliciting a small gasp out of you as he finishes undressing you fully.

His gaze lingers for just a moment before you’re climbing into his lap, sitting on his thighs as a hand finds its way through his hair again, pulling his head back gently until he’s looking up at you, lips parted - he can feel your heat against him, the remainder of what happened in the car dripping down your thighs and settling onto him. Unable to help himself, he grins, though it quickly vanishes when you lower your mouth to his all over again.

He could get lost in this - the feeling of your kisses, the taste of your lips, the way you’re slowly rocking against him, creating just enough friction between the two of you that it makes his head spin, your thighs shake lightly, but leaves you tethering on the edge. So he wraps one arm around your waist, holding you against him, and flips the two of you around so that your back is on the mattress, legs dangling from the bed and quickly reaching up to lock him in as he steps out of his underwear.

He kneels on the bed, guiding you back and holding his weight above you as he moves, hard length brushing your folds with each shift, causing both of you to sigh and groan and plea, hands searching desperately for something to hold on - his shoulders, the sheets, his hair, your hand - until he settles both of you exactly where he wants you to be, in the middle of the bed, covers ruffled already underneath you. One of his hands dips between the two of you, wrapping around his length to align himself with your entrance.

“Can I -” he’s breathless, hazy eyes wandering across your body underneath his as if it were a dream, a mirage, something he can’t quite believe just yet. “Sì,” you urge, arching into him, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Yes, Javi, please.”

He gasps as he sinks into you, mouth hanging open as he forces himself to keep his eyes on you, on your expression, his movements slowly as you open your legs furthermore to accommodate him, gasping breaths making your chest heave. And then he’s toppling over, head falling into the crook of your neck as he mouths at the skin, hips stuttering when you clench around him and drag your nails down his back.

“Te extrañé,” he whispers against you, words drowned by your keening as he pushes himself forward - so he repeats it, over and over until the words are etched into your skin. “Te extrañé, te extrañé, mi amor, mi querida - fuck. Te extrañé.”

He groans when he presses himself flush against you, a shuddering in his breath that ripples across your shoulder and makes you hold him tighter with a weak cry, back arching into him - your eyes flutter shut, stars dotting your vision as the line of pain and pleasure blurs, vanishes, and your body recognises him. You’re trembling when both your arms wrap around him, holding him tight against you, legs braced at each side of him.

“Darling, my darling,” you’re cooing, hand brushing the side of his head, and there are tears dwelling at the corners of your closed eyes because you had forgotten how his weight over you felt, how familiar and comforting it was - still is. “I’ve missed you, too. I -” you gasp when his hips shift, rutting into you and pushing you a little higher on the bed. “Así.”

“Yes?” he seeks confirmation, pulling his head up from the curve of your neck - his hand moves up, ghosting your neck before cupping your jaw as you’re nodding, bottom lip trapped between your teeth as you grip his shoulders harsher. “Mirame, tesoro. I need to see you,” he pushes his thumb a little into the juncture of your jaw, and your mouth hangs open - heavy breaths fall from your lips as you force your eyes to flutter open.

You’re breathing into each other as he starts to move, agonizingly slow at first - he pulls his hips back until he's almost fully out of you, and then, still slow, buries himself back in until he's pressed flush against you. Back and forth, back and forth, the drag making you feel each part of him, and he kisses the corners of your eyes, kisses the tears away.

Time and you, he said - I want time and you. So he’s taking his time, and it's maddening and oh-so-good. You trace his face with the tip of your fingers, something you used to do when he was asleep in the early mornings and you’d wake up before him, committing to your memory each bump, each curve, each shape.

He kisses the pads of your fingers when you trace the line of his lips, then wraps them around your thumb, sucking it into his mouth. There’s nothing provocative to it - it’s another attempt to be close to you, closer. It’s what the whole night has been about.

When you saw him from the stage, it felt like the world had stopped moving - there was you, and him, and the space between you needing to be filled. Years gone by without the other and still you haven’t been able to stay away from him for more than twenty minutes - not when he looked at you like that, like nobody else was in the room. Not when his lips moved and mimicked yours, and the words you’d once shared became yours all over again.

You hadn’t thought it’d end like this. You hadn’t planned it. But how could you ever be parted from Javier?

He picks up his pace, gasping when his hips snap against yours and you keen, the sound sending a ripple down his spine, the burning in the pit of his stomach brighter. The movements are smooth, slick gathering between your bodies - his, yours, it’s impossible to discern in that moment. It’s all just noise, skin against skin and sighs and moans and suddenly there is no telling where you end and he begins.

Javier, his name from your lips, over and over, and he kisses it right from your mouth - you try to keep him close, arm wrapped around his shoulders, try to arch into him to get just a little more, meeting his thrusts half-way. Por favor, Javi. Javi. My Javi.

He straightens his back with a strangled moan, heavy-lidded eyes looking down towards you as you writhe against him - his thighs press into yours as he pulls you closer by the hips, one hand staying there to keep guiding your rocking against him while the other shifts up, brushing your tattoo again. The new angle has you shuddering, knees pressing harshly into his sides as you moan, back still arched, each muscle going taunt.

“Diosa,” he repeats, out of breath, gaze wandering down your body as his thrusts start to falter, and it’s now mostly a rocking against each other, desperately seeking your release. He groans when his gaze falls to the place your bodies meet, the mess you’ve made of each other - and he can see himself shifting inside you, his hand moving down from your ribs to your lower stomach, pressing down.

You squeeze around him as you’re coming, orgasm washing over you so suddenly it knocks the breath out of your lungs and you’re grasping for him, back and shoulders and head lifting off the mattress as you reach for his shoulders, arms, anything to hold onto to as your whole body seizes and shakes against him, vision flashing white. He hooks one arm around you, sitting back on his heels and pulling you tight into his chest, letting you ride out your high with a string of curses and heavy panting, gushing around him, and then -

“Inside,” you mutter into his chest, leaving marks down his back he hopes never fade. “Want you inside, Javi. I want to feel you,” there’s a pleading note in your voice, a whine that drags on as he tumbles over the edge with one last thrust at your words.

A broken moan escapes him, his eyes falling shut as he muffles it into the crook of your neck, biting the soft skin there. The whole room is spinning, and he’s holding you so tightly he can feel the shift of your ribs as you tilt your head a little, trembling hand coming up to his hair to comb it back as his own orgasm goes on and on and he’s twitching inside of you until he’s spent, and still he holds onto you while you cradle his head, regaining your breaths.

You remain like that a while longer, your releases dripping down yours and his thighs, the thin layer of sweat formed making everything the more sticky - and yet he doesn’t mind it one bit, because he feels calm, at peace at last, with the sound of your heart beating under his ear, and your fingers brush his hair at the side of his head. He’s fallen asleep countless times under that same touch, and his breathing slowly starts to even out.

“Still with me?” you call in a hum, thumb tracing the shell of his ear. His forehead falls to your chest with a softer groan, arms tightening around you even more if possible, and you smile while resting your chin on top of his head. “Javi?”

“Why that poem?” his voice is low, warm breath fanning across your skin - unable to help yourself, you snort, moving your head back to look down at him. He keeps his forehead to your skin, the tip of his nose brushing your sternum.

“Are you seriously asking this right now?” he nods a little, and you can feel the smile on his lips as he kisses your chest once before tilting his head back to meet your gaze - his eyes are dark and impossibly soft, delicate smile grazing his mouth. You sigh, hand caressing down his jaw before hooking your index underneath his chin to guide his head a little higher. “Because it reminded me of you - of us,” you admit softly, and he brushes his lips to yours.

He guides you back towards the mattress, movements slow and careful, but remains so close the friction brings a whine to your lips, and he kisses you again in apology, his weight pinning you down to the bed.

“Why?” he asks, voice still hoarse, and keeps kissing your jaw, your neck, hand wandering down to hitch your leg up his side - he doesn’t move, ever so careful with you, but still peppers your skin in gentle, mind-numbing kisses.

“Mientras el viento triste galopa matando mariposas / yo te amo, y mi alegría muerde tu boca de ciruela,” he lingers above your heart, gaze lifting towards you as he nips the soft flesh of your breast, gaining a small gasp from you and your fingers tugging at his hair without pulling him away. Yo te amo, you repeat under your breath, before continuing. “Cuanto te habrá dolido acostumbrarte a mí, / a mi alma sola y salvaje, a mi nombre que todos ahuyentan,” the first time you heard this was with his voice, mere weeks before he was gone. It stuck in your mind almost painfully, a constant reminder of his absence - that was what you had to get accustomed to. “Hemos visto arder tantas veces el lucero besándonos los ojos / y sobre nuestras cabezas destorcerse los crepúsculos en abanicos girantes.”

The late nights bled into early mornings, sunrises spent outside in the circle of his arms, or the first morning lights waking both of you up because you’d forgotten to close the blinds, too taken with the other - he doesn’t need to be reminded. He doesn’t need further explanation. Javier has never been too eloquent, so instead he kisses his affection across your skin, caressing you with reverence, and just a few words fall from his bruised lips.

“También yo te amo,” another whispered confession, this time for you only. And furthermore, “I’m sorry.”

“Javier,” you guide him up again, until the tip of your nose is brushing his and you cup his cheeks, a gentle brush of your thumbs across his skin as you lean in. “Tú estás aquí. Ah tú no huyes,” you whisper with a smile, and he chases another kiss but you turn your head, causing him to whine. “Tú me responderás hasta el último grito,” he pulls up, hand resting by your head. “I could never resent you, nor regret you - I just missed you. But you’re here now.”

“I’m staying,” he all but blurts out - and he knows it’ll be complicated. He knows you’re different people. He knows it’ll take time, and work. But you’re smiling up at him in such a way it makes his whole body warm again, and his heart beats a little faster.

Afterwards he picks you up again and carries you to the bathroom, deaf to your complaints but not to the laughter you reward him with as he props you up on the sink to clean you up, to kiss each and every spot he’s grabbed a little too harshly - inner thighs and hips and jaw, and time stretches on before he lays you back onto the bed without its discarded sheets, nestling into your side right away because he’s staying, he knows, as long as you’ll have him, as long as you’ll welcome him into your arms.

Perhaps this time he’ll ask his father for that ring.

spanish - english translation: tesoro: darling tan impaciente: so impatient diosa: (lit. goddess) beautiful sì: yes te extrañé: i missed you mi amor: my love mi querida: my dear así: like that mirame: look at me por favor: please también yo te amo: i love you too

[nomo-charis]

(Poem #1149) Don't Go Far Off

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --

because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long

and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station

when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because

then the little drops of anguish will all run together,

the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift

into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;

may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.

Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,

because in that moment you'll have gone so far

I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,

Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

-- Pablo Neruda

[ninetyninewords]

Settle your perfect hips here and the bow of wet arrows / loosens into the night the petals that form your form / let your clay limbs climb the silence and its pale ladder / rung by rung taking off with me in my dream.

Pablo Neruda - ‘4,’ Then Come Back: The Lost Neruda Poems

[darsynia]

Tags!

Actually I don't have a Bucky taglist yet, so please feel free to request! I didn't want to presume those who liked Adversarial might want on a generic Bucky taglist. The title of this fic comes from a Pablo Neruda poem called Don't Go Far Off. I'll put the text under the cut if you'd like to read it, but the line the title comes from in particular is relevant, IMO: (also bah, I reblogged a coloring error in the original that is now fixed)

the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift

Don't Go Far Off

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because - because - I don't know how to say it: a day is long and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because then the little drops of anguish will all run together, the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach; may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance. Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,

because in that moment you'll have gone so far I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking, Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

The Smoke That Roams (post-apocalypse AU Bucky/Reader)

MCU MASTERLIST | lmk if you want to be tagged for Bucky fics!

Summary: You and Bucky find each other after the world almost ends

Length/Warnings: 3,080 | allusions to violence, sex

Notes: I tagged this on AO3 as 'romance and survival soaked in metaphor,' lol. It's post-apocalyptic angst. Stop typing, Darsy.

Excerpt:

You weren’t afraid of him, you realized. You were afraid for him. He was a supersoldier, but he wasn’t immortal. Bucky often went off by himself without saying anything to you--but what if someday he didn’t come back? 

A pillow landed on the queen sized bed beside yours, followed by a blanket, followed by Bucky, who threw himself onto his back beside you with as much care as he’d tossed everything else. He was so warm you could feel the heat radiating through the space that separated you, even though none of it carried through to his tone.

“You’re safe. Go to sleep.”

It was… exactly what you needed.

The Smoke That Roams

You used to compare him to a solid, cold hunk of metal. Non-reflective but uncorroded, with a metaphorical melting point so high it’s practically unreachable. A weapon when thrown but otherwise safe, foundational, inexpressive.

That was before he touched you.

Bucky Barnes is not safe. He is expressive, though. Just not with words.

now

The world isn’t destroyed. There are still plants, there are still animals, and there are still safe places to spend time. The planet may actually be better off now than in the last few hundred years, because the humans who were in the process of ruining things just barely failed.

There are no regulations, no government-enforced exclusion zones, only good- and bad-intentioned people living day to day. You figure humanity has around twenty years of 'every man for himself' to realize how difficult it is to grow crops and sustain life. Until then, everyone’s subsisting on canned food and shelf-stable meats while hating every second of it.

Boredom is an unexpectedly dystopian pandemic, post-apocalypse. Books still exist, so there’s that. Unfortunately, even if there were experienced people to keep the electrical grid going, it’s completely unsustainable without an accompanying society. When you’re really depressed, you picture various survivors all around the world hunkering down to read Jurassic Park or Gone Girl next to pine-scented candles or last year’s Pantone table tapers. Once, you imagined a group of miserable assholes warming their hands next to a bonfire of Live, Laugh, Love wall hangings outside of a Cracker Barrel. It helped. You doubt any Karens survived the apocalypse to object.

then

You survived out of luck, if you could call living in the aftermath of a failed nuclear response ‘luck.’ 

After an honest-to-fuck alien invasion, the nuclear strikes should have taken out the whole area. Instead, a strange golden dome repelled the worst of the damage in your area, but you knew better than to assume it would stick around. After gathering some important provisions (including a gun and all your ammo), you spent some time bundling up your lawnmower’s spare gas can. You'd read The Stand. There's no way you're strong enough to pilfer gasoline from an underground tank.

That was when you found a leather-clad warrior man standing beside your motorcycle. He didn't seem surprised to see you. “You know how to ride this?”

“You after parts or gas?” you asked, hand on the butt of your gun. You were high on survivor’s guilt and low on bravado. He noticed both.

“A bodyguard,” Bucky told you sardonically.

He eventually told you the real reason, but at the time you’d pulled courage out of the sulfuric smell of danger in the air and suggested you watch each other’s backs.

now

“Still awake?”

You roll over to see Bucky’s familiar shape standing at the window, outlined in moonlight.

“Yeah. It’s too quiet.” Yesterday the two of you had retreated further into the mountains, judging your previous temporary home too close to the river after seeing two small groups using it for through travel.

“Never thought I’d like the quiet this much,” he muses.

Getting up, you move to stand beside him, still dressed in multiple layers to ward off the colder elevation. “That’s because it matters why it’s quiet.”

He doesn’t look over, but his smile is gorgeous in the dim light. “That’s a war reference.”

“You’re damn right.”

The two of you stand in silence, watching the shadows of the nearby trees play in the wind until he speaks again, gruff and oddly defensive.

“I was right about the shelter.”

“There’s a radio? Was it the right kind?”

“Yeah. Months worth of food, too.”

You’re embarrassed at how excited you are at the thought of MREs. “That’s great,” you say, reaching out to touch his arm. It’s sopping wet. Turning to look at him more fully, you see that his hair is wet too. He’s been dripping the whole time he's stood there; there’s a halo of wet, dark spots on the floor around him that feel almost symbolic.

“Most of the food was untouched. Ghosts don’t eat much.”

“How many?” You have to dredge to find enough moisture to rub your vocal cords together.

“Just one. Buried him in the woods pretty far out, washed up in the river.”

Bucky leaves so much unsaid, but you’re good at decoding him by now. This new cabin is miles from the river. As a good ‘bodyguard,’ though, you have one more clarifying question. It’ll matter, if you want to stay here for longer than a week or two.

“Was there evidence of-- did someone else--”

“Self-inflicted.”

“Yeah, aren’t we all,” you sigh, pushing away the guilt of relief.

then

You learned him slowly.

Bucky didn’t need a bodyguard as much as a body, or more accurately a second person to help carry the items he was gathering. It made sense; even a loner like him wouldn’t separate from the other Avengers without a reason. Their version of ‘strength in numbers’ was too complicated to understand and he didn’t really explain, but it had something to do with scattered communication, whatever that meant.

The parts he needed were in military bases, abandoned (and guarded, which was fucking terrifying) high rises, and one notable item was in a corn field. Eventually he gave you his motorcycle and upgraded to one with a sidecar.

You didn’t ask why it was wet when he showed up with it, but you had an idea of why he might have needed to clean it off.

By then you were used to sharing a room with him, dressing and undressing when he was out of the room or faced away. He didn't seem to mind, but you couldn’t really tell, and he didn’t say. 

You were more like coworkers than anything else, to the point that he barely spoke once one of you started readying for bed, like an unwritten boundary. Not that night. He’d broken into a hotel with two beds, one for each of you. That night, instead of his usual steady rhythm of breaths that eventually lengthened into sleep, there was just pensive silence.

Silence was the worst part of your new life. Silence allowed doubts and fears to creep into the gaps between breaths, clawing out space for larger worries. Bucky was quiet, but he was rarely silent.

“It’s not cold,” he finally said, almost accusatory.

You didn’t know how to respond. You weren’t cold, you were in shock. Death was everywhere and nowhere; either you fought for your life or saw the evidence of those who’d lost that battle. Each choice came with terrible necessity. Had that sidecar been a necessity? 

The flashlight clicked on. “You’re shivering.”

“I’m not cold.”

You weren’t afraid of him, you realized. You were afraid for him. He was a supersoldier, but he wasn’t immortal. Bucky often went off by himself without saying anything to you--but what if someday he didn’t come back? 

A pillow landed on the queen sized bed beside yours, followed by a blanket, followed by Bucky, who threw himself onto his back beside you with as much care as he’d tossed everything else. He was so warm you could feel the heat radiating through the space that separated you, even though none of it carried through to his tone.

“You’re safe. Go to sleep.”

It was… exactly what you needed.

now

“I need to build it as high up as I can,” Bucky says.

“Not ‘we?’” you ask, nowhere near as breezy as you hoped.

“I need you to be here, safe.” He reaches out and grabs your hand with his smooth, river-damp metal one, squeezing just too much. It’s as calculated as it is unintentional, like your relationship. “This time, ‘safe’ is not with me.”

He can run for days, heal his own wounds, kill in so many ways it would take a week to list them all, and you still don’t want him to go alone.

You don’t say that, though.

Instead, you tuck yourself against Bucky’s chest, wrapping your arms around his drenched torso. There are no dryers, no radiators to hang your wet clothes on, no fireplace to dry them by. It’s a message.

He holds you close in the moonlight, his river water soaking into you, your unspoken love seeping into him.

then 

Bucky learned you fiercely.

After begrudgingly joining you the first time, he slept beside you from then on, handling it the same way he handled everything: with little explanation and an air of inflexibility. Suddenly you were two people who slept (slept, mind you) together, the metal plates of your lives shifting perfectly to fit that new reality. 

You didn’t fully understand what it all meant until the night Bucky went for a walk instead of getting into bed. He’d killed a man right in front of you that day--brief, brutal, and bleak--and you'd waited for him to come back, alone with your own brutal and bleak thoughts. Had survival destroyed your morality? Why had he been beautiful as he’d ended the attacker’s life? Couldn’t things go back to the way they were? You didn’t ask for this!

Then it hit you.

Neither did he.

You got to travel with him in 2019 because someone did things to him in the 40s that he’d never asked for.

Bucky came back, but that didn't help you purge those horrible thoughts, not until he sighed in obvious annoyance and threw an arm over your hip, dragging you back against his chest like it was an obligation.

Only then could you sleep.

And so could he.

now

The moon is too high to shine through your borrowed window anymore, so Bucky leads you back to the bed in the dark. He guides your clothes over your head and down your hips as unerringly as a marksman who knows the specs of his weapons. When he kisses you, it’s sloppy and imprecise, like he doesn't have time to come up with a plan other than 'must touch, now.'

He drops you onto your back on the bed and straightens up, stripping off his shirt. You figure that out by the sound the sodden fabric makes on the hardwood floor, a wet thunk followed by the metal pinging noise his belt buckle makes.

A strange realization hits you: for the first time since everything went to hell, you don’t want water stains on the floor. This could be your place, yours and his. The thought warms the places where you’d pressed up against Bucky’s wet clothes, but soon his kisses do that for you, furnace-hot yet gentle as the curl of smoke from your frequent campfires.

You burn for him, and you have since before he touched you with intent and looked at you with desire. 

then

Post-apocalyptic isolation was finally getting to you.

The warehouse was cold, impersonal, and dangerous enough that no one lived there, despite being a single building surrounded by miles of possibly-fertile fields. Back when it was operating, that had protected the county population, and now that it was not, its position could best be called strategic. No one could sneak up on you if you were diligent, but the monotony of guard duty was wearing on you. So was the wind coming off of the unrelenting central plains.

You'd never seen Bucky that frustrated before. He came to bed each night tense and sullen, even angry, and instinctively, you’d done your best to give him space. It was only in the last few nights that ‘space’ had included sleeping separately, despite the chill of early autumn that seeped into your bones from the concrete floor.

Day five of that singular brand of loneliness happened to be day thirteen at that location. You weren’t sure how much more you could take.

“Let me help you.” Your tone was wounded, but you didn’t raise your voice.

“You are helping.”

“There’s no point in me watching for nonexistent scavengers when whatever you’re doing isn’t working down here! Especially since--” Your words turned to ash in midair. You’d been about to say ‘especially since you won’t sleep with me anymore,’ which made your relationship sound vastly different than what it actually was.

Bucky smiled for the first time in days. “Go on.”

“No way. Mad Max himself couldn’t drag it from me.”

“I think I saw that one,” he said, swiping a precious candy bar from the special stash and sitting on a stack of pallets. “Sand and cars?”

You choke out a laugh. “If any of the filmmakers are still alive, can you even imagine--”

“They probably murder anyone that brings it up.” Bucky wrapped up the rest of the candy bar and held it up like he was about to toss it to you. “Tell me.”

Your chest felt like you’d swallowed lighter fluid. He looked happier than he had in days, and you had no idea if telling him the truth would toss a match or douse it.

Well, you lived with enough fear as it is.

“Fine,” you said with fake annoyance. “I was going to say that it’s hard to sleep without you breathing on my neck and hogging the blanket.” The plan was to be flippant, to avoid seeing his response, but an arsonist can never look away from their own blaze.

Bucky was still sitting the way he had been before, but you could see the tension ebbing from his shoulders. His metal hand relaxed its grip on the pallet with the same slow relief as the growing smug look on his face.

“Yeah?” he asked, impudent and inflammatory.

“Yeah. Give me the candy bar.”

“Oh, I will,” Bucky grinned. He stood up with the kind of confident menace that had sold many an action movie ticket.

“Oh my god, turn that off!” you yelped, poised to run. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Sand,” he said. You bit your lip as he continued, “I can use it to shore up-- Never mind.”

Bucky’s gaze was intent as he started walking in your direction. It was the same kind of focus he used to defend your lives, with only difference being the impudent light in his eyes. You backed away (never turn your back on a predator) as swiftly as you could, heart pounding in your delighted chest.

Seconds later you realize he’d herded you against a dividing wall and he was still advancing. It was absurd, sexy as hell, and the aforementioned lighter fluid had completely replaced your blood volume. One touch and you’d be aflame. 

Bucky didn’t touch you.

He stopped mere breaths away, leaning his metal forearm on the wall. Bucky brought the half-wrapped candy bar up where you could see it and then ripped away the wrapping with his teeth, his eyes glittering with challenge. Holding your gaze, he brought it to your mouth.

You were breathing so heavily your breasts grazed his chest, sparking brushfires each time. Still, this was a contest of sorts, and you had precious few chances to go toe to toe with this man. You waited until the heat of your mouth smeared the chocolate on your lower lip, and only then did you move--shoving his hand to the side and arching up to kiss him.

His groan ignited something in both of you. He pulled you close with a rough hand at your thigh, curving your leg around him and taking charge of the kiss. It was exhilarating, full of the heat of something long-desired. You grabbed at the fabric of his shirt, dug your fingernails into his hair, your other hand skating over the bare metal of his arm.

Suddenly he pushed back on the wall behind you with enough force to shake the cinderblocks, eyes wild, hands at the hem of his tank top. You nodded, scraping your elbows in your haste to strip off your clothes. It took just seconds before you were on each other again, Bucky half carrying you to the corner of the warehouse where you’d piled up your bedding. He was already pumping his fingers in and out, sucking a brutal kiss on your neck even as he knelt on the pile of ragged quilts.

“You are so fucking strong-- yes, like that,” you gasped out with your eyes screwed so tightly you saw a spray of sparks. The white-hot pleasure practically rang in your ears, and then he was there, splitting you apart and putting you back together, with the taste of him healing the gaps.

“You smell just like every morning I wanted to do this,” Bucky growled into your skin. The pinpoint pain of his fingertips digging into your hip was so real, so him that you were speechless. All you could do was drag your lips across every inch you could reach, arching your back to drive the two of you toward the wreckage of your former selves.

When release came it was a second nuclear event, him panting into the join of your neck and shoulder, your hands buried in his hair.

now

There is a luxury to darkness and patience, one you never would have guessed at in the Time Before.

Bucky doesn’t have to see the ecstasy on your face to know his expert caresses are sending you skyward. You don’t have to watch him throw his head back to know he’s about to come apart inside you.

He’s seen the silhouette of your body backlit by the sunset as you ride him.

You’ve watched the lethargy of pleasure-bought peace lift months of his guilt.

Things will never go back to the way they used to be, but just as you’ve learned to navigate the chaos of the current world, you’ve also learned the comfort of being truly known.

Tomorrow, Bucky will head up the mountain to build one piece of a larger device various Avengers have been constructing across the world. Stark had called it a cosmic smoke signal, a last-ditch effort to call for rescue. After all this time, you’re not sure your heart is in it anymore. It’s engaged elsewhere; you haven’t just learned to adapt, you’ve learned to thrive with Bucky at your side.

Still, the others are counting on the two of you, and it’s all about balance. Whether the next mission is a fiery trip to the stars or the steady puff of a hand-built cookstove, you’re ready for what comes next.

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

[joansdidion]

all the cut wheat,

the corollas

of giant sunflowers, defeated

by their very fullness, the cormorant’s

flight nailed

to the sky

like a coastline cross,

all

the space, the autumn, the carnations,

never alone, with you.

- Pablo Neruda, “Never alone, with you” from Then Come Back

[wordscanbeenough]

And yet, as they say,

the heart is a leaf

and the wind makes it throb.

Pablo Neruda, Then Come Back: The Lost Neruda Poems

[maatryoshkaa]

between the lines | lee minho

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐃𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇 𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐋 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒!𝐀𝐔

✑ Late fines, shared lockers, and a missing love letter:

In which a frantic search for an overdue library book leads to you finding other things that are...long overdue.

✑ PAIRING: student librarian!minho x bookworm!reader

✑ GENRE: retro!high school au, slow burn, slice-of-life romance, slight enemies-to-lovers shenanigans

✑ WORD COUNT: 9.7k

✖︎ TAGS/WARNINGS: fem!reader, mild language, bullying themes, skz are all around the same age. mc is insecure and a bit of a valentine's day grinch. minho is whipped but too hardheaded to admit it. also, an embarrassing amount of classic literature/pablo neruda references.

Ah, Valentine’s Day.

Call it the most romantic day of the year if you will, but in the treacherous hallways of Levanter High, it meant a minefield of hormonal couples, crushed chocolate boxes, and supermarket rose bouquets. Clutching your backpack with a grimace, you narrowly dodged a pigtailed cheerleader as she leapt into her jock boyfriend’s waiting arms. Turning into another hallway, you plugged your ears to block out a senior boy’s cold rejection of a freshman’s nervous love confession.

You finally caught sight of your locker and breathed a sigh of relief. Levanter High’s lockers were split in half lengthwise—one top row, and one bottom row. You dropped to a crouch to wrench yours open—you’d lost your lock a couple of weeks ago—trying to block out the early morning commotion as you rummaged for your English books.

“Hey, watch ou—”

The locker above yours opened with a screech, and you looked up just in time to see a pink avalanche of cards and chocolates raining down on your head in a painful, deafening crash. The student who had called out the warning was frozen with a comical look of shock on her face. You swore the entire hallway fell silent, blood rushing to your cheeks as you slowly raised your gaze at the person who had opened the locker.

Lee Hana—head cheerleader of Levanter’s pep squad, and in your humble opinion, the spawn of Satan herself.

“Ohmigosh,” she exclaimed, raising one hand to her mouth in mock horror, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you there.”

The crowd around you was beginning to snicker and point, and you felt your face growing redder by the minute. “What are you doing here?” You asked tersely, motioning towards the locker above yours. “That’s not even your locker.”

Hana smiled and held up a small, glittery package. Oh. You didn’t have to look closer to know that the envelope was a love letter, elaborately tied to a box of expensive chocolates—the kind your parents would probably have to work overtime to afford. “My Valentine—for your locker buddy,” Hana replied matter-of-factly, then added, “Not that you would understand, hm? Since you’ve never received one yourself, and all.”

A smattering of laughs erupted from the crowd that was building around you. Biting back a retort, you looked down at all the other Valentine’s trinkets that had spilled around you. Of course—you should have gotten used to it by now. After all, your locker was right underneath the one that belonged to the student librarian, school heartthrob, and the absolute bane of your existence, Lee—

“Minho!” Hana exclaimed, and you looked up to see him shuffling through the crowd, his eyes briefly falling on yours. You immediately turned away as the pretty cheerleader skipped up to him, and shoved your books into your bag. Slamming your locker shut—twice, because Levanter’s damned lockers always jammed before shutting properly—you snatched up as many of Minho’s fallen Valentine’s Day trinkets as you could before shoving them back into the now-emptied top locker. The metal door was still swinging wide open. You’d overheard Minho complaining to the boy who always did the announcements—Han Jihyun? Han Jisung?—about how he kept losing his own lock. Both of you seemed to have a habit of misplacing things (not that you liked to admit to that similarity).

Out of the corner of your eye, Minho was still watching you over Hana’s shoulder, his lips tilted in a half-smile. Your gut twisted unpleasantly. Four years and counting—that was how long you’d ended up with a locker right under Minho’s.

“You’re so lucky!” Lia—your best friend—had gushed, while you had scoffed in utter disbelief.

“Oh, sure. Just my rotten luck.”

“Come on, y/n. Are you still hung up about that love letter from freshman year?”

Yes, you had thought sourly. “No way,” you had snapped, and Lia had giggled, unconvinced.

It wasn’t like you’d always had a personal vendetta against Minho. In fact, in ninth grade, you’d been head over heels for him, just like the rest of the student body—to the point where you’d even slipped a small love letter into his locker on Valentine’s Day, too. It had been one of those gaudy 99-cent corner-store cards, and you'd saved up your pocket money just to buy a matching pack of candy hearts. Then you’d spent the day with butterflies in your stomach, anxiously waiting nearby his locker to see his reaction.

But when he hadn’t shown up, you'd shrugged and begun heading home—and that was when you had caught sight of Minho, throwing all the love letters he’d received straight into the Dumpsters in the back parking lot.

Talk about a reality check.

As if that hadn't been traumatizing enough, you’d been forced to face him nearly every morning for the following three years. To make matters worse, being Minho’s involuntary locker mate also meant that all the girls—and guys, for that matter—saw you as little more than a stepping stone to him, always asking you to relay party invitations or trying to curry favour with you to get to him.

“We’re not close,” you’d insist to his persistent admirers every time, but it didn’t help. Minho, on the other hand, you thought bitterly, seemed to think he was too good for anyone—he didn’t even respond much to Hana’s advances, and she was drop-dead gorgeous. There was no way he’d even look twice at you—you’d been firsthand witness to that. You finally gave up trying to clean up the fallen Valentines, and stood up with a sigh. Throwing him a death glare, you pushed past the crowd just as the bell rang and students began scurrying away.

What did it matter if Lee Hana was trying to get with Minho? If anything, they were a match made in heaven. Or hell. With a decided huff, you plopped yourself down at your desk just as your English teacher began class.

“We’re starting the poetry unit today! Remember, you’ll be writing a love poem of your own for the final project—so I suggest you all get started on reading!” You teacher had winked and clapped her hands excitedly while a collective groan had swept through your class. A few couples had nudged each other meaningfully, already promising to write their poems about each other, and you’d thrown up a little in your mouth.

Romance was a bit of a touchy subject for you— now, you didn’t hate the notion of love, per se, you’d just always been somewhat...wary of it. After watching your friends fall in and out of disastrous relationships and fleeting feelings from the sidelines too many times to count, your own defense mechanisms had skyrocketed, and now you found yourself trying not to roll your eyes at every piece of romantic writing you read. Still, this inexperience only made you more determined to get a head start on the topic— and so, once the last bell had rung, you made a beeline for the school library. You would tackle love the only way you knew how to—by hitting the books. Pushing open the door, you overheard Hana and her friends muttering in disappointment and immediately recoiled.

“You said he’d be in here!”

“Well, I thought I saw him! Let’s wait for a bit.”

You peeked over the librarian’s desk, and sure enough, it was vacant— save for a tray of half-shelved books and stamping cards. Maybe Minho left early today, you thought, shrugging. That’s a relief. Then you shook your head quickly. What’s it to me whether he’s here or not? You tried to ignore Hana’s disdainful glance at you, heading straight towards your favourite nook at the back of the library instead: a cozy alcove tucked behind the last row of shelves. With a deep sigh, you pulled out the first book of poetry your teacher had assigned—Shakespeare’s Complete Sonnets—and sank into the bean bag chair.

‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May…’

A couple lines in, and the Englishman’s words were already making your head spin. You grimaced, massaging your temples. ‘A summer’s day?’ Seriously? You could swear you’d seen something less cheesy on a dollar store card. After a couple of pages, you could already feel your treacherous eyelids beginning to droop, fighting to stay awake as you tried to make sense of Shakespeare’s verses. But thy eternal summer...shall not fade...nor lose...possession…

“The library’s closing.”

You jolted awake, hands fumbling blindly before you could even force your eyes open. The library came into focus first—the lights had been dimmed, the flickering EXIT sign from the empty hallway casting a warm glow through the panelled window across the room. A dull headache still throbbed in your temples.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes groggily. You had to practically peel your cheek away from the Shakespeare book, fingers gingerly feeling the dent the cover had left in your cheek. “I-I’m so sorry, I must have—lost track of time studying.”

A familiar chuckle sent your heart plummeting to your stomach. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

When your eyes finally adjusted, your expression automatically soured into a glare.

“Now that’s more like it.” Smirking, Minho crossed his arms, leaning back on a bookshelf. He glanced down at the book in your lap—the book that you clearly hadn’t been studying. “Didn’t know you were one for Shakespeare.”

“I—” You threw your hands up in exasperation. “I’m not. His writing gives me a headache. It’s like it’s all in another language or something.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “Old English. Why are you reading it, then?”

“We’re doing poetry in class—and our final project is to write an actual love poem, based on the poets we’ll study. Shakespeare was just first on the reading list, so…” you felt yourself trailing off, flustered. Why were you even bothering to explain this to Minho, who probably couldn’t care less? “Nevermind.”

You felt his piercing gaze on you as you shoved your books into your bag, glancing outside at the nearly emptied parking lot. If you squinted, you could spot a couple—Seo Changbin, judging by the male’s iconic leather jacket, and his lover—making out under the bleachers. You shook your head incredulously. Valentine’s Day. Love poems. Hormonal couples galore. It was like the universe was playing a long, cruel joke on you: Ha-ha, look who’s spending Valentine’s Day studying in the library alone.

Well, alone except for a student librarian with whom you had a mortifying history. Not much better. Eager to leave, you got to your feet, only to see Minho flipping through a smaller book he’d pulled off the shelf next to him. “If you want some real inspiration,” he began slowly, pushing up his glasses, “I’d suggest you start closer to our time period.”

You looked down at the book he was holding up, brow furrowing as you read the title out loud. “Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. Pablo Neruda.”

“The best Chilean poet of the 20th century,” he nodded. “‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way, because I do not know any other way of loving but this.’”

It took you a second to realise Minho was quoting a poem, and you were suddenly grateful that the dimly lit library hid the flush of red that had betrayed your cheeks. Clearing your throat, you mumbled, “That actually sounds...kind of pretty.”

He didn’t look up, but you thought you saw the corners of his mouth shoot up ever so slightly. Maybe the shadows were playing tricks on you? Flipping through the book, Minho fished out a pad of sticky notes from his back pocket and marked a few pages. “Here. ‘The Song of Despair’...‘Tonight I Can Write’...‘Here I Love You.’ Those are good.” Clamping the book shut, he held it out towards you.

You almost thanked him, but the words faltered on your tongue as you took it from him suspiciously. “What’s with the sudden helpful attitude?”

He shrugged. “It’s my job.” You raised an incredulous eyebrow, and he smirked. “Consider it my apology for this morning, then.”

That left you at a real loss for words, and for the first time, you struggled to find a retort. “That’s...considerate of you, apologising on behalf of your girlfriend and all.”

“Hana’s not my girlfriend.”

You breathed a small laugh. “Soon-to-be, then. Don’t break her heart.”

Minho scoffed, bringing the book to the front desk and scrawling your name on the sign-out card. He stamped the dates, then held it out at you before glancing out the window. Dusk had fallen, the empty football field lit only by rows of flickering lampposts. “You can get home safe?”

“Screw off, Lee Minho.” You eyed him warily, shoving the book into your bag before practically running to the double doors. The strange atmosphere that had suddenly built up in the library felt terrifyingly foreign to you, and your first instinct was to be rid of it as soon as possible. In the hallway, you spotted a janitor dumping a bin into a trash bag. A familiar avalanche of pink envelopes and gifts caught your eye, and you felt a wave of humiliation. Just the memory of Minho throwing yours out—after reading it and having a good laugh, no doubt—made you want to ram your head into the lockers all over again. You’ve got no chance with him, y/n, you thought blearily. Right when you’d thought you’d finally come to terms with Minho’s brutal (albeit unintentional) rejection, here he was again: crashing back into your life like some...cat-eyed, pointy-nosed meteor.

“Oh, y/n! One more thing.”

You’d already had one foot out the front door when Minho called your name again, making you jerk your head back in surprise. Minho had his bag slung over one shoulder, a pile of books in his arms as he waved to get your attention. His smile looked almost...genuine in the warm shadows, his round glasses softening his usually sharp gaze. Despite yourself, you felt your heart skip a beat.

Then Minho made a wiping motion over his face and grinned. “You’ve got drool on your chin.”

Your face reddened, and you slammed the library door shut, earning a glare from the janitor down the hall. Smacking the heel of your palm against your forehead repeatedly, you stormed out of the school muttering curses under your breath. Typical Lee Minho.

To your surprise, you practically devoured the poems in less than a week, taken aback at how much you genuinely enjoyed them. It was the first time you didn’t find yourself cringing at romance—and sure enough, in a couple days’ time, you found yourself reluctantly standing back in front of the double doors of the school library once again.

Carefully, you craned your head to peep into the panelled window, scanning the room for Minho. As per usual, a gaggle of girls were huddled on the other side, blocking your view.

“Looking for someone?”

Flinching, you nearly tripped on Hana’s long legs as she came up beside you. Before you could respond, she fixed you with a withering look. “You’ve got some explaining to do, Little Miss Perfect.”

“I—sorry?”

The cheerleader rolled her eyes, sneering. “Don’t act all innocent with me, you sneaky b—”

Sighing, you pushed open the doors before she could finish. Hana followed you into the library, still sputtering angrily. Her hand snatched your arm, French manicure digging painfully into your cardigan.

“The Valentines,” she hissed, and it finally clicked.

She’s talking about the love letters, you realized. The ones Minho throws out every year.

Gut twisting, you looked up to see all the other girls crossing their arms and looking back at you expectantly. “None of you...got a response?” You asked incredulously, already knowing the answer. This happened every year: Expectant admirers showered Minho’s locker with gifts, Minho wouldn’t even glance at them— and then, for some reason, you were left to take the blame. A twinge of annoyance shot through your chest.

“You stole them from his locker, didn’t you?” Hana continued accusingly, pupils shaking. “You sneaky, jealous bitch— of course you did.”

He threw them all out, you wanted to scream back at her, but the words wouldn’t budge from your tongue. Somehow, saying them out loud felt like tearing off the stitches of an old wound; a painful reminder of your personal humiliating memory. And—though you hated to admit it—a small part of you still didn’t have the heart to throw Minho under the bus just yet, even after all that he’d done.

Feeling defeated, you sighed and turned towards her. “Why would I want to do that?”

Hana scoffed, tossing her chocolate curls over one shoulder. “Oh, please. We all know you’ve had a massive one-sided crush on him since ninth grade.”

A rush of heat flooded your cheeks, the other girls’ snickers at your reaction drowning out any of your protests. “That’s not—”

“Not true? Then—is it mutual?” Hana sneered mockingly. “Don’t make me laugh. He wouldn’t be caught dead with the likes of y—”

“Can I help you with anything?”

The small crowd fell silent as Minho appeared from one of the aisles, eyebrows raised slightly in his usual nonchalant manner. A chill of panic rushed down your spine, palms growing clammy with cold sweat. H-how much did he overhear? In your peripheral, Hana was practically batting her eyelashes at him, but Minho’s mild eyes were focused on yours expectantly.

“I—uh. Well,” you stammered eloquently, your entire body suddenly paralyzed. Hana’s cherry red lips were twisted in a smug smirk, clearly waiting for you to embarrass yourself. “The book,” you blurted, immediately rummaging for the poetry book in your bag and holding it out to him.

Minho took it from you, fingertips grazing yours slightly. They were surprisingly warm. “How’d you find it?”

“R-really good, actually.” Then, you hesitantly added, “I...like the way Neruda uses imagery—he’s precise without being plain, and artful without deviating too much into purple prose. I think I liked Tonight I Can Write the most— y’know, ‘Tonight I can write the saddest lines...’” You swallowed, then instantly began regretting having ever spoken. Great job, y/n, now you sound like a full-blown nerd.

But Minho nodded, his eyes gleaming. “‘I loved her, and sometimes, she loved me, too.’”

“That’s the second verse,” you muttered automatically, and his lips twitched.

“It’s one of my favourite lines.”

The other girls had begun to awkwardly shuffle out of the library, their absence easing your racing heart. With just a few mildly spoken words, you noted, Minho had managed to make you feel as though you had blocked out the rest of the world. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Hana glaring daggers at you, and the small smile dropped from your face.

“Do you need something?” Minho asked her blankly, his gaze trailing down to Hana’s hand, which was still painfully latched onto your arm. With a roll of her eyes, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the library.

As soon as she was gone, you breathed an audible sigh of relief. Minho was peeling the sticky notes off from the poetry book you’d returned, eyes still watching you intently. Giving him the side-eye, you deadpanned, “She’s pretty, you know. Maybe you should go talk to her sometime.”

There was a small smile on Minho’s lips. “Does she like Chilean poetry?”

You could only give a short—slightly too shaky for your liking—laugh in response, ruffling your own hair as you tried to calm your frazzled nerves. Don’t forget, y/n. One, that he’s out of your league. Two, how this was all his fault to begin with.

“Is that all you came here for?” Minho’s voice broke into your thoughts again, making you jump. There was a glint of amusement in his eyes. He finds this—me—amusing.

“Well…” you looked down at your feet, then grudgingly nodded at the poetry book you’d just returned. “Do you...have any other recommendations?”

Minho’s face broke into a shit-eating grin, and you bit back a groan. before your pride got the better of you and you changed your mind, he was already heading towards the back of the library, sliding books out as you struggled to keep with his pace. “First of all, Dickinson. Hit-or-miss, but you never know. Then there’s Sylvia Plath, some Emily Brontë…”

Before you knew it, you’d been whisked into a world of verse and metaphor, flying between numerous time periods and continents as you and Minho perused the shelves. Just like the time when you had accidentally fallen asleep in the library, the library seemed to grow cozier, quieter, more peaceful during moments like these, as if the entire world was holding still as you lost yourself in pages upon pages of books. Soon, you found yourself heading to the library nearly every day after school. Despite yourself, you found yourself looking forward to that sunset hour, the fleeting period where most students had left, and the entire library would glow warm as though it were blushing under the swathes of golden light. And in these same fleeting moments, you found your gaze lingering more and more on Minho—the way he would push his silver glasses on, furrowing his brow in concentration whenever he searched for a book, or run his long fingers over their worn spines whenever he was lost in thought—

“Like what you see?” With a flinch, you realised Minho had begun walking back towards you, a crooked smirk on his lips as he set a new pile of books down at the desk you were sat at.

“No!” You snapped, too quickly. “Just—spaced out for a bit. Too concentrated on the project.”

The smirk hadn’t budged from Minho’s face, and you resisted the urge to throw a copy of Emily Dickinson’s Selected Poems at his long, pointy nose. “Mm. You seem to be coming here a lot more often.”

“That’s because the due date is coming up.”

“No. I mean, you seem to be talking to me a lot more.”

You rolled your eyes, snatching a book from the top of his pile as you muttered, “Screw you, Lee Minho.”

His eyebrows shot up in wicked mischief. “You’re more than welcome to try.”

With a cry of exasperation—and surprise at having been heard—you hoisted your book bag onto the table, building a makeshift wall between the two of you.

You didn’t catch the way Minho’s laughter slowly faded as he rested his head on one hand thoughtfully, quietly watching you read. Your lips were pursed in concentration as you muttered your notes under your breath. Cute, he couldn’t help thinking.

Minho had always been good at memorizing things, but he couldn’t remember exactly when you’d begun disliking him so much. You had always intrigued him—what with the way your locker always seemed to be overflowing with books, or how you used to lend him your copy when he forgot his, back in ninth grade. That Valentine’s Day, four years ago, your name had been the only one he’d hoped to find as he rifled through the cards he’d received. But he’d come up empty, and so he’d thrown them all out. And for some reason, you’d been cold to him ever since.

Minho had assumed that you were probably annoyed with all the letters that would fall out of his locker and onto you, and so every year he tried his best to get rid of the Valentines as soon as possible. Nevertheless, you only seemed to be getting more and more annoyed with him.

And now here you were, right in front of him, four years later, and he still couldn’t bring himself to ask you why. Confrontation had never been his strong suit—his words always seemed to come out too blunt, too cold, too soon, and so he’d always avoided bringing it up with you again. Minho sighed, raking a hand through his hair. Written words—that is, books—had always been so much easier than people.

He did, however, remember when he’d started falling for you.

Tenth grade, literature studies. He’d begun arguing against your thesis during one of your presentations, and the two of you had ended up bickering the entire class—pulling out quotes from nearly every chapter of Pride and Prejudice before the class president had to intervene, and your teacher had sent you both to detention.

You had glared at him once, and he’d fallen head over heels.

These violent delights have violent ends, he’d mused in his head back then—Romeo and Juliet—and with the murderous stare Minho sometimes caught you fixing him with, he was willing to bet that you were wishing a violent end on him, too.

He couldn’t pen a love letter to save his life, either— and so, he resorted to pettily glaring at any admirer that approached your locker like Gandalf—you shall not pass—until they backed off. Minho didn’t think you would appreciate him revealing that, either. The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous his actions seemed—and like a poorly written plot twist, you had ended up stumbling back into his life again. Never in his life, however, did Minho think that Pablo Neruda would become his wingman. Glancing down at his portrait on the back cover of the book, Minho could almost imagine the Chilean poet pointing his pen threateningly: “Don’t screw this up.”

“Hey, Minho?” He snapped out of his thoughts to see you waving your hand at him from the other side of your book bag. “You were right. I don’t get any of Dickinson’s poems.”

Your words took a moment to register, Minho caught off-guard by the soft golden hour light illuminating your pretty features. You waved your hand in his face again, and he blinked, breath caught in his throat. Almost tripping over his tongue, he finally quipped, “How on earth are you passing AP English?”

You glowered and smacked his shoulder, the near-silent library ringing with Minho’s laughter once again.

With a week left to the deadline, you were planted at your desk in your room, the wastebasket littered with crumpled up half-sheets of notebook paper. To your dismay, none of the words seemed to be coming out the way you wanted them to. Gnawing the back of your pencil in frustration, you dumped the contents of your book bag onto the desk, and spotted your latest library book—100 Love Sonnets, by Pablo Neruda. Inexplicably, out of all the poets Minho had introduced to you, you always found yourself coming back to him.

Flipping through the well-thumbed pages, your fingers stopped at one titled Sonnet XVII. “I love you without knowing how,” your eyes scanned the verse curiously, “or when, or from where. I love you simply…”

It was the poem Minho had quoted that evening in the library, you realized, heart skipping a beat. “...without problems or pride / I love you in this way, because I do not know any other way of loving / but this, in which there is no I or you / so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand / so intimate that when I fall asleep, your eyes close.”

With a sigh, you buried your head in your arms, lying face-down onto the desk. Maybe the reason why you instinctively disliked reading love poems so much was because of the sheer sincerity of them all. You envied their ability to put feelings into words—with unabashed, unapologetic ardour, and be celebrated for it, to boot. Eyes scanning the verses again, your mind wandered to the way Minho’s eyes had lit up as he’d explained the lines to you, his brow furrowed in focus.

At Levanter High, you had grown used to being pushed around and out of the spotlight. It was either the popular girls and their backhanded compliments, or the boys who spoke to you condescendingly just to a) get you to do their homework, or b) get in your pants. But Minho had always taken you seriously, albeit while driving you half-insane with his infuriating remarks. And as much as you hated to admit it, that same fiery look in his eyes whenever he got worked up—so different from his usual reserved facade in front of the teachers and swooning students—had always made your heart skip a beat. In tenth grade—back when he seemed to pick a fight with you nearly every English class until Bang Chan had to hold the two of you back from killing each other—you’d thought you’d successfully quashed your feelings for the mild-voiced, hazel-eyed librarian. Yet every time he spoke, he left you feeling vulnerable, disarmed, and you were back—though you refused to admit it—to square one.

“‘I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul,’” you whispered, fingers tracing the words on the paper. Feeling a sudden surge—of confidence, or simply exasperation, you weren’t sure—you seized the pen and began scribbling on a new piece of paper. For years, you’d been afraid to face your feelings, terrified of the humiliation if Hana—or anyone at school—found out. But if getting them all out in one cheesy, hot mess of a love letter could give you some closure, you thought tensely, you were more than happy to oblige. You would write it all out under the guise of a love poem, and then it would never have to see the light of day again.

Words began coming to your head like a floodgate had been thrown wide open, and you began scrawling onto the page. “‘I love you as the plant that never blooms, but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers,’” you quoted thoughtfully as you drafted your own poem. In a way, it felt cathartic—you could get all your feelings out, pass it off as an assignment, and never think about the forbidden fruit again. For all you knew, it was a win-win situation. The pen kept wobbling, ink spilling out haphazardly and skipping, but you relaxed slightly. Maybe this assignment wasn’t too bad, after all.

Head filled to the brim with poetry, you set the pen down and dozed off.

“You’re not coming to the football game?” Lia flashed puppy eyes at you, and you smacked her hand playfully, swiping a french fry from her plate.

“Lia, since when have I ever gone to one?” The two of you had dropped by the Sunshine Coffee Shoppe for a quick pick-me-up during lunch hour, but one smile from the cute waiter—Yang Jeongin, if you remembered his name correctly—had dazzled Lia into ordering an extra burger combo, complete with a plate of fries. “Sports and crowds—not my thing. And I have an English project due the next day.”

She pouted. “Oh, come on! Knowing you, you’ve probably already finished it by now.”

You grinned, thinking back to your love poem and fighting the urge to cringe. You’d read it the morning after, and it had taken every fibre in your being to hold yourself back from ripping it to shreds. Piercing, catlike eyes, you’d written in one line. Silver spectacles. Long fingers on dusty pages. Shuddering, you’d stuffed it into the Neruda book before banishing them both to your locker and going about your day. Love poems are supposed to be cheesy, y/n, suck it up. It’ll only be this one time. Besides, it wasn’t like anyone other than your teacher would ever read it.

When you dropped by the library after school, you spotted Hana’s familiar figure by one of the cubicles. As she tossed her hair over her shoulder with a laugh muted by the plexiglass windows, you saw that she was talking to a grinning Minho.

“Are you sure you’re not coming to the game on Thursday?” Hana was whining as you pushed open the doors to the library. She patted his arms playfully. “You could be on the football team if you wanted to, you know! Why don’t you try?”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not that quick on my feet.”

“Well, tell you what. They’re having a party at Hyunjin’s place right after—his parents are out of town. If you don’t feel like coming to the game, at least join us at the afterparty to loosen up a little—have a little fun.” She blew him a kiss and stood, throwing her purse over her shoulder and spotting you. You instinctively froze, bracing yourself for whatever slew of insults she had for you today, but all Hana did was beam and wave at you.

As she passed you by the door, she threw you a knowing wink. “Have fun on your little study date!”

Her words made your ears grow hot again, but to your surprise, there was no trace of venom in her voice — only a lighthearted teasing, as if she had been your friend all along. Hana really did look sweet when she smiled genuinely, and you could see why she had so many people easily wrapped around her finger. Maybe people do change. Or she’s just in a good mood. Before you could shrug and turn away, you sensed Minho’s presence behind you and yelped.

He held his hands up in mock surrender, and you could swear he was suppressing a laugh. “Here to work on your project again?”

Hana’s strange exchange with you on her way out had left your mind reeling, and you scrambled to form coherent sentences. “No, I, um—I actually finished it last night. I just…” Thought I’d just drop by to say hi. But your pride turned the words to mush before they had even formed, and you ended up trailing off awkwardly.

“Really?” There was a flash of disappointment in his face, then Minho’s gaze landed on the book-borrowing register on the front desk. “Right—your book is due today. Did you want to return it?”

Your eyes widened, silently cursing at your own forgetfulness. “Um—yes,” you lied, pretending to search in your bag before giving an awkward laugh. “Yep. I think it’s in my locker—let me go get it.”

After jogging to the other side of the school, you flung open the bottom locker, making another mental note to replace your missing lock. Still catching your breath, your hand sifted through the notes and textbooks before coming up empty. Where is it? You could swear you remembered putting it there, unless—

Breath catching in your throat, you shut the locker with a mortified bang. The English classroom. You practically sprinted down the hallways, earning another dirty look from the janitor as you raced past. Bang Chan looked up in alarm when you nearly crashed into the English classroom door. The entire room was empty, save for the class president, who looked like he was helping to file the teacher’s papers.

“Where’s the fire?” He asked jokingly as your eyes frantically raked the room.

“Have you—seen a book, by any chance? 100 Love Sonnets. Pablo Neruda.”

Chan frowned. “We shelve all the books after class, and if it’s one we don’t recognize, we keep it until the students come back in the morning.” He shrugged. “I don’t remember seeing anything.”

Your heart sank, and you saw the corners of Chan’s mouth lift bemusedly.

“What’s the hurry, anyway? I thought you hated love po—”

With a groan of frustration, you left the baffled class president staring after you as you turned on your heel and back into the hallway. Your mind was racing, panic making your ears buzz. The love letter’s in there. Where the hell did I put it? You sprinted to the Sunshine Coffee Shoppe next, but only got an apologetic shrug from Jeongin even after you’d scoured every nook and cranny of the diner. The sun was already beginning to set as you trudged, defeated, back to the school. Spotting the library’s dim windows in the distance, you wrestled with your options — if it weren’t for that cursed love letter, you could’ve probably just told Minho you’d misplaced it. But now the book—along with everything you’d never dared to tell anyone, crammed onto a sheet of notebook paper—could be anywhere, and there was no way in hell you were going to stop looking until you found it. Heart heavy with dread, you did a full 180 and began walking home.

It was no use. You’d practically pulled an all-nighter tearing your room apart searching for the book— and then, the better part of the following day running around town. But no matter where you looked—the record shop, Blockbuster’s, or even the laundromat—you came up empty.

It’s like it’s disappeared entirely, you thought as the lunch ladies piled your tray with a few sad-looking burritos. The cafeteria was buzzing with teenagers jittery with caffeine and sugar, and you had to duck as a boy chucked an apple at another across the room. You passed the cheerleaders’ table, trying to avoid eye contact, but their giggly conversation carried over the chaotic commotion.

“Did you see how cute Hyunjin looked today on the field?”

“Are you sure he doesn’t have a girlfriend? Maybe Hana can talk to him for us—if he doesn’t fall for her first.” The blonde cheerleader that had spoken nudged the older girl insistently.

“Me?” There was a smile in Hana’s voice. You could feel her eyes on you as she mused, “Oh, I don’t know, Hyunjin’s not my type. I much prefer boys with—how should I put it—catlike eyes, silver spectacles, and long fingers perfect for turning dusty pages…” She clasped her hands together in mock adoration, and her friends erupted in giggles.

“What the hell was that? Sounds like a cheesy love poem.”

You had frozen stiff as soon as she had uttered the words, stunned eyes finding Hana’s only a couple feet away. She gave you a winning smile—the same one you’d deemed friendly just a couple days ago—and winked.

“Give me my book back.”

You pulled her aside after the last bell had rung, voice shaking. Hana only tilted her head innocently, eyes round as a puppy’s. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Before you could spit a biting retort back at her, the taller cheerleader tapped her chin thoughtfully with one bejewelled nail. “But I might think harder if...I got a little something in return.”

You grit your teeth. “What do you want?”

“Make your librarian boy come to Hwang Hyunjin’s party as my date,” Hana beamed, “and tell the office you want to change your locker.”

“You’re crazy,” you blurted, and her face immediately darkened. Dropping her voice, she leaned in closer, until her voice was right beside your ear.

“Oh, I can be even crazier. What would happen if I made copies of this little letter on Monday, hm? Or published it in the school paper for everyone to read? I’m sure Han Jisung would love that—”

Your eyes trailed down to the slip of paper she’d pulled out of her purse, the sight of your own familiar handwriting making panic surge through your veins like ice. Snatching it from her hand, you quickly began tearing it apart before noticing the calm smirk on Hana’s face.

“Photocopy, silly,” she giggled in a sing-song voice as you peered more closely at the shredded pieces, hands shaking. “Oh, all right, don’t cry. If you want the original so badly…” she leaned in again, cruel smile on her lips. “Then you might want to look in the library.”

Eyes widening, you immediately pushed her away and bolted for the stairs. “Don’t forget the deal! Thursday night,” Hana called after you, and you broke into a run.

Most of the classrooms were already empty, their dark windows reflecting your own face back at you as you hurtled past them. Your heart pounded in your chest as the library finally came into view at the end of the hallway, but you nearly came to a screeching halt when you saw that the lights had been turned off. Had Minho gone home early? Chewing your lip anxiously, you peered past the plexiglass. Aisles empty, books all shelved neatly, chairs stacked. The library was quiet as a tomb. Desperately, you tried the knob—and to your surprise, the door creaked open. Maybe he forgot to lock it. You had nothing to lose. Holding your breath, you slipped in.

Even the faint click of the door closing again sounded deafening. You rifled through the front desk first, dropping to a crouch as you inspected the carts and borrowing-bin. To your dismay, they were all empty—they must have all been re-shelved already. Heart sinking, you began tip-toeing through the shelves, fingers trembling as they ran over the laminated Dewey Decimal labels. Please, please, please…

You reached the poetry section at the back of the library, eyes squinting to try and read the spines of the books under shrouds of shadows. Poets— Nash. Naidu. Nemerov…

“Neruda,” you gasped, eyes falling on the book you had practically gone through hell searching for. 100 Love Sonnets. Almost sobbing in sheer relief, you reached out to grab it—just as another hand shot out from beside you. Your yelp of surprise broke the still, dim quiet, and you didn’t have to look up to know who the warm, pale fingers belonged to.

“Care to explain what you’re doing here?”

Spectacles glinting under the twilight, one hand in his pocket, nonchalant as ever, was the boy that had gotten you into this mess. Lee Minho.

As you stared back at him, mouth slightly agape, you felt as though your entire world was balancing precariously over a yawning abyss— as if one wrong move would send everything you’d spent the last two months—no, the last four years—repatching. You swallowed hard. His hand had landed a split-second later than yours, holding both you and the book in place, and you tried to ignore the feeling of his warm fingers on your chilled skin. Forcefully, you yanked the book from the shelves and out of his grasp. “The—book. I-I realised I still needed it for the project. It’s due this Friday, you know.”

He raised his eyebrows, unconvinced. “Today’s only Wednesday. Why not come back tomorrow morning?”

Shit. “I, um, promised Lia I’d go with her to the game tomorrow,” you fibbed, flipping through the book quickly, ready to grab any stray piece of paper that flew out. Nothing. “So I—need to finish the assignment today. Could you renew it for me?” Trying to plaster on an unbothered smile, you flipped through the book again. Still nothing. Had Hana lied to you?

In your peripheral, you saw Minho slowly shift his weight, crossing his arms as he mused, “Well, I’m not too sure about that. We’re getting...careful about letting students borrow books for too long. People tend to leave some...strange things in them.”

Your eyes snapped up, fingers freezing on the fluttering pages. “What—then did you—see anything? S-strange, I mean.”

A flicker of amusement passed through Minho’s eyes, and then it was gone. He cleared his throat, humming thoughtfully. “Why? Do you have something in mind?”

The strange intensity of his gaze seemed to corner you into the shadows, and you swore your heart was pounding so hard it seemed to echo through the room. “Nothing,” you stammered, throwing your hands up in exasperation, “I mean, I just—accidentally left—” Kill me now. You shook your head rapidly. “N-nevermind. I’m heading home.”

“Y/N—”

“Oh, one more thing.” You turned, remembering Hana’s sly words to you back in the stairwell. “You’re invited to Hwang Hyunjin’s party, after the game on Thursday.” Then, hoping you sounded more convincing than you felt, “Hana’s really counting on you to be her date.”

Minho chuckled. “You know I go to parties as often as you do.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no malice in his words, only that same, airy indifference Minho always carried himself with. “Please? Hana—I mean, it would make her really happy if you went.”

“Would you be happy?”

The strange question caught you off guard, making you look up again. Minho was no longer smiling. His hand was still resting lightly over the missing space the book had left on the shelf, and his expression looked strangely lost under the twilit sky.

“Would it make you happy if I went?” He repeated, and you felt your mouth go dry.

Make your librarian boy come to Hwang Hyunjin’s party, and I won’t publish your little love letter for everyone to see on Monday. You nodded firmly, laughing in an attempt to ease the strange atmosphere that had settled over the two of you once again. “Y-yeah. Ecstatic.”

You turned on your heel, breath leaving your lips in a shaky sigh. If the poem wasn’t in the book, where on earth could it be? Option one: It had fallen out somewhere along the way, and hadn’t fallen into anyone’s hands. The best case scenario. Option two: Hana had been playing with you again, and she had had the original all along. Option three…

“By the way, Hana told me not to give this to you.”

You whirled around in surprise, and your eyes landed on a horribly familiar piece of notebook paper dangling from Minho’s fingers. Option three, damn it all. Mortified, you snatched it from his hand, crumpling it into your fist as he laughed lightly.

“It’s a very good poem.”

“Shut up, Lee Minho,” you wailed, wishing the ground would just swallow you up and bury you six feet under for all of eternity. “It’s a cheesy, cliché wreck.”

He hummed in amusement. “What were you writing about?”

Paralyzed, your eyes flickered towards the window before sputtering, “The—sunset. Figurative approach, you know? Emily Dickinson-inspired—”

“Mm. Then what was that quote about—” He tilted his head in thought, fingers snapping. “Catlike eyes, silver spectacles, and long—” He stopped when you plugged your ears instinctively, eyes glowering at him in disbelief. If looks could kill, Minho was sure he’d now have died more times than the characters in a Shakespearean tragedy. “—was that about the sunset, too?”

“Of course,” you snapped, your voice a tad too pitchy for your liking. Damn Lee Minho and his knack for memorizing things. “Haven’t you ever heard of extended metaphors? Rest assured, Lee Minho—I will never, ever, ever—have feelings for you.” You crumpled the sheet of poetry into a ball as you spoke with a note of finality, jamming it into your back pocket for good riddance.

Minho looked unfazed, the light curve of a knowing smile playing on his lips. After a moment, he took a step towards you, making you stumble back in alarm. “‘You can cut all the flowers,” he mused, glancing down at the crumpled love letter, “‘but you cannot stop spring from coming.’”

“Wh-wha—”

“Neruda quote. Tell me if I’m making you uncomfortable, and I’ll stop,” he murmured, eyes growing serious for a moment before his lips twitched with mirth, “but something tells me I deserve to hear more about that sunset from your poem.”

Gulping, you felt hot tears brimming in your eyes, and suddenly wished you were anywhere but here. This confrontation had been your worst nightmare, what you had always wanted to avoid. Your pride’ll be the end of you, y/n, you remembered Lia remarking when you’d sworn up and down that your feelings for Lee Minho were a thing of the past. And it was true—your pride had always gotten the better of you. You were a hypocrite, and a terrible one at that—always telling yourself you had gotten over that stupid, ninth-grade heartbreak, before unravelling into a nervous mess whenever Minho so much as threw a glance at you. And now, you could feel everything you’d feebly repressed for the last four years caving in. Crashing down on you like an avalanche of cheap supermarket chocolates.

“It was about you. You, alright?” You hissed, voice coming out more wounded, rather than venomous like you’d intended. “There. Are you happy now?” You were glad the shadows hid the humiliated tears beginning to roll down your cheeks, and wiped at your eyes furiously. Damn it all. So much for not crying.

“Then why didn’t you—”

“Say anything?” You breathed a short laugh. “Because I didn’t want to see you just throw it out again, okay?”

The silence that met your words was deafening, and when you finally mustered the courage to lift your gaze you saw that Minho’s look of disbelief mirrored your own.

“'Again?'”

Damn Lee Minho and his two-faced ass. Had he already forgotten? “In ninth grade. I left you a—stupid love letter in your locker, with all your other Valentines. Then I s-saw you throwing them all out, behind the school.”

“But I read every name on the cards,” Minho insisted, running a hand through his tousled hair. I left you—a stupid love letter in your locker. Your words sent his head spinning, and he felt his flustered cheeks heat up as he mumbled, “I’ve never—seen yours on any of them.”

Now it was your turn to blink in confusion. Minho’s brow furrowed in vague recollection. “But I did see Hana pulling an envelope out from my locker that day. She said that—she’d heard someone had been sending chain mail on Valentine’s Day, so she was helping the principal clean them up from people’s lockers.”

Hana? Your mind flashed to the missing locks, and the cheerleader that always seemed to be hanging around your locker, and suddenly everything dawned on you. “What did the envelope look like?”

“A corner store card. With—”

“Candy hearts. Right.” You muttered, watching Minho nod slowly. Your anger faltered slightly, feeling a slight shame wash over you, but you weren’t willing to give up just yet. “That still doesn’t explain why you dump out all the gifts you get every year.”

He sighed. “Look. Why would I keep love letters from people I don’t like? That’s just...narcissistic. And I don’t...like chocolate, either,” he added as an afterthought, and you couldn’t help exhaling a short laugh at his ridiculously blunt sentence. Another silence fell between the two of you, the angry tension in the air replaced with an almost childish awkwardness.

“I really did like the poem,” Minho spoke tentatively after what felt like an eternity, and you buried your head in your hands.

“Shut up, Lee Minho, oh my g—”

“And I wouldn’t have thrown it out.” The soft edge to his voice made you stop, peeking out of your fingers to look at him questioningly.

“Why not?” You asked, swallowing hard. “You said keeping letters from someone you don’t like would be narcissistic.”

He was barely a foot away, and the sheer proximity of his face from yours made your stomach flop—with irritation or butterflies, you weren’t sure you wanted to find out. Nonetheless, a tiny voice at the back of your head told you that you were heading towards the latter.

“You know, for someone who reads so many books, you sure are dense,” Minho murmured, shaking his head.

“Wh—”

“I throw out all my Valentines every year because I never see your name on them, alright?” His expression was as careless as ever—that cool, calm facade he wore like a suit of armour—but you didn’t miss the slight tremor in his voice, the flicker of apprehension in his eyes. Lee Minho, you realized with a jolt, was nervous. “I...only ever wanted to receive one from you.”

Your eyes widened, hands lowering from your face in shock. The book tumbled from under your arm to the ground. “But—Hana always told me about how much you hated me.”

“Hmm.” He dropped down to pick it up before fixing his piercing eyes on yours. “Funny. She’s been telling me the same about you. How you’re a two-faced, back-stabbing...such-and-such,” he smiled at the indignant look on your face before his face grew serious. “You’ve always let people walk all over you, and you never retaliate. It’s both admirable and frustrating to watch.”

“I’m not good at confrontation,” you mumbled, still shifting your weight from one leg to the other nervously. “Every time I think I’ve finally got the guts to try and say something back, I...I get all terrified that the words’ll jumble up and I-I’ll start to cry like an idiot again—”

“You’re not an idiot,” he interrupted sternly, “You’re probably more clever—and genuine—than everyone in our grade combined. Your thesis was brilliant.”

You snorted incredulously. “Then why did you keep attacking it every class?”

“It was the only time I could get you to talk to me.”

“Weirdo,” you muttered, but you couldn’t find it in you to make the word sound insulting anymore. Minho chuckled, hand grazing yours as he handed the book back to you. You didn’t move your hand away, and neither did he.

“It is weird. I must be out of my mind. Whenever you look at me, it’s like the whole world stops, and suddenly every cheesy line of poetry I’ve ever read just seems to make sense.”

Your heart was pounding so hard you were more than certain Minho could hear it. The way he was looking at you was nearly overwhelming, stomach fluttering with a feeling so strange and foreign it terrified you. Never in your wildest dreams had you thought that you would be here, in this delicate, unreal moment, and you felt all your insecurities threatening to swallow you up again. Out of everyone in the school, he likes you? A voice snickered at the back of your mind. Don’t kid yourself.

Shrinking away, you mumbled, “Y-you—don’t have to say stuff like that, you know. I mean, i-if you feel bad because of the letter and everything, you don’t have to pretend you lik—”

There was a flash of an exasperated smile on Minho’s lips. Before you could finish, his hand reached to pull your chin towards him again, and suddenly his mouth was pressed flush to yours. You froze, lips parting in surprise, but the kiss was light—barely even a brush of soft skin, and bringing with it the faint scent of vanilla and old books. Minho pulled away almost as quickly as he’d pulled you in, stammering, “I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

That seemed to send what was left of your hesitation crumbling into dust. You grabbed the collar of his dress shirt to pull him back in, and the library fell silent again.

Minho kissed the way he talked—soft but firm, and always leaving you struggling to catch your breath. Each touch had the growing intensity of something long overdue, starting out careful—as though you were treading over the newly shattered, four-year-old misunderstandings of one another—before your hands instinctively tangled in his hair and Minho pulled you in impossibly closer. You could feel his heartbeat pressed against yours, the crumpled poem and Neruda’s sonnets long forgotten on the carpeted ground.

The click of the library door opening sent the two of you flying apart, Minho hitting his head on the shelf with a comical thud. The kiss left you dazed and out of breath, and Minho’s face was flushed as both of you whipped around to see a livid Hana at the front of the library. Mouth opening and closing in silent fury, she shot you a death glare before storming out the door, leaving both you and Minho blinking after her.

Several moments passed, the whiplash of the unexpected interruption having sent both of your heads reeling. Then, the two of you broke into stunned laughter, slowly sliding down to the carpet as you doubled over in giggles.

When you finally stopped laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, Minho’s gaze was fixed fondly on your face. You poked his cheek. “You’re blushing, asshole.”

He didn’t respond, eyes falling to your lips again, and you felt your own face flush. “W-what?”

Minho grinned. “And you have drool on your chin again.”

“Hey, Minho! Minho, you won’t believe this!”

That enthusiastic voice belonged to none other than Han Jisung—voice of Levanter High’s morning announcements, and notorious school gossip. He hurtled down the bustling hall towards you and Minho, hunching over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

“Shit, ‘sung—did you kill somebody?”

The dark-haired boy shook his head rapidly. “Did you see the school newspaper?”

Your mouth went dry, Hana’s lingering threats still ringing clear in your ears. Jisung continued excitedly, “Two people submitted anonymous love poems over the weekend—at the same time! Can you believe it? I’m supposed to cover it on the announcements in a bit!”

Two? You peered at Minho, who hadn’t looked at you, and glimpsed a knowing glint in his eyes. “W-who submitted them?”

“Well, Lee Hana was handing out copies of the first one to everyone first thing this morning. But when I showed her the other one, she refused to tell me who the first belonged to.” He pouted.

Minho looked like he was trying hard not to laugh. “Do you have a copy of the paper, ‘sung?”

The dark-haired boy grinned. “Yeah, ‘course! You guys can have mine. See ya!”

As Jisung disappeared into the crowd of students, you turned back to Minho. He had been in the middle of putting a new lock on your locker, and was now setting the combination on his own. “They’re matching,” he’d pointed out when you’d gone into town together to buy them, and you’d groaned.

“Gro-oss.” The old, PDA-hating you would have probably thrown them away on the spot, but now the sight made you smile like a dork. If you can’t beat em, join ‘em.

You looked down to read the papers Jisung had deposited into your hands. Sure enough, on the left column, you spotted a photocopy of your own love letter. But on the right, there was a completely new one—and you had a sneaking suspicion you knew who the anonymous writer was.

“You know, Minho,” you deadpanned, “I don’t think either of us are cut out to be poets.”

“I stayed up all night writing that love letter, you know!” Minho exclaimed indignantly, and you just shook your head laughing. “But you’re right. I could feel Neruda turning in his grave.”

“You’re going to be the end of me, Lee Minho.”

His face broke into a mischievous grin at that, pinning you playfully to the lockers and stealing another kiss as you yelped in surprise.

“Can it be a happy ending?”

[words-and-coffee]

Settle your perfect hips here and the bow of wet arrows loosens into the night the petals that form your form let your clay limbs climb the silence and its pale ladder rung by rung taking off with me in my dream. I can sense you scaling the shade tree that sings to the shadows. Dark is the world’s night without you my love,

Pablo Neruda, Then Come Back: The Lost Neruda Poems (Translated by Forrest Gander)

[lipstickstainz]

true lies - s. r. (12/?)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Series Summary: Spencer is furious, when you rejoin the team after a year and after you left him, when he got arrested. Little does he know, that you leaving him was the only option to ever get him out of prison.

Chapter Summary: A collection of letters Spencer and you share while you're gone - and then you're gone forever. At least, that what he thinks.

Warnings: some fluff, angst, angst, angst, smoking, slight ptsd, grief and loss

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: I'm sososososo sorry. please don't hate me. I love you. gif not mine.

Series Masterlist

previous part

Dearest little bear,

two months have passed since you had to leave, and not a day goes by that I don't think of you and wish you were here with me.

We are trying to do everything in our power to be able to bring you back home. But unfortunately, it seems to be taking longer than I would like.

I was told you were working on it as well. You are strong and smart and even though you can't be with me, I'm sure we can do it together.

Take care of yourself.

With love,

Neruda

-

Dearest Neruda,

I was very happy to receive your message. I always carry it with me, although I would rather be in your arms, but I can't.

I can't tell you where I am right now, but still I wish you were with me. It is warm and beautiful and I am sure you would like it here very much.

Except for these letters, I'm not allowed to talk to any of you, but I like talking to you best anyway. We've come this far. And we'll make it.

Thinking of you.

With love,

little bear

-

Dearest little bear,

It's been four months and with each passing second it becomes more unbearable. But a light is appearing at the end of the dark tunnel. We think we know who she is.

It won't be long before we can see each other again. And I can't wait to be able to hug you again. To be able to touch you. Or kiss you.

Not much longer. And then nothing can separate us.

Take care of yourself.

With love,

Neruda

-

Dearest Neruda,

It would have been too good to be with you again at last. But it still takes time.

I have found something that can help us, but for now, just know that I will do everything I can so that I can return home. Back to you. No matter what it costs.

Keep your eyes open. We're closer than you think.

I'm thinking of you.

With love,

little bear

-

Dearest little bear,

I was given time off to take a break. I was with my mother and she told me that a kind young lady had been here. She doesn't remember you, but she knows you are familiar and that she can trust you. As I do.

I am infinitely grateful. And I'm tired of waiting, but for you I do. For you, I do it all.

Take care of yourself.

With love,

Neruda

-

Dearest Neruda,

I can no longer grasp a clear thought, because whenever I close my eyes I see everything I have done in review. I can hardly sleep and the nightmares plague me.

I just hope that everything will end soon. It has already been a year since we saw each other. I can't promise you anything, but I hope you know that everything I had to do was for you. For us.

Thinking of you.

With love,

little bear

-

Dearest little bear,

it's been a few weeks since I've heard from you. I hope you are doing well.

We have found a trail that will take us further.And brings me a little closer to you. And that will bring you back home. I can't wait.

Take care of yourself.

With love,

Neruda

-

Dearest little bear,

It's been two months since you wrote to me.

Get back to me as soon as you can.

Take care of yourself.

With love,

Neruda

-

Dearest little bear,

Words cannot describe how much I miss you. Or how great the pain in my chest is.

I can't eat, I can't sleep. I can hardly breathe without you.

Thinking of you.

With love,

Neruda

-

Dearest little bear,

they hung your picture today. In the portrait you are smiling, proud to finally be part of the team. I can't look at it.

I was sent home, but everything there reminds me of you.

Thinking of you.

With love,

Neruda

-

Dearest little bear,

I keep your letters in a small box next to my bed. They are a part of you that I don't want to lose, even though I have already lost you. They are a part of you, just as you are a part of me.

Thinking of you.

With love,

Neruda

-

Dearest little bear,

I went to our bookstore and found a book of poems that you would like. I'll put it with your letters.

No book in the world could have prepared me for the grief I feel. The pain is too engaging for me to talk about it with anyone but you.

Thinking of you.

With love,

Neruda

-

Dear little bear,

it's been almost two years since we last saw each other. I don't remember what you sound like, or what you smell like. Why can't I remember that? Is it wrong of me not to think it's bad? It takes away my pain a little.

Thinking of you.

With love,

Neruda

-

Dear little bear,

A lot has happened in the two years we've been apart. Too much to ever be able to write down all the things. I just want you to know that this time was not easy for me. Not for any of us.

I put your letters away safely because you will always be important to me. But I have to let you go. And with this, I release you.

I love you. Forever.

With love,

Neruda

-

You pinch your leg to wake up. Your neck is wet with cold sweat and you have to blink several times to realize that you are in a cab. You run your hand through your hair as the driver looks at you curiously through the rearview mirror. He says nothing, which is why you glance out the window.

The drive from the airport to Quantico only takes an hour, but you still take the opportunity to close your eyes for a moment and doze a little. You haven't had a decent night's sleep in ages, you don't even know what a healthy portion of sleep feels like anymore, because you haven't had that luxury in the last two years.

As the car comes to a stop in front of the FBI building, you pay the driver and get out with your small bag. The building seems much bigger than you remember. You used to spend every day here, it had once been your home. But now you're not even sure you have a home anymore.

You take a deep breath and enter through the large doors, but are directly approached by a security guard.

"Miss? Are you visiting?", he asks suspiciously, extending his arm to keep you at a distance - something that wouldn't do him much good if you were actually trying to get past him.He eyes you up and down, which you can't blame him for. In your ripped jeans, dirty sneakers, and loose sweater, you don't look like someone who belongs here. By now, you don't either.

You look at him. "I'm here to see Unit Chief Prentiss", you reply coolly. You know he's just doing his job, but you're too impatient to let all this wash over you. You know Emily is already in the office. You know her too well not to. Why doesn't he just go get her? You just want to see your friend.

"Chief Prentiss?" He raises an eyebrow. "And what is your request?"

Your gaze is rock hard and your tone cold as ice. "Tell her Y/N Y/L/N is here to see her."

You wait outside the building, letting the morning sun warm your skin and the cigarette burn between your fingers before you put it to your lips and take a drag. Afterwards, you stub it out on a trash can. As you exhale the last bit of smoke, you turn around. And there she is.

Emily is standing at the door, and when you see her, you drop your bag and wrap her in your arms so tightly that you can't breathe. You cling to her, afraid that maybe this whole thing isn't as real as it feels, but you imperceptibly pinch your arm. And she is still with you.

"I thought - they said", she stammers, and it's the first time in your friendship that she's speechless. You hug her even tighter.

"I know", you answer softly, blinking away the tears that have formed in your eyes. The moment is too beautiful to cry. As you break away from each other, Emily wipes her own tears from her cheeks, but some have already landed on her blouse. There are dark stains now.

"I don't even know what to say", she says, smiling at you as you enter the building together. The guard gives you a look, but doesn't ask any questions as you walk past him toward the elevator. Inside, she pushes a button that takes you to the BAU floor. "I can hardly believe you're really here."

Neither can you.

The office is completely silent because no one is here yet except for you. Although nothing has changed, everything has changed because you are now someone else. It's been a long time since you've been here. Two years, but everything in this room is all too familiar to you. The coffee machine, the law books, the files. It feels like you've never been away. It's déjà vu all over again.

While Emily gets you both coffee, you sit down at the round table and wait for her. Your friend sets the cups down on the table before sitting down next to you. She smiles faintly. "How are you?"

You pucker your mouth. How are you? You haven't been asked that question in ages, and to be honest, you don't know how to answer it either. How could you possibly be?

When you don't answer Emily, she phrases her question differently. "What are you feeling right now?"

Your lips become a thin line. "I don't know. It feels like all of this," you point to the room, "isn't a part of me anymore. Nothing has changed, but it still feels foreign."

Emily nods. "You've been through a lot, I guess." She takes a sip of her coffee. "You're right, Y/N. Nothing has really changed here. But you're a different one now, aren't you?"

You open your mouth to answer her, but you don't know what either. Part of you feels at home here, but a bigger part of you knows your place is somewhere else. You just don't know where exactly.

"Do you want to see the others?", Emily asks. "I'm asking you because it's been a long time since you've seen them. And they think you're...you know. Are you ready for that?"

Are you ready for that? You haven't seen either of them in a long time, and it would probably be better not to see them for now, but to let Emily sort it out first. But the team is your family - the closest thing you have to a family. And you've missed them all terribly.

You nod and take a sip of your coffee as JJ and Rossi enter the room. When they see you, they glance uncertainly at Emily, as if they're not sure if it's just imagination, but she nods at them. And that's when all the dams break for JJ.

She pulls you from your chair and hugs you like the salvation of the world depends on it, and David has to pry her cramped arms from you so he can put his around you as well. They affirm to you how much they missed you and ask how you are, wanting to know what happened, but Tara and Penelope join them and that's when it gets too loud for you.

Penelope cries with joy and Tara also can't believe that you are standing in front of her. They besiege you and ask you questions to which you have no answers, so you just smile weakly at them. They definitely don't mean any harm, after all, you've just risen from the dead for them, but you've spent the last while in silence and are no longer used to this volume. So you turn away from them. They look anxiously after you as you sort of flee from them. You hope that this will make the headache go away.

Without paying much attention to where you're going, you find yourself facing the wall where the pictures of the deceased agents hang. And yours is hanging there, too. You don't know how long you've been standing in front of it - minutes? hours? -until a familiar voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

"Y/N?"

You turn around and there stands Spencer. His hair is a little shorter and he looks like he's seen a ghost. Well, he sort of has.

You want to throw yourself into his arms, kiss him, and never let him go. Seeing him knocks the air out of your lungs, which is why you can barely breathe. The two years without him had been hell on earth, but you got through them. For him.

For Spencer, who doesn't take his eyes off you as the blonde woman next to him, whose fingers are intertwined with his, looks at him and asks, "Honey, who's that?"

- tags -

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[liquorisce]

i loved her (and sometimes she loved me too)

pairing: jeankasa / jean x mikasa (aot)

rating: E / 18 + | ao3

summary: After the death of her love, Mikasa goes back to Paradis and Jean watches as she tries to pick up the pieces of her life.

//“What if…” He looks up to watch her face, “... What if I loved you, Jean?”

He entwines his fingers with hers and brings it up to his lips. “If you did love me… we’d be living in a dream, my love.”//

cw: suicide, major character death.

“Tonight I can write the saddest lines

I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

What does it matter that my love  could not keep her? 

The night is starry and she is not with me.”

― Pablo Neruda, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair

…

In retrospect, he thinks, he should’ve seen the signs. 

He should’ve stayed by her side. 

He should’ve done something more. 

So many things he should’ve done… He hadn’t asked her the difficult questions, and he hadn’t done anything that she might have considered overstepping, even if it was for her own benefit; he hadn’t saved her. And now as he stands in front of the little stream, staring at the corpse that must’ve drifted along for hours– hours that she’d been lifeless, hours after she made her decision to stop her own breathing– he feels sick. 

He hurls into the little shrubs on the bank, nothing but bile coming up, specks of blood and heart, and despair. 

When he finally manages to pull her out of the water and sees her… her still, grey eyes, her bluish skin, wrinkled where it used to be soft, he cries.

…

It was a fool’s choice, but he’d made it anyway. 

“We can’t go back, Jean.” Armin looks at him, meaningfully, blue eyes desperate to tell him things that he can’t put words to. They stand at the edge of the new world– barren and replete where their friend had laid waste to it– and the place they used to call home. A place where they were no longer welcome. 

Connie doesn’t see his dilemma, simple and overwhelmed, that he is. “... We have to leave, Jeanboy. C’mon you can write your mom a letter explaining that you’ll visit her eventually.”

“... Mikasa’s going back, isn’t she?” It was true, she hadn’t even stopped to consider what the Jeagarists might do to her if she went back with little more than their hero’s head in her hands, just that she was going home. To the place where she and Eren had once lived innocent lives. And none of them had batted an eyelash. It was the obvious course for her, no one had thought even for a moment that she wouldn’t return with the remnants of Eren’s corpse. 

“Jean…” There’s pity in Armin’s voice and quite frankly Jean hates it. Armin doesn’t get it. He looks at Mikasa’s retreating form and for him, it’s clear as day. It was never even a choice to make; he’d go with her, he had to. Wherever Mikasa went, he would follow. 

…

Historia looks at him the same way Armin does. Like he’s a fool. Like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. A part of him knew it, screamed internally that what he was doing was a lost cause, but he stands next to Mikasa and keeps his chin up. 

“... We need a place to stay, your Majesty.” He glances in Mikasa’s direction, sees the grey eyes he used to adore look blankly in the distance. “... Somewhere where the Jaegarists won’t find us.” 

They didn’t really have to explain or plead their case; Historia was prepared. She knew Mikasa would come back. She knew she’d come back with his remains, with no tears left to cry, Mikasa’s heart in shambles. 

So she already has a cabin prepared, just off the course of her ranch, a small bedroom and a little kitchen with a table; a comfortable place for a single person with nothing else to do but heal her heart. What Historia had never predicted was that he would come with her. A stupid man, with a broken heart that refused to protect itself, worrying over things that he had no control over. 

“... Just give me a day or two, Jean, I’ll figure out a place for you to stay. I just didn’t expect–” 

“He can stay with me.” 

Historia turned to her sharply. There was little that had changed in her demeanour. It was the first Jean had heard of her voice in hours, days maybe. 

He feels himself grow hot, having seen the quarters that Historia had arranged. “... It’s okay, Mikasa. I’ll find a place to stay–” 

“Stay with me,” she says. And that’s all she says. 

…

At the very least Historia is resourceful enough to find another mattress. Something they can put off to the side, and Jean can use in the living room at night. He doesn’t mind it; Mikasa shares two shelves with him where he can place his meagre belongings. In the Survey Corps you learned to travel light.

It’s deadly quiet with Mikasa, and it unnerves him. At first, he tries filling the silence with meaningless questions and complaints about their residence, but it’s as if he’s speaking to a shell; there’s no evidence his words even reach her. 

She said she would go to bury him alone, and he’d only nodded. Who was he to say anything? It seemed such a personal thing, such a private moment of grief that he was too shy to even see, and Mikasa had never asked him to accompany her. Not yet, was the feeling he’d gotten. It was too soon, too fresh, too close to her heart. 

Not yet, he’d thought at the time, but he never realised that the time to broach the topic of Eren never really came up at all.

…

It hadn’t been like that all the time. Mikasa changed in front of him like the seasons did, some days she was grey, dark, somewhat foreboding, and other days she smiled– she smiled at him for no reason, just him being silly and burning their eggs, she sparkled, knitted him sweaters, taught him how to fish with her bare hands. 

Jean lived for those moments. For the longest time, he thought it’d been just a crush, a passing teenage infatuation that was unavoidable– she was the most beautiful girl he’d seen, after all. He’d accepted the unrequited nature of these feelings, the admiration he reserved for her in secret, the one-sided way he looked at her when she looked at someone else. 

It’d been a fact, a resolute truth, something he’d never dreamt of challenging. Mikasa loved Eren and Jean loved Mikasa even though he’d hoped it wasn’t really love. It was only at the end of the war when she’d turned to leave with tears brimming her eyes, a lifetime of separation caused by political refuge between them, that Jean had decided to go with her. 

There was nothing he desired, nothing in that moment more than a simple wish to see the girl he loved survive what she’d been through. So, foolish boy that he was, he’d made his way to her side, spurred by the dangerous selflessness of infatuation. 

In the moment that Jean finally sees Mikasa’s beautiful, beautiful smile, he digs himself a little deeper into the fate of a broken heart.

…

“There’s a river nearby,” she tells him, one day. “Do you want to go swimming?”

The sun’s shining, he reasons, but that isn’t the only reason he feels warm. Mikasa is radiant, cheeks pink under the sunlight, and when she removes her sweater, he feels his throat constrict. When she wades into the water, body bare except for her underwear– he doesn’t look, he swears to God, he doesn’t look– he’s almost transfixed, not knowing what to do. 

“Aren’t you going to come in?” She looks at him curiously, and he is forced to look squarely at her, his eyes maintaining respectfully at her eye level. 

He hopes he isn’t blushing as hard as he feels he is when he says, “... I’m uh, maybe just going to look after your stuff over here–” 

“Nobody lives in the vicinity… not for miles.” And she giggles. She fucking giggles. Jean’s fairly certain he hasn’t heard anything that sweet ever before in his life. 

“Okay, fine, just turn around or something. Don’t look.” 

She looks at him incredulously, perfect eyebrow cocked, mouth quirking into a smile before she bursts out laughing. “... Whatever you want, Jean.” 

His cheeks are hot but he has no choice, because there’s no way he can guarantee for certain that his dick wouldn’t take on a mind of its own if it were conscious of the fact that Mikasa gazed upon its form. She’s looking the other way, just like he asked her to, the back of her bra held together by hooks over the ridges of her shoulder blades. Her hair brushes just below her shoulders. 

She looks so different, he thinks, so different from humanity’s strongest who beheaded her lover to save the world. He wades into the water as quietly as he can, knowing fully well that the movements wouldn’t escape Mikasa, but still she plays along, turns the other way just because he’d asked her to. “I didn’t think you’d be so shy–” 

Splash! She turns around dripping with water, face red and fuming, until she sees his gleeful grin, and she can’t help but laugh too. “Oh just you wait,” she says mildly, a fake sweet smile on her pretty lips. “You can’t escape me, Jean.”

She looks so different, he thinks once more. Just a woman under the sunlight. A really, really, beautiful woman. 

…

Winter is cold, and Mikasa is even colder. Sometimes in her mind, but also in her body, like there’s a chill in her bones that never seems to go away. She knits herself the thickest sweater she possibly can, and Jean works as hard as he can to make sure they always have enough firewood to keep them warm. Historia smuggles them ‘cocoa’ –  a drink she swears will warm up even the most frigid soul. And the surprised look of delight on Mikasa’s face convinces Jean that it is indeed true. 

It froths up a little, depositing itself on Mikasa’s upper lip. And she doesn’t realise, just finishes her drink and looks at him with bliss. 

Jean smirks. “... What,” she asks self consciously. “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

He considers not telling her for a brief second. It’s a sneaky indulgence, but he likes seeing her like this, goofy and kind of innocent in an unassuming way… the way she used to be when they were cadets and she was covering up for Sasha’s antics. It’s a side of her that he misses desperately of late. But when he sees her pout, he feels a different type of urge come over him, and before he can blame it on the cold, or the several months of being maddeningly close to the girl of his dreams, he leans over and licks up the froth from her upper lip. 

“You had something,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, “... on your lip.” His lips are still inches from hers, breath hot from the drink. 

Her eyes startle open, breathing heavy, but she doesn’t move away from him.  “I-I see.” 

…

Historia also teaches them the art of making mulled wine. She’s got a family now, a waddling baby who loves Mikasa (who wouldn’t?), a husband who she says she feels affection for. Between all of it, she comes over to check on them, invites them over for holidays, and makes sure they always have supplies. 

Regardless, winters are cold, especially since they live far from civilization. They have enough firewood, but to not burn through their reserves, Jean and Mikasa learn to share body heat.  

Unsurprisingly, it’s Jean who’s most jittery about it. Mikasa is nothing but pragmatic, telling him, “... Jean, us surviving the winter is more important than your weird sense of modesty.” 

“It’s not modesty,” he sputters, even though he doesn’t really know what to call it. He makes his way to their bedding that they’ve set up by the fireplace with the thick blankets, carrying two cups of hot mulled wine. She grabs the cup from him and he settles in right beside her, and because she knows she needs the warmth more than him, she makes herself comfortable, close to his body, almost snuggling. 

His breath hitches, and it’s audible, apart from the slowly crackling fire. Neither of them say anything for a moment, until she breaks the silence.  “... Is this really so bad?” 

She averts her gaze to the fire, a darker, introspective inflection in her voice. She’s practically in his arms as it is, and her words make it impossible not to tighten his hold around her. “Mikasa…” 

He utters her name the way he does when he’s defeated, when he gives into her the way he is wont to do. But he lets his chin drop to her shoulder, his breath warm on her neck. 

“You,” she begins, and almost loses the words. “... You kissed me the other day.” Her voice is barely a whisper, acknowledging something they both hadn’t with words that were barely audible. 

But he hears them the way he picks up everything about her, just like he realises the way she’s shivering in his embrace, even though she has his body heat, blankets and the fire. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself before continuing, “But other days, you barely sit next to me.” 

“An unfair complaint,” he attempts to jest, trying to make light of how wistfully melancholic she sounds. 

“You know it’s true,” she whispers, grey eyes turning to meet his hazel ones. “I just–” His eyes fall to her lips as she bites it hesitantly. “... Don’t you want me, Jean?” 

His forehead rests against hers, their breath intermingling and spreading heat through their skin. “Don’t ask me that,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. “... Don’t ask me that, when you already know the answer.” 

…

She tastes like cloves and star anise, sweet and spicy, and something his dreams could have never prepared him for. Nothing in the world could have prepared him for how he felt when her tongue slipped past his lips, warm and soft, and like liquid fire spreading through his veins. 

He kisses her like a treat he’s meant to savour, sucking her lower lip, and licking along her teeth, swallowing her pretty gasps. Her hair is spun silk in his fingers and he wonders if he’s dreaming or if he really does have his fingers threaded through her strands, pulling her as close as he can against her. 

She mumbles indecipherable syllables into his mouth, eager, hungry sounds he doesn’t bother to break down because he’s too lost in her to think twice about what is going on in her mind. 

Later, much later, he questions it. He questions it just like he questions everything else–like every single moment he spent in that little cabin with her. 

…

He wants to take it slow. He’s loved her for what feels like forever, waited for so long; he’s in no hurry to make her his (if he even could). 

But Mikasa is difficult to read, and incredibly desirous, so when she’s on his lap pushing his hand up to her breast, his brain can do little to prevent the direction the night is headed. “You feel…” he mumbles, his mind struggling to form words as he feels her nipples pebbling between his fingers. 

“What?” she asks, self-consciously, cheeks red, as she looks at the way he gazes down at her body. 

“... Perfect. You feel perfect.” And if she chokes on a sob before she covers her mouth with his again, he isn’t sure of it. All he’s sure of is how good she feels, how responsive her body is to him… how he never wants to stop. 

When he thinks back to the way he held her, many months later, his heart aching and empty, he thinks maybe the signs were there all along. 

…

“... You don’t have to be so gentle with me, Jean,” she says, when she’s coaxed him to be rid of his pants, when she has him above her and her hair is spread out like a halo beneath her on the covers. 

He has no idea what he’s doing. He’s never been with a woman before, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting her terribly, for mistaking the broken emptiness in her eyes for something akin to his own hunger. A part of him should have wondered how she knew what she was doing, how she urged him along every step of the way, but love is a pathetic kind of intoxication: it blinds you to everything but the sweetest gratifications. 

His fingers are clumsy between her folds, long and eager to please but inexperienced. “Use your,” she blushes just a little bit, “... spit,” she whispers, so quiet even though no one was around to hear them. 

“Like this?” He spits into his fingers, coating them slick before he explores her body again. 

“Mm-hmm.” She nods, biting her lips, encouraging him to be faster. He has no idea if what he’s doing is right, but Mikasa gets more and more impatient with him. 

Back then, he assumed she’d been just as eager as him. Later, when he looks back and examines every little expression on her beautiful face, he isn’t so sure. 

“Don’t you want to be inside of me, Jean?” she finally asks, when he’s busy acquainting himself with the feeling of her perfect cunt. 

He blushes at how straightforward she is. “I–” His lips are dry as he licks his tongue over them- “Of course, I do, yeah–” 

“Then just do it.” 

“But aren’t you–” He hesitates. He has barely enough knowledge of the female anatomy to be assuming anything, and if she’s urging him on, then it surely means it’s okay. “–Are you sure?”

She nods, eyes wet. “I’m sure.” 

“I– Okay, yeah.” She parts her folds for him, using her own slick fingers to pump in and out before she guides him inside of her. It feels like nothing he could have ever expected, warm and wet and so incredibly tight he has no idea how he can even survive inside of her but all he knows is that never wants to get out. 

“Mikasa,” he breathes, eyes fluttering from the pleasure that consumes him as he buries his head in her neck. 

“You like it?” Her voice is shaky, her fingers tangling into his hair and keeping him burrowed into her. 

He laughs, clipped and euphoric. “More than you can ever imagine.” Tentatively he asks, “Can I move?” 

She nods. “Mm-hmm. Please.” 

He pulls back and slides into her gingerly, getting used to the slick slip of her cunt, the way she pulled him inside of her as if to hide him inside, to hide away from the more blatant realities she didn’t want him to see. He slides in all the way to the base, in an experimental motion, and she lets out a choked sob. 

There’s a tear beading on her eyelash and it worries him instantly. “Did I hurt you?” His voice is filled with panic. 

“Mmm,” she shakes her head vigorously, more tears streaming down her face. “It’s just… you’re so full,” she mumbles. “I’m just getting used to it.” 

“Then maybe I should just go slow,” he says, hesitantly. “I don’t want to–” 

“Just fuck me, Jean.” And maybe, he thinks later, just maybe, if he’d thought less with his dick and more with his heart he’d have seen through her crumbling facade. “I-I like it rough.” 

So he spreads her legs a little wider and sinks down fully, as deep as he can go, earning a pained gasp, a clear mixture of pleasure-pain on her face. He thrusts in a few times, and he finds himself addicted to the way she bites her lip, to the way she cries out when he goes deep, both verbally and with teardrops beading down her face. 

And because he finds himself embarrassingly close, he asks her, “... get on all fours for me, Mikasa?”

She scrambles to her knees like he asks her to, and he takes a moment to admire her, her glorious body, her curved spine leading to the most perfect ass. He wishes he could watch her pretty expressions forever, but he also wants this to last – it’s his first time, with the woman he’d barely felt the right to even fantasise about. 

He sets a rhythm that he can barely keep up with, because Mikasa makes the prettiest noises, soft and quiet, something in between a grunt and a gasp and a sob. As he thrusts in and out of her, he says,  “I could listen to those sounds you make forever, my love.” 

It’s an endearment that he didn’t even realise slipped out at that moment, but looking back, he wonders if that’s what caused her to splinter.  

“Jean,” she pleads, voice trembling. “... Choke me.” 

At first he doesn’t think he hears her right. “What?” 

“Choke me,” she begs, this time a desperate edge to her voice. “... Please.”

“I–” his mind protests, but his fingers splay around her throat, completely bewildered at her request. “Like this?” 

“Harder, Jean.”

So he does. He presses down on her neck, even though it feels all kinds of wrong, and he feels her squeeze around him, her walls getting tighter as he gets rougher with her. 

“Mikasa,” he murmurs, desperate, “I’m–” 

“You want to finish inside me, Jean?” she breathes. 

And he feels himself almost melting just at the thought of it. “Choke me harder, Jean, please,” she begs, “Please just a little bit more.” 

And because he’s so, so far gone, so close and so drunk on the feeling of her cunt, he does. He presses down harder and harder, until he can hear her choke and spasm around his dick and it makes him cum too. He finishes deep inside of her, murmuring pretty things, gratitude and appreciation and love, because he feels all of those things for her so deeply. 

(Many, many days later, he might torture himself with this memory, pulling it apart and questioning if perhaps, she was somewhere else entirely, with someone else, recreating her own memories and falling frustratingly short.)

It’s only when he pulls apart from her, and she falls onto her back that he can see her heaving for breath, bruising marks around her throat where he pressed down on her. 

Shame replaces his post-coital bliss almost immediately. “Mikasa, what the fuck?”

He scrambles to her side, fingers brushing against her neck in horror. “You should have told me”–he’s panicking–“you should have asked me to stop.” 

“I didn’t want you to,” she says, her voice hoarse from the way he choked her. 

His heart constricts at the way she sounds. “I’ll do anything,” he whispers, taking her hands in his, “... Just don’t ask me to hurt you again.” 

She’d looked at him quietly then, and he’d felt her slipping away again, to a place inside of her mind that she often retreated to and shut him out completely. “I love you, Mikasa,” he’d confessed brokenly, even though she knew it already. Even though it didn’t matter in the end whether he loved her or not. 

…

He swears to himself after that he is never going to touch her again. 

Not even when she begs him. Not even when she tries to kiss him again. 

They go back to the way they lived together before that night, before he’d known what it was like to taste her, to feel her and know the pleasure of having her body pressed against his. 

Until one night when it’s pouring outside and they’re stuck indoors with little else to do but watch the moon through raindrop stained glass. When she speaks it’s so faint, he wonders if he’s imagining it. “What if…”  

He looks up to watch her face, his hazel eyes searching her features for the rest of her words. “... What if I loved you, Jean?” 

Her lips tremble as she says it, teeth digging into her lower lip, trying to hold back her emotion. 

He entwines his fingers with hers and brings it up to his lips. “If you loved me… we’d be living in a dream, my love.” His dream, probably. It’s the truth, and his heart cracks as he recognizes just how sure he is of that fact. 

She turns to look at him, beautiful grey eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “I wish I did,” she whispers. “... I really wish I did.” 

And because he can bear for only one of their hearts to be broken (not that he had any choice in the matter), he presses a kiss to her lips, to her eyelids, and wipes her tears away. 

He makes love to her that night. Even when he thinks back to it, he thinks it really was making love– the way they embraced tenderly, the way she’d cried his name (he was certain of it), the way she’d told him he was so good to her. 

As much as he cherishes it, It’s a memory that hurts him. Because despite all the good times that had followed after that, she’d slipped through his fingertips, and the truth is he’d never seen it coming. 

…

Jean is a generous lover. He spoils Mikasa with whatever he can, with flowers, with her favourite meals, with spontaneous kisses that always bring a smile to her face. 

She kisses him wistfully, in a way that makes him think she’s starting to convince herself of her love for him, in a way that makes his heart flutter thinking about the possibility. 

He makes love to her as often as he can, as often as she will let him– and Mikasa’s appetite is carnal– and his hunger is like a bottomless pit of desire. He isn’t shy about telling her how he feels, because he thinks maybe Mikasa likes it; sometimes she looks at him tenderly when he says it, and sometimes she blushes. (Sometimes, she gets tears in her eyes, and now he sees it differently.)

Perhaps this was his dream; even in his dream Mikasa would never love him completely, but only indulge his love for her. And the masochistic part of him was happy to indulge that dream in the foolish hope that it would last forever, until it shattered irrevocably. 

…

It wasn’t anything serious, he’d thought. Just a flu or a stomach bug that Mikasa seemed to have caught of late. Her appetite dwindles considerably, and her weight drops a little but he can do little else apart from insist that she continues to nourish herself in a reasonable way. 

She doesn’t tell him much, but he’s seen her retching beside the garden, and when he asks, she says, it’s nothing to worry about. 

“I think we should tell Historia that you’re sick,” Jean suggests.

“I’m fine,” she says, somewhat grumpy that all her breakfast had been emptied from her stomach. “... Let’s not bother the Queen about an upset stomach.” 

Jean rolls his eyes. She’d been sick for more than a week now, in his opinion it had crossed the limits of an upset stomach a long time ago. 

“Okay, then.” He gets up, places a kiss on her nose. “If you insist on being so stubborn, I’m going to ride out to town and see if I can get you some medicine.” 

She appears conflicted, but then she says, “Okay.” And she kisses him back. “Come back soon, okay?” 

He kisses her one more time before he sits on his horse and rides out to town. He holds her against him passionately, and drinks in the taste of her mouth, savouring it, because even though he’d done it so many times, he still felt somewhat grateful for the opportunity to hold her in his arms everyday. 

…

It’s the last time he kisses her. If he had known, he would have held her just a little bit tighter, kissed her a little bit harder, told her he loves her, maybe. … Or Maybe, he’d have never left at all. 

It’s hard to tell, hard to predict, his mind reeling when he comes back to an empty house. He’d gotten caught up in the town for a night longer than necessary because of a storm, so he’d had to stay over at a motel. He waits around for a while because sometimes Mikasa takes walks by herself, or goes to visit Historia at the farm, and it’s normal. But hours pass by and she isn’t back yet, and the jittery feeling in his chest doesn’t fade. 

Before he leaves to go look for her, he goes to their bedroom to change his socks, soaked from yesterday’s downpour, and that’s when he sees it. 

A little note, folded onto the dressing table, labelled in Mikasa’s neat cursive. His heart is in his throat as he opens it, the words unfolding like a nightmare. 

Just two sentences. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush.

I really did love you, Jean… but I can’t do this anymore. 

He had a million questions– what couldn’t she do anymore? If she really did love him then where was she? 

Like a man possessed, he paces the length of their property, goes to the farm, barges into Historia’s house and asks her husband if she’d seen Mikasa, but she was nowhere to be seen. 

He walks the paths they’d taken sometimes– hand in hand– when they’d looked at sunsets and sunrises and the stars, and confessed in hushed whispers the fears they’d shared when they were part of the survey corps, the loss of their friends, the loss of humanity, everything except perhaps the thing that weighed most heavily on Mikasa’s mind. 

And when he finally sees her, in the river, exactly where they’d played before so many times over the last year, he thinks maybe that’s the biggest mistake he’d made after all. She’d never brought him up, and Jean had never pushed her… but how could he have ever assumed he’d know anything on her mind when he’d never even asked her about… Eren. 

…

There’s an ache behind his eyes, dull, throbbing, as he sees them lower her body into the ground. Armin is here for her, now that she is dead, now when it is too late and her body is already cold under the ground. But as he watches the tears that drip from the blond’s face, Jean knows it’s just his own bitterness that’s seeping out. 

They’d said their last goodbyes– Mikasa lies peacefully in a box under the ground, hair parted neatly and smelling of jasmine, wrapped in her most precious maroon scarf. 

In retrospect, there’s so many things Jean should have or could have done. But he’ll never know the answers to his questions, because it’s only the dead that sleep peacefully at night. 

A/n: last year my friend took his own life. i was the last person he spoke to about his troubles, and i spent a lot of time thinking about what more i could have done. it's been one year since he basically stopped existing in my world, and i still don't understand it.

[lowlights]

hi laura!!!

would love a chasing butterflies oneshot(s) from you!!! you're my cb partner and i trust you with this universe explicitly !!!!!!! whatever you want !!!!! i'm curious to see where your brilliance will take siobhan and din !!!!!!!!

Hi my love - I held on to this ask for months because it was the first time you ever asked me to write for CB officially and I have loved knowing that this is the story that brought us together and let me find my best friend. However, a little moment that I've been thinking about finally wanted to be put on paper- so to speak- and here it is. Just a short little thing with our favorite family.

Din Djarin x ofc Siobhan

Not explicit, only fluff. Chasing Butterflies spoilers- not tagging anything else because I don't want to spoil things. 800 words.

*

Siobhan had sold most of her possessions from Earth a long time ago when she and Din had first started living together on the Crest. Possessions in general meant very little to Siobhan; she cared most about people. Her heart was here, in the sands of Tatooine, surrounded by her Tusken family and her Djarin clan. 

However, she had held on to a few things that meant the most, one of which was a pocket-sized book of poems from Earth poet Pablo Neruda. At times she had torn out individual poems to give them to people she encountered that needed the beautiful words, the jagged edges that remained along the spine serving as a reminder of her journeys. 

One night, long after Grogu had gone to bed with the other Tusken children, Siobhan sat out by the still-burning fire. She flipped through the familiar pages of her book, cuddling baby Dinah to her chest as she had her final feeding. Siobhan was so engrossed in her reading that she didn’t notice Din settling into the sand next to her. 

“She’s eating again?” he asked her, leaning over to run a finger along Dinah’s chubby cheek. 

“She has her daddy’s appetite,” she said with a smile, leaning into Din’s side. 

Din ran his fingers along the small book in Siobhan’s hands. “Wha is this? I don’t think I’ve seen it before.” 

She told him all about the collection of poems- the little shop she bought it in long ago, and how she had pulled it out from the bottom of a crate. “Actually,” she said as she flipped through the pages, “There’s one that makes me think of you. I read this a lot after we first met, when you left and I didn’t know if I would see you again. I felt so connected to you already but I didn’t know how to put it into words. So, I just read this one a lot and hoped my Mandalorian would return.” 

Din looked down at the book, eyes focused on the title: “Don't Go Far Off, Not Even For A Day.” 

“Read it to me?” he requested quietly, wrapping his arm around her waist. 

Siobhan cleared her throat and began to read aloud, her voice carrying over the crackling of the fire. 

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --

because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long

and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station

when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because

then the little drops of anguish will all run together,

the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift

into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;

may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.

Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,

because in that moment you'll have gone so far

I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,

Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

As she finished and put the book down, Din tensed up. “When were you dying, Princess? Did something happen?” 

“Oh no, honey. I’m sorry,” she reassured him quickly. Her poor Mandalorian, always so literal. “Dying here just refers to the feeling, like you will die if you love doesn’t return to you.” 

Din relaxed but tightened his arm around her, pulling his girls even closer to his side. “I guess that’s how I was feeling too, but I did not understand it at the time. I know I never wanted to leave you, right from the beginning.”

Siobhan sighed. “I know. Me too.” 

They sat in silence, watching the stars dance and feeling content to just be with each other. Siobhan fought the selfish urge to go wake up Grogu just so that their entire family could be together in this moment. Din, as always, seemed to read her mind. “I checked on Grogu, he’s sleeping away.” 

Looking down at the little girl in her arms who had fallen asleep, Siobhan let the happiness of the moment wash over her. A tear she didn’t know had formed slowly rolled down her cheek. Din, of course, noticed. 

“What’s wrong, Princess?” 

Siobhan looked up at him with shimmering eyes. “I’m really glad you came back to me.” 

Din kissed Siobhan, slowly and completely, and it felt like the universe stopped expanding just to watch them. “I will always come back to you. I swear it.” 

*

Don't Go Far Off, Not Even For A Day by Pablo Neruda

[whomst-art-thou-whomst-whomst]

Texts from The Lost Tomb, part 2

Quick side note—I love the smell of jasmine and I was lighting a candle when I realized oh I have a terrible idea, must write it down:D

Zhang and Wu Chat, 9:12am

Zhang Qiling: There is something for you on the table.

Wu Xie: ?

Zhang Qiling: There is something for you on the table.

Wu Xie: No no I read it just fine

I’m just a little confused, Wang Meng usually leaves mail in the office. Oh well, maybe he’s taking more initiative. A terrifying thought. Thanks for letting me know!

Zhang Qiling: *speech bubbles appearing and disappearing*

Main Chat, 9:15am

Wu Xie: okay guys not to panic anyone after the creepy letter thing but

Wang Pangzi: WHAT

Zhang Qiling: For once, I agree with the capitalization. Are you alright?

Wu Xie: I think someone got into our house, they left me something

Wang Pangzi: !!!!!

Zhang Qiling: I’m coming down from the roof now, I will meet you in the kitchen and take you to the safe house. Don’t move.

Wang Pangzi: SHITSHITSHITSHIT HANG ON IM CALLING EVERYONE LIVING DEAD AND OTHERWISE TO GET ON THIS. WE ARE MOVING HOME BASE TO ZURICH AND CHANGING OUR NAMES IDGAF

Wu Xie: it’s odd though…they left a definite death threat before but now a bouquet of jasmine flowers? With a Pablo Neruda poem attached, which kind of seems like the opposite of threatening??

Wang Pangzi: WHAT.

Zhang Qiling: You are not in danger.

Wang Pangzi: OH MY GOD AHAHAHAHA BRB IM TEXTING HEI XIAZI

Wu Xie: I mean I agree, this doesn’t seem dangerous, but is something going on that you two know about and I don’t?

Wang Pangzi: PABLO NERUDA IM CRYING XIAO GE WHY IM PISSING MYSELF

Zhang Qiling: It’s all fine. Ignore Pangzi. I’ll come in anyway to get rid of the flowers. It must have been a mistake.

Wu Xie: Oh, that’s sad. Someone didn’t get their flowers:(

Wang Pangzi: ARE YOU FUC—

Wu Xie: Even so, do you think it would be okay to keep them?

Zhang Qiling: …do you like them?

Wu Xie: I mean I’ll still call the florist and let them know, but what are the chances one of my favorite floral scents and one of my favorite poets somehow get delivered here? It’s practically fate:)

Wang Pangzi: SURE SEEMS THAT WAY HUH MAYBE YOU SHOULD THINK A LITTLE HARDER ABOUT THIS WITH THAT GENIUS IDIOT BRAIN SO I CAN FINALLY GET A BREAK

Zhang Qiling: If you like the gift, you are meant to keep it.

Babysitters Club Chat, 9:30am

Wang Pangzi: YOU. FUCKING. CHICKEN. YOUR QILIN CARD HAS BEEN REVOKED.

Zhang Qiling: I don’t understand what you are talking about. I am turning off my phone and going back to the roof to keep watch. Please stop talking about this in the main chat.

Wang Pangzi: OHH NO NO NO YOU ARE NOT GETTING AWAY WITH THIS, LITTLE BLACK RIDING HOOD.

YOU SENT HIM FLOWERS. WITH A POEM. PABLO. FUCKING. NERUDA. YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO BE SMOOTHER THAN THE GREAT PANGZI AND THEN RUN AWAY JUST BECAUSE OUR IDIOT IS BEING HIS IDIOT SELF. EXPLAIN.

Zhang Qiling: Fine. After I lost my memory, Wu Xie let me read his old journals to try to jog some memories, or at least give me recent context for my life. I saw the date of the entry where he wrote that he met me for the first time, outside his uncle’s house. I rescued him from a mugging, not that I remember it. Today is that date. Satisfied?

Wang Pangzi: IM TORN BETWEEN LAUGHING AND CRYING AND HOPPING UP ON THE ROOF TO HOLD YOU. XIAO GE, YOU ROMANTIC. AN ANNIVERSARY PRESENT????????

Zhang Qiling: Say nothing. It was a foolish desire I had, to show him how much—

It doesn’t matter.

And do not come up to the roof, you will fall.

Wang Pangzi: FOOLISH MY GORGEOUS ASS

IM DONE DUCKING AROUND WITH THIS

OH HONEY YOU GOT A BIG STORM COMING

Zhang Qiling: The forecast is indeed overcast, but I do not sense rain approaching?

Mere Mortals Chat, 9:53am

Wang Pangzi: HE IS TRYING TO DATE YOU.

Wu Xie: ?

Wang Pangzi: DO NOT CALL THE FLORIST. THEY WILL JUST TELL YOU ABOUT AN EMOTIONALLY STUNTED TOOTHPICK WHO BOUGHT THEM FOR YOU.

Wu Xie: a toothpick?

Wang Pangzi: WHY MUST I DO EVERYTHING AROUND HERE. IS THIS HOW WANG MENG FEELS ALL THE TIME

Wu Xie: I’m confused, Wang Meng bought me flowers?

Wang Pangzi: IT IS SUCH A GOOD THING YOU'RE PRETTY

Wang Pangzi: YOU MAY WANT TO SIT DOWN FOR THIS

Zhang and Wu Chat, 11:08am

Wu Xie: Xiao Ge…this is so sweet. You are…I’m tearing up over here in the kitchen.

Zhang Qiling: You are crying? What has happened? Are you hurt?

Wu Xie: please come to the kitchen so I can hug you. And tell you some things

Zhang Qiling: On my way. You need to tell me who made you cry.

Wu Xie: oh I will.

Main Chat, 7:00am

Wang Pangzi: A MAN SHOULDNT HAVE TO WALK IN ON PURE SMUT WHEN HE IS TRYING TO GET SOME COFFEE IN THE MORNING YA NASTIES

Wu Xie: okay holding hands at the breakfast table is not smut

Fuck off Pangzi

Zhang Qiling: I will happily reserve our affection for more private moments. That moment was not meant for you.

Wang Pangzi: AFTER ALL THE WORK I DID DONT YOU DUCKING DARE “RESERVE” ANYTHING

DUCKING

DUCK

*FUCK

Zhang Qiling: We will also reserve that for private moments.

Wang Pangzi: …

Wu Xie: Omg Xiao Ge!!! Stop! Or switch to private chat and don’t stop;)

Wang Pangzi: I MISS THE TOMBS.

[tiramisiyu]

Thoughts on Xia Yan’s Anniversary/Kiss Date

Not a translation, but rather an unleashing of the many thoughts I had for his date because it made me feel so many emotions and think so many things;;

Wordcount: 2.8k

Date Translation

Preamble

Tears of Themis’ 1st anniversary features one of the most significant in-story events you can view within an otome game - the confession event between MC and respective male leads. The gravity of this confession event, however, is intensified with respect to the ML Xia Yan, as their emotions towards each other is not the only focus of said confession - he must also reveal the heartbreaking truth that his life is likely to end in three years. 

In the below sections, I will discuss the significance of various components that comprise Xia Yan’s anniversary date. My primary focuses will be on Xia Yan’s internal struggles, his care for MC, and the nature of the confession, and I aim to ultimately express why this date had such a major effect on me and whoa if you’re still reading this rambling part, I applaud you. I’m really just doing a fancy thoughtdump here.

The Nature of the Confession Event

From the beginning, XY never intended for the confession to be full of pomp and circumstance - and this was out of concern for MC, fearing that she would be too swept up in emotion to make it. Based on how the other guys’ cards look (them being outside and MC’s all dressed up), I assume that there was some ceremony-like aspect to their respective confessions, and I think that this draws a stark contrast to XY’s (who staunchly refused Yang Xiao’s offer to help make his confession just as ceremonial). In XY’s, MC’s not dressed up the way she is for the others, and both have been drenched in rain and are dissolving into tears of sadness as they speak. In addition, their desires are conflicting (rather than a situation where both parties confess and get together, and thus have coinciding interests) - despite what XY has said before, he does not want MC to be with him, while MC wants the exact opposite. It’s not a beautiful or gorgeous scene by design - instead, it’s very raw, very 狼狈 as the two lay bare their own painful emotions, discuss/cry about heavy topics, and show very vulnerable sides to each other, trying to get through to the other person. 

Speaking of showing vulnerability, the fact that Xia Yan is so anguished by what he has to say that he has to sit down and cry hits particularly hard because he has always, always tried to put on a strong face in front of MC. Whenever his illness strikes and MC sees it, such as in aquarium date or Neruda poem date, he’ll smile and/or joke about it after. When the two were talking about his posthumous letters during the RRG date, he still had a calm smile on his face. Even when he talked about being shoved into a car trunk to be “disposed of”, he was still calmly smiling. As MC noted, his job has taught him to have extreme control over his emotions, so it’s almost overwhelming, trying to imagine how much sadness pushed him to that point.

Pathetic fallacy also plays a part in increasing the impact that the confession event had. In the days leading up to the last part of the date, storms keep striking suddenly, such that it’s even described as “strange”. Storms are, of course, generally associated with less-pleasant things, such as conflict, anger, depression, difficulty, and so on. The meaning behind why they appeared suddenly or frequently is a little harder to understand, but my assumption for the frequency of the storms (rather than an ongoing storm or gloom) reflects how things could not completely “clear up” (despite uplifts in emotion from time to time) until they confronted each other with their feelings. During the confrontation, not only is the storm still going on, but they’re also harshly drenched in the cold rainwater. It is only after the kiss, after their interests finally coincide, that the storm lifts and the beautiful starry sky casts its light on Xia Yan, who was holding the majority of the conflict/sadness/depression between the two of them. (This is also highlighted in how MC notes that Xia Yan feels slightly cold (during the kiss), and she tries to transfer her warmth over to him, trying to alleviate that heavy emotion that’s wrapped itself around him.) 

The Location

The attic of their old home remains an important location for these two, and I pretty much can’t think of a better choice to set the confession. It contains their childhood memories, and it also came into play during Xia Yan’s first birthday after his return (i.e. the idea of continuing to make memories there). It’s also interesting to note that Xia Yan, from his rational mindset, did not intend to see MC… yet he still came to this place - a place that was equally meaningful to both of them, and a place where he’s likely to get lost in emotion. He may be restraining his emotions for MC’s good, yet they still show in small places. (At least, there doesn’t seem to be any logical reason for him to be there, since he wasn’t setting anything up there…)

The Humanizing and Internal Conflict of Xia Yan

I call it “humanizing” because I’ve done some commenting before on how Xia Yan has felt a little superhuman - so many skills everywhere, and rarely a moment of weakness. Now, this date really drives home that he is just human too, with the harsh reality of imminent death hanging over him (especially since we also learn a few more concrete details on exactly what his illness is). This point is brought into attention when he talks about how he’s neither able to be as brave as Schumann (who acted based on emotion) nor as silently strong as Brahms (who acted based on reason). He’s pulled in so many directions for all the things he wants - a desire to stay by MC’s side and do so much with her, whether as family or as something more, versus his rational mindset that tells him to not see her at all, to disappear from her life after, or to push her away even after her confession. There was also his “rationally” created plan in which he would give her the letter and let her decide, yet he still tries to convince her to not be with him. 

The Schumann/Brahms comparison shows how he keeps getting pulled back and forth between reason and emotion. He reveals his feelings to MC (Schumann), but wants her to make the optimal decision, which he believes is to not be with him (Brahms). He then kisses her after hearing her conviction (Schumann) and then gives her the gift that’s linked to Brahms. In realizing that he’s not able to stick to either path, he calls himself a coward - but he doesn’t need to be like either person. As MC says, his restraint is a part of his own background, and his emotional wavering is because of his care for MC - all in all, his motivations are because he is Xia Yan, not Schumann or Brahms. 

Personal Story Chapter 2 Parallels

In Xia Yan’s personal chapter 2, Yang Xiao sets up the story of 零/Zero and 玛丽薇莎/Marivisa to mirror MC and Xia Yan (respectively). The mention of what will bring Zero and MC happiness is starkly similar in these two situations:

⊳ Personal Ch.2-9

Xia Yan: 因为...这样，零会更幸福... 她不是在牺牲，她只是用自己的方式让零能幸福。Because this way, Zero would be happier… She wasn’t sacrificing herself. She was only using her own methods to make Zero happy.

MC: 但零的幸福就是她啊。But Zero’s happiness is her.

Xia Yan: 她已经无法给零幸福了。 It’s already impossible for her to give Zero happiness.

⊳ Date

Xia Yan: 如果你选择别的男人。。。只要他能给你幸福。我只会带给你不幸，我没有时间了。。。If you choose another man… As long as he can make you happy. All I can bring you is unhappiness. I don’t have much time left…

MC: 你怎么可能带给我不幸，你怎么可能做不到给我幸福。你在我身边，你的存在本身，就是我的幸福。How is it possible that you can only bring me unhappiness? How is it impossible for you to bring me happiness? You being by my side – your very existence – is my happiness. 

Yes, the Zero/Marivisa story was intentionally made to parallel these two, so it might feel moot to compare them like this. However, I still really appreciated that they brought this discussion of what brings MC/Zero happiness back, especially since XY’s chapter 2 was very major in developing his character. Back then, MC is vehement in that Zero would have been happier spending all the time he could with Marivisa, as well as even having the choice to spend that time with her. I think that this part was instrumental in Xia Yan eventually deciding to tell her the truth and letting her make her own decision (as he explicitly stated to Yang Xiao in part 1 of the date). However, he still wasn’t fully convinced by what MC said back in chapter 2, so we satisfyingly see this discussion of happiness come full circle by the end of this date, when Xia Yan finally trusts MC to make the best decision for herself. 

Xia Yan’s Considerateness

Xia Yan’s enduring consideration for MC displays itself in nearly every single action within this date. 

The flashback, when he thinks about MC potentially having to go through what the widow is now experiencing, and how his own happiness for three years isn’t worth that

His conviction to give her the right to decide in this matter that involves both of them, because he can’t be the one to decide everything

He insisted on not making it a romantic event, because he wants MC to make the best decision without having a mind clouded by emotion. He’s also made peace with the idea of not being with MC, for the sake of her long-term happiness. All he wants is for her to know the truth of his feelings and illness.

His decision to still make MC a gift to retain some aspect of the romance in the confession (but he only gives the gift after MC has made her decision, again to ensure that her mind isn’t clouded). I think the concept of the gift is particularly beautiful - the little, happy holograms of them inside the glass, as if ensuring that he will always be by her side in some way; the music that brings back their childhood memories and alludes to an enduring, quiet, and protecting love that puts the recipient first (i.e. Brahms to Clara); and the rainbow, which has its childhood memories and treasure implications that are already mentioned in the date, but it also reminded me of the miraculous double rainbow in his Lost Gold date. That double rainbow was the trigger for Xia Yan to proactively seek out a future with MC, when he took the initiative to ask MC if she could be with him to seek out more miracles. Overall, there are a lot of beautiful memories and implications wrapped up in that music box/snowglobe. 

The little comical segment where he worries about the optimal time to deliver the letter, worrying about MC’s sleep or if she’ll be able to eat well.

His stress over what he should’ve done after the letter was delivered, and how he immediately answered MC’s call out of pure worry, despite being so resolute about not answering her calls that he’d turned on airplane mode before. 

Their ensuing discussion in part 3 is just full of Xia Yan’s consideration for MC at its peak - 

Rather than being ecstatic about MC’s confession, his first instinct is to tell her to take a few days to think about it logically. (But really, emotions aren’t logical to begin with, so it’s not like MC would’ve stopped liking you after mulling it over for a few days, haha)

His immediate apology after yelling that he has to mention his death

His worry about how MC will cope after he’s gone, going so far as to saying that she would be better off with another man 

I think that this particular (above) line got a particularly visceral reaction from Xia Yan fans, including myself. Because like MC, our initial thoughts fell along the lines of “How could I ever choose someone else when the only person I like is you? There’s just no way someone else could make me happier…”. Another reaction that I’ve seen among Xia Yan fans (yep, including myself) is how we originally viewed the story in third-person, seeing “MC” in the story, but this date (and this particular scene, where MC says nearly everything that I myself would want to say) dragged us into a first-person position. 

The heartbreaking scene where Xia Yan cries from being unable to give MC the happiness that he wants to give her (or so he thinks). 

He’s just so painfully selfless. I also really like the line during the kiss where MC tries to transmit her warmth to him, trying to balance things out between them and have him feel better, when he had already written himself off by thinking that his happiness is better off sacrificed for hers. 

Jin Xian’s Voice Acting

Jin Xian’s voice acting deserves a whole section to itself, because I think that he did an amazing job of portraying the intense emotions Xia Yan feels during the date. Just going to list some lines that really hit hard - both because of the content, and because of the voice acting that really considered how Xia Yan would be feeling then. 

我可以去追她，我甚至可以和她结婚。我可以把最后的三年过得很好，过的毫无遗憾，但是然后呢？她一个人要怎么办。。。谁陪她走出来，谁来照顾她。。。(“I could pursue her. I could even marry her. I could live my last three years happily, without the slightest of regrets. But what about after? How will she cope on her own… Who will be with her as she handles this? Who will take care of her…”) The ups and downs of this section’s voicing really hit hard.

The gentleness with which he speaks about what he plans to tell MC, especially the line 她从来都是这样 (“She’s always been like that.”)

He’s so cute in Part 2!! The tone’s a lot happier and relaxed and it’s really nice to see and hear. 

In part 3, the vehemence with which he talks about how the risks of MC’s work aren’t comparable to his established time limit, which then softens into something sadder when he talks about how Yang Xiao’s efforts haven’t extended his time by much. 

The intensity when he says 我必须说 ! (“I have to say it!”) (when MC reacts to him using the word “death”), and how he immediately softens his tone after. But then his voice starts to rise again as he worries for how MC will bear his death… and then he takes a break to calm down, and then makes the suggestion of MC finding another man with a near-inflectionless tone that gradually slips into a whisper

His whispering voice makes the impact of 我在乎。。。！(I care…!) hit even harder because it’s suddenly loud, and you can clearly hear the tears in his voice. Once again, he takes a breath to calm himself down and quiet his voice. But even as he keeps talking in a voice that descends into a whisper again, you can tell that he’s still on the verge of crying…

Also the 我也。。。好喜欢，最喜欢你. (I also… like you. I like you the most) line left me screaming with how it was whispered but really strong and adamant-sounding aaaaa

Anyways I could list more but at that point I might as well list Jin Xian’s entire script lmao. He did such a good job!!!!!! 

Sound Effects 

I’m laughing at myself for including this section - if you turn off the music that accompanies Xia Yan’s card, you’ll… hear some very interesting sound effects [狗头]

They’ve got to make the most of their limited time together, after all, and this is the only date out of the set of four that’s indoors… it makes sense…

Other Thoughts 

Two kisses!!

What sort of treatment would leave Xia Yan infected with drugs with prohibited components? What were they even trying to do? 

The date was short relative to the other, super-long Themis dates, but I’m personally alright with that because it places focus on the confession itself. It hit all the points that I personally was expecting for Xia Yan’s confession, including his past struggles with the idea of staying with MC, his confession about both his feelings and his illness, and how resolute MC is about staying with him vs. how hard he tries to get her to understand the implications of being him, considering that he doesn’t have much time left. 

I think now’s a good time for the two of them to get married if they’re well aware that Xia Yan’s time is limited, so Xia Yan, where’s the ruby ring? 

I wonder what implications this will have on the main story - e.g. will the rest of NXX find out about Xia Yan’s illness in Chapter 7.2? Or will they never know? Actually, I wonder if they’ll have MC be aware of his illness in the main story because… that implies his confession happened, which might anger fans of the other boys. 

Conclusion

I love Xia Yan and I love this date. 

[xiaq]

“Is there a reason you’re acting like accidentally touching me would be the end of the world?” Nile asks.

“It might,” Booker mutters, and she thinks it’s supposed to be a joke but it doesn’t feel like one.

“You know, I might take that personally if I hadn’t fallen asleep on you a dozen times already. Did I piss you off or something between last night and now?”

He blinks at her, looking pained in a way that she thinks probably comes from being French or possibly from being French during the 1800s and then just continuing to live.

He mutters a string of things that she’s pretty sure is just “fuck” in several different languages.

“I’m an asshole,” he says eventually in English.

“Well, yeah,” Nile agrees. “But that hasn’t turned you into a complete weirdo until now.”

Booker closes his eyes, but he does smile. “You’re terrible,” he says.

“I am a gift,” Nile argues cheerfully.

“Should have kept my receipt,” Booker mutters.

“You don’t mean that,” Nile says, grinning back at him.

“I don’t mean that,” he agrees.

And suddenly it isn’t funny anymore. Because he’s looking at her and his eyes are so damn blue and she wants to traverse the space between them and press a finger to the divot between his serious, serious brows. It takes a moment for her to realize that she hasn’t stopped herself. That her hand is on his face: fingertips cupped around his temple, thumb tucked, just there, into the frown line, attempting to smooth it flat.

He goes still. Startlingly still. Like an animal both terrified and bewitched by headlights.

“Why do you look at me like that?” she asks, also before she can stop herself; that seems to be the theme of the night.

“Like what?” he says, voice low and rough and full of —something she can’t interpret. Something heavy.

She lets her thumb drift over his right eyebrow, fingers slipping to his jaw, his throat, his neck. He seems so vulnerable like this, with his chin tipped up and his eyes dark.

“I dunno,” she says, “Like you’re afraid of me, almost.”

He laughs but it’s not really a laugh. It’s a barely recognizable thing: more exhalation than sound.

“Probably because I am.”

Nile doesn’t understand.

She also doesn’t take her hand away from his neck.

“I don’t get it,” she says. “If one of us should be intimidated here, it’s me. You could kill me a dozen ways without even breaking a sweat.”

“I couldn’t,” Booker says. “I really, really, couldn’t.”

“Can you explain to me what’s going on here?” Nile asks. “Because I’m lost.”

He doesn’t say anything for several seconds, but he does reach up, slow—so slow—slow enough that she could easily stop him if she wanted to, which was probably his intention—and wraps a hand around her wrist just above her palm still resting on his throat.

“Si yo fuera Pablo Neruda,” he says finally, “escribiría sobre ti veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada.”

Nile has been working on her Spanish but she doesn’t catch much aside from Pablo Neruda, poems, and love.

“I’m going to need that in English,” she says.

He sighs and it’s a full-body, resigned gesture.

“If I was Pablo Neruda,” he says, “I would write twenty poems of love and one song of despair about you.”

And. Okay. She wasn’t expecting that.

“Booker.”

“Nile,” he agrees, like he’s waiting for something.

“Is that how 200-year-olds try to tell someone they have a crush on them?” Nile asks.

“If you could turn me down quickly and kindly so we can move on, I’d appreciate it.”

“Why would I do that?” she says.

“Because I can’t imagine you’d be intentionally cruel?”

“No, I mean. Why would I turn you down?”

He looks genuinely stymied by that. “You can’t share my interest.”

“I mean. I definitely can. Thought it was pretty obvious, actually.”

He makes a noise like he’s been wounded, hand tightening around her wrist.

“You were supposed to make this easy,” he says.

“Sorry my like...returned affection is a problem? I don’t get what the issue is, here.”

“Because we can’t—you’re young. And full of hope. And I would just—I wouldn’t have you anchor yourself to me and then drown when I do.”

“Yeah, no.” She says. “That’s a closing statement, not an argument. Stop being morbid and kiss me.”

He lets go of her arm. “What?” he says.

“You’re not scaring me off just like that.”

“I’m too old to have a girlfriend,” he argues.

“Well, I’m too young to be a wife, so you’ll need to suck it up for a while.”

“Nile,” he says, sounding strangled.

“Sebastian,” she agrees.

She can feel when he gives up, when he swallows under her hand, and then suddenly the tension thrumming under his skin is just—gone.

“Can we wait?” he asks. “Until we’re back home. And talk about this then? Clear-headed and not—I need time to think.”

“Ugh, fine, whatever,” Nile concedes. “Can you at least move to the middle of the bed and maybe do that thing where you scratch my back and we both pretend it’s not hella sexually fraught?”

Booker makes a noise that might be a suppressed laugh.

“That I can do,” he murmurs.

[linopetal]

boba shop.

pairing : beomgyu x reader

genre : crack , fluff , little angst ????

summary : what happens when beomgyus favorite boba shop closes and he finds a new boba place with a cute employee ?

i will try and post as much as i can !! i hope you like this new series of mine ^_^ ive had this idea for awhile < 3

word count : 917

authors note ! : sorry this took awhile to come out. i was dealing with exams and then when they were finally over i just needed some time to myself :( ive been so exhausted from school and now being down with it , it took me awhile to regain motivation. im not making any promises but i WILL however TRY to post once a week !!! im not the best at writing like this but im decently proud of this. ENJOY LOVES !!

masterlist

You were so incredibly nervous for today. You keep on glancing at the clock until it finally hit 5 pm. beomgyu should be showing up any minute now….you thought. As you were getting lost in your thoughts Kira , your coworker , came up to you. “ Hey y/n can you close up for me after you and that boy get done with your project ? My mom needs me home for a family dinner tonight so I can’t do it “ , she said looking at you. “ Yes of course ! No problem Kira “ , you said while sending her a soft smile. “ Thank you so much y/n ! “ , she said waving bye. You waved back at her and turned back at your phone hoping you would get a notification from beomgyu that he couldn’t make it because you were beyond nervous. About ten minutes went by and you decided to go grab a snack in the back of the store. When you came back you heard the door open and there stood a nervous looking beomgyu. “ Uh hi y/n “ , he said scratching the back of his neck. “ Oh hi ! Uh do you want some boba or anything before we start ? “ , you asked politely. He shook his head , “ No its okay ! Thank you for asking though “. You gave him a soft smile in return and headed towards one of the tables , motioning towards him to follow. “ Shall we begin ? “ you asked. “ Yes we shall “ , he said giggling.

Mrs. Parks had assigned a poetry project. It was due by the end of the month. The poetry project was supposed to be about a poet that both partners liked and finding a poem written by that poet that describes your relationship or perspective on your partner. Then you both have to explain why you both chose that specific poet and poem.

You enjoyed poetry. Your mom always told you that you were gifted in the ways of words. You were never the type to verbally express how you felt , instead pen and paper where your outlet to communicate with your feelings. You could be as raw and transparent as you like with zero judgment. Thats why poetry was always your hidden talent. Beomgyu on the other hand , didn’t exactly like writing poetry. He never thought to give it a try. But reading was a decent thing he thought. He didn’t read often , nor did he particularly enjoyed it but some poets and authors had caught his eye at one point or another.

“ What poets do you like ? “ , you asked him. “ I don’t know to be honest. Truthfully , I haven’t given that question much thought until we were assigned with this project “ he responded. “ Ah I see “ you said nodding. “ What about you ? What poets do you like “, he asked raising an eyebrow. “ Mhm would you even know any of them if I answered “ you said smiling and teasing him. “ Try me “ he said. “ Its hard to narrow it down to one. I absolutely enjoy poetry. But I find myself most intrigued by love poems. I know its basic and cheesy. But to answer your question , Pablo Neruda I guess “ , you said looking right at him. “ Oh yes I’ve heard of him ! He has some good works. Why do you like him so much ? “ he questioned. “ Thats hard to answer. I like the way he expresses himself by not exactly using feelings in the poem. He uses nature and its cycle to symbolize love and that has always intrigued me. I love how his mind works and how he perceives love. Its quite beautiful. “ you said , smiling towards the end. Beomgyu’s eyes softened at the way you spoke about the poet. “ Wow that does sound beautiful y/n. I agree. Mhm I guess today we found the poet we like ! “ he said happily. “ Ah thats good ! I need to close the store up now but how about tomorrow or sometime this week or next week we meet up again ? Whenever you’re free ! “ , you said. “ Sounds good to me “ he said.

“ I am gonna close up the store now and take the train home. See you tomorrow at school ? “ you said smiling. “ See you tomorrow “ he said. As he was walking out the door your mind worked on impulse and somehow magically managed to slip out , “ Oh beomgyu wait ! Can I give you my number ? I think it might be more convenient unless you don’t want to of course ! “ , you said nervously. He was kind of caught of guard but he of course complied. “ Oh yes I agree ! Here’s my number “ he said , handing you his phone. “ Bye now y/n. Get home safe , okay ? “ he said in a semi worried voice. You thought it was cute how he was acting worried about you. “ I will Beomgyu , you too “ , you softly smiled and waved goodbye. Your heart would not be able to calm down for the night , you were sure of that.