#and like fleeting spring you will be gone without a trace.

[w33d-k4tz]

Just for now, with how my face is lost And how I’m forgetting all of the words You’re still smiling And waiting for coming of the summer, we’re the ghosts Tell me about this feeling in my heart Tell me how the summer scent is like I’m taking a shallow breath .

And in my mind im imagining it—

what i saw in your eyes was the summer ghost

[goodlucktai]

gently in the cold dark earth

scum villain's self saving system word count: 2k canon divergent / no system au; sy transmigrates into an empty npc role; gray lotus binghe loves his shixiong more than life and he's ready to make it everyone's problem

title borrowed from work song by hozier

read on ao3

x

The first thing Luo Binghe does when he escapes the Abyss is return to Cang Qiong Mountain. 

With Xin Mo secured to his back, the way could be instant if he so chose—the journey of a thousand miles reduced to a single step—but he unsheathes the elegant jian at his hip instead.

Yong Liang sings sweetly for him, the snow white blade still shining and untainted even after years of helping Luo Binghe carve his way through hell. It has never once failed him, soulbound to the one person still on this earth who has never failed him. 

“Take it,” his shixiong insisted, low and urgent. The Abyss was behind them, an even deadlier threat was ahead, and Without A Cure clogging his meridians made Luo Binghe the best choice to wield the only unshattered spirit sword they had between them. “Binghe, take it.”

He pressed until Luo Binghe’s grip curled tight around the hilt, not hesitating to put his soul in Luo Binghe’s hands even with the rosy glow of an unsealed demon mark shining on his face. 

Luo Binghe flies at a pace best described as dangerously reckless, hardly smelling the fragrant spring air or feeling the sun on his face. His robes are a disgrace, his hair a tangled, matted mess, and it occurs to him that he could stop somewhere and clean himself up, make himself presentable, but it’s a brief, fleeting thought. 

Shen Yuan would be furious to find out that Luo Binghe wasted even a single second returning to his side. 

——

He passes through the ancient wards effortlessly, feeling them fall away from him like water. It’s a simple thing to tamp down on his demonic qi, to disguise the parts of him that those so-called righteous cultivators would scorn. He ghosts through the familiar grounds as eagerly as a starving animal bolting down a fresh game trail, but one by one, all of their familiar haunts come up empty, without even a lingering trace of Shen Yuan’s spiritual energy left behind.   

The head disciple’s room is dusted and undisturbed, as if its occupant might walk through the door at any moment, but the lack of clutter and the empty book shelf makes it very clear to Luo Binghe what the truth must be.

If Shen Yuan returned to the peak after the Conference, he didn’t stay. 

All at once, images crowd the front of his mind—his shixiong grieving, pulling away, turning his back on those responsible for his heartache. 

Yue Qingyuan, always only a step behind wherever his precious Xiu Ya sword went, promised that no one wanted to hurt them. They only wanted to help.

He looked so solemn and righteous that Shen Yuan reluctantly allowed himself to be convinced. Luo Binghe, who had gone to the man for help after a bloody whipping when he was a child, only to be given a walnut cake and turned away at the door, knew better. 

He wasn’t surprised when Shen Yuan was wrenched away from him, and shizun sent him staggering off the cliff with a spiritual dagger buried to the hilt in his chest, all of it happening within a matter of seconds—but it still hurt. 

Shen Yuan’s scream followed him all the way down. 

I’m alive, Luo Binghe thinks, with no one there to tell it to. I came back to you. Let me come back to you. 

——

Including time spent in the abyss, it’s three years before they meet again. 

Luo Binghe’s revenge is his second priority at best, but he is nothing if not efficient and knows how to kill two birds with the same stone. Huan Hua affords him ample resources and opportunities to scour the world for his missing shixiong while playing the role of earnest and diligent new disciple. He snatches up each mission that comes along as though  eager to prove his worth to the sect that so graciously took him in, but he takes every excuse to wander, to search, to make conversation with vendors and innkeepers and passing strangers. 

Have you seen my heart? It lives outside of me in the form of a beautiful young man and tends to wander. Very contrary, likes to fuss over people, could argue the stripes off a lushu just for fun. You’d know it if you met it. You’d never forget. 

The days blur together, meaningless and gray, but he doesn’t stop looking. Shen Yuan still exists somewhere in this world, because otherwise Luo Binghe wouldn’t. It’s the only thing that makes sense. The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about. 

And then, finally—an afternoon in Jinlan City, when Luo Binghe arrives in a throng of incompetent gold-clad Huan Hua disciples, to investigate a plague of all things—

He’s there. 

In dark, neutral colors and plain clothes, a traveling cloak with its hood resting down around his shoulders, as if his beauty could possibly be lessened by cheap, shapeless fabrics rather than effortlessly enhanced. His hair falls from its half-tail in glorious waves—he never did have the patience for anything elaborate, only wearing braids when one of his sticky shidimei cajoled and convinced him. Traveling alone, who could he possibly have to roll his eyes at and complain about and sit patiently still for?

A pale green ribbon is all that decorates his hair. Luo Binghe recognizes it instantly. 

“You should spend your allowance on yourself, Binghe,” Shen Yuan scolded him, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. 

“But I did,” Luo Binghe protested, widening his eyes and clasping his hands earnestly, the way he knew worked best. “I wanted it! And now that I have it, I want to give it to you.”

Shen Yuan was too clever by half to be truly fooled by the innocent act, but he always folded like paper anyway. He spoiled all of his shidimei but Luo Binghe most of all. Anyone on Qing Jing Peak would be hard-pressed to think of a single example of Shen Yuan telling Luo Binghe ‘no.’ 

Sure enough, after a second spent visibly wrestling with himself, he blurted, “Oh, fine! Hand it over.” 

He wore it every day since. He’s wearing it now. The wind catches the ends of it, sending it streaming behind him like the tails of a paradise flycatcher. Lovely. 

For a brief moment, Luo Binghe is frozen where he stands, finally faced with the very thing that he’s been missing for years, that he’s been living a miserable half-life without. 

And then he remembers himself and lurches forward. His voice is a tangle in his throat but he manages to choke out, “Shixiong!”

A strike of lightning couldn’t have jolted Shen Yuan into more perfect stillness. He stops mid-step, every inch of him as good as carved from precious jade. He doesn’t turn his head, and the sliver of his face visible from where Luo Binghe stands is very pale. 

Luo Binghe wonders suddenly if this has happened to him before—if Shen Yuan has heard a voice on the road or in the market that was almost familiar, that was almost the one he was hoping for, only to be disappointed when he turned to follow it and found a stranger. 

Luo Binghe shortens the distance between them with a few anxious steps and tries again. 

“Shixiong.”

The older boy whirls around abruptly, as if to get it over with. He’s bracing himself, but Luo Binghe barely has a second to absorb Shen Yuan’s painful-looking anticipation before it bleeds out of his face in favor of something else entirely. 

He looks like the earth has fallen out from beneath his feet, like he hardly dares to believe his eyes. Zheng Yang gleams golden at Shen Yuan’s hip, reforged and whole again.

“Binghe?”  

“It’s me,” Luo Binghe says softly. 

There’s a tableau he’s afraid to break, as if they’re in a delicate dreamscape and a move too sudden or loud might dissolve it. He wants to say I’ve missed you the way lungs miss air, immediately and needfully, I haven’t breathed at all since we’ve been apart. He wants to say you’re my light in the dark, I can only stand in front of you now because I love you too much to ever truly leave you. 

Instead, he tells his dearest friend, “This one made you wait. But your Binghe is here.”

Shen Yuan sprints the rest of the way to meet him, almost before he’s even finished talking, and they collide in a solid embrace that knocks the air from them both. 

His arms wind around Luo Binghe’s waist like steel bands, fingers digging into the back of his robes, precious face pressed into the crook of his neck and shoulder. Luo Binghe doesn’t hesitate to gather him up close, holding him as tightly and securely as he knows how, burying his nose in his shixiong’s hair and breathing in the familiar, beloved smell of him.  

Shen Yuan is a few inches shorter than he remembers. All the better to tuck him beneath Luo Binghe’s chin, to cover and surround him so completely that not even the heavens above can get a decent eyeful. 

He wants to grab and bite and pin Shen Yuan beneath him and never let go. His jaw aches with wanting it. 

“I’ve been looking for you,” Luo Binghe says, eyes wet. “I went home first.” Unsaid goes the obvious but you weren’t there. 

“How could I stay?” Shen Yuan bites out, managing to sound all at once strangled and bewildered and—charmingly—offended. He shakes his head without lifting it, an aggressive nuzzle against Binghe’s shoulder. “After what they did to you, I’d rather die than represent their stupid sect another minute.”

“Step away from it, Shen Yuan,” shizun said coldly. “I’ll put that beast back where it belongs.”

“No,” shixiong said in a voice that was smaller than usual, one that shook. He was frightened, clearly overwhelmed, but he didn’t budge from where he was plastered in front of Luo Binghe like a breathing shield. 

“Now.” 

“No, shizun.”

“Shizhi,” Yue Qingyuan said gently, offering his hand. “Come here. It will be alright.”

Shen Yuan said, “No. You can’t hurt Binghe. He’s not bad just because of who his parents are. He’s as good as he was yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. He’s hardworking and loyal and a sweetheart to anybody who gives him half a chance. He’s so good.”

Liu Qingge was behind the sect leader, sword drawn. Shen Qingqiu was quickly losing what little patience he had, face twisted into a sneer, dark eyes stabbing hatefully at Luo Binghe from over his head disciple’s shoulder. There were more figures rapidly drawing closer, the other peak lords following the flare of Yue Qingyuan’s qi. The standoff was becoming more and more untenable, and Shen Yuan was too smart not to see that, shrinking back against Luo Binghe as much as he could without crowding him closer to the edge. 

“You can’t hurt him,” he said again, the closest Luo Binghe had ever heard him come to tears, “he’s my shidi.”

Luo Binghe is unsurprised by his shixiong’s loyalty, because it’s already been proven to him over and over. It’s unremarkable at this point, which is an absolutely remarkable thing in itself. It makes him feel warm with gratitude and affection and ownership. 

Shen Yuan is clever and quick on his feet and always three steps ahead, more knowledgeable about flora and fauna than anyone else Binghe has ever known combined, and probably a force to be reckoned with as a rogue cultivator, where the only rules of conduct he has to adhere to are his own. 

But Luo Binghe hates to think of him on the road alone, without the little martial siblings who follow him like ducklings, without his Binghe there to make sure he remembers to eat all his meals and comb out his hair before bed. He’s a creature of comfort, made for airy rooms with too many cushions and an abundance of sweets and books to read. 

Luo Binghe has fantasized more than once about building a home for Shen Yuan to lounge prettily in. It was, in fact, his favorite flavor of daydream since he was about thirteen. 

If Shen Yuan wants to rogue cultivate, then that’s what they’ll do. But Luo Binghe thinks, if he constructs a palace that’s as comfortable as it is grand, and fills it with trashy romance novels and obscure beasts and his own hand-made meals, he can convince his friend to live in it with him.

Shen Yuan needs to be taken care of. Luo Binghe needs to be the one taking care of him. They’re together now and they’ll never be apart again and those needs can both be met. 

That possessive, proprietary feeling coils dark and deep inside him, undulating lazily like a serpent who’s fed enough for days, reminding him over and over what he already knows:

Mine. 

[bzurk]

soap x reader, WIP, 1.3k, sfw. cw: isolation, manipulation.

Johnny wasn’t the same after he came home.

You noticed it immediately, the shift in the air, the way everything about him feels wrong. You notice it in the way his hands tremble when he holds you, in the small, fleeting glances he throws your way when he thinks you're not looking. He’s there, standing in the same space as you, but it’s like a part of him stayed behind, lost in whatever place he was in when the bullet hit.

It’s been months since they handed him back to you, since those days in the hospital where you listened to doctors carefully navigate words like “trauma” and “prognosis,” where they spoke around the truth without touching it. The scar near his temple has faded some, just a faint crescent of pink flesh now. But the deeper wound, the one you can’t see, festers. It gnaws at him. It’s changed him.

At first, you waited for him to come back to you. Thought that all he needed was time. That he'd slip back into normal life, back into the routines you once shared. You told yourself he’d find his rhythm again, that the nightmares would fade, that he’d laugh the way he used to, that the silence between you would shrink. It always did. But not this time. Time didn’t heal him. If anything, it’s made him more distant, more afraid. Your Johnny, the man that never knew fear, was afraid.

He hovers. Watches you from the corner of his eye like he’s scared you’ll disappear. He’s quieter now, more distant, but with this strange, desperate energy simmering beneath his skin, like a spring wound too tight. You feel it in the way his touch lingers too long and too tight as if he's trying to hold onto something that keeps slipping away.

Some nights, he doesn’t sleep at all, restless. You hear him moving through the house long after the world outside has gone still. The creak of the floorboards in the hallway, the soft sound of him touching things as if he needs to reassure himself that they’re still there, that you’re still here. He checks the doors, the windows, again and again. As if he can’t trust that you’re safe. When he finally returns to bed, you pretend to sleep, but you feel him watching you in the dark, his breath shallow, counting the rise and fall of your chest like he’s afraid there won’t be another inhale.

And then there are his words; haunting and chilling in their implications.

"Do ye think there's anything after death?" he asked one night, his eyes empty and distant as if speaking to someone beyond this world. The concept consumes him now, gnawing at his sanity and eroding away the person he once was.

“What if something happens to ye? What if- what if I lose ye?” His voice is low, strained, as if the thought of losing you is more unbearable than anything he’s seen.

And you try to reassure him, tell him you’re not going anywhere, but you see it in his eyes; he doesn’t believe you. He doesn’t trust that life won’t take you from him the way it nearly took him from you.

You catch him sometimes, just sitting by the window, staring out, fingers absently tracing the scar near his temple. You ask him what he’s thinking, but he never really answers. His eyes tell you more than his words ever could. It’s not death that haunts him anymore. It’s the idea that he survived - survived only to lose the one thing he still has left.

He’s afraid of something else now, of losing you. Of life slipping through his fingers while he’s still alive, as if he's trapped in some limbo between living and dying. The fragility of everything weighs on him now. How quickly it can all be taken away. In that fear, you see how tightly he clings to you, how much he’s come to depend on the idea that you’re still here, still with him.

With his reliance, his dependance, came isolation.

It starts slowly - so slowly you don’t even notice it at first. A missed call here, a forgotten message there. In the beginning, it feels like he needs you more than anyone else does. His grip on you tightens, but it’s soft at first, wrapped in affection. He says he just wants more time with you, more moments where it’s just the two of you, safe and together. And after everything he’s been through, who could blame him?

It felt nice, to be needed. Appreciated. Loved.

But over time, it changes. The excuses start. You skip one dinner with friends because Johnny’s having a bad day. Then it’s a weekend with family that you can’t make because he’s restless and doesn’t want to be alone. You brush it off because he needs you, and after what happened to him, it seems right to put him first. But it becomes more frequent. More insistent. And before you realize it, you’re missing invitations altogether.

You find yourself canceling plans because when you mention going out, his voice tightens, his eyes flicker with that haunted, empty look, and he asks, “Why d’ye need to go? Can’t ye just stay here? With me?”

It’s not a request.

There’s an undercurrent of something darker now, something desperate. He’s not just asking for company, he’s asking for control, cloaked in the guise of needing you. His paranoia rubs off on you, stains your skin with goosebumps and chills. What if something happens to him while you’re gone? What if something happens to you? What if he’s left all alone?

He’s lost so much already; his teammates, his sense of purpose, everything he once knew. They’re all back out there, fighting without him, and you’re all he has left. You see that fear in his eyes, the terror of being abandoned again, of losing the last person who’s still within his reach. And that’s when you realize you’re not just his partner anymore. You’ve become his tether to the world, his lifeline. And in his mind, if he loses you, he loses everything.

The weight of his fear has begun to press down on you, smothering you slowly, the way his presence always seems to leach into every corner of your life.

It becomes easier to say no to people, easier to lie and tell them you’re busy when really, you’re just trapped. You try to tell yourself it’s okay, that he’s been through enough, that this is how he copes.

You feel the isolation creeping in, like walls closing around you.

He doesn’t want you talking to your friends. He doesn’t say it outright, but you can feel it in the way he sighs when your phone rings, in the tight-lipped silence when you mention meeting someone for coffee.

“I just want ye to be safe,” he says, voice low, almost pleading. “Can’t trust the world out there.”

And the worst part is, you start to believe him. He knows the world outside better then you do, doesn’t he? He’s seen it without the tinted glasses of ignorance, exposed to the underbelly of it, been trapped in it, scarred and mauled by it. Swallowed by it and spat back out.

You’ve begun to crack under the strain, hairline fractures that splinter and spread under stress. The weight of his fear, the constant need to reassure him, to be there every second, begins to suffocate you. He doesn’t see it. He thinks he’s protecting you, protecting both of you. But you know that he’s pulling you into the same darkness that haunts him, isolating you piece by piece until you’re just as trapped as he is.

You love him, more than anything, but you can feel yourself drowning.

[theartoflovingthomashunt]

Garden Interlude

[All Thomas Hunt x Alex Spencer Masterlists] [Red Carpet Diaries]

Pairing: Thomas Hunt x Alex Spencer (F!OC) Book: Red Carpet Diaries Word Count: ~250 Rating: General: no warnings, just fluff

Synopsis: Alex and Thomas enjoy a quick break in the gardens outside the gala.

A/N: I am literally SCREAMING over this art! Look at how gorgeous they are!!! They are the prettiest of babies! I love them so so much! I can't thank the lovely ArtbyAinna enough for this stunning piece! I couldn't be happier with how beautiful it is!

A smile grew on her lips as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She breathed in slowly, letting the peaceful scene wash over her.

The warm spring breeze brushed gently across her cheek, carrying with it the sweet scents of the blossoming flowers that filled the quiet gardens behind her. The melodic song of birds chirping in the tree could almost drown out the sound of the lively gala waiting for their return inside. Almost.

"Are you ready to go back?" He questioned, his finger tips dancing gingerly up her leg. 

"Not yet." Her head shook to the sides. "Just a few more minutes." 

"You read my mind."

Her fingers tenderly traced his jaw. "Maybe...we could just stay out here...Let them forget we're here, until we can slip away."

His brow arched, and a subtle smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You're starting to sound like me."

Alex's fingers teased through his hair. "You do have a good idea every once and a while."

"Once and a while, huh?" His lips pressed together, his gaze narrowing on her.

"Yup!" She leaned forward, balancing carefully on the ledge to press a fleeting kiss on his forehead. "Just try not to let it go to your beautiful head," she teased, the warmth of her words tickling his skin. 

Thomas cupped her cheek, keeping her close. "Luckily for me, all of my best ideas are inspired by you, my Alex." He brushed a lingering kiss on her lips, keeping the caught in the moment.

A/N 2: I haven't written anything in 6 weeks and I haven't written Thomas and Alex in five months! FIVE MONTHS! I've never gone this long without writing these two. What am I doing?!!!

I know this isn't the most riveting thing I've written, but It's the first thing I've written since my writer's block started so I'm trying not to be too hard on myself. I hope you can be kind as well!

[kismctt]

kismet wondered if his playful jests held any true merit, had she truly changed in the years since they last met? it certainly felt far from it as of late, still too quiet, too young, too naïve, too many things that others seemed to look down on her for. perhaps william spoke an ounce of truth, for she'd grown a bit more coarse in the past few months, a defensive layer that had formed without her ever noticing. it was a cruel thing to wear around the other man, when he had been nothing less of a kind man to her, a charming sugar coated tongue that had whispered teasing compliments till her face bled red and he laughed as if she was the most interesting game in the world to him at that moment. it had haunted her dreams for several months after she had returned home from court, giggling to herself as she replayed every word he had said, but like most affairs of her heart it had been fleeting - gone on the next spring breeze, doomed to unravel as no letter arrived calling upon her. " you seek to fool me with guilt, as if it is only i, who has grown in your absence. as if you do not boast the sheen and pride of a man of court, himself. william, i fear that next time we meet i shall not know you from the plump bird that adorns the table in the king's feasts," she teased with a grin. 

the woman wondered if it was morally corrupt to indulge in the attention that william lavished on her, to revel in every syallbe that dropped from his lips, to allow such decadence into her thoughts when her own mistress declared otherwise. yet, kismet found that she cared little in this instance for any notion that may have sent her scurrying back to her own chambers, to a cold, empty bed, where she'd lay awake again struck with a terrible lonlieness. william was a bright, shining light and she allowed herself to be drawn into his orbit, leaning ever closer to him over the arm of the small couch that she sat upon, eyes watching fondly as the dying firelight made his face seem to glow. " what sort of man must you be to fear the mighty jaw of a simple watchdog? tell me, you are so not frightened of amy's sweet robin, not when you write so vividly of forbidden love triumphing," her hand stretched to bridge the distance between them, cupping tenderly his cheek as if he was made of a delicate glass. " i imagine a thousand wishes, but they shall all pale in comparsion to the joy that your company brings me now." her thumb traced the edge of his nose absentmindedly, dark eyes mapping out the lines of his face with a faint quirk of her lips, a tease, a challenge all in one was kismet in this moment. with a gentle pull of her hand, she tugged william closer to her, raising said hand to brush a falling strand of hair from his forehead. " there is little need for such elaborate attempts to win my attention, though i shall gladly listen to your newest story for hours endlessly. no, william, i desire no coy games from you, for court is full of them and i tire of it all at the moment. please, do not think poorly of me - all i desire is for you to act upon the most desperate wants of your heart."

"A girl of ancient Athens - a name, I have found attractive in my recent endeavours." In some cases, William was a lavish, generous man; a worshipper, ever ready with a votive offering. He busied his mind now in devising Kismet gifts, the most delicate; ones such as only a woman, or ardent man, could have imagined. He would fasten no bracelet on her ivory arm, however pretty such a trinket would be - his favour was to pledge his very honour, and to pay in affection. Under these circumstances, how could a man build acceptance of his sweet words as favourable symptoms of earnest affection? Kismet possessed an incapacity to be swayed by sordid considerations - he could not venture, to believe the transaction of sweetness advanced him a single step. "Kismet, you have changed! You would have never regarded me with such coarseness in years past; lest this be a development of your skills as a courtier, and a well-deployed tactic to seize the attentions of a man you desire. If this is your endeavour, I compliment you on your success." 

His passion for her beauty, his appreciation of Kismet's foibles was clearsighted from his general language; for most men, it would be a chance look, or at the best, as evinced by the carrot haired man sharing his Christian name the token of mere a mere momentary impression. Her kin possessed a good deal of benevolence, but William believed she owned a portion better and larger. He understood presently that cheerfully and habitually, a character of active of good. "Shall a better time for us to enjoy ourselves present itself, then now? Your watchful mistress remains; but your faithful guard dog, your brother, has scurried after the Tudor faction - you are bound now, only to your own wishes." William paid her again by showering about her his bright spirits and untempered tongue; with even more affluence than his taunting love wont. If it were to be discovered Kismet wished to put her desires to work, William planned, in recompense, to aid her pleasurable recreations. "I shall have you undressed with another venture - perhaps I can entreat you, into a dress rehersal for my newest work? Regardless, I shall resire to the occassion; tell me, how best shall I win a kiss? A game? Or will you allow me to speak at length, with the full command of my sweetness and passions, 'til you shall beg me for a kiss, to know me all the better." 

[peakyblindersxx]

whiskey business - john x reader (part 3 of ?)

gif by @michaelgreys but i cropped it cause god daMn 👀

read part one and two! | my masterlist

a/n: this one goes out to all my john bitches!! i know it's hard out here, we get no new content but this part is steamy as hell. its not over yet, though! i'm a sucker for happy endings, ok? i hope you all like it, i'm still working on requests as i go :) much love to @stxdyblr-2k for ghostwriting on this series, she has the most amazing ideas in the world 🖤

love, abi xxx

tagging: @datewithgianni

prompt: john's been ignoring you and you want to know why.

warnings: fluff, angst, nsfw!! smut, cocky john, just straight up porn at the end but can you blame me

John hadn't spoken a word in your direction for a week. Despite constantly seeing you glued to Ada's hip, he’d barely acknowledged you since the wedding. He didn’t even bother looking up. Instead his jaw tensed, taking longer inhales of smoke, constantly examining the pocket watch dangling from his right hip. You were the last person John wanted to see right now. He couldn’t get you out of his head, the flush of your cheeks as you had moaned for him imprinted in his memory. You were fucking picturesque writhing around in his lap, a mess for him, and only him. He’d never felt like this; never wanted someone so badly it hurt. Usually, he drowned what little emotions he had in the nearest bottle of whiskey. You, however, were igniting something inside him he’d never felt. Lust, yes, but it was more. A yearning, a need, to see you smile at his crap jokes for the rest of his fucking life. God, you were getting to him.

His coldness and distance towards you hadn't gone unnoticed. To John’s embarrassment, his brothers regularly referred to it as "a little tiff", usually when you were within earshot, as they loved embarrassing his brother. They were blissfully unaware of the full story, assuming his cockiness had put you off him. He sometimes wondered the same; even though you remained polite by greeting him despite the minimal nod he responded with, you seemed ashamed. John only hoped it wasn't because you were ashamed of him. The truth was, he couldn't get the intensity between the two of you off his mind. Whenever he so much as caught a glimpse of you, he remembered how pretty you looked begging for him, then the embarrassment of having to reject you out of family loyalty. You admitting you wanted to have sex with him, him getting fucked off at you because you were off your face, complicating everything. Yet, every night, he held your words close to him, trying to decipher them.

He knew his brothers wouldn't get it. They wouldn't understand how tragic it was; they'd think it was funny that Ada's best friend wanted to fuck him. Either way, John would always rather put himself in the firing line of his brother's jokes than risk your reputation being blemished. He just couldn't look at you without a wave of guilt and sexual attraction flowing through his veins, causing his jaw to clench and his shoulders to stiffen, his suit jacket expertly covering strain on the crotch of his trousers.

A full week had passed since the wedding, of a man Tommy had recruited in an assassination effort. It was embarrassing how his family used money to attempt to push the trauma they created under the carpet. He knew he didn't have room to talk, but fuckin’ hell, a wedding? Maybe Tommy should've just not hired him to blow the brains out of his own father. Well, it was one way to get rid of the police commissioner who got too nosey, John guessed.

He had hoped that you were a passing phase of infatuation. He’d had many before; he’d been notorious around Birmingham for his conquests. Sure, it was possible he had just gotten overly excited and intoxicated around a beautiful girl. Yet, in the quiet moments of his life, in between his kids and business, his mind was only on you. You, straddling him in that booth, the way you grinned at him as he approached you at the wedding party. Sometimes when he was driving home, his mind would drift off thinking of the feeling of your figure pressed against him, the feel of your lips, your laugh, the sound of your heaving breaths against his ear. You haunted him the most at night, visions of you with his name on your lips in his silk sheets. You were his forbidden fruit, dangling barely out of reach.

***

John was at his desk, paperwork long abandoned in favour of whiskey and a cigar, lost in his own thoughts. The loud tapping of rain and the wind of the storm outside shook the windows, yet John felt somewhat at peace; a temporary peace, but he could unwind. Just his desk, the moonlight, the gas lamp illuminating his empty glass and the heavy English rain for company. He found far more joy in the simplicity of life than his brothers, who reeked of new money. He liked his things the way they were, it all worked, but he had to admit he was a sucker for a good suit. The kids were long in bed, the nanny to comfort their nightmares. It made him feel like a shit father, and he didn't want to be like his useless dad. He had started resenting the life Thomas was forcing him to live; the booze, the partying, the Tokyo, the fighting. It was wearing on him. He needed a break from everyone in this town, he reckoned.

However, a certain unexpected guest was always welcome to him. You had just drifted across his mind when a firm knock at the door caught his attention. He straightened his tie, leaving his legs outstretched and crossed on the dark oak desk, calling for the visitor to enter.

There you were. Dripping from head to toe, but still as beautiful as ever to him, despite your damp hair and slightly smudged makeup. You had caught him off guard, and in his surprise, he couldn't suppress the cheeky grin which spread across his face.

"Got caught in the storm, eh? I'll put the fire on and pour you a drink yeah? Warm you up." He slurred slightly, springing into action, lighting the fire and going to fill two glasses with whiskey, which you politely refused.

"I'm not drinking tonight, Mr. Shelby."

He decides he won't either. He tried to ignore your piercing gaze, motioning you to sit across his desk from him, reaching to put the whiskey in his drawer. "That's not like you. Where you headed, love? That lecture with Ada?"

"I came to see you."

He noted your firm tone, the flirty smile, the coy eye contact.

"What's the occasion?"

"You've been avoiding me." You told him bluntly, his cheeks reddening, eye contact breaking momentarily.

"Yeah, I know." He took a draw from his cigar, rolling the smoke from between his lips on the exhale. "M’sorry."

You watched him for a moment and he met your eyes, suddenly softened from his usual icey blue inquisitive stare. To shame, he looked so vulnerable right now. You could feel yourself falling for him again. This is what you hung around for, the fleeting glimpses of the authentic John Shelby. The lad you'd first giggled about in the girl's bathroom at lunch, barely knowing what sex was. Barely understanding power and politics. Unaware of who you'd both end up as.

"You're fucking soaked to the bone. Come on, I'll put your clothes to dry by the fire. And don't give me that look, I'll give you my coat to save your modesty, lass." He teased. You ignored the way his muscles flexed as he reached for his woolen jacket, some outrageously expensive tailored affair from some London boutique, his large rough hands brushing your fingers. "I'll turn around."

You grasped the coat, heading to the fireplace and warming up for a moment, checking that you were far from his line of sight. This was a dangerous game for you both. You wished he'd grab you, take you on his desk and finish what he started, but the way he absentmindedly drummed his fingers on the desk as he waited indicated that he was restraining himself.

You'd rid yourself of your thin jacket, bought from the market stall last week, effortlessly trendy but an imitation of the pricey stuff Ada and the blinder wives and girlfriends you knew. You were jealous of their fur coats, they were always warm and glamorous looking even on the coldest winter night in Birmingham.

You glanced across the room to John. He was staring intently at the wall lost in thought, teeth gritted.

"John? Could you unzip me?" You asked, purposefully making your voice sound as neutral as possible, looking at him over your shoulder.

He paused, bringing his fingers to rub circles against his jaw. You caught a glimpse of white teeth and dimples as he glanced at you out the corner of his eye and you can't help but match his coy grin. He pushed himself off the desk and quickly closed the small distance towards you, his hand finding first your shoulder then the zip at the nape of your neck, your breath hitching as he pulled the zip to your waist. You could feel his eyes tracing the curvature of your spine and hips. You both hesitated for a moment, before John’s warm fingertips grazed your waist, lips pressing into your hair affectionately. His mouth found his way to your ear, cheekbone, jaw and then neck, encouraged by the way your left hand cradled his head as you pressed your body back into his and how your eyes drifted shut at his touch.

"Sweetheart, why did you come here?" He muttered into your ear, his words and casual affection causing your core to swell in response.

"Couldn't stop thinking about you. I've barely slept in a week, feel terrible. Then you've been ignoring me-"

"It isn't personal, Y/N. You know this isn’t how I want it to be." His hands found their way to your waist, gripping lightly at your hip bones, sending a shiver down your back.

"Well this is how it is, John. It's never going to be any different. So, what are you going to do about it?"

"What are you fucking on about, love?"

"I reckon that just once can't hurt, nobody would know but us. Then we can both move on with our lives..."

John hesitated, "What about Ada?" His head rested on your shoulder, the scent of your sweet perfume causing him to want you even more. Jesus, he was too far gone.

"We were so close the first night I got here and we didn't. No one caught on then, why would it be different now?"

He wanted to trust you so badly, it ached inside of him. He wanted to feel you around him, make you cum for him again and again, for you to be breathless and shaking under him. He wanted to give you everything he could, even if just once. But he couldn't.

"She's my sister. Family is everything; if I don't have them, I’ve got nothin’." He stated firmly, yet his palms lingered on your hips, the liquor destroying his perception of the distinction between friendly touching and actions that made you swallow deeply and pray for relief.

"You have me for tonight." You pulled away from him, ignoring the groan that escaped from his lips at the loss of contact. You locked your eyes with his blue ones and pushed the straps of your dress from your shoulders, allowing the damp material to pool around your feet, standing in front of the man you'd wanted for years. It was now or never.

He stayed silent, watching you, eyes not leaving yours, challenging you for a brief moment before his eyes flickered over your figure.

"Is it such a crime to want to fuck you?" You asked, the silk of your skimpy underwear forcing John to wipe the corner of his mouth absentmindedly as he drank you in, mumbling profanities under his breath. Yet, despite the glances and his sudden frustration, you could tell you had him. His eyes were feral and hungry, daring you to keep pushing him. His shoulders were squared, he was ready for action. The crackling firelight illuminated you beautifully; you were irresistible to him.

"It's not a crime. Where'd you get this backbone from?" He asked, reaching for you but you stepped away, teasing him.

"University up north does sommet to a woman."

"You can fuck off or fuck me with that attitude."

"The latter if you behave yourself, Mr Shelby."

He smirked at you, holding his hands up in mock surrender, before wrapping his coat around your shoulders, pulling you towards him by the back of the collar. "You've got a mouth on you, love. You gonna put it to good use?"

"I was told months ago that you'd sort me out, John-" Your speech was interrupted by a small squealing giggle as he tugged at your hair lightly for mocking his voice, his eyes bright and crinkled at the edges due to his grin. "I'm disappointed with these delays, especially from the Shelby Company."

"Well, as the boss, I'll sort it for you, personally and immediately. Let me make it up to you, lass," John crooned, his lips meeting yours once again, fingers pushing your thighs apart, still clad in your black stockings and garter belt. "This is where we got up to last time, yes?"

"Yes Mr. Shelby, I believe so."

He pressed his lips and teeth against where your jaw met your neck, tracing his index and middle fingers over the silk of your underwear which covered your slit. You couldn’t help but lean into him, a slight hiss escaping your teeth.

"You like that, huh? You're fuckin’ soaked for me already, love," John muttered against your neck, lifting your left leg to hook around his waist, easily lifting you onto his desk, scattering loose papers and heavy accounting books onto the floor in his urgency to feel your bare skin on his. "They teach you how to push a bloke over the edge at that fancy university?"

"No, I figured that out on my own actually."

"Always knew you were bright," He smirked, quickly ridding you of your flimsy panties, the pads of his fingertips hot against your thighs. "Always going for the ones smarter than me, Tommy reckons it's not difficult."

"Your brother's chatting shit, he's not the one ‘bout to fuck me on his desk, yeah?" You shot back, opening your thighs to encourage him, your cunt exposed, cutting off John’s laugh. He couldn’t help but stare, eyes glued to your dripping cunt. "You're my favourite brother, always have been. If you tell Finn, I'll kill you," You teased.

"Come off it," John grunted in reply, unable to restrain pressing kisses to your inner thighs, your head tilting back, fingers desperately clutching at his hair. “Need t’get a proper taste of you, yeah? Look so fuckin’ sweet for me.” His mouth reached your core, slowly dipping his tongue into you, causing your mouth to fall open in ecstasy. God, his lips were even softer than they looked. His movements switched from light and teasing to purposeful and focused, his fingers curled and pumping inside you, tongue and thumb attacking your clit. He'd gotten on his knees, your legs wrapped around his neck as he groaned into your cunt, causing you to buck your hips wildly at the sensation, moans falling out of your mouth.

“Fuckin’ christ, John,” You swore, feeling yourself pulsate and twitch around his nimble fingers, crying out into the empty office building. You were getting so close, your hips jerking independently, chest heaving as you gasped for air. You were quickly getting overstimulated, you were so close. Before you could finish, John raised his head back to yours, letting you taste yourself on his mouth, his hands moving from your cunt to your tits, finger tips tracing the outline of your nipples through your silk bra.

"If we get to do this once, I want to feel you finish on my cock, doll," John grunted in a hushed tone, pointedly moving his lips to your collarbone when you opened your mouth to argue back to him.

"Then I get to ride you." Your statement took him by surprise; most women he'd slept with seemed fairly passive in bed. Sure they enjoyed themselves, but they never took control. He could feel himself swell in response to your words. He'd never been put in this position; he was a stranger to it, but the idea was thrilling and wickedly seductive. Especially from someone who was the epitome of "girl-next-door" as they were growing up.

"Polly reckoned you'd be trouble since Ada told us you'd returned. Don't mind getting into trouble with you, though," He teased, his plump mouth dipping to your cleavage, unclasping your bra, tongue circling your hardening nipples.

"John, fuckin’ christ, need you to finish me off, yeah?" You begged, voice shaking, much to his amusement, his fingers re-entering you roughly. John pressed open-mouthed kisses to your neck, soothing your body from the sharp sensation, the slight pain exacerbating the pleasure arising from his mouth and fingers.

"I've barely started with you, and already you're begging for me to fuck you." He muttered into your skin, as he watched you writhe and lift your hips, reacting beautifully to the feelings he was reawakening within you.

"John, m’not fucking about, yeah? I need you," You whined, hand resting on his inner thigh, fingers grazing the fastenings across his groin, gazing up at him from your seat on his desk. John hated waiting for relief, he had very little patience, and almost immediately he gave in and collapsed into his large armchair, pulling you on top of him, letting you pin his wrists to the chair and grind against him as your mouth found his, then his neck, removing his waistcoat, shirt and tie, revealing his muscular chest. The bruising kisses you pressed to his skin left him breathless and needing more, helping you unbuckle his belt and push his suit trousers down his legs. You couldn’t help but take him into your hand, moving it up and down his sensitive shaft.

“Christ, you’re too fuckin’ good at this,” John groaned as you spit on your palm to better move your hand up and down his cock, teasing the sensitive tip with your fingers and tongue. He couldn’t help but watch you, keeping eye contact as you toyed with him, blue eyes heavy with pleasure and lust for more.

You angled your hips above him and he adjusted himself, using his hand to better push himself inside you. You yelped lightly as you adjusted to his girth, his mouth distracting you by pressing kisses on your shoulder and tangling his hands through your hair, trying to control his breaths as you adjusted to him, soft moans falling from your mouth, your tight cunt gripping his cock.

“S’fuckin’ perfect, like your pussy was made for me,” he groaned, breath growing heavier with the sensation of you grinding against him. Pushing his hips up into you, he couldn’t help but grab at your hip bones, grip burning into your skin, bouncing you on his cock, mouth slightly slack, groaning as he grasped at your flesh. You’d imagined hundreds of times how fucking irresistible John would look underneath you, but it was nothing compared to the real thing.

The thrill of having John Shelby with his trousers down in his office, quickly dissolving into a moaning and grunting mess with every rotation or twist of your hips, in the midst of a stormy night while the thunder echoed around the empty streets below was almost too much to take. You should be home right now, curled up in that empty unheated flat, behaving yourself. Even on a date or fucking someone else. But instead you'd gone to him and now you were riding him. You wanted the moment to last forever, right now everything felt so right, you knew when it was over the guilt would hit. But you couldn't avoid it, you could feel your legs start to shake.

“Look so god damn pretty ridin’ me, love. Makin’ me wanna cum inside you.” John growled, panting, struggling to keep pace as you moaned on top of him. Your fingers found his jawline and guided him to look up at you, craving to see how his face looked when he finally came undone. He reached between your legs, torturing your clit with his fingers while he slammed into you a few extra times, using up the rest of his energy. The extra stimulation pushed you over the edge, crying out John’s name as you felt yourself release. Watching you whine his name was the last straw for him, spilling into you as your dripping cunt squeezed him, reveling in the image of you a mess for him.

***

You finally came back to your senses, catching your breath, John clutching you to his chest protectively for a minute or two, enjoying the tranquility and post-sex clarity. He checked his clock, sighing and lifting you from his lap to his desk, running a towel under the sink in the corner of his room and passing it to you to clean up between your legs with.

"Charming," You smirked, tired but satisfied. "No wonder the ladies always come back for more."

"Not you though, aye? One night only exclusive, this." He matched your playful tone, but his eyes were dull with exhaustion and he looked almost upset. He was probably just knackered after working all day and then going overtime just to please you.

"Make yourself useful and grab my clothes for me John-lad." You teased, thankfully changing the subject. He rolled his eyes in the waning firelight, locating the clothes the two of you had left scattered around the room. You quickly dressed, not caring how he watched you silently, as though trying to memorize the image of you. Your clothes were far drier than earlier, the last remaining remnants of damp clutching to the fibers and freezing you all over again. Yet before you could even comment, John's wool coat was wrapped back around your shoulders.

"Because you're cold, not because you look fuckable in it." He said pointedly, smirking slightly, the edges seeming artificial.

"Remind me not to fall madly in love with you. Won't be able to help myself if you keep talking like that, Mr. Shelby." You retorted sarcastically with a grin, earning a gentle dig to the ribs.

"It's Mr. Shelby if you're trying to fuck me. John is between friends and family, right?"

"Someone better inform Mr. Solomons of that distinction, then," You paused, "Mr. Shelby."

"Don't be a fucking cocktease." He scolded with a small grin, grabbing his car keys and hat from the door. "You want a lift then? Don't dick about being polite, Y/N, it's fucking midnight, just accept it."

"Since you asked so nicely."

"You know you've got worse since you've been at uni? Too fast for us lot now." He teased, half serious, as he led you to his car. He couldn't believe the beautiful woman in his passenger seat was the girl with pigtails who'd chase Ada around the canal with their girl gang for hours, the pretty teen who read for hours in his sister's bedroom, comparing notes together. No one was surprised you got a scholarship to university, despite your gender and class. You'd been incredibly lucky. Yet, you'd seen the world and had come back to Birmingham and picked him.

Shame you could only pick him once.

[gryffindors-weasley]

Thoughtful Affection

Colin Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

Summary: Colin always finds himself kissing you without second thought behind it, but sometimes there are kisses shared more thoughtfully than that.

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: just fluff, kissing

A/N: A sweet little idea inspired by my lovely Mille @iliveiloveiwrite <3

Colin Bridgerton was undoubtedly the sweetest man you have ever known, and certainly romantic without question. Not a day would go by where he hadn’t made it abundantly clear that he was utterly in love with you, the mere thought of that happening having been one that was preposterous. He loved you so wholly, even, that he found himself doing so as if it were second nature.

One

You stretched for the first time in hours as you awoke that morning, muscles stiff and tired from having laid tangled in one spot for far too long with the love of your life. The day had been utterly melancholy from the very moment you cast your eyes upon the window, trickles of raindrops having trailed down the chilled window panes lining the walls of your room. Not to mention, the heavy patter that had consistently pelted against your home was far too obvious to ignore.

Days like those had been rather perfect, however, providing ample enough reason to stay within the warmth of ruffled blankets and sheets in the arms of your love for that much longer. Besides, who wants to work on a day like this very one anyway?

Your attention is soon brought from the window to the very grip that had squeezed tighter around your waist, a chaste kiss pressed just below your jaw. The action brought the softest of smiles to your face, a laugh falling from your lips at the tickle against your skin. Ruffled curls of brown hair had brush over your cheek as he lifted his head, his eyes barely open and you were quite sure he had barely even been awake. Regardless, the sight was entirely sweet either way.

His cheek was rosy from having been pressed against his pillow, his hair dipping over his eyes. The very tips of your fingers combed through his hair gingerly, trailing down to trace lightly over his cheek, to smooth over his chin. You hadn’t missed the way he leaned into your touch, nor did you miss the smile tugging ever so sleepily at the corners of his mouth. He fought desperately against his fatigue to open his eyes, his smile widening within the first moment of seeing you.

His lips were quick to press on yours, languid and gentle and the first of many that day. It was an act without thought behind it, routine one might say. Each and every morning without fail, a kiss is shared in the first fleeting moments of the day. One is always inevitably turned to two, two to four, four until you’ve managed to pull yourselves from the comfort of your bed to start the day ahead. It always proved to be a hefty task, but one you never minded in the slightest.

“I thought you were trying to take your leave from my arms, love,” he mumbles, a soft laugh to follow as his nose nudges against yours.

“As if you’d let me,” you murmur, smiling blissfully at the feel of his lips pressing along your cheek.

“Can you blame me?” He asks, words muffled against your skin as a shiver runs through you. It was one he very much notices, tugging the blanket up further though the warmth of his arms would always undoubtedly suffice.

You simply sigh in amusement, your sigh turning to a laugh as his fingers dance across your hip. The simple sound had made his heart flutter, though he will admit it wouldn’t take very much for you to do just that.

“Surely we must—” he starts, interrupted by a yawn, “we must not have plans if the weather is so awful, right?”

“That would simply be ridiculous,” you mumble, sleep having had its hold on you once more.

A kiss is pressed blindly to the corner of his mouth, a hum leaving your lips as you tuck yourself against him comfortably. No further words needed to be spoken to know that the morning would be spent in that very bed, the way you’d rested your head in the crook of his neck was telling enough.

“I love you,” he whispers softly, tenderly.

“I love you.”

Two

The day had been rather busy compared to most others, Colin’s study having looked as though a tornado had swept through the room without a moment’s notice. Papers and maps had lay sprawled nearly anywhere the eye could see, some crumpled and some lay neatly stacked on the mahogany desk. Some are hanging to signify their absolute importance and some remain scattered on the floor without care to pick them up in the current moment.

Several books from the towns library sit stacked on an area of free space, though there was minimal real estate left on the large desk to begin with. You had to step in before he tipped over a half empty bottle of ink onto a map he’d been so keen to use.

“Colin, you don’t have to be quite so stressed, love. I’m sure taking a moment to breathe will be just fine,” you sigh, a smile playing on your lips when he stops shuffling through papers and spares you the fondest of glances.

“I want this trip to be perfect, darling. I shall relax once I am in better standing with this planning,” he huffs, running his hand through his hair for what was surely the hundredth time.

You sigh softly and purse your lips, watching him lick the tip of his finger to scan through a book at the top of the pile. Black ink smudged and stained the cuff of his shirt, and you knew that simply wouldn’t come out at this point, his jacket strewn over the back of the chair. He was ever so hard on himself when it came to the planning of your travels; he felt everything must be perfect though it really didn’t need to be. It could be a trip as spontaneous as the journey to the bakery in town and you’d still cherish it for days and weeks to come. But Colin had been stubborn, insisting it should be wondrous.

You watched as he sorted through the pile of books he’d accumulated, watching his cheeks stain pink and his chest heave with a soft huff. It was a sight entirely too precious.

“You are terribly cute when you’re flustered, do you know that?” You ask, brushing the hair out of his eyes. It was then that he paused his actions if only for just a brief moment, his hand coming up to rest warmly over top of your own. His smile was something most enamoring, dimpled and sweet as he dropped his quill to the desk.

“And darling, you are terribly cute all the time,” he says, the pad of his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. His shoulders slumped as he kissed your palm, parting from you to grab his jacket. “I must return to the library, there’s just one more book that I know I will need, I promise.”

You sigh softly and tilt your head, a smile gracing your lips nonetheless. “It is almost closing time, you know.”

He slips on his jacket and grumbles at the sight of the ink stains on his shirt. “And that is just why I must make haste.”

He smiles tenderly as he kisses you goodbye, catching the corner of your mouth in his hurried state but he is ever so quick to dip down and kiss you fully, his hand lingering in your own for a few moments longer. He doesn’t want to leave, he never does, but he knows he just won’t relax until he retrieves the very book weighing heavy on his mind.

“Hurry back?” You call after him.

“Assuredly, my love!”

Three

The Bridgerton family home was quiet for perhaps the first time that day, it’s bustling and energetic family members having since gone to bed for the night. Everyone had come together for a visit back home, only Hyacinth and Gregory having yet to leave the nest. It was nice to be in everyone’s presence once more, having brought you back to the times you’ve spent with the family ever since you’d been a child. Yet, even years later, having married the love of your life and moved to your very own estate, it felt as though nothing had changed.

The two of you found yourselves tucked away on the terrace that’d overlooked the garden, the stars above you beaming bright as they speckled across the sky. It was tremendously beautiful, and you’d argue it was the best place to gaze above you in all of London—the second being the gardens of your own home.

You could see the tops of every flower, their beauteous scent wafting your way each and every time the breeze blows. Said breeze brings with it the sound of the leaves in nearby trees, wind chimes singing in response to the weather. Not a single cloud hung in the sky as you focused your attention upwards, the cool spring wind washing over your skin as your hand lay enveloped with Colin’s. Your head rested on his shoulder, his rested on your own as he was content to just merely sit with you. This was all he ever truly needed. Not fancy soirées or expensive dinners, not elaborate outings and ballroom dances. This is all he wanted.

Simple moments were most cherished, ones where few words needed to be spoken. Just your presence alone was something that makes him forever content, no matter what it is you’re doing. You hadn’t needed to even be paying attention to him, really, just having you there was leaps and bounds better than not. That fact had always remained true for all the time that he’s known you, he knows that for certain.

Your free hand had been busy fumbling with the button on his shirt cuff, an action entirely absentminded yet one that had brought the softest of smiles to his face nonetheless. He didn’t even mind the way your hair blew and tickled just under his nose; the minor inconvenience was worth it so long as you were comfortable. Even the cement of the balcony you sat on wasn’t enough for him to be displeased.

“Have you ever wondered just how many stars there are in the sky?” You ask softly, curiously, a laugh leaving his lips.

“I suppose it has crossed my mind a few times,” he murmurs, amusement in his voice as he gives your hand a squeeze. Your own smile is instant at the feeling, at the very sound of his laugh for that matter. “Do you wish to know something?”

You hum in response, shifting your head to look at him better. His smile was tender as he thought of the words residing on the very tip of his tongue, his fingertips dancing overtop the back of your hand. You hadn’t missed the breathy laugh he exhaled, though you weren’t privy to the look of utter fondness on his expression.

“I love you a thousand times for each star that sits in the sky,” he murmurs, his declaration certain and true. “And a thousand times more.”

Your heart flutters at his words, his foot nudging yours to accompany his statement.

“Do you wish to know something?” You ask, lifting your head to look at him fully.

“Enlighten me,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

You grin adoringly at him, at the way his eyes sparkled in the glowing moonlight and the way he looked at you as if you were the center of the very universe. “I love you a million times for each star that sits in the sky. And a million times more.”

It was far too dark out to see the way a soft crimson stained his cheeks the very same way yours had been. But not enough to miss the way his gaze upon you became impossibly more loving as he blinked at you slowly, tiredly. It was rather late after all, the day having been busy with a family that’d been a handful, a wonderful handful at that.

“You really are something, do you know that?” He beams, his expression amused.

“I do indeed.”

He laughs then, quiet and sleepy as his nose bumps against your own and his breath fans warmly over your skin in contrast to the chill of the air. “Should we go to bed now?”

You sigh softly, contently, hand squeezing his. “I’ll meet you there in a moment.”

He simply nods, taking in a few more seconds with you until you part briefly. Then, a kiss is pressed to your lips, chaste and fleeting and one given without second thought. A good night kiss is one always shared without fail, no matter the circumstance.

“Good night, darling,” he murmurs.

“Good night.”

One

The ballroom once filled with boisterous and jovial guests had since been quieted upon the end of the event, concluding the need to be ever so proper and talkative with each and everyone who’d commented on your estate. Scuff marks had remained on the floors from the hours of dancing and socializing, empty cups of lemonade remaining on once lavishly decorated tables. Flowers had been plucked from their arrangements from suitors and gifted to debutants, a few of their petals remaining scattered across the hardwood floors in a snow of soft pinks and creams.

It had been an event most successful, better than you could have imagined for only having hosted twice prior to that evening. Though you will admit, you did have the help from the lovely Mrs. Bridgerton. You owe every compliment to her if you were being honest, for she had a certain style that had been unable to be recreated, unable to be outdone. All of London would be in agreement with such a statement. As beautiful and seamless as everything had been, you would be lying if you said it hadn’t been a relief it had all come to a close for the night.

The room seemed to triple in size now that it’d been just the two of you, Colin having shooed away any and all who’d tried to clean up. It was far too late for even the two of you to be awake, and he felt as though no one should have to clean up such a grand mess at that late of an hour. It would simply be cruel.

“We did it,” you sigh, twirling to face him with a tired smile. “I think perhaps this just might have been our best ball.”

He smiles adoringly, dimples absolutely adorable as they make their appearance. “You did it.”

A blush burns your cheeks as he takes your hands, pulling you close for the first time in what felt like ages that night having been tied up in socializing. His blue velvet jacket had since been discarded, draped over the back of a miscellaneous chair. The top few buttons of his shirt had been undone, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

You were tired as you wrapped your arms around his neck loosely, your smile soft yet fond all the same. “You flatter me, my love.”

“You must know, I am simply telling the truth,” he murmurs, dipping down to press a kiss to your cheek, one to your jaw, and one just under your ear. You laugh out softly and push at his shoulders, biting the inside of your cheek in a pitiful effort to hide your smile.

His arms tighten their hold around you, twirling you once and leaving your squeal to echo in the room. Your laughter mingled between the two of you, breath dancing warmly on flushed skin in the closeness of your proximity. There was not a moment that went by with him that had been dull, you were sure of it, and you knew there never would be.

“Well, I am simply telling you that I love you,” you say, your grin beaming. “Tremendously.”

His smile is pressed to your lips as he kisses you, tender and true as he lips meld with your own. Your laughter dissolves into the moment of affection, the feeling letting loose a thousand butterflies to flutter within his stomach. It was gentle and languid, the utmost of love poured into one single kiss. When he parted he decided he wasn’t quite finished yet, pressing one, two, three more kisses upon your lips.

“I love you,” he whispers, “tremendously,” kiss, “assuredly,” and another, “entirely.”

Your grin turns soft as your eyes flutter closed, the moment having been all too dizzying and full of bliss to do just anything else. There you stood, in your very own home with the love of your life. It was wonderful, it was enchanting, it was a life so beautifully yours.

��

Tags: @dreaming-about-fanfictions @heloisedaphnebrightmore @writeroutoftime @awritingtree

[laurensprentiss]

Jouska [Hotch x Reader]

Chapter 16:

Warnings: 18+!! Explicit smut, oral sex - M receiving, swearing, dirty talk. Shower sex, unprotected P in V, praise kink. Just filth, really. Enjoy this while it lasts because it won’t for much longer, oops!

———

“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.” - Pablo Neruda

———

You sigh and let your eyes flutter shut at the gentle breeze fanning your face. The sun continues its slow descent below the clouds, dipping just enough to paint the sky in blooming oranges, pinks and purples. The Capitol sits in the distance and the traffic below you bustles, people continuing with their routines but you feel still.

Changed somehow.

Then the doors to your balcony open behind you and out emerges Aaron with his mussed hair, and his collegiate sweater that he’d found in his go bag, and a stupid grin on his face as soon as he catches sight of you. His breath hitches when he sees his shirt enveloping you, eyes scanning your legs shamelessly.

He knows you in the most intimate way possible, your legs still tremble with the aftershocks but there’s still a bashfulness in the way your cheeks grow warm with the way he looks at you. It’s like he can see right through you, into your soul, and while hope now rightfully blooms in your chest, you fear moving too fast in case you hurt him - and yourself.

“You look good in that,” He mutters in your ear, wrapping his arms around you from behind. He pulls you to him, impossibly close, committing this moment to memory.

You hold his arms close to you and allow yourself to get lost in his sturdy embrace. When you avert your gaze from the sunset in front of you to look at him, he tips your chin with his finger and brings your face to his for a sweet, lingering kiss.

“Hi.” He whispers against your lips.

“Hi.” You reply just as quickly, fighting the smile that works its way onto your face.

You drown in the smell of him around you, transported to the first time you’d met when he’d given you his jacket on that Spring day, the same spicy citrus smell flooding your senses.

Seemingly reading your mind, he voices your thoughts, “You’ve got a thing for views huh?” You raise your eyebrows quizzically. “The gazebo at your Dad’s. This.” He nods his head towards the view in front of you, “It’s beautiful.” He whispers, but he’s only half talking about the DC sunset.

A wave of something washes over you - tenderness, perhaps.

“When did you know?” You ask, running your hands over his arms that pull you to him.

“Does it matter?”

“Tell me.” You whisper, turning slightly to look at him.

He smiles earnestly, hands flexing against your stomach through his shirt. “Honestly? I don’t know when exactly.”

That was a lie, he’d always felt a pull towards you, something akin to a magnet.

Maybe it was the moment he first laid eyes on you or the day he’d found you utterly broken on the floor of that bathroom. Maybe it was the night you both stayed up talking or the gentle touches and stolen glances or maybe it was everything in between.

It doesn’t matter. All he knows now is that there are no more fleeting thoughts in his mind, no more emotions to bury deep down in his soul.

He finally allows himself to be in the moment, to feel it.

He was falling in love with you.

You pinch him, bringing him out of his stupor. “Aaron?”

He hadn’t realised he was staring, his eyes soft as he traced the curve of your lips while he was deep in thought.

He inhales. “I think I always knew there was something about you that was gonna stick with me. Those two weeks I lied to you about Barnes and desk duty?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I knew for sure then that I felt something for you, I just didn’t want to admit it to myself. With Haley gone, I didn’t trust myself around you.”

You swallow. For months you’d wondered why he’d lied so brazenly and rejected you, had you known his true intentions maybe you’d have cut him some slack. He wasn’t lying when he said he’d waited for this a long time.

You smile gently and turn in his embrace, wrapping your arms around his waist to hold him tighter, fusing yourself to the fabric of his existence. He hums and places a kiss atop your head, inhaling your scent.

“You know he told me you were dead?” You mumble against his chest.

“Hm?”

“He told me you were dead. When I was in that cabin. I think that terrified me more than being there with him.” Your chest tightens when you remember back to Jordan’s voice taunting you that he’d killed Hotch, your palms suddenly sweating.

He shifts momentarily to cup your cheeks reassuringly, studying your face for a moment. “You are not getting rid of me that easily, I’m around for a long time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He replies.

———

Your bedside clock reads 3:47am when Aaron is thrusted into consciousness with a burning need for water. He chances a drowsy glance down at you, sound asleep in his arms, your head against his chest. He surrenders to the warmth that spreads within him and the tenderness he feels for you.

The moonlight illuminates the curve of your lips, the scars on your cheek, the handprints on your neck. His knuckle gently traces the marks, heart sinking. He wishes with everything that he could take it all back for you, make it so you never had to go through what you did.

He’s afraid everything about you is burnt into him. He can’t deny the lump in his throat and the overwhelmed feeling he gets at your existence all while you rest comfortably in his arms.

He concludes that he doesn’t need a drink that bad, deciding instead to ignore the pins and needles in his arm and the dryness in his throat. He pulls your naked form closer to him, a tender hand brushing some stray hairs off your face.

Beautiful, he thinks.

You stir against him, half asleep, pulling him in close to you too, and he fights the smile that pulls at the corners of his lips. But before sleep envelops you again, you swear you hear him whisper something that lights a spark in your chest even in your semi-conscious state.

He whispers it so quietly, it’s hard to even be sure.

“I love you.”

———

You’re fast asleep when your phone rings. You groan at the abrasive noise and attempt to untangle yourself from Hotch’s arms and legs to roll over and answer the call.

What you get instead, is a drowsy Hotch who only pulls you closer to him with an arm and a leg in his half-asleep state. He groans and nestles in closer to you, his growing erection pressing in between your thighs, causing you to laugh dryly. You turn slightly in his arms, scratching his head next to you with a smile.

He’s always handsome and charming - but with his hair mussed and his face peacefully asleep, he looks years younger, closer to your age. You blink at him, unsure for a moment that yesterday wasn’t a dream.

“Morning, beautiful.” He mutters in his sleepy voice, nudging your nose.

You can’t help but feel the way it goes directly to your core, your insides fluttering. “Good morning,” You reply against his lips with a smile.

Your phone ringing again pulls you out of your dreamlike bubble with Aaron. You both groan.

“Aaron, I gotta take this, it might be my Dad or Em.” You whisper.

“Let it ring.” He grumbles, burying his face into the side of your neck. “Stay here with me.”

You scratch at his scalp, laughing. “Aaron come on, they’ll worry if I don’t answer.” He begrudgingly loosens his grip on you when you pat his arm, albeit a little chilly now that your body heat isn’t keeping him warm.

The ringing subsides by the time you get to it.

Emily

Missed call. (2)

Damnit.

You slide right on the notification when the bed dips behind you where Hotch turns to get out of bed. He pulls on a pair of boxers and begins rummaging in his go bag for his toothbrush.

“Make you breakfast?” He asks.

Your chest warms, not 24 hours ago, Aaron was ready to leave your life forever - and he stands in front of you now, offering to make you breakfast.

“Mhm. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” He replies with a kiss on your cheek that takes you by surprise.

You’re still caught up in your thoughts about the feel of his lips on your skin when the phone answers. It doesn’t register for a short moment because your attention lingers on Hotch’s strong back as he leaves for the main bathroom outside.

“Hello?”

“Hey Em, sorry I missed your call, I just woke up.” You tell her in a hushed voice.

“You just woke up? It’s 11pm. Wait - why are you whispering?” She asks.

You’re stumped for a lie to tell this early. “The painkillers I got when I was discharged are strong.” You clear your throat. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m still stuck in this hospital, and Mother won’t stop hovering and terrorising the doctors. They might off me just to get rid of her.” She groans. “Oh, McCall dropped by earlier.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Told me your Dad and my Mother stopped Jordan’s bail from going through, apparently no lawyer wants anything to do with his case. Senator Fitz is going crazy.”

“I can imagine.” You pause. “I went to see him yesterday.”

“You did what?!”

You roll your eyes. “Calm down, Em. Hotch took me, I just wanted to see him after everything that happened. He spent a year terrorising me, tried to kill me, kill you guys - I wanted to look him in the eye.”

“That was so stupid.” She chastises you. “You know how easy it is for him to get into people’s heads, into your head. He’s fucking crazy.”

“Look. I’m fine, you’re fine, everyone’s fine. I’m glad I went to see him.”

“Fine, whatever. I’ll deal with you in person, I don’t have the energy for this right now. Listen, speaking of Hotch, have you heard from him?”

You’re taken off guard. “What?” You stutter. “No. No, I haven’t heard from him, what makes you think I’ve heard from him?”

“Okay… now I definitely know you heard from him. What’s going on? Where is he?”

Your silence speaks louder than any words could. You brace yourself for what’s coming.

“Wait… did you do what I think you did? Did you take my advice?” You go silent. “Did you sleep with him?! Is he still there?” She asks with a finger between her teeth.

“No! Of course I didn’t sleep with him!”

She cuts you off with manic laughter. “You did! You so did, I can tell by the way you’re tripping over your words! Makes sense why nobody’s heard from either of you for the last 24 hours.”

There’s no use denying it, she’ll sniff it out of you soon enough. You groan, “Fuck, fine. Yes he’s still here.”

She cackles. “He spent the night? Scandalous! How was he? Is he, ahem, generous?”

“Emily… I swear to God.”

“What? I can’t ask? It's not like I’m getting any!”

You groan. “I’ll tell you in person later, but…” You rub a hand down your face, unable to stop the smile from spreading. “Em, I’m so… giddy? I don’t know how else to describe it, it’s like I waited so long for this, but I never thought it would happen, y’know? I’m happy, I’m just really fucking happy.” You chuckle.

“Honey…” She coos.

You take a cursory glance at the door to check for any shadows that could indicate Hotch’s presence. “I hate that I’m even saying this, I sound like a kid but… I think there might be something here. Something big.”

Unbeknownst to you, Hotch stands right outside of your door, listening to you confide in Emily with a small smile on his face and a glimmer of hope in his chest. The words he'd quietly whispered in the darkness of night yesterday still lie on the tip of his tongue, stronger than ever in the morning light but he wants to make sure you’re in a position to hear it.

By the sounds of it, that may be sooner rather than later.

“Oh you’ve got it bad.” She sighs. “Listen, I wanna hear all about it but I can hear my mother down the hall berating another doctor. I’m getting discharged in an hour, so I’ll be at home later on if you want to swing by?”

“Yeah, I will. Thanks for letting me know.”

“Be good, you deviant.”

“I hate you.”

You set the phone down on the nightstand and peer outside your bedroom door. You can hear tinkering in the kitchen, so you venture outside after quickly brushing your teeth and throwing on Hotch’s collegiate sweater.

You’re met with a shirtless Hotch cooking in your kitchen, who’s face lights up when he sees you. His eyes trail up your legs shamelessly when he sees that you’re donning his sweater, a dark smile pulling at his lips.

He pulls out a stool for you. “You gonna take all my clothes or what?” He murmurs against your ear. “Not that I’m complaining, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about this.” He cozies up behind you, pressing a kiss behind your ear, arms wrapping around your waist.

You lean into his touch. The last week had been non-stop, it had been one thing after the next, you’d felt like you were losing the strength to keep getting back up. But after the events of yesterday, your near-death experience had since taken a back burner.

Being with him is surprisingly easy. Simple.

“Oh wait! Coffee! I knew I was forgetting something. Almond and oat milk with a hint of brown sugar, right?” He asks, unwinding his arms from around you.

Your gaze softens. “You remembered?” You whisper.

He chuckles. “I’ve been buying you coffee for almost a year, I should hope I remember.” He places the steaming mug in front. “What is it?” He asks when he sees the affectionate look on your face.

Your breath hitches. There’s something bubbling up in your chest, something urgent and profound. You’ve only heard about this feeling, never felt it until now but you could swear it’s unmistakable.

You’ve known for a while.

You’re falling in love with him.

You clear your throat. “Nothing. Just can’t believe you remembered.” You whisper, cupping your hands around the steaming mug. “Thank you.”

He comes up behind you again, and brushes some hair off your neck delicately. He rests his chin on your shoulder and slides an arm around your waist. “I’ll make you all the breakfast and coffee you want as long as you keep parading around in my clothes like this.”

“Deal.” You tilt your head to face him and when he kisses you, you swear you can feel him smile. Your heart races with affection.

There’s a kind of comfort and familiarity that comes with Hotch. One that seems to be second nature as you both fall into a rhythm and you can almost imagine that this is your everyday life.

Slow languid kisses become more frequent and heated, meaning that breakfast is quickly thrown aside and you instead find yourself being pushed up on the counter with a pair of strong arms.

You’re so drunk on the taste and feel of him, so unaware of your surroundings, you can’t comprehend when and how the two of you ended up back in bed, clothes discarded with you straddling his solid form.

You don’t care. You just need more.

Aaron squeezes your ass hard enough to leave a pleasant sting as he lays a trail of kisses down your neck, his beard rough against your skin. His groans vibrate against the column of your throat where he leaves a trail of hot kisses, his knee bending to press against you.

The friction makes you break the kiss and you cry out. You trace his chest and abdomen lightly with your nails, leaning down to kiss his ear.

“I want you, Aaron.” You whisper.

As he goes to grip your hips, you grab his large hands and place them above his head, ghosting your lips over his. His eyes flash with something devious, he’s more than capable of overpowering you physically, but he plays along, wanting to surrender himself to you.

You desperately rub him over your folds, gathering yourself on his tip before seating yourself on him. You both gasp as he slips inside, your eyes rolling back.

The stretch of him still burns a little, a dull pressure inside you that soon gives way to warmth when you catch how his mouth falls open, a flush spreading on his cheeks and chest.

You roll your hips against him experimentally, feeling him jump inside you. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, his hooded gaze focused on yours, as he allows you to take control. He interlocks his fingers with yours, gripping them tightly as you ride him, setting a sure enough pace that has obscene sounds escaping the room.

“That’s it, sweetness. I want you to ride my cock until you come, squeeze me tight the way I know you can.”

His words make you lose your breath and a broken moan of his name in his ear, has him twitch inside you. He’s entranced by the way your mouth falls open in pleasure, by the sight of your pussy swallowing his cock, your arousal coating his thighs.

He tenderly brushes a knuckle against your cheek, allowing his thumb to slip inside your mouth before bringing it down to rub small circles on your clit the way he knows can make you fall apart. His hand palming at your tits makes you feel boneless, forcing you to fall against him. He wraps a strong arm around your waist as he takes your weight, snapping his hips up into you.

“You’re close aren’t you, sweetness? So fucking wet and needy just for me.” You cry out, surrendering to him. “Need me to make you cum? Hm? Need me to fuck you until you can’t walk?”

“Please. Please give it to me, don’t fucking stop, Aaron.” A string of expletives leave your mouth as you feel your release approaching.

“Good girl. Let me hear you when you come.”

And sure enough, two more thrusts from him snap the coil in the pit of your stomach, as you flutter against him, legs shaking. You bite down on his shoulder to muffle your screams as he fucks you through your orgasm, your vision going white.

He remains inside you, thrusting gently as you come down, chuckling when you’re able to take your own weight again.

“My God, you’re beautiful.” He brushes his thumb over your cheek and kisses you delicately. “I told you I wanted to hear you come though. Looks like I’ll have to try again.” He mutters against your lips.

In one fell swoop, he snakes a steady arm around your waist and he stands up, making sure to remain inside you.

Your forehead rests against his in a daze as he walks you into your shower. A cold spray douses the both of you when he turns the water on, causing you to shriek. It waterfalls down between both of your bodies, steam rising steadily and you tap his arms to release you.

“My turn.” You whisper against his mouth, gripping his cock.

You find yourself having to tiptoe now to reach him, as you lay a trail of kisses down his neck, and expansive chest while stroking him slowly. He throbs in your palm, warm and thick, his legs trembling a little when you rub a thumb over his tip. He shudders, cradling the back of your head as you continue your slow descent.

You kiss further down his stomach, kneeling in front of him to trace the faint muscled line that runs down his abdomen until you get to where he wants you. You grip him with your right hand, your left scratching his stomach gently.

Your fingers barely meet around him when you stroke once, twice, three times. You lick his tip first, making sure to keep your eyes on him and you can taste the faintest hint of yourself on him. The sight above you takes your breath away, Aaron with water dripping off of his shoulders and back, his hair floppy and wet, eyes fixed intensely on yours.

It exhilarates you knowing you have him right where you want him, knowing that you have the power to make him unravel. The look in his eyes makes you throb.

When you lick a longer stripe up his shaft, his eyes flutter shut, breathy groans escaping him as you wrap your lips around his tip.

A broken curse leaves his mouth, an almost-whisper. “God, that mouth. Good girl.”

You suck experimentally, your eyes flitting up to his face. The way his legs tremble is encouragement enough, so you take him further in your mouth until he hits the back of your throat, your hands working to cover what you can’t reach.

“Just like that, pretty girl,” He moans, his sentence fragmented.

His hands cradle your chin tenderly and gather your wet hair into a makeshift ponytail when you moan around him. The vibrations of your mouth work him closer to his release. “So fucking gorgeous on your knees, sweetheart. That mouth feels so good around my cock.”

You bob your head faster now, taking him as far down your throat as you can, your saliva helping your hands along. You gag around him, saliva running down your chin and your eyes watering but the look on his face frenzies you. You chase the need to make him feel good, working your hands and mouth.

His hands provide some pressure on the back of your head to take him down your throat faster. He groans breathily. “Such a good girl, just like that.”

His words propel you towards your own reawakening, your pussy throbbing around nothing at his heated words.

You can tell he’s close with the way the vein on the underside of him begins to throb, so you work to stroke him with more pressure and hollow your cheeks.

“You’re going to make me come if you keep going like that, sweetheart.” He goes to withdraw himself from your mouth out of courtesy but you take him deep into the back of your throat.

The sight of you on your knees for him, eyes glassy and desperate with a mouthful of his cock drives him to the edge as he finally comes, shuddering in front of you. He holds your head still as he releases into your mouth, his cock twitching in your mouth.

You eagerly chase the taste of him, hollowing your cheeks around his tip, unrelenting as he curses quietly, eyes squeezing shut. Your eyes gaze up at him innocently while he trembles, brows pulled together, his bottom lip between his teeth.

When he finally opens his eyes, he looks wrecked, a flush spreading on his chest and face. His eyes darken and he wipes the remnants of himself off your chin with his thumb, tucking it into your mouth as he gathers you off the shower floor.

You suck on his thumb innocently, before he pulls you flush against him, every inch of you pressed against him.

“Come here,” he mutters, snaking his arms around your waist. A large hand lays flat between your shoulder blades as he pulls you in for a desperate, messy kiss.

A clash of teeth and tongues, you’re both intoxicated at the presence of the other, the atmosphere heady with the added steam from the shower.

He releases you for breath, licking at your swollen lips. “Don’t think I forgot. I still want to hear you whimper my name when you come on my face.” He sinks to the floor, throwing your leg over his shoulder.

He makes you come undone twice more, revering you with his fingers and talented mouth, before washing you down tenderly, his nails scratching at your scalp, his fingers deft and gentle.

“All mine.” He marvels against your lips.

———

He has a young intern rush to his house and bring him some more clothes, something for the day and a suit for work now that he knows he’s been called in later.

The intern, who’s name you don’t quite catch, returns twenty minutes later, red in e face, nervously babbling about how he didn’t know which suit to grab him so he brought him three instead.

“Anderson, you need to brush up on your decision making skills.” Aaron tells him, taking a suit and a pair of shorts and a tee from him. “Take the rest to the office, leave them in my locker. Do not crease them.”

“Yes, sir.” And just as quickly as he came, the intern leaves.

You smile to yourself.

“What?” He asks.

“Suits you.” You reply, smoothing a hand over his chest. “Giving orders, being the big boss man. I like that for you, Sir.”

He cups your cheeks, kissing the corner of your lips. “Yeah? You keep calling me ‘Sir’ in that voice, I promise we won’t get anything done today.”

He changes quickly into his casual clothes, his t-shirt sitting perfectly over his shoulders and with a protective grasp on your hand, he leads you through the lobby of your apartment building.

“Where are we going?” You ask him.

He places a hand on the small of your back when he helps you into the car.

There’s a more pressing question, you know. You know you should probably sit down and talk to one another about what this is, what last night and this morning mean for you going forward.

You also know you need to figure that out for yourself before you initiate a difficult conversation with him.

So you settle for taking his lead. You can always talk to Emily later. She’ll know what to do.

“It’s a surprise.” He says, climbing in next to you.

“Are we going to be out in public? I still have these stupid bruises, not to mention I’m pretty sure I saw a reporter parked up across the street.

He peers into the rear view mirror. “I’ll take care of it.” He says fishing out his phone. “And for the record - I think you look beautiful.” He whispers, cradling your chin.

You feel uncharacteristically shy when he kisses your cheek.

He gets to typing rapidly on his phone for a moment. “Done. They won’t be bothering us anymore. Told you I’d take care of it.”

———

You’ve been walking on the trail for God knows how long and you’re miserable. You’re sore, from the accident and from Hotch’s precise work - you’re hot and sweaty and you need a drink. But when he grabs your hand tightly in his, and leads you off a beaten path, your heart flutters lightly.

“Over here.”

“What am I looking at?” You ask.

He leads you down a small hill, and to a clearing that almost takes your breath away.

“That.” He says, triumphantly.

Willow trees umbrella a trail that leads to a small deck in the distance. In front of it, is a small pond, the water, a sparkling cerulean. He leads you down the rest of the trail and shrugs off his jacket, setting it down on the deck so you can sit safely.

“What do you think?”

You stare at him. “It’s beautiful!” You chuckle. “How did you even come across something like this? It’s so out of the way.” You ask him, staring at the water.

He leans against a willow tree and pulls you close to him between his legs. You lean against his chest, as he speaks in a low voice, lips against your temple.

“I used to come here a lot, one of my cousins told me about it as a kid.” He replies, wistfully.

“I thought you grew up in Seattle?”

“Wait - you remembered I told you that?” You nod. “I had family - grandparents here. My mom’s folks. Whenever I needed a break away from everything and everyone, I’d come here.”

“This is the place you told me about the night you stayed over?” You ask.

He nods, placing a tender kiss on your temple. “Yeah. Beautiful isn’t it?” He’s fast developing a habit of delivering words that belie a double meaning.

You sigh peacefully against him. Something about him makes you feel serene. Like your chest bubbles up until you feel like you could cry happy tears or like you’re being rewarded for a past deed.

His touch is so tender, so delicate, but so passionate. You run your hands over the strong protective arms that bracket you in and allow the sun to warm your face.

You listen to him talk about how he and his cousin are surprisingly the only ones to know about this place. “-And now you, I guess.” He chuckles.

“Why me?” You ask.

It’s a strange thing, love. He’s loved before.

But this is different. An implicit trust that you could never break.

He pulls you in impossibly closer, taking in your scent. “Just felt right.”

———

< Prev | Next >

———

Tags: @oreogutz @andromedasstarship @galacticnerd-78 @izzyl13 @cigarette-daydreamer @crying-river @purpledragonturtles @gabbysblogthingy @archiveofadragon @yoshigguk @acidicbloody @jeor @ivebeenthinkingboutu @bauslut @averyhotchner @vashanatasha @hotchwhore15 @pjmjams @slxtherinchxser @qtip-blog @avenging-criminal-bones @rousethemouse @spencerreidsoulmate @caprisunzz @malindacath @azenpal @angelfxllcm

[starcunin]

Astarion watches the slow, rhythmic sway of Amay’s tail behind him, the gentle motion betraying the happiness beneath the tension in his lover’s body. It’s a small, comforting sign that, despite everything, despite the worry, Amay is glad to see him——glad that Astarion is home, alive, and in one piece. There is dried blood splattered across his skin, his clothes are dirty and tattered. He looks every bit the wreck he feels inside, and for a fleeting second, anger flares hot and sharp. His anonymous client, the one who’d set this nightmare in motion, fills his thoughts. Why? Why send him into a trap with such half-baked information, only to pay him so handsomely? Astarion’s fingers curl briefly into fists, a storm rising behind his eyes. The thought of hunting that bastard down, of sinking his teeth into their throat and draining them dry, is tempting. But what would that solve? The job is done, and he got paid. It’s just . . . maddening. Confusing. It feels like a game he wasn’t even aware he was playing.

But then, Amay’s touch. His fingers threading softly through Astarion’s disheveled silver curls, smoothing away the tension like water over stones. The anger ebbs as quickly as it flared. He leans into the warmth of Amay’s hand, savoring the way it twirls the strands of his hair, grounding him. The soft murmur of Amay’s voice, the way he shushes him gently, lulls him into a state of calm he hasn’t felt in days. And though Amay tells him he doesn’t have to apologize, the words still beat in Astarion’s mind like a drum: I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

He is sorry. So terribly, deeply sorry. For worrying him. For being gone so long. And while being under the necromancer’s control was a fresh hell, an experience that dredged up memories of Cazador’s leash pulling tight around his throat, it wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was imagining Amay here, alone, wondering if he’d ever return. That haunted him more than the cage, the chains, or the burning rays of sunlight she’d conjured to torture him. The idea of never coming back to this—their home, their life, Amay—plagued him every day, tearing at his mind until he thought he might lose himself to it.

When Amay asks if he’s okay, Astarion finally draws back just enough to meet his lover’s eyes. His arms stay wrapped firmly around Amay’s waist, unwilling to let him go. ❛ So much better now that I’m home with you, ❜ Astarion murmurs, his voice thick with sincerity as he rests his forehead—still streaked with dried blood—against Amay’s. The contact is gentle, intimate, and he closes his eyes for a moment, simply breathing him in. The familiar scent of his lover fills his senses, wrapping him in a cocoon of warmth and safety. It’s like finally stepping out of a storm and into the hearthlight.

❛ But I think it might be time that I adjourn this nefarious labor, at least for a little while, ❜ Astarion continues, his voice soft, but there’s a fringe of exhaustion beneath it, like the admission itself is a weight being lifted from him. ❛ A little break would do me some good, and—❜ His voice falters, almost breaking. He takes a shaky breath before finishing, his words a quiet confession. ❛ And, well . . . I missed you. Far too much to even think about being apart from you again. ❜

Gods, he’d missed him. The depth of that longing surges through him all at once, an ache that goes bone-deep. He can still taste the fear, the distressing worry that he might never have made it back. That Amay might have spent the rest of his days thinking Astarion had simply disappeared——left him without a word, without a trace.

A bath would help. He needs to scrub away the blood, the grime, the shame of it all. His body may have healed, but his spirit feels soiled, raw. The hot spring near their house calls to him, promising to wash away the remnants of his captivity. But Astarion isn’t ready to pull away just yet. He can’t fathom the idea of losing the warmth of Amay’s touch.

So, instead, he leans in, closing the space between their lips. One of his hands slides from Amay’s waist to cradle the side of his neck, his thumb brushing softly along Amay’s jawline. The kiss starts gentle, soft, an echo of the tenderness they share. But then Astarion feels the days of separation rise up inside him, feels the longing swell and crest like a wave, and he pours all of it into the kiss. The days he spent caged, the nights without Amay’s warmth beside him, the sheer relief of being here, of being home——it all flows through him, through the press of his lips, desperate and aching. His fingers tighten slightly against Amay’s neck, and his other arm pulls him closer, as if holding him tighter might erase the nightmare of their time apart.

@caniasfire sent: [ 𝐇𝐔𝐆 ] My muse hugs yours tightly after not having seen them for a while.

Astarion clutches Amay like he might dissolve into shadows if he loosens his grip even slightly. His fingers dig into the fabric of Amay’s shirt, and he presses closer, breathing him in. There’s the familiar, heady scent of warmth and life that Astarion clings to, grounding himself in it, like the air after a storm——a promise of safety. He can feel the frantic tremble in Amay’s body as their chests press together, the rhythm of Amay’s heart hammering against his. It’s almost painful, the rawness of this reunion, a relief that pierces deeper than any knife. The quiet of their home surrounds them, the faint glow of crystals casting a soft blue and violet light over the room, and for a moment, Astarion allows himself to sink into it.

Home.

Amay is everything now——warm, whole, a hearth that beckons him in from the cold, barren night. A light in the darkness of the Underdark and of Astarion’s soul. But that warmth, that tether, had been out of reach for almost a fortnight, and the memories of what he endured creep unbidden into his mind——chains that don’t exist still weigh heavy on his wrists. He hadn’t expected to be gone more than a night, two at most. Foolish of him, really. He should have known better. The anonymous source, the ludicrously high payment——it was all too convenient, too easy. Until it wasn’t.

He hadn’t anticipated a necromancer. Or the fact that she’d been waiting for him, watching him like a hawk circling its prey. Her sickening obsession with him, with what he was, still makes his stomach turn. She had toyed with him as if he were nothing more than a fascinating specimen. The sun’s rays she conjured had been the worst of it——burning him over and over. And the hunger. He hadn’t eaten for days, hadn’t healed, the cuts on his skin ached, ragged and slow to close. She’d wanted to keep him, a mindless slave, to puppet his body while his soul was locked away forever.

He grips Amay even tighter, burying his face against his lover’s shoulder, breathing him in as if he could erase the last few days by simply being here, with him. Astarion can feel the tears prickling at his eyes——an unfamiliar sting.

❛ I’m so sorry, Amay, ❜ Astarion whispers, his voice tight with emotion. His breath catches in his throat, and for a moment he doesn’t recognize his own voice——it’s too raw, too vulnerable. He rests his chin on Amay’s shoulder, his grip never loosening, ❛ I know I wasn’t supposed to be gone for that long, but . . . in my defense, I didn’t really have much of a choice . . . ❜

The words taste bitter as they leave his lips. He doesn’t want to explain. Doesn’t want to relive it. Astarion’s voice drops to a whisper. ❛ I’m sorry if I made you worry. ❜ It feels like an inadequate apology, considering the agony he knows Amay must have endured in his absence. Astarion can only imagine what it feels like to wait, to wonder if the person you care for is ever coming back.

[brooklynmuseum]

Closing out National Poetry Month, our Spring Interns paired some of their favorite poems with works from our collection. We hope you enjoy!

— Jeffrey Alexander Lopez, Curatorial Intern, American Art & Arts of the Americas

Image: Suzuki Harunobu (Japanese, 1724-1770). Page From Haru no Nishiki, 1771. Color woodblock print on paper. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Peter P. Pessutti, 83.190.1

from Citizen: “Some years there exists a wanting to escape...” [Excerpt] By Claudia Rankine 

/

I they he she we you turn only to discover the encounter

to be alien to this place.

Wait.

The patience is in the living. Time opens out to you.

The opening, between you and you, occupied, zoned for an encounter,

given the histories of you and you—

And always, who is this you?

The start of you, each day, a presence already—

Hey you—

/

— Halle Smith, Digital Collections Intern Catherine Green (American, born 1952). [Untitled] (West Indian Day Parade), 1991. Chromogenic photograph, sheet. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of the artist, 1991.58.2. © artist or artist's estate 

Ode to Enchanted Light by Pablo Neruda

Under the trees light has dropped from the top of the sky, light like a green latticework of branches, shining on every leaf, drifting down like clean white sand.

A cicada sends its sawing song high into the empty air.

The world is a glass overflowing with water.

Consuelo Kanaga’s black and white photograph captures a dazzling, yet fleeting moment from everyday life. Three textured glasses cast shadows whose patterns are almost kaleidoscopic in effect. We can imagine Kanaga passing by her kitchen table, as she is brought to a halt to take a closer look at, and ultimately to photograph, the simple beauty generated by the play of light and everyday objects. The close-up scale of this image emulates the singularizing framing techniques deployed by Surrealist photographers, who also took parts of everyday life and blew them up in the photographic frame, thereby encouraging their viewers to look at life around us from a different angle. It is a way of saying: Here, take a closer look. Viewing the world with wonder, along with the joy that this act brings, are encapsulated in Pablo Neruda’s poem Ode to Enchanted Light. The speaker observes the way light passes through trees and creates enchanting patterns. He not only observes, but feels the beauty in the simple details of life, from the way light falls from the sky, to the sheen of leaves, to the buzzing of cicadas. Approaching life through such a hopeful lens evokes a glass-half-full perspective. In fact, the speaker is so hopeful that he believes “The world is/a glass overflowing/with water.” I think Kanaga would have felt the same way. 

— Kirk Testa, Curatorial Intern, Photography Consuelo Kanaga (American, 1894-1978). [Untitled] (Glasses and Reflections). Gelatin silver photograph. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Wallace B. Putnam from the Estate of Consuelo Kanaga, 82.65.25

Easter Wings By George Herbert

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,

      Though foolishly he lost the same,

            Decaying more and more,

                  Till he became

                        Most poore:

                        With thee

                  O let me rise

            As larks, harmoniously,

      And sing this day thy victories:

Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My tender age in sorrow did beginne

      And still with sicknesses and shame.

            Thou didst so punish sinne,

                  That I became

                        Most thinne.

                        With thee

                  Let me combine,

            And feel thy victorie:

         For, if I imp my wing on thine,

Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

Easter Wings by George Herbet and Martin Bach’s flower vase from the Brooklyn Museum’s Decorative Arts collection reveal the interrelationship between form and function. In Easter Wings, Herbert strategically varies the line length to create an image that enhances the meaning of the poem; when you turn the poem on its side, it resembles the wings of a bird, of which are symbolic of the atonement of Jesus Christ. In doing so, the author is not only telling us his message, but he is showing it visually as well. Similarly, the vase takes the visual form of its function. Its floral design amplifies the meaning of the object, as the vase is meant to hold flowers. In both instances, we see how aesthetic properties of a work echo the meaning and function of the work itself.

— Amy Zavecz Martin Bach (American, 1862-1921). Vase, ca. 1905. Opalescent glass. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Mrs. Alfred Zoebisch, 59.143.16. Creative Commons-BY 

I am the Earth (Watashi wa chikyu) [Excerpt] by Kiyoko Nagase, Translated by Takako Lento

I am warm, moist soil  I am a single supple stalk  I draw my life  all the way up into corollas of wild berries on the roadside 

I am amazed at  a breast of water welling  to flow into the inlet of a muddy rice paddy  I am amazed at  myself being  hot steam blowing fire and sulfur up  from the bottom of the great ocean, deep indigo.  I am amazed at  the crimson blood flow  covering the earth’s surface in human shape;  I am amazed that it swells as the tides ebb and flow, and gushes out monthly under distant invisible gravity … I am the earth.  I live there, and I am the very same earth. 

In the four billionth year  I have come to know  the eternal cold moon, my other self, my hetero being,  then, for the first time, I am amazed that I am warm mud.

The vivid imagery conjured up by Kiyoko Nagase’s poem is beautifully visualized by Emmi Whitehorse’s painting. The emphasis on deep Earth tones and abstract corporeality in both the poem and the painting really creates an intense metaphysical link between the environment and the self.

— Amanda Raquel Dorval, Archives Intern Emmi Whitehorse (Navajo, born 1957). Fire Weed, 1998. Chalk, graphite, pastel and oil on paper mounted on canvas. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Hinrich Peiper and Dorothee Peiper-Riegraf in honor of Emmi Whitehorse, 2006.49. © artist or artist's estate

Seventh Circle of Earth by Ocean Vuong

On April 27, 2011, a gay couple, Michael Humphrey and Clayton Capshaw, was murdered by immolation in their home in Dallas, Texas.

Dallas Voice

                                          1

2

                                              3

                                       4

                                               5

     6

                                                                                            7

________________________________________________________

As if my finger, / tracing your collarbone / behind closed doors, / was enough / to erase myself. To forget / we built this house knowing / it won’t last. How / does anyone stop / regret / without cutting / off his hands? / Another torch

streams through / the kitchen window, / another errant dove. / It’s funny. I always knew / I’d be warmest beside / my man. / But don’t laugh. Understand me / when I say I burn best / when crowned / with your scent: that earth-sweat / & Old Spice I seek out each night / the days

refuse me. / Our faces blackening / in the photographs along the wall. / Don’t laugh. Just tell me the story / again, / of the sparrows who flew from falling Rome, / their blazed wings. / How ruin nested inside each thimbled throat / & made it sing

until the notes threaded to this / smoke rising / from your nostrils. Speak— / until your voice is nothing / but the crackle / of charred

bones. But don’t laugh / when these walls collapse / & only sparks / not sparrows / fly out. / When they come / to sift through these cinders—& pluck my tongue, / this fisted rose, / charcoaled & choked / from your gone

mouth. / Each black petal / blasted / with what’s left / of our laughter. / Laughter ashed / to air / to honey to baby / darling, / look. Look how happy we are / to be no one / & still

American.

Ocean Vuong’s “Seventh Circle of Earth” has persisted as one of the great, affective moments of poetry in my life since I first heard Pádraig Ó Toama’s gorgeous reading and discussion of it on his podcast, Poetry Unbound. I decided to pair Vuong’s poem with Mary Coble’s Untitled 2 (from Note To Self) because both works are urgently immersive into the violence and experience of LGBTQ people in the U.S., and for how each work uses text and physicality to address presence, pain, and erasure. Vuong’s poem is actually footnoted to a quote from a news article about a gay couple murdered in Texas. The page is thus blank, absent of text. The reader has to sink below the main stage, the accepted space of word and story, to find the voices of this couple and the depth of their story’s tenderness, eroticism, and utter devastation. Coble’s piece foils the structure and effect of Seventh Circle of Earth by taking what was subverted by Vuong—text and the narrative of violence—wholly to the surface. Her photograph captures her own legs tattooed without ink with the names of LGBTQ individuals victimized by hate crimes. I cannot help but think of Franz Kafka’s short story “In the Penal Colony,” in which prisoners’ “sentences'' are inscribed by the needle of a “punishment apparatus” directly onto their bodies. I was struck by how the curator’s note for this photograph describes Coble’s artistic endeavor here as “harrowing.” The needle in Kafka’s short story is indeed called “The Harrow”. The noun harrow is an agricultural tool that combs plowed soil to break up clumps of earth and uproot weeds and clear imperfections. The verb to harrow means to plague, and in the story’s original German the verb for “harrow”, eggen,  is also translated as “to torment”. Kafka and Coble conflate these definitions of “the harrow” in their respective works: they use a needled device, like the true noun definition, as an instrument of torment because of someone else’s idea of punishment and justice. Here, violence is brought to the surface, intimate in as much as we are brought right up to the artist’s skin and into the presence of her and her community’s pain. Together, one can see how each creator physicalizes their respective artistic space to tell the stories of LGBTQ people, of what is tender and harrowing, below the surface and written into the skin. 

— Talia Abrahams, Provenance Intern, IHCPP Mary Coble (American, born 1978). Untitled 2 (from Note to Self), 2005. Inkjet print. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of the artist, 2008.10. © artist or artist's estate 

To my daughter Kakuya   by Assata Shakur  

I have shabby dreams for you   of some vague freedom   I have never known.   Baby   I don't want you hungry or thirsty   or out in the cold.   and I don't want the frost   to kill your fruit   before it ripens.   I can see a sunny place  Life exploding green.   I can see your bright, bronze skin at ease with all the flowers   and the centipedes.   I can hear laughter,   not grown from ridicule   And words not prompted   by ego or greed or jealousy.   I see a world where hatred   has been replaced by love.   and ME replaced by WE   And I can see a world replaced                                       where you,   building and exploring,   strong and fulfilled,   will understand.   And go beyond my little shabby dreams. 

This poem is featured in Assata Shakur’s memoir, Assata: An Autobiography. It details her hope for a better world that  her daughter can grow up in. This poem is positioned in the book when Shakur is facing increasing prosecution as a result of her  activism and affiliations with the Black Panther Party and Black Liberation army. Being written more than 30 years after this picture  was taken, the poem summons me to think about the trauma that many Black women face and how much of that trauma gets passed  down to their children. The black and white photo of a mother and daughter provides a nice visual to the poem. “The image of a Black  mother and child sitting on their luggage reflects the little-discussed history of segregated transportation in the northern United States. Through the 1940s, Penn Station officials assigned Black travelers seats in Jim Crow cars on southbound trains” (Brooklyn Museum). The photograph of train passengers waiting outside of Manhattan’s Pennsylvania Station especially echoes the verse “I don’t want you  hungry or thirsty or out in the cold.” The overall optimistic tone of Shakur’s poem alters our relationship to the image as we imagine  the mother pictured above hoping for the exact same things

— Zaria W, Teen Programs intern Ruth Orkin (American, 1921-1985). Mother and Daughter at Penn Station, NYC, 1948. Gelatin silver photograph, sheet: 13 15/16 × 11 in. (35.4 × 27.9 cm). Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Mary Engel, 2011.22.3. © artist or artist's estate

Crunch.  By Kailyn Gibson 

I retch as a mass of sinew lies between my lips.  The sensation is unbearable.  Fortunately, the jar of flies has gone missing again. 

Slowly, surely, and yet never sure at all,  the quiet of buzzing rings through the in-between. 

It is a symphony wrought from blood and bone. 

Saliva drips from bleeding, hungry gums,  And the crunch of glass echoes the grinding of molars.

If I proffered a sanguine smile, would masticated shards look like teeth?  Would they gleam just as prettily?  

The flies ring,  and the rot calls. 

— Kailyn Gibson Edgar Degas (French, 1834-1917). Portrait of a Man (Portrait d'homme), ca. 1866. Oil on canvas. Brooklyn Museum, Museum Collection Fund, 21.112 

Excerpt from Autobiography of Red A novel in verse by Anne Carson

7. If Helen’s reasons arose out of some remark Stesichoros made either it was a strong remark about Helen’s sexual misconduct (not to say its unsavory aftermath the Fall of Troy) or it was not.

8. If it was a strong remark about Helen’s sexual misconduct (not to say its unsavory aftermath the Fall of Troy) either this remark was a lie or it was not.

9. If it was not a lie either we are now in reverse and by continuing to reason in this way we are likely to arrive back at the beginning of the question of the blinding of Stesichoros or we are not.

10. If we are now in reverse and by continuing to reason in this way are likely to arrive back at the beginning of the question of the blinding of Stesichoros either we will go along without incident or we will meet Stesichoros on our way back.

11. If we meet Stesichoros on our way back either we will keep quiet or we will look him in the eye and ask him what he thinks of Helen.

12. If we look Stesichoros in the eye and ask him what he thinks of Helen either he will tell the truth or he will lie.

13. If Stesichoros lies either we will know at once that he is lying or we will be fooled because now that we are in reverse the whole landscape looks inside out.

This excerpt comes from Appendix C of Anne Carson’s Autobiography of Red, a novel in verse. A translator and classicist herself, Carson mixes fact with fiction in her unconventional retelling of the myth of Geryon and Hercules, beginning with a roundabout introduction to the poet Stesichoros. Autobiography presents a captivating example of recent Queer projects that take up Classical material as their basis. A fascination with the Classical past has pervaded our modern conception of sexual identity politics, down to the very etymology of the word “lesbian.” In this fascination, I see the same desire to capture Classical imagery as cultural heritage which has also pervaded American museums, albeit with significantly different aims. The fresco pictured above comes to mind, which passed through many collectors and was even purchased by the museum before anyone pegged it as a modern piece—not an original Roman fresco. John D. Cooney, a 20th century curator of our Egyptian, Classical, and Ancient Near Eastern Art collection, wrote that “the unclad and somewhat winsome charms of the lady [probably] diverted objective glances.” Both in the case of the fresco and Carson’s novel, the “unclad and somewhat winsome charms” of the Classical past shape and reshape our understanding of history.

— Kira Houston, Curatorial Intern, Egyptian, Classical, and Ancient Near Eastern Art Modern, in the style of the Roman Period. Part of a Fresco, early 19th century C.E. Clay, paint. Brooklyn Museum, Ella C. Woodward Memorial Fund, 11.30.

Late Fragment by Raymond Carver From A New Path to the Waterfall, Atlantic Monthly Press, 1989.

And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so? I did. And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.

— Shori Diedrick Brackens (American, born 1989). when no softness came, 2019. Cotton and acrylic yarn. Brooklyn Museum, Purchased with funds given by The LIFEWTR Fund at Frieze New York 2019, 2019.12. © artist or artist's estate

Jaguar By Francisco X. Alarcón

some say                                    dicen que ahora                  I'm now almost                           estoy casi extinto       extinct in this park                      por este parque    but the people                            pero la gente who say this                               que dice esto don't know                                 no sabe that by smelling                          que al oler   the orchids                                 las orquídeas in the trees                                 en los árboles they're sensing                          están percibiendo  the fragrance                             la fragancia of my chops                              de mis fauces  that by hearing                          que al oír the rumblingc                            el retumbo of the waterfalls                        de los saltos  

they're listening                         están escuchando          to my ancestors'                       el gran rugido   great roar                                  de mis ancestros

that by observing                      que al observar     the constellations                      las constelanciones     of the night sky                         del firmamento 

they're gazing                           están mirando at the star spots                       las motas de estrellas    on my fur                                  marcadas en mi piel that I am and                            que yo soy always will be                           y siempre seré the wild                                     el indomable

untamed                                  espíritu silvestre living spirit                               vivo de esta of this jungle                            jungla

While the author of the poem speaks about animals, their words can also speak on behalf of the erasure of indigenous peoples in South America. Much like the jaguar, indigenous traditions and culture are very important to life in South America. Despite their marginalization, Indigenous peoples throughout the Andes used coca leaves to help with the altitude. The use and cultivation of coca are criminalized throughout most of South America despite it being essential to indigenous cultures. This vessel was used to contain lime which would activate the coca leaves.  Much like the jaguar, indigenous traditions are also faced with endangerment despite being woven into the fabric that is Latin America. Through the opposite man and woman figures, the vessel shows the duality that is important to the Quimbaya people which is still relevant to Colombians today.

Aunque el autor del poema habla sobre los animales, sus palabras también comunican el sentimiento común de la supresión de los indígenas en Suramérica. Con la mención del jaguar, se puede entender en el poema que la cultura y las tradiciones de las personas que son indígenas son sumamente importantes para la vida en Sudamérica. A pesar de su marginación, los indígenas en Los Andes utilizan la hoja de coca para ayudar en la altura de las montañas. El uso y el cultivo de la hoja de coca fue criminalizado (penalizado) a través de Sudamérica, aunque su uso para los indígenas era vital y esencial para su cultura. Este recipiente que se utiliza contiene limón lo que activa la hoja de la coca. Similarmente al jaguar, las tradiciones de los indígenas siempre estaban en peligro aunque estuvieran entrelazadas en las telas de lo que sería Latinoamérica. A través del hombre opuesto y las figuras de mujeres, el recipiente muestra la dualidad de lo que es importante para las personas que son Quimbaya, algo que todavía hoy es relevante para los Colombianos.

— Jeffrey Alexander Lopez, Curatorial Intern, American Art & Arts of the Americas Quimbaya. Poporo (Lime Container), 1-600 C.E. Tumbaga. Brooklyn Museum, Alfred W. Jenkins Fund, 35.507. Creative Commons-BY 

[glimmerofgold]

Begged and Borrowed (Excerpt)

@patrochillesweek 2021 - Day 4: Friends to Lovers

For today's prompt, here's a short excerpt from my recently finished story "Begged and Borrowed" that I published on AO3. In this, Patroclus and Achilles only meet in their adulthood at the shores of Troy - and under less than ideal circumstances. If you want to give the whole thing a read, you can do so here!

It's the sweetest kind of torture, the way each day feels fleeting and endless all at once.

Whenever Achilles is not by his side, a longing resides in Patroclus' chest that is unlike anything he has ever experienced before. It seems impossible to focus even on the easiest of tasks, his actions happening by mere default while his attention is somewhere else entirely.

It's a thirst that cannot be sated, every minute spent with the other like a drop of water on his lips, promising more - but the very moment he leaves, his throat ends up feeling even drier than it did before. No matter how much he takes, he simply cannot get enough, always craving more and more and more.

If Achilles were a river, he thinks, he would drown in him with a smile on his face.

The intensity of his longing scares him, yet at the same time he would not wish for it to be any other way. Too sweet is the other's laugh when it erupts from his mouth, too bright the green of his eyes when they gaze into his own, the image forever preserved in his mind.

There is more, still.

Even when they're apart, he can feel the man's touch against his skin.

At every given opportunity, Achilles brushes through his curls or traces patterns against his shoulder. His hand lingers against the small of Patroclus' back as they walk along the shore or squeezes his knee in reassurance. More often than not, he ends up wrapping his fingers around his own. Patroclus is not used to such casual touches but Achilles is shameless in his actions, never misses a chance to bring them into contact. Who is he to complain?

The spots he has touched tingle with warmth for days to come.

It is on one of these nights, their fingers laced together, that he wonders how he ever spent a single day without the other in his life. Though their conversation is not always filled with joy and laughter, his troubles somehow appear lighter in Achilles' presence, and judging from the looks he casts him, it's a mutual sensation. Time and time again, they offer each other a moment of peace amid the chaos.

Not in his wildest dreams could he have imagined things to turn out this way. Had someone told him he would find himself hand in hand, cheek to cheek with this man sculpted from gold, he would have laughed at them and rolled his eyes.

His newfound reality feels like one of the stories his mother used to tell him and sometimes it almost seems too good to be true. Any moment now, he thinks, he will wake up, the dream shattered and gone forever. Then Achilles squeezes his hand and he knows it is real.

In the middle of the war something managed to grow between them, and though fragile like a young sapling in spring, he knows that it has the potential to take root.

„Do you ever wonder?“ he asks, turning his head towards the other.

„Wonder what?“

Achilles' eyes remain fixed on the night sky, features relaxed. The small line of worry that sometimes appears between his brows is smooth tonight, and his lips are curved into the hint of a smile. Patroclus is sure there is not a more beautiful sight to be found in the world.

„Why we met. Of all the people who could have been roaming the beach that night ... it was you and me.“

It's not the first time he has wondered about it, asked himself whether their meeting was one of mere chance or – and his heart flutters inside his chest at the thought – a strange twist of fate.

The gods are cruel like that, he thinks wistfully, sharing only fragments of their knowledge even when a lifetime is concerned. Achilles has told him many things about the prophecy, but surely not even he knows every detail of it. He barely dares to hope that somewhere, between the lines speaking of the other's glorious deeds and tragic end, his own name is written.

"I'm glad it was you," Achilles pulls him from his thoughts, releasing his hand in order to turn onto his side. "Whatever led you to me that night, I'm not going to question it."

Warmth blossoms inside Patroclus' chest at the words and he has to remind himself to breathe evenly. For what must be the hundredth time that night, his gaze flickers towards the other man's lips, soft and inviting and oh so close. Yet every time he feels like giving in to the temptation, he stops himself.

The touches, the gentle whispers against his ear, it's simply who Achilles is, not used to thinking before acting. As a prince, the other never had to ask permission; as the son of a goddess, he never had to fear rejection; as the Greek army's best fighter, he does not need to worry about possible repercussions.

Patroclus knows that, no matter what his heart longs for, he can't allow himself to read too much into it. At the same time, he wonders whether that same foolish organ was just waiting for this man to finally awaken it.

"I'm glad, too.”

The sound of their breathing mixes with the gentle rushing of the waves. Once more no words are needed, every single one of Patroclus' emotions laid open on his face. The way Achilles studies him with an unreadable expression, he is almost sure can read his mind.

“Yeah?”

There is a strange kind of tension lingering in the air between them, one that makes Patroclus' skin prickle. It's like the moment of calm before a storm, somehow tangible and indescribable at once.

A low roll of thunder sounds inside his chest and he counts.

1 … 2 … 3 … 4 ...

Lightning comes in the form of lips crashing against his own.

Their movements are feverish, yet at the same time he feels as though the whole world has come to a halt in their favor. All he can see, taste, feel is the other; the sensation too much and not enough all the same.

Forgotten is the war as the other's lashes tickle his cheeks like the wings of a butterfly. Forgotten all his secrets and worries as his hand comes up to cup Achilles' neck. None of it matters, not in this moment that is theirs alone.

His fingers grasp at the air.

Where there was warmth just a second ago, now there is nothing but the cool breeze coming from the sea. In place of Achilles, there is only emptiness. All he can do is sit and watch as the other disappears in the distance, his feet making no sound as they hit the earth.

Inside his chest, lightning and thunder turn into an outpour of rain.

[pomegranates-and-blood]

νοσταλγία (Chapter 4)

(Gif credit to @iceandabyss​)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader (eventual)

Summary: This is a retelling/romantization of the Greek myth of Persephone’s abduction with Ivar as Hades and you as Persephone. The Reader character is a Byzantine woman, follower of the Greek Pantheon/Religion, and a devoted follower of Persephone. This takes place after 5A, but the universe of this is a little changed in relation with the series, of course. Thank you for giving it a chance, hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: The usual :)

A/N: Hi! I decided to post a second chapter this week so we can finally kick-start the plot, and tho I can’t promise double chapters every week yet, the Saturday chapters are a certainty, and let’s call the Tuesday ones a bonus :) Anyhow, would love to know what you think of this so far, and thank you so much for reading!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius​

You awaken in the middle of the night as Sieghild barges into the room you sleep in, and without warning her arm, muscled and inked, locks around your waist and she drags you out of the building and towards a small tunnel that leads you both past the walls and near the woods.

She keeps dragging you, ignoring your threats and the kicks you deliver without much strength to them. The way she moves between the trees with such certainty, the way her steps are measured and fast as they step over the frozen ground never ceases to amaze you.

She throws your body with surprising strength against a nearby tree on the first clearing she finds, making you dizzy as your head hits the trunk.

“Ah! W-What are you doing!?” You grunt, but Sieghild doesn’t answer, green eyes set on her task as she brushes your hair away from your face and cups your head in her hands.

“Quiet. There’s worlds past our own.” She advises, and with quickened breaths you rake your eyes over the suffocating trees around you and, in the distance but somehow close enough, you see the faint lights of the Varangian encampment.

Your eyes return to your mother, and before your lips can form the words, the questions, you remember.

“There’s worlds past our own,” Aamir says, dark eyes, black eyes, set on the fire. “And there’s worlds in between.”

You steal a quick glance to the shieldmaiden, but she keeps her gaze ahead, even if the small quirk of her lip tells you she notices your stare of confusion and mirth.

“In between.” You repeat, and the man turns wise eyes to you. The confusion, the scorn, fade within you into curiosity, into that same madness that made you cross the Aegean on an old fishing boat.

“Between the dead and the living,” He explains without hesitation, “Between this life and the next.”

“They sound lonely.” Someone quips, but the man smiles, shaking his head slightly.

“They are filled with opportunity. Life or death, past or future,” His almost black eyes set on you, and your breath catches in your throat, “nostalgia or hope.”

And in her green eyes you see the choice shining. The question, the test, the goodbye and the welcome home.

“I’m staying with the Greeks.” You whisper, feeling as if you have sealed your own fate without knowing what the Gods have in store for you. Feeling as if Sieghild does know, but cannot tell you.

Looking down at you, she smiles through the pain of loss and the tiredness of war.

She looks firmly into your eyes and whispers, “And so it is fated you do so.”

“I can’t help but feel both our Gods have looked away, mother.”

But she shakes her head, the twin braids on each side of her head flowing with the movement. Her gaze is electric, and there could be a sad smile playing at her lips.

“I have asked Freyja for guidance, for help, ever since we arrived in Scandinavia. She has answered, but not in the way your Mistress would.”

Sieghild leans forward and presses a kiss on your forehead. You have a feeling she is saying goodbye in more ways than one, and tears clog at your throat.

“What are you saying?”

She ignores your question, expression determined and fierce, “I hope I have grasped the meaning behind the Seer’s words, my child. I hope so with all I am.”

Nothing makes sense, and there’s…there’s tendrils of a voice you cannot quite catch of a meaning you cannot quite understand, and you are suddenly a child again, listening to the strange woman speak in tongues you feel are familiar and yet foreign; you cannot…you cannot…nothing makes sense.

“What seer?”

But she shakes her head, “It doesn’t matter anymore,” She presses her forehead to yours, and your eyes fall closed, “I will not be here come morning, minn dóttir.”

A small part of you feared this would happen, feared that when Sieghild could taste back the spirit of her people, could hear again the war drums of the Vikings; she would choose to stay with them.

And you cannot blame her. If you found yourself surrounded by foreign customes and foreign people, even if you loved some of those people, even if you had grown to know and follow those strange customs...if you were to find yourself back in Greece, you are certain no love and no familiarity could keep you from those lands that made both your blood and your spirit.

Sieghild brings you into a one-armed embrace, and you feel her chin over your head. Still, a small sob leaves your lips, both at the caving feeling of being left alone and at the pain that lacers her voice. You lost Narses, Galla and the rest of your people are dead because of you, and now you will lose her too.

She is all you have had, since you were a child. Since you have memory, her matted red hair, her comforting green eyes, her brutishly gentle nature, her inked skin; they have been your home, your family.

Sieghild finally pulls back from the somewhat embrace, and even if it feels like ages it is only a few fleeting moments where you meet her gaze and look back at her with tears in your eyes and shaking in fear, a child all over again.

Her fingers trace your cheek with motherly affection, “Make the ground where you are defeated become the realm where you will conquer, child.”

“Sieghild?”

She traces a symbol in your hand with her own fingers, you think a rune, but you only have eyes for her face, her motherly smile, her kind eyes, her marked skin.

“Survive. Until spring comes.”

She darts for the woods, leaving you weak and worn against the tree trunk. Bringing your knees up against your chest, feeling the taint of blood of your own and those not still on your hands even after you have rubbed them raw, you hide your face in your arms and let the cries leave your chest.

Sieghild is long gone, Narses is dead, your people are nothing but corpses on some faraway field, the city is afar. There’s no one to see you, no one to hear you.

And if no one hears you cry, you can pretend you were brave.

_____

“We have reached our agreement, and in time I will pay that debt,” Stithulf comments as you approach. If he notices the inquisitive glare you send his way as to why he is telling you this, he ignores it. “However, we also arranged for a payment in exchange for that Viking warlord accepting the possibility of negotiations, and I have to pay it now.”

“What is it?” You whisper, brow furrowed.

The scarred Christian motions with one hand, and before you can react there’s two soldiers at your sides, holding onto your upper arms and with ease holding you immobile. Stithulf approaches, taking advantage of your stunned body that cannot seem to react quick enough, and he sets heavy and burning shackles at your wrists.

“What are you doing?” You hiss at the black-haired Saxon, but he only raises his face high. “You cannot-…”

The sound of the chains moving as they exchange hands hurts your ears, like the shrill screams of a Priestess being burnt to death.

You remember rough and violent hands wrapped around your wrists, your arms, your throat; keeping you defenseless, keeping you from fighting back. You remember tight rope burning your wrists as you were tied and dragged to the pole where you would be set alight.

You have been beaten, you have been defeated, exiled, humiliated, betrayed.

But you never had chains put on you. Chains are…are for prisoners, chains are for slaves, chains are meant for people without freedom. You have killed and died for your freedom, you cannot…you cannot lose it now.

Narses, Galla, so many others are dead. Your home is no more. Sieghild has left you behind.

You cannot lose your freedom; it is the only thing you have left.

You look down into trembling hands and bite down a scream of your own.

Chains.

You have lost it already.

The soldiers at your flanks force you to move towards wherever the Saxon is walking, and the chains make you obey their command.

“You forced my hand, Greek,” He promises, pretending that regret pours out of his lips, “You were part of the price asked, and I had no reasons for wanting to keep you.”

But you still shake your head, tugging frantically at chains that follow your movements and chase after your wrists like hungry snakes. And you cannot get out, you cannot get free, you cannot…you cannot…

“Wh-…no, you can’t do this. Why…why!?” You cry out, not caring how your voice trembles and breaks. The chains are heavy, and so is your breath, “Release me, I am not yours to give away!”

The Saxon moves quickly, a thunder of rage and underserving authority, and the backhand across your face is painful but expected. Leave it to a man like him to hit you when you are bound.

Stithulf forces you to straighten yourself from the hit by grabbing painfully onto your jaw and turning furious eyes to him.

“I will not have you challenge me in front of those Vikings. You will keep your mouth closed for once.” The Saxon grits out, his grip on your jaw brutish and hurting.

You grit your teeth, but still bite out, “With a Christian keeping me chained, there’s not much I can say or do, Stithulf. You know this.”

Your body almost braces for another hit, but Stithulf only laughs to himself. Laughs, and you cannot help but open your eyes to find him, head bowed, eyes closed, chuckling like you have amused him, like you are an old friend joking with him.

“Oh, how I will miss you, Greek.”

You lick the cut his hit gave your lip, and return your eyes ahead as they warriors make you start walking. They lead you to the docks, and you catch sight of other slaves being boarded into the Varangian ships.

You are the only one in chains, though, and the burn of humiliation hurts as much as that of defeat.

Beady eyes you know well catch sight of you, and Leofric, one of Stithulf’s trusted men, one of the pigs responsible for Narses’ sacrifice, for the slaughter of your people; approaches you with a sleazy smile on his weathered face.

“Witch.” He greets, his voice dripping with arrogance and satisfaction. You don’t answer, but he does replace one of the soldiers at your side, his hand on your upper arm disgusting and invasive.

Two Varangian men wait for you and Stithulf to approach, one of them the King, standing tall and proud as he looks over you.

It shouldn’t sting like betrayal that he wants to make a slave out of you, it truly shouldn’t. But…it does, because you are foolish, you always have been. You truly thought he was honest when he talked with you, you truly thought he saw an equal and not a witch to pride himself in conquering.

But no, what was it Sieghild told you when she spoke of Rorik and what happened before the Varangians took Kiev?

“Never trust a man to choose you over anything, much less a man in power to choose you over the illusion of holding onto such power.”

“She is a pagan witch, but she has noble blood,” Leofric states without prompting, ignoring your glare. You feel the eyes of the Varangian on you, but you keep your enraged focus on the man that lists off qualities like you are a mare being sold for breeding. “The Greeks call her Queen, and she is worth quite a lot to more than one Kingdom in the Mediterranean.

Leofric’s hand finds your throat, and your entire body coils as your lips part and a bubble of panic starts on your chest.

“And a good lay, even.” He sneers by your ear, giddy with the power he now holds. Narses is dead, and Stithulf has no use for you; your protections in this land are long gone, and he believes he can do as he wishes with you.

Better men have tried.

Stithulf steals a glance to you, an almost challenge for you to speak up written in his eyes. You keep your gaze on his and let your lips curve into the beginning of a smile, because even if you know it is a lie you feel anything but the desire to squirm out of your own skin, you will be dead before giving it away.

His eyes narrow slightly, but he says nothing as he passes on the chains to the Varangians like who offers the leash of a dog, and at the reminder of the chains binding you, the pressure in your lungs is almost the same as that of those first weeks after you survived the pyre those Christians built.

It is only then, with more than iron chains in his hand, that Ivar the Boneless takes his pales eyes to meet your own.

He smiles, terrifyingly and hungrily, and a shiver runs down your spine. Your mocking smile drops as dread settles over your very bones, but you refuse to lower your gaze.

The tug he gives to your chains to bring you closer is as humiliating as before, but you have to follow the commands of the shackles in your wrists, and you stumble a few steps until you stand by him.

“Priestess.” He greets lowly, and your nose furrows.

“Viking,” You hiss back, because of course you wouldn’t keep your mouth shut. You lift your hands bound by heavy metal between you, “I spent too long a Christian’s attack dog, I refuse to die a Varangian’s prisoner.”

He chuckles, cruel and every bit the King you tried not seeing him as. Ivar the Boneless.

“You think you have a choice.” He mocks with a disgustingly fake smile on his lips.

You still lean closer, “You better than any man here knows what I have done to keep myself from being a prisoner.”

It staggers you how easy it is to bring a strange softness to his gaze, so much so that you believe him to be fooling you for a moment before he speaks.  

“I don’t want to make a prisoner out of you.” He promises without hesitation, without shame. And your anger returns, pushing back the curiosity, the foolish hope, the weakness.

“Then why am I chained?”

“Was there any other way to get you to do as I say?” The King replies easily, the mocking smile once again on his lips.

Regardless, he loosens his hold on the humiliating leash, and your eyes are drawn to his hand. You catch sight of the now dirtied and bloodied bandage around the hand he injured yesterday, and are reminded of the knife you saw him pull out of some secret sheath in his armor.

And if the same guile that made Narses lay an army at your feet is the same that tries keeping Ivar the Boneless from reacting when you put chained hands over his armored chest, no one can blame you.

Women are taught to play these games. The more binds they put on you, the more tricks you learn.

“But you didn’t try any other way,” You argue quietly, looking into his eyes, and even if your closeness, your caress, are lies, your next words are not, “I thought I could trust you.”

The King does not react, body almost frozen but still challenging and calculating as he gazes down at you. His chest rises and falls under your hand and you take a breath and lean even closer.

It would be easy, you ponder, grabbing the knife and attempting on his life, futile attempt as it would be. You could cut your own throat, they couldn’t stop you, and you wouldn’t have to live to see the day a Varangian makes you his slave.

But that would be too easy. Hushed teachings of strength and composure travel from your memories, your mother’s voice and Sieghild’s mixing together in a choir.

You muster a quick prayer of protection and strength in your mind before you go through with your stupid, stupid, stupid idea.

Gritting your teeth and trying to ignore the tremble of your hand as it finds purchase in your target, you wrap careful fingers around the knife you saw sheathed at his ribs, grabbing a hold of it.

You can see in the barely-there widening of the Viking’s eyes, on the sharp breath and the tension coiled around his shoulders that he knows what weapon you hold in your hand now.

He doesn’t move, the only change you notice along with his breath is the slight adjusting of his grip on the crutch. Your eyes dart to his hand and back up into his own, and a challenge shines in them, a curiosity and something else, something darker and stranger that you cannot help but find alluring.

He is challenging you to put that knife to use.

I did promise that while a Christian held me in chains I wouldn’t act.

You turn around with a small smile, feral as it is, on your lips. The chains stop you from doing any real damage, but a deep enough gash runs down Stithulf’s face, and that is enough for you, even if it means your death. The wound over the Saxon’s eye pours blood, and you allow yourself a laugh.

“I will crawl out of the Underworld if I have to, but I will find you again. And I will send you to Lord Hades bearing the mark of my sacrifice. Let the dead know who you have wronged, let the Furies torment you until I have my chance to.” You snarl in Greek, eyes set firmly, manically even, on the commander.

A mark of blood, a vow to the Gods. You know you will kill him, and as you look into his eye you think he knows it too, even if he didn’t understand a word you said.

The chains yank again, painful against your sore wrists, and you comply. Dropping the knife to the ground in front of the Varangians, you try quietening the deafening beat of your own heart in your ears.

Stithulf keeps his good eye on you, enraged but oddly enough not surprised. Maybe you were wrong, he wasn’t stupid enough to believe Narses’ words about your meekness and your obedience.

The sudden tension not much unlike the stillness before the beast pounds takes over the dock as the warriors, their attention drawn in by the commotion, wait with baited breath for the next action. Both Saxons and Vikings stand in waiting for any movement.

The man with the blondish braid that was standing behind a few steps is the first one to break the silence, walking towards you with ease and bending down to pick up the knife.

He just…laughs.

The man just laughs, and it is in startled silence that you are tugged back by your chains to the King’s side. The man’s warm eyes travel between you, still in chains, and the now bloodied Saxon holding a hand over his eye.

“Almost lost an eye to a chained Christian woman,” The man says, looking at Stithulf with a smile on his young face, “That will be a story to tell.”

The Viking looks back at the Saxon leader with knowing clear eyes, expecting the strike back, expecting the fight. He delights, you realize, in taunting the Christian with the retribution he cannot have.

Whatever argument they were bound to have, or whatever vindication Stithulf was to set upon you, is quickly tampered by the humiliation. Good.

You could swear the man that spoke out, as he turns around, looks into your eyes with something akin to understanding for a moment.

Clearing your throat and past the fear and pain, you croak, however broken your attempts at speaking past the knot in your throat may be,

“N-Not…not a Christian. Never.”

The man regards you in silence for a moment or so, before finally acquiescing with a nod.

“I noticed,” He says with a smile, and looking for a moment at the man that holds your chains, the Varangian that spoke to save your hide leans closer, but you do not feel threatened, “I’m Hvitserk.”

You smile, the first genuine one you felt in so long, but you still don’t reply with your own name. He notices, but says nothing as you are led to the boats.

“Sons of Ragnar,” Stithulf speaks out, stopping both the King and Prince on their tracks. “Be certain I’ll kill you.”

“I’m certain you’ll try.” Hvitserk replies with a mock flourish, turning his back to the Saxons.

The Varangians board their ship, and you have no choice to follow, a vindicated sort of defeat guiding your movements.

_____

Hi, thank you for reading! I would love to know what you think of this chapter, and the story so far in general! Finally we reach the abduction part of the abduction myth lol

Thank you so much for your support, it means a lot to know people are reading and (hopefully) enjoying what I write! You’re the best!

[otonymous]

A Bolt From The Blue (MLQC Shaw - NSFW) - Part III: Near & Far

Description: Promising beginnings and a premature end throw you into a tailspin Warnings: NSFW/18+: Explicit/graphic language & mature themes — reader discretion is advised.  Potential trigger warnings: depictions of mild PTSD symptoms, mentions of death of a close family member, disappearances, “breakups,” angst, profanity Word Count: 1882 words (~9 mins of falling in love and wallowing in angst 😱😂) Author’s Notes: If you’re still following this story, please accept a giant (virtual) hug from me to you!  Thank you very much from the bottom of my heart for supporting me and this piece of work! 💖 Without further ado, I present to you part 3 of my slow-burn Shaw fic, written for the lovely @op-peccatori​ as part of my follower milestone celebration.

As always, dear reader, please note the potential trigger warnings listed above, and happy reading! 😊

Jump to Chapter(s): One | Two | Four

⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️

“You can relax, you know.  I won’t try anything funny while you sleep, not my style.  Besides, isn’t this much better than camping out on the floor?”

Nodding your head before you realize that Shaw probably couldn’t see you in the dark, your “Yes” comes out in a mewl so pathetic you wished you could immediately take it back.

His snicker shakes the bed, reverberating across squeaky springs to where you lay beside him, right at the edge of the twin mattress as you tried not to let your hands touch.

No matter how much you wished for them to.

Beyond the window, a neon signboard paints electric shadows on your walls in splashes of pink, flashing in time to a rhythm Shaw tapped out with one foot beneath the covers.

“Is it cool if…if we didn’t draw the blinds tonight?  I can’t sleep in complete darkness.” He had asked you earlier that evening, towelling off his hair as he emerged from your bathroom wearing a shirt your ex had left behind along with your broken heart a year and a half ago.

Snoopy looked much better riding his skateboard across Shaw’s broad chest anyways.

And there, in the midst of an awkward arrangement where sleep would surely prove fleeting, the sounds of the night: the low hum of the refrigerator, the pawn shop’s sign buzzing just on the other side of the windowpane…the tick-tock of the clock on the wall, steady like Shaw’s breath beside you as it counts down precious time—

“I’ll be out of your hair first thing tomorrow morning.”  

Ba-bump.

“No, there’s…there’s no rush.  Honestly.”

“Can you really afford to miss more work because of me?”

Silence.  You couldn’t refute the truth.

“Tell you what, in exchange for putting up with me, you can ask me anything you want.  I’ve seen the way you look at me sometimes; surely you must be curious about some things.  Might as well find out before I go.”

Your stomach knotted, clenching tight.  He was right.  For all you know, it was now or never.  “Why did you join?  The triad, that is.”

He is silent for a moment, as if trying to find the right words to piece together.

“I’m looking for my brother.”

Out of all possible answers, this wasn’t one you were expecting.  Turning onto your side, you study the handsome profile of his face — watching as pink mixed with lavender in the most ethereal way until you were overcome with the sense that in this vast ocean of life, you and him stood on very different shores.  Eyes still fixed on your ceiling, Shaw continues.

“He was an undercover cop, working to infiltrate the ranks of the group I’m currently a part of.  I only found out by accident, and he made me swear up and down not to breathe a word of it to mom.  Then one day…he was gone.  Just...disappeared off the face of the earth.  Mom and I went down to the station every day for months, knew the names and faces of everyone who worked in that building, but it was like Gavin never even existed.

“It was too much for her.  I came home late from school one day — found her on the floor, barely breathing.  It was dark in the apartment…so dark.  She had probably just drawn the curtains.  By the time the paramedics arrived, she was already gone.  Heart attack, they said.  

“I lie awake at night sometimes, wonder how I’m going to tell him that mom’s no longer here — go through the motions in my head, rehearsing every line.  ‘Cus I know that sooner or later, that day will come.  There’s no way he’s dead.  I know my brother.”

A glimmer at the corner of his eye catches yours.  Beneath the covers, your fingers inch towards his, finding courage in the darkness to brush against his pinky as if the sliver of warmth could express what words simply couldn’t convey.

“With mom gone, there was nothing to lose.  I joined the group, worked hard…did what they needed me to do to gain their trust, all while collecting scraps of info here and there — whatever I could get my hands on in the hopes that it’ll lead me to Gav.”

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

Tiny drops of rain speckle your windowpane.  And when Shaw’s finger hooks around yours as if in a solemn pinky swear, the tears burning your eyes finally fall.  You don’t ask him how many years it’s been, the dirty deeds he’s had to sully his hands with.  You don’t question him about the father he doesn’t mention.  All you can do is watch as a solitary drop rolls down the side of his face before soaking into lavender strands fanned out on the pillow, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows back bitterness only he knew.

In spite of it all, he is the one who chuckles when he turns towards you, eyes red rimmed even as his brows rise in feigned exasperation when he says, “Why are you crying?!  I’m the one with the tragic past here!”

And when you start to cry even harder, his soft hushes of “Shh, shh…I’m sorry, that last part was a joke.  It’s all right, everything will be okay, I promise,” burrows deep into your heart and you believe him.

Because when he reaches towards you — the thumb wiping the tears from your eyes calloused yet gentle — you are struck by a sense of overwhelming tenderness:

In the carefulness of his touch.

In the way he regards you with the sincerity of some unspoken emotion.

In the entirety of this man whom the rest of the world has already written off.

And that is when you know…

“I didn’t mean to make you cry by telling you all this, I’m sorry.”

…that you are in love with him.

“I’ll make it up to you.  Ask me another question.  Maybe something less depressing this time.”  

A smile spreads across his face.  You wished there was a way for you to keep the warmth of his hand on your cheek forever.  Sniffling, you try again.

“Wh-why did you keep coming in to my store everyday?  There’s a lot of other convenience stores in the area—”

A flash of panic in those amber eyes, and Shaw is turning over with lightning speed until all you can see is the smooth expanse of his back.

“Changed my mind.  A guy’s gotta keep some secrets!  Goodnight!”

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?”

Wrap your arms around the pillow.

“Good girls shouldn’t concern themselves with bad boys.”

Bury your face into its cushiony fill.

“Or have you forgotten that I’m wanted by the police?”

And inhale deeply.

Shaw’s scent on your sheets is faint now, so much so that you can’t be entirely sure you’re not imagining it, having gone through this ritual countless times since the day Shaw left your apartment…

…and stepped out of your life.

                   *                                         *                                          *

“Is there…any way I could stay in touch with you?  I-I just…just want to make sure you’re okay…”

Voice trailing off, you watch as Shaw gingerly shrugs one arm then another through the sleeves of his leather jacket, still wearing the Snoopy t-shirt he had slept in the night before after you told him he could keep it.  His own was torn beyond repair, stubbornly dyed in blood regardless of how much you scrubbed at it.  And when he hesitated still, you said he would just be doing you the favour of taking out the trash.  

Smoothing down the front of his jacket, Shaw glances at the phone in your hands — eyes tracing along your eager fingers, poised to type.  The expression on his face is unreadable, as if the man you had spent the night sharing secrets with was nothing more than a figment of your imagination.

“It’s better if we don’t.  I’ll be fine, just laying low for the next while — boss’s orders.  And I don’t want the cops coming around to your place again.  Detective Whatshisname looks like he could be really good at hounding pretty girls like you.”

That smirk again, so familiar to you by now.  And in the compliment that would’ve made you blush bright red before, nothing but a smokescreen.

“Shaw, I don’t mind—”

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?" The force in his voice cuts, and you barely breathe to feel his finger curl beneath your chin, tilting up your face until you have no choice but to meet his gaze.  Those eyes are dull, like molten gold frozen beneath a layer of impenetrable ice.  “Good girls shouldn’t concern themselves with bad boys.  Or have you forgotten that I’m wanted by the police?”

The shiver that runs electric down your spine makes the hairs on your skin stand on end.  It was like looking at a stranger.  Heart racing, your palms grow clammy with sweat, unsure of exactly when your phone had dropped from your hands, slipping away like…

“I don’t care about the cops!  I’ll deal with them—”

“DEAL WITH WHAT?!  You think that just because you managed to turn them away at the door that it makes you a hardened criminal?!  WE are not the same, okay?  My life is worthless.  I’ve already signed it away a long time ago, I’m ready to give it up without a second thought.  But you…you’re different. Y-you’re kind, innocent.  You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.  One day, you’ll make someone the luckiest person in the world, be a beautiful mother to beautiful children.  Don’t sell yourself short…not for someone like me.”

The silence that descends is thick, suffocating.  You don’t speak, afraid to open your mouth because it takes all your concentration just to keep the tears from spilling from your eyes.

Finally letting go of your chin, Shaw reaches behind his neck to undo the clasp on the thin gold chain he wore, the jade disc pendant that hung from it still warm from the heat of his skin when he places it in the palm of your hand.

“It’s not much, but it was a gift from my mom and the most valuable thing I own.  You saved my life, so it’s yours now.  Maybe…maybe one day, you can give it to your own child.”

Lump in your throat, you can barely breathe, let alone tell him there was no way you could accept something that precious, something that priceless.  That you didn’t drag him home that night, broken and bleeding, in the hopes of gain; not for money, not for love.

He curls your fingers around the heirloom, gentle thumb pressing on index, middle, ring then pinky in turn before your fist finds itself held tightly within the press of his much larger hand for one…two…three seconds…

…before those purple Chuck Taylors take him to your door…

Slam.

…and just like that, the man with the lavender hair is gone.

⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️

Forgive me for trolling, but there really was only one bed LOL!  Hope you all enjoyed the latest chapter, and please stay tuned for what may be the final instalment in this Shaw saga! - XOXO

Jump to Chapter(s): One | Two | Four

Thanks so much for reading! 💕 Check out more of my work here! 📚(Please do not repost/copy/alter my work.  Reblogs, on the other hand, are a-ok and much appreciated! 👍🏼💖)

[yandere-daydreams]

Commission for an anonymous donator.

Paring: God!Todoroki/Death!Reader

Part One. Part Two.

TW: Mentions of Death and Unhealthy Relationships.

Spring brought new life, and Shoto welcomed it.

Out of his many tasks, he’d always found Spring to be the most pleasant. Melting snow, raising field of wildflowers, welcoming in a new season mortals and Gods alike enjoyed as much as he did. He was never the most joyous deity, but it was a wonderful time of year, to be celebrated with festivals and holidays and all the things Shoto took pride in being the patron of. Damage was done, sure, but it was limited. One of the few times Shoto got to help, rather than hinder.

Of course, there was little he could do to get rid of you. You were always there, in the background, your actions always a consequence of his own. You followed in his footsteps, like a mutt on a lead, and Shoto despised you for it. You never plagued his siblings, who chose to dwell in their respective environments without complaint, only Shoto, the one who brought change. He tried to be gentle, to be kind, but you waved your hand and suddenly, a snowmelt was seen as a tragedy rather than relief, something to be feared rather than longed for.

You took his efforts, and you wasted them, ruined them. You and all your many faceless servants. Shoto attempted to drive you off, raising crops and fighting off the cold of the season before, but Death saw opportunity in prosperity. Crops could spoil and warmth could be as deadly as the freeze, and although Shoto knew you couldn’t be held responsible, he still dreaded your appearance. He wanted to be wanted, as much during times of hardship as he was in periods of affluence. You stood in the way of that.

Summer brought contemplation, and Shoto did his best to ignore it.

There was little too be done in the lingering, warm months that made up the longest part of the year. The sky grew brighter and the world grew hot, and while Shoto’s obligations were constant, they rarely took very long to take care of. It gave him time to think, something Shoto’d never cared for. It was a lonely time, as well, the sun taking far too long to set and the moon only just gracing him with its fleeting presence, and for once in all his eternal life, he was glad to have the company of someone as silent as himself. You guided him, in a way, led him to a village you deemed worthy of drought or a river you’d judged undeserving of its water. It was a quiet companionship, but it was companionship, and Shoto was happy to have it. He could’ve gone to his family, he supposed, but it was Touya who occupied this terrain, and Shoto wasn’t eager to take part in another wildfire.

You rewarded him for his compliance. With soft words, soft touches, things only a creature as inconstant as himself could be capable of. You evolved as he did, developed and adjusted, and in a way, Shoto was envious of you. Apathetic, but dutiful. Impassive, but devoted, a contradiction Shoto desperately wanted to be a part of. He was no great mystery, even if some failed to grasp his simple methods. Sometimes he was wanted, sometimes he was ignored, but you didn’t have the same indecisive nature. You were never called, and yet, you made yourself present nonetheless.

Shoto never accepted your praise, but he cared for it, as one would cherish an illness that garnered them the attention of their peers. He wasn’t sure what he’d do without it.

Autumn brought change, but Shoto never thought it would be so painful.

It was a busy season. That was what he attributed your absence to, at first. You had no interest in changing the colors of leaves or casting every evening in a golden glow, not when there were opposing armies attempting to get the last traces of violence out of their minds before the frost made any sort of combat impossible. But, suddenly, the changes were made and you still declined to show your face. Your shadows still danced around him, your psychopomps making their lazy circles like lurking sharks, waiting for their leader before diving in for the kill, but Shoto wasn’t naive enough to mistake them for you. He wasn’t a fool.

You seemed to disagree.

He was angry. He was angry, and then he was vengeful and then he was scared, more scared than he’d ever had a reason to be. He tried the only thing he could think to do, calling to you through one of your servants, screaming into any disaster he could conjure. “You’re gone,” He’d written, hastily, giving no thought to his words. A second couldn’t be spared, not when his temper was so easily tested. “You’re gone, and you should not be. What can I do to bring you back?”

Your answer had been a simple one, delivered by the same spirit he’d sent off with his question. “Your duty.”

Winter brought Death. For the first time in a long time, Shoto relished in it.

He’d always been tame, preferring light snowfalls over blizzards, frost over ice, little things mortals could hide from under trees and inside of shelters Shoto always felt had been allowed to grow too tall. But, his preferences were no longer of consequence, not when your rapport was at stake. As winter approached, storms formed, massive things just as irritable as their creator. Ice seeped into every crack and crevice that could hold it, and in the areas he couldn’t reach with his freeze, he flooded, burnt, decimated, did whatever he could to tear down the monuments of the mortals who no longer honored his arrival.

As winter came to an end and you maintained your distance, Shoto continued. You needed an incentive, a massacre, one that may take centuries to carry out. Shoto didn’t mind. You’d given him so much, he could see that now, and more than that, he took pride in the work he did in your name. If all it took was heat and charred Earth to gain your affections, then he’d turn continents to ash.

It was what you deserved, and he wanted to give it to you.

The time of year wouldn’t make a difference in that.

[ninbayphua-moyan]

Calico

Warm evening sunlight streamed in through the lightwell, painting the dimly lit room in a dreamy pastel gold, quite like that of a faded photograph or a muzzy memory. The balmy air was steeped in the fresh, earthy petrichor of a recent shower, blanketed with a sense of Saturday languidness. A gentle breeze, pleasantly cool against the slight stickiness of my skin fleets through the wide-open windows, carrying with it the alluringly sweet scent of frangipanis. Closing my eyes, I leaned back into the well-worn rattan chair, legs stretched out lazily as I took a deep breath, listening to the faint rustling of palm leaves.

          Shsshhhhh…shwsshhhh…shhshhh…nudge? Just as I was about to be lulled off to sleep, I felt something small and damp poking at my toes, followed by a tickling brush of fur around my ankles. Opening my eyes, I found myself staring into a pair of bright, forest green orbs. Its thin-slit pupils stared right back at me, alert and unblinking, watching…waiting…There was something unnerving about that sharp unwavering gaze…almost as if it could see into my very soul and read the sins of my past.

          Minutes passed but neither of us moved, brown eyes gazed into green and green eyes into brown. At the open doorway it sat with its tail curled around its toes, still as a statue yet perfectly poised, each muscle humming with trapped energy, ready to spring into action at the slightest notice. Under the smoldering intensity of its gaze I felt paralysed, as if it had cast a strange spell over my muscles, rendering them useless.

          Then it moved. Its long sleek tail unfurling from its snowy white paws as it took slow, measured strides towards me. The light streaming in from the wooden louvred windows casted stripped shadows on its tri-coloured coat. And, just for a split second, instead of a common household guest, I saw a flash of its forest dwelling ancestor. Its black, orange, and white patches distorting and melding into camouflaging stripes. One soundless step after another, slinking closer and closer, all the while maintaining eye contact. It was the hunter and I was the hunted. Pausing at my feet, it took an effortless leap and landed on my lap in one fluid and graceful motion. At first, neither of us moved. Then it blinked and the spell was broken. In an instant, the illusion of the apex predator transformed back into that of a sofa lounger.

          Rubbing its head against my neck, it started purring. Its narrow slit pupils were now dilated to the size of large round saucers. A smile tugged at the corner of my lips as I scratched its chin and stroked its head fondly, recalling our first encounter many years back……

          It was a Saturday evening just like this one and I was lying on the hard majolica tile floor comfortingly cool against my skin in the sweltering Malaysian heat. A large piece of drawing paper laid sprawled out before me, colour pencils strewn about as I tried to trace the mosaic patterned tiles. Its kaleidoscope of bright colours a stark contrast against the plain wooden and rattan furniture of the living room.

          I was so focused on my artwork that I didn’t notice a little visitor until a sudden shadow was casted over the drawing paper, effectively breaking my concentration. Looking up from my masterpiece, I came face to face with a pair of large, forest green eyes of a tiny calico. We both froze, our noses only a hair’s breath away. I blinked. From its matted fur covered in dirt and its half-starved appearance, I had guessed that it was a stray. For a long while, neither of us moved. Then, instinctively, I reached out a hand towards the kitten. As if waking up from an enchantment, the little calico blinked and darted out the door, tripping over the wooden doorway plank in the process. I got up hastily to chase after the little calico but by the time I reached the door, it was long gone. Thinking I’d never see it again, I sighed in disappointment and went back into the house.

          Much to my surprise and delight, it came back again the next evening. I was sprawled out on the floor reading a book when a familiar shadow was casted over the pages. Looking up, I saw the little calico sitting in front of the doorway, gazing at me unblinkingly. Worried that it would just run off again, I hastily got up and was immediately stopped by a firm but gentle grip on the shoulder. Turning around, I saw A-Gong[1] shaking his head before giving me a light pat on the back, motioning for me to wait. I sat back down reluctantly and watched as he tottered over to the kitchen.

          A few minutes later, he came doddering back with a bowl of boiled and shredded chicken meat and a bowl water. Placing the metal bowls a distance away from us, he went back to his rattan chair, giving me a knowing smile. Nothing happened at first, and I was starting to get impatient. However, heaven rewards the patient because sure enough, the little calico took a hesitant step forward. Inching closer to the bowls and tenderly lapping up its contents. Once the bowls were empty, it would lay curled up in a corner watching us before slinking back out in the night.

          Day after day, it’d come back. Always sitting patiently at the doorway, as if waiting for an invitation to enter the house. A-Gong would always have a metal bowl of food and water ready for it each evening. As time went on it became part of our evening routine whereby A-Gong and I would sit in the living room with the little calico. Each night, it’d come up and rub its head against us before leaving.

          I remembered the day A-Gong passed; I came back to find the little calico waiting by the door. Going into the silent house, I made the usual and placed the bowls in its usual spot. I sat in A-Gong’s favourite rattan chair and watched it lap up the contents, wondering if it realised that he was gone and if it’d miss him too? A sharp stinging pricked the back of my eyes, tears threatening to fall as my body shook with suppressed grief: heartache, regrets, longing, even anger.

          As if realising my torment, the little calico stopped eating and padded slowly over. Pausing at my feet, it took an effortless leap and landed on my lap in one fluid motion. Without saying anything, it snuggled against my chest, purring softly. The warmth radiating from its small body comforting in the cold and silent house.

          That night, it didn’t leave like it usually did and I fell asleep, cuddled up with it on A-Gong’s favourite rattan chair. A momentary reprise from the grief.

          Looking down at the now fully-grown calico, a bittersweet smile wound its way onto my face as I gaze at the content expression on its furry little face. Oh, how A-Gong would’ve chuckled at that dopey expression it made…

NOTES:

[1] ‘A-Gong’ means ‘grandfather’ in Hainanese

Author's Notes:

Back with Part 2 of the short story slash prose pieces from uni series (this part was written in second year lol) The piece is a flashback to A-Yun’s childhood so a slight detour from the main story timeline wise but the detour will make more sense once it gets to Part 3.  Anyways, I hope you enjoyed reading Part 2~ 

Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 4  

Since exams are over and graded and I've officially graduated, I can finally post my work online without having to worry about Turnitin picking it up as plagiarism because apparently you aren't allowed to plagiarise yourself according to university which is absolutely ridiculous but I'm not the one making the rules here so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Also, please don't reupload my works without permission.

[curekibouka-writing]

Take My Heart with You (Pandora Hearts one-shot fanfic)

Summary: It is in autumn that she lost him, but it is in autumn that she recalls...

A/N: The more I try to rewrite this, the worse it becomes, so I’m just gonna post it before I ruin it enough to want to delete it. (And I’m already a few days late so...)

@phmonth2021 Rainsworth Trio Week day 5 - Autumn

@i-prefer-the-term-antihero @maddyisenough

*This fic is also on FF.net and Quotev

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Good day to you, mother,” Sharon kneels before the grave on the right, then turns to the one on the left, “And to you too, Xerx-niisan.”

If not for the cold breezes prodding at her skin (occasionally bringing with them cold memories to prod at her heart), she could hardly believe that it is late autumn again, that a year has almost passed since...

The breeze frolics between her fingers, as if coercing her to recollect his passing, as if coercing her to recollect how his skin was just as cold to the touch.

Back then she dug her nails into his coat until her knuckles turned white as if that would somehow prevent him from slipping away.

Alas, his life was void like this wisp of wind. Her hands feel warm again the next second, not a trace of the scattered zephyr left.

It still feels surreal, how someone she had certainly loved perished in such silence, such mundanity.

And yet she’s still here, living out her life with her hands warming up. Not frozen. Not broken. So she really has to ponder, how certain was her ‘love’?

Had she loved him for his loyalty? For his many years of servitude? In return for the numerous times he had kept her safe?

Had she loved him as a brother or a father? As family? For all the burdens he had shouldered in consideration of her well-being?

Had she loved him as an individual? As a male? As someone she had wished to stand beside in sickness or in health, until death did them part?

She scoffs. What is she, a novel character? As if pondering about it would change the fact that she never even stood a chance... Never, not against her own mother.

His heart had been stolen from the start, and she knew that.

She was about 11 years old when she had noticed, before then, her head had still been regretfully stuck in the fictional world of dashing princes and pretty princesses who would fall in love with the former.

It had been autumn too, where fallen leaves were swept across the air, along with affectionate words burning with the same colour.

She ran into the garden merrily, about to call out to her mother and her valet as they came into view.

She slowed down. Something hadn’t been right.

The two of them stood face to face. Her mother said something, and his eye — one overwhelmed with so much sorrow on the day Sharon had found him 3 years prior — brightened up.

That crimson eye averted its gaze, but her mother gingerly guided it back to herself with a delicate hand on his cheek. Everything around them seemed to have vanished. There was only him and her, alone in a world of their own, segregated from obligations and expectations, in a fleeting moment where they allowed themselves to stay lost in each other’s presence.

Everything was so perfectly in place that she had wondered how she never noticed before. Her mother’s cranberry-coloured eyes shone lovingly as always — no, perhaps more than ‘always’ — complemented with a hint of longing, meeting his evasive wine-red gaze.

His lone eye reflected his fear of being unworthy, and yet the joy in it had been far too conspicuous to remain unnoticed.

She should know, because a few years after, when she was mesmerised by the sweet fantasies of adolescence, she had burnt him into her sight with those very same eyes.

Yet she still never stood a chance.

When her mother breathed her last, Sharon was devastated, certainly. She remembers the long days of lamenting and the long nights of weeping, and she remembered her valet offering her a gentle smile in her time of need.

But somehow she sensed that he had been in a far more bottomless chasm of despair than whatever she could fathom.

The vitality and joy which had once returned to his wine-red eye because of her mother had been washed away with the silent tears he had shed for her mother. Whenever she looked into his eye, she would no longer find the elation she once saw in it.

From there on out, she mourned how much sorrow and loneliness she could feel from his eye alone, how little it resembled the eye of a human.

He resembled a specter instead, long gone, only still wandering in this disgusting world because of some unfulfilled love and some crippling regrets.

She knows how he felt. They both chased after autumn breezes destined to cross the boundary of winter before they do.

Yet at the same time, she doesn’t know. Because she still lives, still breaths, not even half a foot inside the boundary.

But is that really such a crime? After all, what is there left for her to linger on? Her mother had long since taken his heart to the grave with her.

Yes, when enough time had passed, even he had regained his sweet, silly grin, as if nothing had changed. But that ever melancholic eye of his would never gaze upon anyone in the same way, not Sharon, not anyone else.

Even the scarce moments in which he had looked at her with affection of a similar magnitude, she knew that he had only been looking at her resemblance to her mother.

But it was only fair. After all, she was exactly what he saw. A spoiled, greedy, prissy lady who constantly relied on her knight’s protection, who never quite managed to prove herself worthy to stand by his side.  

Not like her mother, who had healed him, who had taken his hands and yanked him out from despair into a world he had been blind to, as a benign God would heal a man born without sight.

Sharon was incapable of such a feat, incapable of bringing him solace. It was frustrating, yes, but she understood that she was no match.

For that autumn day she had witnessed their secret was blooming with more life than any spring morning, raging with more passion than any summer afternoon, and shimmering with more beauty than any winter night.

She blesses them, she’s still proud of how she insisted if Break were to be buried anywhere, it must be beside her mother. There were far too many limits but never enough time when they were still alive. Maybe that helped them find each other in afterlife. Maybe that helped them perpetuate their somehow warm autumn.

What more could she do, other than wishing them the best...

...and letting him take her heart to the grave with him?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The End