#every tiny atom of my body yearns for you

[willow-by-the-brook]

every line on my lips every permanent scar every wrinkle each smile line has your name etched into the crevices and your name echoes deep within their bounds.

if only you would attempt to taste that name of yours which you utter with such contempt and such unfamiliarity you would discover the sweet delectabilities the passionate, rich tarts and the homely, comforting intoxication that your delightful name is painted of.

[snackhobi]

pairing: jimin x reader / word count: 9.1k / genre: smut (NSFW, 18+)

summary: you wouldn’t mind your cute neighbour being such a shameless fuckboy if a) the walls weren’t so thin and b) he didn’t seem intent on adding you as another notch in his bedpost. 

but there’s only so much you can resist park jimin, especially once he gets that peach involved.

warnings: sexually explicit content, Jimin being completely shameless/a lowkey ho, messy peach eating, mentions of masturbation, oral sex (m + f receiving), overstimulation, protected sex, multiple orgasms (f), dirty talk and some cursing, hmm I think that’s it?

a/n: I was so close to calling this ‘jimin and the f*cking peach’ as some terrible homage to ‘james and the giant peach’ 😂🤧 as always I would like to thank @hobi-gif for beta reading this, putting up with me having a meltdown at her, and encouraging me to write smut at work rather than doing my job, ty queen xoxo

--

It’s official. Park Jimin is the neighbour from hell.

He’d tricked you, to start with. With those cherubic features, those doe eyes, and his cute little smile? He looks like an angel. A sweet, innocent angel, one who’d knocked shyly on your door and presented you with a small selection of chocolates when he’d moved into the apartment next to yours. Your heart had gone boom boom at the sight of that cute smile, the slip of teeth, the way his lovely face had scrunched up. 

Nowadays, whenever you see that face, you want to punch it.

Well. Not punch it. Maybe slap it a little. Because Park Jimin is a fiend. 

Your studio apartment is cheap for many reasons. The plumbing is creaky and the heating isn’t exactly great but those are small sacrifices for such low rent—ones you’re willing to make. Creaking doesn’t bother you and throw blankets exist for a reason, right? You get a balcony and a parking spot, which is more than you can say for a lot of other places in this price range, so you’ll take the negatives for these positives.

But you’d give up all the things you love about this cheap flat for some sound proofing.

Because Park Jimin fucks. 

A lot. 

He’d been nothing but lovely for the first few weeks. You’d barely been aware of his existence, minus when you could hear him in the bathroom—your flats are mirrored, rooms sharing walls, so you’d been washing your face when you’d heard his shower start up and then the sound of his dulcet tones drifting through the wall. That had actually been really nice; Jimin can hit some high notes, and it had been a pleasant backdrop as you’d cleansed your face. It had been another bullet point you’d added to the list of things you thought were cute about him (along with his face, his laugh, his smile), and you’d stupidly started to develop a tiny little crush on this boy-next-door, thinking him some soft, kind thing.

But then he’d started to have people over.

You’ve lost count of how many days you’ve had to listen to the moans and gasps that echo through your walls. You can’t escape from it. As a freelance programmer, you’re pretty much always working from home, so it’s not like you can get away from the sounds of pleasure that shudder through Jimin’s flat and into your own.

It’s never consistent, either. There’s not a single hour of the day that’s off limits to Park Jimin. Morning, afternoon, night; the boy is always ready to go, apparently. And judging from the sounds through the walls? He never leaves anyone unsatisfied either.

Which, like, fine. People fuck. You get it. You’re not judging. You just wish it wasn’t so loud. You have to sleep, for God’s sake. But it’s not like you can knock on a new neighbour’s door and be like hey, I appreciate you have an incredibly active sex life, but can you keep it down, please?

So you’d bit your tongue. You’d gritted your teeth to bear it. You’d still smile at Jimin if you ever passed in the hallway, acknowledged him with a small nod, exchanged pleasantries, all the neighbourly stuff that you’d do with anyone. You’d just invested in some good earplugs and thought that was it.

And then Jimin had started doing his morning yoga routine outside. 

You start each day with a cup of tea on your balcony, watering your hydrangeas and enjoying the dawn sun that lifts up over the horizon alongside your plants. It’s a small, singular moment of quiet in an otherwise dull day and you treasure that serenity.

Well. Treasured. Past tense. Because Jimin has invaded this part of your life, too.

The first time Jimin had unrolled his yoga mat on the balcony adjacent to yours, he’d been dressed in a deceptively unassuming outfit—a loose white t-shirt and leggings that hugged every inch of his calves and thighs and shapely ass, which you had pointedly Not Looked At. He’d tilted his head at you with a smug little smile flickering at the edge of his lips, and when he’d greeted you good morning, you’d responded in turn, even if you were still annoyed at how he’d interrupted your afternoon nap the day before with the sound of his headboard smacking into the wall repeatedly. You were still fairly new neighbours and you still felt like you had to be polite, even if he was starting to fray your nerves.

And then he’d started to bend. 

Now, you’ll be the first to admit that you don’t know much about yoga. But you’d swear Jimin was choosing poses that did the utmost to display his flexibility, the flex of his muscles and twist of his limbs, balancing his body on his arms before easing into a pose that had him bent in two, head towards his toes—and with how he had his back to you this meant you got full glimpse of his ass, straining against his leggings, the way his loose shirt slipped up his body to reveal the lines of his stomach and chest, how his face was still twisted into that little smirk even if it was upside down.

Staring at you.

You’d promptly stopped watering your hydrangeas and walked inside your flat, shutting the sliding door behind you.

Jimin is relentless.

He’s pretty and he knows it. All that shy, new-kid-on-the-block innocence he’d had initially is completely gone, and all he does is flirt, flirt, flirt. He winks at you. Stands a little too close whenever you talk. Lets his eyes flicker down to your lips, trail over every inch of you, lashes fluttering when he catches you watching, unashamed and unabashed. He frequently just… hangs around on his balcony. Not topless, no, but he may as well be, his thotty muscle tees doing nothing to hide him from your eyes.

(The worst thing, though, is when you catch him unawares. When he’s tired and clearly not expecting you to be awake, too, his eyes sleepy and his hair ruffled; a little vulnerable, a lot softer than he usually presents himself. Curled up on the small seat on his balcony with a hot drink in his hand, phone in the other, his screen throwing blue-tinted light over the easing lines of his features.

You wish Jimin was like that all the time. But the second he sees you, his eyes flicker, and his brows lift, and his mouth curls, and once again you rue the day you had a fuckboy move in next door to you.)

It’s not that Jimin isn’t hot. It’s not that you wouldn’t fuck him, either. But you have no interest in being some sort of convenient hook-up for him, purely there by circumstance, fate, whatever you want to call it. You dread to think of him sending you haha wyd x texts whenever he feels like having sex and you just happen to be nearby. So you weather all of his obvious come-ons and swerve him something chronic, even if he seems intent on making his attraction to you obvious.

You’ve been managing it for months. But as time goes on, your patience wears thinner and thinner, an atom-thick layer of fortitude the only thing keeping you from grabbing Park Jimin and kissing him and/or killing him. It doesn’t help that you haven’t fucked for a while now, and you’re reminded of this every time you hear another pornstar moan through the wall (the people Jimin brings home seem to like hamming it up for effect), every time you see another mosaic of hickeys laid across the column of Jimin’s gorgeous throat, every time you see the way his yoga outfits do nothing to protect the delicious shape of his body from your eyes.

You dig your fingers into your palms. It’s fine. It’s okay. You can handle Park Jimin and his overt sexual energy, oozing out of him almost every second of every day.

It’s a little harder to handle how he still seems sweet despite his fuckboy nature. How he picks your parcels up for you. How he lets you use his laundry detergent when you run out. How he lets you keep food in his fridge when yours breaks down and you have to wait for a replacement. How he sheds that fuckboy facade whenever it seems like you genuinely need help, how you’ve heard his soft phone calls through the wall, to his friends, his family, sweet and kind and supportive.

Park Jimin is a multi-dimensional being, for sure, and maybe you sometimes wish he was actually genuinely interested in you as a person and not as a lay, so you could peel back those layers to the lovely core at the centre of his being.

But it’s fine. You can handle this stupid yearning and pining. You can handle the knowledge that Park Jimin is a genuine gentleman who just happens to like fucking, is open in his desire for it, and is apparently Very Good at it. It’s difficult, but you can do it.

You can do it.

The date you set up with someone from Tinder ends up being disappointing and lacklustre. You’d escaped before dessert, unable to put up with one more second of this asshole going on and on about stocks, and investments, and trading, or whatever, cursing the day you’d decided to swipe on him. You’re so sick of your luck (or lack thereof) with guys. (At least the food had been nice.)

Of course Jimin sees you schlepping your way back into your apartment, disappointment obvious in the line of your shoulders and lips; it doesn’t take a genius to clock your date outfit, cute as it is, makeup and hair soft. But the night has barely begun and here you are, stepping back into your flat. Alone. 

“Bad date?” Jimin asks, voice gentle, and you just snort.

“Just like the rest of them,” you reply with a small sigh, before shutting your door quietly behind you, missing the look on your neighbour’s face.

Jimin, to his credit, eases off after this. You’re not sure if it’s due to a misplaced sense of pity or something, but even if he still smiles and flirts lightly with you, it’s less… salacious. Still there, still obvious, just a little softer. You hate how this has you feeling grateful towards him, because he’s still got so many fuckboy tendencies that it should outweigh this gentler side of his flirtation, but your traitorous heart still goes gooey every time Jimin smiles at you.

But then. 

But then.

There’s that fucking peach.

You’re just chilling on your balcony, sipping at a glass of lemonade in the warmth of the afternoon when you hear Jimin’s door sliding open. You flick your eyes over at the sound, watching the way Jimin slips out onto his own balcony, how he throws something up in the air and catches it with ease, a flick of the wrist, a curl of the fingers each time he catches it again.

He hasn’t had any fuckbuddies over for a while. A few weeks, almost a month. It’s the longest Jimin’s gone without having sex for as long as he’s started having people over and you’d been sort of concerned. Which, yeah, you know it sounds super weird when you think about it, especially considering how much you complain about Jimin to your friends—help, my fuckboy neighbour hasn’t fucked anyone in nearly a month so I’m worried if his dick has fallen off or something.

(Well, actually, you know his dick is still attached, based off the little gasps and moans he lets out whenever he pleasures himself in lieu of fucking someone else. You’ll take this secret to the grave but those noises that Jimin lets out have been the melody you use to reach your own peaks, although you’re a lot quieter than he is whenever you touch yourself, biting your lip and muffling the wet sounds of your fingers thrusting into your cunt under layers of blankets. You’d never give Jimin the satisfaction of knowing that the mental image of him fucking into his fist and cumming over his stomach and chest is what throws you over your own edge, toe-curling orgasms that shake through your body in time with Jimin’s own.)

Anyway. He looks loose limbed and relaxed when he saunters into view, utterly unsurprised by your presence behind your window box of hydrangeas, giving you his usual, sultry smile. 

He’s started to ramp up his flirtations again. This smirk is one which you’ve learned not to respond to. You just stare levelly back at him, unimpressed as you start to water your flowers, which does nothing to dissuade him. It never does. He clearly revels in the challenge.

Jimin keeps his eyes locked with yours as he lifts his hand to his lips. You catch a glimpse of what he was throwing and catching—a ripe, flush peach, tiny droplets of water shimmering on its fuzz, freshly washed.

And then he starts to eat it.

The peach yields immediately to the press of his teeth. Juice bursts out of its softness, running down his lips, his chin; he makes no moves to wipe it away, the lewd sound of his slurps as he curls his tongue into the fruit, messy and sweet.

It’s shameless. He’s shameless. His gaze is unwavering as he stares at you, his mouth glistening with the peach’s juices, the only sound the wet smack of his lips and tongue as he licks up the honeyed liquid that drips from his skin, curving around the fruit as he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing.

Water’s been trickling from your small can onto the hydrangeas, cascading over the plants; the soil is waterlogged now, but you haven’t noticed, fixated on the way Jimin is looking at you as he wantonly eats out this peach.

Drip drip, goes the watering can.

Drip drip, goes the peach.

By the time there’s nothing more than the pit in his hand, Jimin is a mess. His fingers and mouth and chin shine with peach juice, eyes dark and heavy as he watches the way you drink the sight of him in, the way his tongue slowly drags over his full lips, catching the sweetness that lingers.

The second he puts his tongue to his fingers to get the stickiness on them, that’s it. You watch the way he sucks his fingers into his mouth and promptly put the watering can down and turn on your heel to walk inside, slamming the balcony door shut behind you.

You’re done. You’re only human. You’ve spent months with Jimin parading himself in front of you, seen the way he contorts his body every morning in an unnecessarily complex sun salutation, listened to the way his voice rises when he cums; the peach is the metaphorical cherry on top, and you’re just. Over. It. 

You hammer your palms against your neighbour's door, rap-rap-rapping on the wood, your blood rising and your heart thudding in your chest, every part of you tense, wound up, pent up. The door swings open to reveal Jimin, his chin still slick with sweet peach, lips curling up in a self-satisfied smile when he sees you.

“Park Jimin.” Your voice shakes and you hate yourself for it, hate the way Jimin’s eyes glitter at the sound, the little hitch in your breath. “You are a fucking menace, you know that?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says. He leans against the doorframe, effortlessly gorgeous, hip cocked, head tilted. He lifts his hand, and there’s a heavy moment of tension as you watch him slowly swipe a thumb over the last remnant of juice on his chin, before his tongue lolls out of his mouth and he licks the final taste of peach from his fingers.

When you grab hold of his collar his expression shifts from something coy into something far more self satisfied, months of his brazen come-ons finally culminating in this—you, shoving him backwards into his apartment, kicking the door shut behind you.

“I swear,” you say. “I swear to God—”

“You swear? I can think of better things you could be doing with your mouth,” Jimin says, and then laughs when you scowl at him. “Damn, you’re so hot when you’re mad.”

“You are infuriating,” you bite out, and Jimin just laughs again, his whole body shaking, every part of him still loose and relaxed even as you continue to tighten your grip on his clothing, feeling every motion of his body under your hands. You hate how pretty he is, even now, utterly unafraid of your frustration—the brightness of his eyes and his smile, that undercurrent to it all, the way his hands slide so smoothly around your waist, your hips, sliding down to grope at your ass.

“I know,” he agrees, still giggling, and then he kisses you.

Jimin dives straight in, no holds barred, and you immediately melt into putty under his touch. He lets out a hum of satisfaction into your mouth as your hands go lax and slide down his chest. You can still taste the peach on his lips, his tongue, licking into his mouth.

You’ve thought about this mouth more times than you’d like to admit: the full swell of his lips, the little curve of his cupid’s bow, how it’d feel pressed against your own, and honestly? It’s so much better than you’d let yourself imagine it to be.

He nips at your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue, and you bite off a gasp when he pulls you forward, grinding against you. You shudder. Jimin’s mouth is a pleased curve against your own before he pulls away, murmuring in your ear in a voice that’s equal parts sultry and sweet.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, kissing the sensitive skin of your jaw just under your earlobe, making you shiver. “Just relax. You’re always so tense.”

“Maybe that’s because my neighbour keeps me up all night,” you say, but your voice is weak, no strength behind your words, breath stolen out of you at the way Jimin starts to trail his lips down your neck, across your throat. “I find that constantly getting my sleep interrupted—oh, oh—”

Jimin sucks at the hollow of your neck, the delicate skin there so sensitive to his touch, the warmth of his lips magnified, every nerve ending alight with pleasure. Your hands have slid into his hair and you unintentionally tighten your grasp, fingers tugging at his dark locks, and Jimin bares his teeth against your skin.

It’s maybe a little embarrassing how wet you are just from a little making out. But after months of Jimin teasing you and putting you on edge, coupled with how long it’s been since you've had sex? You’re allowed to be a little desperate. All the small frustrations you were about to voice die on your tongue, slipping away from you as Jimin starts to walk you backwards with a confidence that shows just how often he’s done this—leading people to his bed, never taking his hands off you.

By the time Jimin eases you to lie down, you feel breathless. He hovers above you with that satisfied smile flickering at the edge of his lips, taking in the sight of you, finally underneath him—lips kiss swollen, exquisite, all the sharp words on your tongue softened and gone, goosebumps trailing down your skin. You tug at his collar, which catches him off guard; he sways forward and almost hits his face against yours, but before he can spend too long looking smug at your desperation you capture his lips again. You melt into the mattress, hooking a foot over his calf and revelling in the weight of him between your legs, your hips flush, and how hard he’s getting through those stupidly tight leggings of his.

When he grinds against you, the outline of his cock pressed up against your cunt, an embarrassing whine leaves your lips and trembles against Jimin’s own. Jimin goes still before pulling away from the open-mouthed kiss and when you see the expression on his face you slap a hand over your mouth, burning with shame.

“Oh.” He sounds delighted. “You’re noisy, huh?”

“Shut up,” you say, though your words are muffled against your palm. He grinds down again, a slow and deep roll of his hips that lets you feel how hard he is, and a noise shudders out the back of your throat, audible around your hand.

“It’s hot.” There’s that little smirk on Jimin’s lovely lips, every inch of him dripping self confidence. He knows how you’re entirely at his mercy, in spite of your words; your voice is weak. “You’re normally so quiet.”

“Some of us try to be considerate and think about our neighbours.”

Jimin just smiles, pulling your hand away from your mouth before gently kissing your palm, a motion that’s surprisingly tender and makes you pause. 

“Trust me.” His voice is low. “I do think about my neighbour.”

Your breath hitches when he slides his free hand under your shirt, trailing his fingers over the softness of your stomach. He pulls the fabric up, letting his gaze rove over the bared skin. The way Jimin looks at you makes you feel like you’re the only woman in the world, like he’s never seen anyone prettier.

You wonder if he looks at his other fuckbuddies like this.

The thought slides away from you as Jimin dips his head and starts to kiss your throat again. You tilt your head back as his lips trail across the soft skin, his hands coming to rest under your breasts, contained as they are by your bra; once he coaxes you to sit up, it only takes him a few moments to strip your upper body, kneeling between your spread legs as he starts to trail his hands over the parts of you that are now bared to him.

“Pretty,” he says. You’d roll your eyes if he didn’t sound so reverent, and also if you weren’t distracted by the way he flicks his thumbs over your hardening nipples, your core clenching as he does, biting your lip to stop yourself from making a sound. A frown flits across Jimin’s face and he lifts one of those thumbs away from your breast, dragging your lip away from your teeth, letting his grasp linger so your lips are parted. “Don’t do that. I've been waiting for months to hear you properly.”

Before you can reply, he kisses you again, licking into your mouth and swallowing down the noise you make when he drags his hand between the valley of your breasts, down your stomach and settling between your legs, running his fingers over your cunt, the feeling dulled by layers of fabric even though he presses with intent. Your hips jolt at the sensation, and Jimin repeats the motion, dragging the fabric across your flushed lips.

“Jimin.” Your voice is a gasp against his mouth, and you can’t keep the pleading out of your tone, desperation bleeding into every letter of your words. “Please.”

He just hums, sounding pleased, and a breath of surprise escapes you as he pushes you back against the pillows. He wastes no time in getting to his prize, drawing a scattered constellation of kisses that trail across your chest, your nipples, your stomach, the line of your hip bones as you lift up so he can pull your shorts and underwear off. You’re entirely naked underneath him, bare and wet, cunt flushed and shining, and Jimin groans at the sight.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, fingers digging into your thighs as he pulls your legs wider. Your cheeks burn as Jimin stares at your pussy, but you can’t help but feel a pulse of self-satisfaction at the visible twitch of his cock in his stupid yoga leggings. “You’re so wet.”

You should probably feel embarrassed, but by now you’ve thrown all your previous inhibition to the winds. You’ve ended up somewhere you’d privately sworn you were never going to—in Park Jimin’s bed, leaned up against his pillows, laid out for him to touch and take and have, every inch of you desperate for it. There’s nothing in your brain or body but arousal and need. So instead of letting out a snip of a remark you just cant your hips towards him, another pleading sound slipping from your lips.

He gives you what you want. He dips his head and trails his lips and tongue down, down, down, wet and hot, until they press against your cunt. He looks at you with the same hooded eyes as earlier, motions of his mouth an echo of his peach eating, sloppy and messy; he’s unabashed in the way he slides his mouth over you, lips slick and tongue hot, sliding over every sensitive inch—sucking your clit, licking your folds, burying his face between your legs and drinking up every sweet drip of your juices. 

You can’t help but make noise. Small gasps that slide into moans of pleasure, hitches in your breath that make your chest jump and your breasts shake; Jimin lets out noises too, muffled against your cunt, sounds that let you know he’s enjoying himself almost as much as you. It’s honestly pretty fucking hot, the way your own pleasure seems to turn him on, how he chases that feeling, eyes blown as he takes in every one of your reactions, repeating the motions that are affecting you the most.

The sight of him between your legs has you tensing. He continues to stare up at you, the curve of your stomach when you bow towards him, the fall of your breasts, which he slides his hands over, cupping them in his palms, pinching your hardened buds, layering sensation on sensation, never taking his mouth off you.

When he presses one finger inside, and then another, both thrusting firm and deep as he mouths at your clit, you tangle a hand into his hair. He watches the way your hips jump from the sensation of his tongue directly on your clit, and does it again, and again, your voice crescendoing from the explosion of sensation, how it’s too much, before he circles his lips around it and sucks messily. Your brain registering nothing but his lips and tongue against you, the hands that are trailing up and down your sides and still skimming across your breasts.

You’re not even aware of the words that are falling from your lips, oh fuck, yes, Jimin, there, oh, the way your grasp tightens in his dark hair, your hips bucking against his mouth as you can feel your orgasm approaching. The pleasure keeps building, flames fanning brighter and brighter as Jimin buries his mouth even further in between your legs, fingers speeding up as you gasp.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” you chant, voice getting higher. “I’m gonna cum, I’m cumming, oh—”

Your words slide into a moan as your back arches and your thighs tighten around Jimin’s head and you cum. Jimin continues to finger fuck you through it, your cunt pulsating around him as he keeps licking and sucking at your clit, his gaze fixed on your face as your eyes squeeze shut and your mouth falls open and every line of your body sings of the pleasure that Jimin has given to you. Even when your legs and hips start to jolt from oversensitivity and you cry out at each ripple of his tongue against you, he’s relentless, almost cruel in how he watches you writhe from a mixture of pain and overextended pleasure.

You're sobbing by the time Jimin pulls his mouth away from your cunt, tears pooling in the corner of your eyes, body shaking as you try to suck in air. He thrusts his fingers into you one more time, slow and deep, watching the way you turn your head into the pillow and muffle a gasp against it. 

“I knew you'd look and sound gorgeous when you cum,” he says, and though you feel boneless from your post-orgasm high, you can’t help a little huff escaping your lips. Jimin clearly catches the sound, quiet as it is against the linen of his pillowcase, and takes your chin in his hand to turn his face towards you. His fingers are slick with your arousal, wet against your skin.

“You sound like you’re reading off the script to a porno,” you murmur.

One of his eyebrows arches. “Oh? You don’t think I’m just speaking my mind?” Those fingers move away from your chin and trace over the swell of your bottom lip; you let your mouth fall open and swallow them down, licking the taste of yourself off Jimin’s skin. “You don’t think that I’ve been thinking about how pretty you’d look as I fucked into you, begging for me to let you cum again and again?”

Your tongue stutters against his fingers and your core clenches at his words, the dark undercurrent underneath them, and Jimin’s expression shifts as he notices.

“You really have no idea, do you?” He runs his fingertips over your tastebuds, saliva starting to pool in your mouth, the slide so wet and messy. “Who do you think I picture whenever I touch myself? Who do you think I was wishing was in my bed every time I took someone else home?”

You nip at his fingers, running the edge of your teeth along his knuckles from equal parts surprise and disbelief at his words. You find it impossible to believe that he really means that, but then you realise—recently, on the few occasions you’d bumped into Jimin in the hall when he’d had one of his lays trailing behind him, for as different and unique each of them was, each one of them had shared some sort of trait with you. Hair colour, eyes, the set of their lips, the shape of their face; once, you’d heard a girl giggling through the wall before it had trailed off into a moan, and you’d done a literal double take at how much she’d sounded like you. Similar, but not exactly the same, a slightly off-tone echo of the sound that spills from your own lips whenever you laugh.

And the emptiness in his bed had only started after the night that he’d seen the way you’d trailed into your apartment with discontent heavy around your shoulders, disappointed at that awful Tinder date.

Oh, fuck.

“You’re shameless,” you say, words a little garbled around Jimin’s fingers, but you know he understands.

“No, I’m not,” he replies, a small smirk curling up the corner of his lips. It should be illegal: the way he has such soft features that can turn so quickly into something sharper and entirely sensual, eyes hooded, lips flushed, the column of his throat so lovely and graceful as he tilts his head to one side. “I just know what I want and don’t try to hide it. What’s shameless about that? I know you want me too, but you always deny yourself the things you want. Don’t you?”

You hate that you’ve been so transparent in your attraction to him. Because the truth of the matter is that for as much as Jimin frustrates you with his entire existence, you do want him. After all—you wouldn’t be naked underneath him, still trembling from the aftershocks of a deep orgasm, if you didn’t.

“You’re not always as quiet as you think, you know,” he adds, pulling his fingers out of your mouth and enjoying the way your eyes widen at his words. You thought he couldn’t hear you through the wall, but it seems like you were wrong.

Before you can say anything in reply, though, he grinds down. Without your clothes in the way you can feel the drag of his yoga pants against your cunt, how the wetness of your cum and Jimin’s spit soaks into the fabric, his hard cock hot, and you let out a whine. He still has yet to remove any of his clothes and you want to  see them off so he’s finally naked. You’ve seen enough of his bare skin over the months to have a pretty good idea of what that looks like, but you want to see the real thing.

Jimin seems just as eager to shed his clothes, yielding to your grasping hands and carelessly throwing his top aside; you end up straddling his waist and kissing down his chest in an imitation of his motions earlier, letting your fingers trail over the lean muscle from his yoga and dance. When you tongue at one of his nipples and he gasps, you feel euphoric. He’s unfairly beautiful, from the lovely collarbones to the flex of his shoulders and arms and the line of his chest and stomach, delicate and somehow entirely masculine. You still sort of want to slap him, but settle with kissing the hollow of his neck instead, digging your fingers into his ribs as you roll your hips down against him.

His own hips buck up. You can tell that he’s desperate to be inside you, but you want to taste him first. 

When you slide down his body and settle between his legs, you hook your fingers into the tight waistband of those stupid leggings and tug them down. Jimin hisses through his teeth as you let the material settle just under his hips, baring the top of his briefs to you, how his cock strains against them, the patch of wetness at the head, darkening the fabric.

You don’t strip him. Not completely. You just hook your fingers into those dark blue briefs and pull them down just enough to reveal the flushed head of his cock, wet with precum. You let your tongue flick out to catch that salty bitterness, and Jimin bites off a curse at the almost shy licks you start to lave across his slit, circling around the weeping head.

Hearing Jimin’s gasps without the wall in the way is honestly an experience. Before, whenever he had people over, they usually drowned him out, theatrical wails and groans overpowering his far more natural noises, but now there’s nothing to prevent you from hearing the way his breath hitches in his throat or the way he moans. Even the smallest things have him letting slip sounds, a noise escaping him as you coax him to lift his hips so you can finally, finally peel those leggings and briefs off, dragging over the hardness of his cock as you do. You want to take in the sight of him fully naked, give it the proper attention it deserves, but then you feel his cock throb in your hand and you can’t stop yourself from immediately lowering your mouth to it again.

His whole body shudders. You let your jaw fall open as you take him in, tongue curling around him, hands touching every part of him that isn’t in your mouth, making sure there’s no part of  him that isn’t receiving attention. His eyes are wide under the mess of his fringe, hair falling over his forehead as he watches the way you run your lips down the side of his cock before sucking one of his balls into your mouth, circling his length with your hands, a twisting rise and fall in the motion as you drink down the noise of surprised pleasure that drops from his lips.

Jimin’s fingers have been tangled in your hair but he lets you control the flow. The sounds of you swallowing him down into your mouth as you bob your head are obscene, wet and messy, but you can still hear how his voice starts to rise, how his fingers tighten against your scalp, and you know he’s close when he tugs you upwards and drags your lips away from his cock. 

Jimin pulls you towards him and you settle against his chest as you start to kiss again, shivering at the way he rolls his tongue in your mouth. This time when Jimin rolls his hips, there’s nothing between your skin and his, dragging the underside of his cock across your flushed lower lips, the slide between your folds and against your clit making you shiver.

“Condoms?” 

You’re breathless, and Jimin quirks a smile at you.

“Top drawer,” he answers. Of course they would be, in easy reach whenever he needs them. 

You lean forwards to reach for the bedside table and Jimin takes the opportunity to circle a hand around your breast and capture a nipple in his mouth, ignoring the way you bite back a surprised noise, staring up at you with almost innocent eyes as he sucks at your skin in the way he’s worked out that you like best. Your hands are a fumble as you pull a condom out of the pack, ripping the sachet away from the others, a bottle of lube rolling into your grasp. You try to focus on your task and not the sensation of Jimin switching attention to your other breast, cupping the swell of flesh in his hand and drawing his teeth gently across your skin.

“You’re insatiable,” you mutter, and Jimin laughs before he kisses between your breasts. 

“I’ve been wanting to fuck you since we first met,” he says, utterly unrepentant. “I don't want to take my mouth off you.”

“Insatiable,” you repeat, but you’re flustered. Even if you know he’s not lying, and you’re naked and straddling his hips, the taste of his lips and cock now familiar on your tongue, it’s… kind of incredible to think that the gorgeous Park Jimin has been lusting after you for that long. 

Or lusting after you at all, really.

But as you tear the foil of the condom, the look he levels at you is burning with desire, roaming over you, every inch of your nakedness, every movement of your body. His hands rest at your waist, thumbs rubbing over your skin as you hold his cock in one hand and roll the condom down with the other, letting your fingers circle his length, dragging your touch over the heat of him and revelling in the way he twitches. As much as you’ve thought of Jimin as a fuckboy, you know that he wouldn’t lie just to get someone in his bed, so as unbelievable as his words are, every single one of his actions backs up what he’s said: he wants you.

You don't notice how soft his gaze is as you take time to warm the lube in your hands, even though you’re desperate to feel him finally slide home. You've always been so considerate, even when he knows you've been frustrated at him, and that's evident now, in this small thing.

You spread the warmed lube over his covered cock, pumping it in your hand to get him slick and ready, loving the way he hisses though his teeth. He has to stop his hips from bucking up as you line his cockhead up with your entrance, his fingers digging into your sides as you hover in place.

“Come on,” Jimin urges. “Give it to me.”

“Insatiable,” you repeat, one last time, then you bend your knees.

You finally ease yourself down and onto his cock. You both let out moans; Jimin, finally feeling the wet heat of you around him, and you, falling into the sensation of him stretching you open, snug inside you, slowly splitting you open as you take him in, inch by inch, until you’re sitting on his hips and he’s fully buried in your cunt.

It’s been a while since you’ve had someone inside you. You grind downwards, rolling your hips, biting your lip at the sensation. Jimin’s chest expands as he sucks in a sharp breath, and you roll your hips again, a hand bracing on one of his lovely, thick thighs, the other resting just under his stomach as you lean back and arch your spine. You lift your hips, easy and slow, and then fall, Jimin’s cock dragging and pressing against your inner walls, a gasp shuddering out of your lips at the electric feeling.

Again and again, noises of pleasure drip from your mouth as you ride him, head tilting back at the sensations rippling through your body and across your skin, the apartment full of the sounds of your sex—the moans, the wet thrust of Jimin’s cock into your cunt, the praise that falls from his lips, months of feeling pouring from his lips. How pretty you are, how gorgeous, how well you’re taking his cock, how wet and tight you are around him; all the things he’s been thinking about, come to life, his hips snapping into yours as a sharp cry cuts through your lips at the sudden change of pace.

The pleasure’s been steadily building between your legs again, warm and unrushed, but then Jimin flips you without warning, fluid and graceful. Your eyes are wide as you end up on your back, Jimin’s hands braced either side of your head as he looks down at you with those dark, dark eyes of his. He thrusts forwards and your hands fly up to grab at him, your entire body shifting up the mattress at the force of his movements. His eyebrows are drawn together as he starts to drive himself into you, unapologetic in how aggressive he’s being, each thrust pushing the air out of your lungs in harried little gasps that shake the air between you.

The sound of his headboard slamming into the wall, a noise that’s been haunting you each time you’ve been trying to sleep or relax, is one you don’t even register. All you can think about is Jimin, Jimin, Jimin, caught up in the way there’s sweat beading across his forehead, strands of his dark hair sticking to it, the intense look in his eyes, the way his full lips are parted, small ah-ah-ahs falling from his lips in time with his thrusts, your body tightening around him each time he slides home.

You can’t remember the last time you were fucked this good. Jimin reads the language of your body with ease, knowing exactly when to lean back and trail a hand over your hips, circling his thumb over your swollen clit, the slide over that bundle of nerves messy from the mix of cum and lube and spit that’s laid slick across you. Each fluid roll of his hips is perfectly timed with the press of his thumb, your thighs going tense and your pussy clenching around Jimin’s hot cock as you start to reach another peak of pleasure.

“Cum for me, baby.” Jimin sounds breathless. “Let me see how pretty you are when you cum around my cock.”

Normally dirty talk seems so ham-handed and stuttering, but the words fall out of Jimin’s lips  as natural as breathing, thoughtless. Stirring your arousal even further. He’s gripping your hips, pulling you down each time he presses up, and you circle your fingers around his wrist as his other hand is occupied with rubbing at your most sensitive part, tightening your hold as you feel another orgasm approaching.

“Jimin.” Your voice is a keen. “I'm so close, please, there, right there, theretherethere—”

You can't blame Jimin's other partners for being so noisy. The sound you let out is just as loud, maybe even louder, Jimin continuing to snap his hip forwards as you cum hard, a drawn out moan that crescendos as you pulsate around Jimin's cock, still hard inside you. He watches the way you writhe beneath him, tangling his fingers with yours when you reach for him and swallowing the end of your moan in a surprisingly sweet kiss, his lips gentle against yours as he slows to a stop before you become too sensitive.

Your voice is a quiet murmur against his lips. “How have you not cum yet?”

His eyes squeeze into a smile as he laughs, light and bright, the sound so sweet. “I've got stamina for days, darling,” he says, oozing that trademark arrogance you’ve gotten used to.

You clench as hard as you can around him and feel smug when he bites off a shocked curse, his smug facade broken. You can’t help but laugh at his expression, scandalised at it is, though your giggle cuts into a gasp when he pinches one of your nipples and then soothes it with his thumb. He seems amused by the look on your face and then laughs in turn, the two of you dissolving into laughter that’s edged with pleasure, your motions shifting his length inside you.

When the laughter trails off, Jimin stays smiling down at you. You draw your hands over his body, tracing all that smooth skin, and he touches the back of your hands with gentle fingers. There's a beat of silence but it's not an uncomfortable one, the air light after your shared giggles. It's… really nice. It's nice and soft and sweet, just like the expression on Jimin's face, tender, even if he's still buried inside you.

You feel so empty when he slips out, already missing the thickness of his cock when it seems as though he’s about to coax you to roll onto your front. Your hands are still linked with his and you tighten your fingers, making him pause.

“I want to see your face,” you confess quietly. It’s probably too much to ask of him but you feel like if you’re turned away from each other then you’ll feel like nothing more than a fucktoy. Just another warm body in Jimin’s bed. You don’t want that.

Jimin stares at you, surprise written across his features before his expression softens. 

"Okay, baby," he murmurs indulgently. The small pet name sounds so sweet in his mouth. "We can stay like this."

He lets your hands go so that he can reach for a pillow that ends settled under your ass, tilting your hips up towards him. You’re not as flexible as he is—maybe you should start doing yoga too—but Jimin doesn’t push you far, hitching your legs up and draping your calves over his shoulders, leaning towards you so that the back of your thighs are warm against his chest. He's bent forward, face hovering above yours, so much skin-on-skin contact that your entire body feels warmed by him.

When he slides back in, you can feel the change in angle immediately. The head of his cock brushes over your g-spot and you suck in a sharp breath; Jimin notices, of course, aiming to hit it again, and again.

It feels good, of course. Amazing. But as much as you’d be happy for Jimin to make you cum again, you’d rather see him fall apart. 

You dig your nails into his shoulder blades, turning your head so you can press kisses along the line of his jaw, murmuring into his ear.

“Are you going to let me see you cum?” 

Jimin’s hips stutter as your words curl out of your mouth, warm against his skin. You’ve been picturing Park Jimin’s o-face for an endless amount of weeks and you’re ready to finally see the real thing.

“Cum on me,” you say, and then choke in a sob of air as Jimin responds with a sharp snap of his hips. “I want you to cum on me, Jimin, please.”

Your begging is shameless and you know it. Jimin’s face is so close to yours in this position and you can see how blown his pupils are, how his mouth is flushed from your kisses and how he’s been biting at them, his teeth digging into his lip as he starts to get faster, sloppier in his thrusts. It feels so good to know that you’re making him feel like this, that he’s reaching the peak of his pleasure with his body against yours, inside you, above you; he might have had other people in this position in the past, but right now it’s you who’s making Park Jimin come apart. 

You urge him onwards with large, pleading eyes, rocking down on his cock each time he thrusts forward, begging the whole time. Pleading for him to cum, to give it to you, to cover you. Jimin obviously likes you loud and desperate, and you're more than willing to give him what he wants.

He slips out of you, fumbling with the condom and carelessly tossing it aside before he starts to pump his cock, hungry to reach his peak as he fucks into his fist. You let your legs fall open as you watch the way his body tenses, his brows drawn together and little breaths falling out of his mouth, barely audible over the wet slide of his cock in his hand. You run your hands over your body, across the swell of your breasts, down your stomach, dipping between your legs, trying to look as arousing as possible, anything to throw Jimin over the edge.

"I've imagined you cumming for months," you confess, words thoughtlessly falling from your lips. "On me, inside me, in my mouth—"

Park Jimin’s o-face is just as gorgeous as the rest of him.

You love how noisy he is. He paints your stomach with his cum, ropes of white spattering across the soft skin of your stomach and hips as he rides out his orgasm, moaning as he continues to milk his twitching cock. It’s so fucking hot, honestly, as is the expression on his face when you swipe your fingers through his cum and lift it to your lips, mouth filled with salt and warm.

“Fuck.” He’s breathless, panting. “You’re unbelievable.”

You let out a small scoff, but it’s edged with affection. “Says the man who was ready to fuck me six ways to Sunday,” you say. “If anyone’s the unbelievable one here, it’s you.”

“I can last longer, but you’re just so hot,” Jimin says. You respond by curling your fingers at him, beckoning him towards you, and you end up sharing a series of messy kisses. 

You were, honestly, genuinely angry when you'd stepped into his apartment earlier, even if that irritation had been rounded out with arousal and desire. Now, though, you feel thoroughly boneless and content, loose limbed on Jimin's mattress, his lips and tongue moving against your own.

He leans too far forwards and smears his own cooling cum against his stomach. He doesn’t seem bothered, though. You’re the one who has to coax him to clean up, though with the way he looks at your still naked body, you know he would happily launch straight into a second round of fucking so he can add more cum to the canvas of your skin.

He really is insatiable, apparently, when it comes to you.

Even so, you wonder if Jimin’s going to kick you out now that he’s finally had a taste of you. He doesn't. He keeps you close, your body pressed against his side in a way that feels far more intimate than you would have expected.

“Are you hungry?” Jimin breaks the soft silence.

You’ve been trailing nonsensical patterns over his chest but pause when he says this. “Hm?”

“Are you hungry?” Jimin repeats, and there’s a cheeky smile flickering at the edge of his lips. “I have some more peaches in the fridge, if you’d like one.”

“That peach.” Your voice is an embarrassed hiss and your cheeks burn, but Jimin just laughs, boyish and bright as you slap halfheartedly at him. “That was just unfair. Who eats fruit like that?”

“Someone who’s trying to make it obvious that he’s imagining the peach is his neighbour’s pussy instead.” He’s so brazen. “And it clearly worked, didn’t it?”

It had worked. It's annoyingly effective, actually; thinking about the way Jimin had been staring at you as he tongue fucked that peach has arousal shooting through you, even after being so thoroughly fucked by him.

“Yeah, now you’ve had me,” you say. “What do you plan to do next?”

Jimin goes quiet. You wonder if you’ve misstepped, but then he sweeps his hand down the curve of your spine, goosebumps appearing in the wake of his touch.

“I was planning on asking if you wanted to go out for lunch,” he says, his voice so sweet, miles away from the fuckboy persona he usually puts on. This is the softer Park Jimin that you’ve caught glimpses of when he’s unaware, the side of him you wished he’d show more often—revealed to you, now. “Then, if you said yes, I was going to take you out on a date. If that date went well, then I was going to ask if you’d like to go on another one with me. And then another.”

One thing you know about Park Jimin is this: he doesn’t do dates. Each of his lays are one time affairs, no attachments made, no real connection beyond the physical act of sex. Your heart rate picks up.

“Obviously we’d fuck between dates,” he adds, raising his eyebrows at you in a way that’s so exaggerated that it makes you laugh. Of course. Jimin likes to fuck. “Unless you didn’t want to, but there are only so many peaches I can eat, you know?”

“So if I said I didn't want to fuck, and you ran out of peaches, what would you do?” 

Your question seems casual and light but Jimin isn't stupid. He knows what you're really asking. Is he genuinely interested in something more exclusive, or would you just become another notch in his bedpost if he grew tired of waiting for you to spread your legs again?

"I can always buy more peaches."

You stare at him. He's looking at you levelly, a small smile on his face that's a little cocky but mostly warm. And, well, you know he's already gone without other partners for you, even before he'd gotten you in his bed. Park Jimin is serious about you, it seems. He'll wait.

You mouth at his collarbones, tasting the salt of sweat as you kiss and lick at his skin.

"After lunch, we can go back to my apartment, if you want," you whisper against his throat.

Just because Jimin's willing to wait doesn't mean you're going to force him to, especially as you're still as hungry for him as he is for you. 

His hands squeeze your sides as you end up kissing again. You feel soft and ripe and sweet, easing under the touch of Jimin's hands and mouth.

"I still think you're a fucking menace, though," you add, and Jimin laughs so hard the bed shakes, still utterly unrepentant and entirely yours.

--

taglist: @beyoncesdragon​ 

[colossal-fallout]

Hello darlin, fan since 100 followers

Can I request a small modern au one shot of a M reader and Pieck and they’re having a movie night. Full of fluff and a hint of smut.

Cheers love

Thank you so much for being here <3 And you know i'm more than glad we met :)

Movie Night

Male bodied reader X Pieck

Warnings: 18+ Fuff & Smut

The soft rhythmic lullaby of your rested heartbeat soothed Pieck as her head raised slowly up and down with your breath, both of your heads turned facing the TV. Her body was between your legs with a soft throw-over covering the two of you, your finger tips lazily grazing through her liquid ebony strands.

"I love this movie.... I've not seen it for a while. It's one of my favourites." Her vocals are underlined with gratitude that you'd agreed to watch it with her.

You love her. Of course you'll gladly watch whatever she wants as your eyes flicker slightly at the sight of the vampire on the screen devouring it's victim - the crimson blood soaking into the white snow looked almost picturesque. It surprised you that one of her enjoyments was watching a movie about a village in Alaska being hunted like pray by these monsters.

The light weight of her upon your body is warm and comforting, her scent like spiced vanilla from whatever fancy shampoo she's been using. You feel her breasts pressing lovingly against your lower stomach as her head turns and nuzzles into you slightly with a deep sigh; the feeling of her scalp massage soothing her more than any Vanilla bubble bath could.

You hum in response before your lips part, vocalising your thoughts.

"I'm surprised you're not scared."

Pieck isn't one to be easily spooked, especially by some cheesy movie.

A tiny chuckle leaves her as her hand runs up your chest, her delicate palm trying to feel as much of you as it can.

"No. I'm not. I think it's an interesting idea."

You love that about her. There's just... something unique about Pieck Finger that you couldn't quite, well, put your finger on.

Her presence in your life was very much welcome, her soothing aura just screamed peace and harmony, especially within precious moments like this; where it's just the two of you lazing around without a care in the world. The snacks from early places gingerly on the floor as you cosied up together in your fortress of solitude.

Her name suddenly leaves her sweet lips, barely audible.

"Hm?" You reply, glancing down - not sure if you'd heard her actually mutter something.

"I love you." She vibrates with each syllable, her face once again pressing into your shirt as she inhales your scent. "So much."

"I love you too." You reply, giving her head a loving stroke of praise.

Her face caressing seems to get more desperate; adding more pressure and picking up the pace as she slowly slide herself down until her head is at your crotch, fingers eagerly hooking the rip of your pant line as she shimmies them down with a small, sly smirk.

You arch an eyebrow - intrigued that this moment is one that ignited the smouldering embers in the pit of her stomach, the urge to feel your flesh overtaking her desire to witness one of the best parts of the film.

Your heartrate that was at a nice, rested pace only moments ago begins to pick up as she wraps her small hand around your cock, her eyes furrowed as she begins to make out with your shaft. You didn't care for the slight confusion of this sudden act - the sensation of her soft lips against your hardening dick felt too good to question too much.

It felt even better as you grew in size, her tongue now coming into play as her kisses loudly smack against your length, her gorgeous eyes blinking up at you; gaze unfaltering as she pierces through to your very soul. Her thick black lashes flutter with a feign of innocence, her face so sweet and pretty as she now runs the side of her tongue up your size, the taste of you delighting her to the point of her nails on her free hand slightly sinking into your thigh.

"Sh~~it..." You hiss, your jaw slackening as you lovingly gather her hair so it wouldn't get in her way.

Her tongue circles the tip of your head, lapping up the pre-cum that's beginning to ooze from you in a heated yearning. She opens her mouth wider and encases you within her warm, wet cave; her movements slow but her seal nice and tight as her eyes close with how good you feel within her mouth, a hum from her vocals buzzing you slightly.

As she works you at a painful pace, her tongue drags up and down the underside of you, flicking up over your head at every ascent, sluggishly building your pleasure from the very foundation, her eyes once again snapping up to meet yours. She can't speak, but you know what she's saying from her gaze.

She's saying she loves how you ruin her face with your dick, and how she loves pleasuring you this way.

You bite your lip in appreciation followed by a groan of understanding, her saliva lubricating you more with each dip of her head as she takes you deeper. Her throat spasms around you, her gags and wretches tamed as she inhales deeply through her nose and taking it nice and timidly.

The grip you have on her head tightens and your legs tense, toes curling as you watch her fuck you with her mouth, the sight of her hollowed cheeks alone enough to send you feral, knowing it was your cock she was serving and yours alone.

You're not sure how long your admiring her, how much time has ticked by as you groan and hiss, but when she finally picks up the pace the end credits are rolling as your balls tighten under her hand as she softly caresses them.

"I'm gonna cum..." You warn, your breath lost as it quivers into the void of your lust. "It's gonna be a lot..."

She hums, signifying she's ready for it - her body shifts so she has better leverage as she takes you at a more quicker pace, her tongue never once faltering from her snake like flickers around you with each stroke.

You feel it building, squeezing - tighter and tighter. Your release imminent and no doubt huge as you frantically look for something - anything to grip to take out your joy.

You settle for her forearms, gripping them tightly as you feel your atomic detonation explode within her throat, your moan loud and eyes clasping shut while your hot, white ropes splutter with no grace what-so-ever down into her stomach, filling and overflowing her cheeks as she slows to a stop, swallowing ever single drop you give her.

You shudder and groan as you recover, as she gently tucks you back inside and replaces herself upon your chest with a satisfied smile and a sore jaw. It was worth it though; slightly giddy she grabs the remote and rewinds the movie back to her most recent memory of the scene she'd last saw.

"I love you, baby." She smiles snuggling into you and settling down to probably fall asleep upon your trembling body.

[lune-hime]

Garden of Tulips (Levi/Reader) Tea Time # 2 ~ Shower Mishap

~Click me for more chapters~

“What did it look like?”

“Hmm?” Levi looked up from his place next to your sleeping form. “The titan that tried to snack on my darling granddaughter.” “Ugly as fuck.” “Aren’t they all?”

Levi recounts memories of the reader and their shared life together while she recovers from a serious injury.

!!WARNINGS!! - Violence, gore, smut, wholesome content ;)

So these little Tea Times were written as little filler-memory chapters to place in between the main story line.

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

“Y/N.” Hange drawled. She clumsily attempted to sit cross legged along the dining hall bench, her legs not quite folding correctly. When she almost tipped over the side, Erwin used his quick reflexes to snag her by the arm and place her upright. You sloppily turned your head to give her as much undivided attention that your remaining active brain cells could muster.

“Please enlighten everyone on the shower story.” Her request brought a giddy smile to her lips. Levi immediately cast you a quizzical look, his gaze drowning in beer. Your face heated up like an oiled saucepan but thanks to the excessive drinking it made no difference to your already rosy complexion.

“But it might be too unprofessional for the Commander.” You shot a sassy look at Hange over Levi who was seated between the two of you. Alcohol was quite the bold word choice inducer as you definitely would not have phrased your sentence with so much gusto if you were sober.

“What in the fucking hell  kind of story is this?” Levi asked darkly, his pupils dilated so far they eclipsed their usual silver. There was a preciseness to his phrase despite it being slurred. Indeed, the only soul at the table who knew of your unintentional shower adventure was your former squad leader. Erwin chuckled softly and Mike quirked an eyebrow at you.

“We drink as friends tonight, Y/N. No one will get you in trouble for just telling a story-” Erwin began his explanation calmly but paused when he locked eyes with Levi’s burning glare. It took what was left of his composure to refrain himself from laughing at the tiny fireball across the table.

“But only tell it if you are comfortable doing so.” The commander flashed a dazzling smile before taking a hearty swig of his drink. The man may have been inebriated but he was still so much more put together than the rest of you. Well, with the exception of Mike of course.

“It’s not that bad, don’t worry about it Vivi.” You reassured the steaming man between giggles. You reached up to gingerly pat his cheek a couple times, his glare turning into an intensely childish pout that he would definitely deny later.

“So you’ll tell it?” Hange chittered, practically vibrating with excitement. You nodded lazily, swaying a bit but steadied by Levi’s secure arm around your waist.

“Okay so, it was during my first few months as a cadet-”

↞♞♘↠

You had come to terms with the fact that you were going to be tired on a daily basis. Since you had joined the cadets it was nonstop physical and tactical training that bored into the innermost parts of your brain and body, immersing you in a constant state of exhaustion. Your grandmother’s war stories about her painful life in the military were indeed accurate (well, yours were much less scandalous than hers); it’s no joke how far the organization pushes every limb, muscle, fiber, and atom within your being.

Which was why you couldn’t be happier that you had an hour of free time to shower after your training session before you had to meet your mentor. Plush towel hanging off your shoulder, you rounded the corner of one of the many hallways of the vast compound and practically skipped into the bathing area.

The steam from the showers was thick at first and obscured the space as you passed through the initial chamber to enter the main bathing area. The only element of the atmosphere that told you other cadets were occupying the room was their loud banter and laughter. Only, it wasn’t the feminine voices you were accustomed to hearing and you’re pretty sure you just heard Connie’s na-

“Y/N!?!?!” A voice shrieked, immediately scuttling to the side upon discovering your arrival. When your vision adjusted to the thick steam, your eyes widened in shock when you spotted Eren's very exposed form through the haze.

"Ohmygodohmygod, Eren I'm so sor-" You blabbed, immediately trying to look anywhere but the boy's nether regions. Before the split second it would have taken to cover your eyes, you were startled by an immense figure in your personal space. The shadow gave you zero time to shield yourself from the Michaelangelo’s David that was possibly the cockiest cadet on the premises.  

"Y/N, I didn't know you were so bold. Come to play?" Reiner cooed, smirk widening as he watched your face heat up to the scalding temperature of their showers. He made no effort to hide his manhood, as Eren did, and actually attempted to emphasize it by propping his leg up against one of the benches littered throughout the bath. You were frozen in embarrassment and as much as you wanted to punch him right in the spot he most yearned for you to gaze upon, you couldn't do it.

"Walls, Reiner do you have any shame?" You spat back, your muscles still seized up with your beyond awkward encounter.

"None if it comes to you, sweetheart." He chuckled confidently. Before you could quip back another response, a blur shouting your name dashed towards you and turned your vision black. The hands over your eyes became your sole protector from the copious amounts of naked men.

“I know you are dumb, but you really need to watch where you are going.” Jean scolded from behind you in a hushed tone. You let out the balloon of a breath you had been internalizing. If you hadn’t believed in angels before, Jean sure as hell was your angel now. He abruptly turned around and began waddling the two of you towards the entrance when you heard agile footsteps circling around you. Jean suddenly halted, the unexpected loss of movement sending you flailing.

“Hold up, Jean. Maybe she knew exactly where she was going.” Reiner purred. You felt Jean’s breath quicken against your ear and his grip on your temple tightened momentarily. You didn’t need to physically see Reiner’s face to picture the shit-eating smirk edging its way into his features.

“If you wanted me, Y/N, all you had to do was ask.”

The sound of wet feet against tile grew closer until you felt unwanted puffs of air leaving feather-light touches on your face. Jean suddenly flung you sideways like a cooked noodle, placing himself between you and Reiner and causing you to squeak in surprise.

“Fuck off Reiner. She doesn’t want to see your tiny dick.”  Jean spat back. A chorus of snickers resounded through the bathroom.

“She was trying hard just a moment ago to avoid the temptation.” Reiner huffed. His arrogance was like a tough stain that you couldn’t get out, no matter how hard you scrubbed.

“Sadly, I did see it and Jean’s right.” You groaned. Your best friend let out a snort followed by the laughter you could feel rumbling from his chest.

“You must not have gotten a good look at it then-”

"If you don't get out of our way, no one will get the minute pleasure of seeing your dick again." Jean sarcastically threatened.

"Please, Reiner, give it a rest." A soft voice pleaded to your right. You recognized it as a familiar cadet, one Jean had grown quite close to.

"Everyone else besides you is uncomfortable here." Marco's even tone was music to your reddened ears. There was a palpable silence of which you presumed was the soundtrack to an alpha male staring contest. Then, Reiner huffed and backed off seeing that the odds were against him.

"Fine, fine. You know you can always call on me Y/N." Reiner chided before sauntering back into the shower.

"The only call he'll be getting is from the infirmary." You grumbled under your breath.

“Can’t keep it in his pants for five minutes can he?” Jean scoffed lowly as he began leading you to the doorway.

“I mean he’s not wearing pants…” You mumbled, still trying to recover from the overwhelming shock and embarrassment. Jean stopped you at the entrance to the connecting hallway.

"When I let go, don't you dare look behind you." Jean warned, playfully swaying you back and forth.

"Okay just let me go!" You sputtered and swatted his arms before he released you.

You fixed your gaze on the tile walls and heaved a sigh of relief.

"Thanks Jean, I owe you one." You said, voice regaining its composure.

"Whatever, just buy me some food when we go into town next." He replied. You heard him turn around and begin padding back to the showers when you realized your shoulder was missing a fluffy presence. Your towel must have fallen off during your steamy showdown.

"Jean wait!!" You exclaimed. You turned around and in the waning of your flustered hysteria forgot you were technically still in the boy's bathroom. Both your and Jean's eyes almost popped out of their sockets.

"Shit, Y/N what did I say???" Jean exclaimed, hands immediately flying to cover his crotch. You breathed a heavy exhale, feeling the flames scorching your cheeks once more.

"Dammit, I'm sorry! My towel fell-" You sputtered and cursed at yourself for letting the heat flood your brain cells too.

"Ah! Y/N-" Marco appeared with your towel, only he was sporting his birthday suit as well. Oh, this could not get any worse. You were the embodiment of a beet, cheeks puffing in fear and eyes screwing shut.

"I have your towel, I was going to place it by the doorway but-um-here." Marco gently grabbed your hand and placed the towel in it. He laughed nervously and retreated back into the bath.

You turned back around to face opposite of the doorway and slumped your head into your hands exasperatedly.

"You good now?" Jean checked, slight annoyance evident in his tone.

"No." You whimpered in utter mortification.

“Reiner’s just a dick who thinks that everyone wants to see his own.” Jean said with a roll of his eyes.

"It was an accident, so don't worry. Plus this gives me prime blackmail material." He snickered. You shot him the middle finger over your shoulder.

“How am I going to face anyone in that room anymore?” You groaned sadly, the last three minutes of excitement playing on an endless loop within your mortified mind.

“Easy, if they bring it up just kick them on any part of their body you saw today.” Jean snickered.

“But I saw every-” You started to protest and then gasped in horror. Your humiliated expression deepened Jean’s smirk.

"We'll pretend it never happened. Now please, go to the proper bathroom before you play with the crazy lady. You stink."

↞↠

“Y/N? What’s wrong?” Hange asked, taking a break from poking at the titan’s dirtied toenail. When her apprentice approached the titan holding area she looked absolutely worn out.

“I have the extreme urge to scratch my eyes out.” You groaned, setting your bag of notes down and crouching in the grass next to her.

“Please don’t, today I need you to help me scratch Bean’s eye instead.”

↞♞♘↠

Levi’s grip threatened to shatter the glass pint as he brought it down onto the table with too much force.

“If we had been together when this happened I would have ripped off every one of their micro cadet penises.” He hissed, the alcohol turning into flames within his eyes.

There was a moment’s pause before the entire squad leader table erupted in laughter. The guffaw rattled the wood paneling and caused confused cadets to turn their heads in shock. Erwin accidentally snorted some of his beer and was now struggling with it coming out of his nose. Seeing the commander in such a state caused the same exact thing to happen to you, the burning of the alcohol hurt almost as much as your stomach did from hilarity. Mike kneed the table so hard that it sent his drink flying at Hange who moved out of the way to dodge it, only to smack into Levi’s chest. The action caused the two of them to double over and flip off the bench which only caused the rest of your table to create a larger cacophony.

Nights spent in cherished company like these were ones you held close to your heart.

[secret-engima]

Seer LC verse Drabble: Answer

(Me: I need to go back to watching Realm Reborn so I can learn the Lore.

Also Me: Spams a song-drabble that probably ignores a TON of lore but fits with my own budding HCs about my Seer LC Cyra. Anyway yes I did a Thing, here is the song that goes with the Thing if you want to listen while you read:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bWdeMqELN-U

Also pssst @wolfsrainrules @sparklecryptid @hamelin-born @ertrunkenerwassergeist @ean-sovukau

...

     She eyed their destination doubtfully and aired one more time, “You really believe this will help?”

     Regis nodded, more confident in explaining magic than he was in talking to her about anything else, “Our magic is not meant to be restrained all the time. At least, not so thoroughly as you have. The potential side-effects of doing so are many, but chronic pain is one of the most common ones. If you allow it to flow, to use up the excess energy, I do believe it would help. It likely will not cure your pain, but it should make it easier to bear.”

     So he’d said about three times now. Cyra still wasn’t entirely convinced. The thought of letting her magic out, letting it run wild after so many years keeping it tightly controlled was … intimidating. She wasn’t even sure if she could at this point, if she could physically let go of something she had clutched tight for so long. She also wasn’t sure the room to which Regis had led her would withstand the potential chaos if she did let go, even though he had assured her several times that the towering chamber was built specifically with angry Lucis Caelums in need of letting loose in mind.

     She eyed the chamber, felt her husband press a reassuring hand against her back, then sighed.

     Just once. She could at least try it once.

     But how to let go? She couldn’t just- throw out a few spells here and there, she did that on a near weekly basis and it had never helped the pain. She had to let go, had to relax, and standing here being stared at expectantly by her husband, her husband’s two best friends, her biological father and his two best friends was not helping.

     With a huff, she stalked forward, her cane tapping an echoing rhythm across the floor that reverberated all the way to the top of the arched ceiling despite her light touch. She stopped in the center of the big, oval room and breathed. Well. Now what? She tapped her cane in annoyance, listened to the echo. Honestly, the chamber was practically a concert hall with those acoustics.

     “So sing,” nudged Susurrus, waking up for the first time since Regis offered the idea, “Sing your magic.”

     That’s a stupid idea, she retorted, what would I even sing? One of those bawdy drinking songs Nyx things are appropriate in my shop?

     Another nudge, a sensation of shadows touching the corners of her mind, of sand and starscapes, ocean breezes and towering trees she had never seen —not in this lifetime at least—. When Susurrus nudged again, it was with the voices of her shadows, “You have such a lovely voice, my dear. Sing it again?”

     Cyra closed her eyes and bowed her head, trying to swallow the lump that formed whenever her magic dragged up the voices-faces-lifetimes of her shadows. Her hand clutched her cane in white knuckles, and for a moment she didn’t think she could even breathe, let alone sing, and yet…

“I close … my eyes … tell us why must we suffer?”

“Release your hands, for your will drags us under.”

“My legs grow tired…”

“Tell us where must we wander?”

“How can we …. carry on,”

“If redemption’s beyond us?”

     She exhaled, inhaled. And words came flowing back, through time and memory, loss and love. She tilted her head back to the ceiling, closed her eyes to block out the world, raised her free hand and let magic flicker softly in her palm as she reached, for what she wasn’t certain, just … reached in the hope that if she did, perhaps something would reach back.

“To all of my children,” 

“In whom Life flows abundant.”

“To all of my children,”

“To whom Death hath passed his judgement…”

“The soul yearns for honor,”

“And the flesh the Hereafter.”

“Look to those, who walked before,”

“To lead those who walk after…”

     Magic sparked, dripped from her palm like raindrops and hourglass sand. Something rose in her veins and for the first time in years, she did not push it back down. It rose into the air, like embers and snowflakes on her senses, pushed her voice out to meet the echoes of past and future and present undecided.

“Shining is the Land’s light of justice,”

“Ever flows the Land’s well of purpose.”

“Walk free, walk free, walk free, believe…”

“The Land is alive … so believe…”

     There was a chant in her blood, a hundred voices in the shadows, and without even thinking her cane slammed down with each word, emphasizing another she had no breath to say. She shouted to the chamber, to the past, to the world, pushed her magic free with every declaration —every promise, long fulfilled and lost—.

     Behind her, safely by the door, Regis watched with wide eyes and trembling hands as his daughter’s magic unspooled. As soft flickers became a steady trickle, as the trickle became a stream, as the stream was tossed into the air in a spinning storm of starlight and embers that flared and grew with each angry-desperate-calling strike of her cane. He watched as the wind began to stir like a living thing, as magic built and built and built in preparation for something Regis could not name, in gleeful freedom so long denied.

     His daughter threw back her head and he glimpsed her eyes as they snapped open, a shining, twisting collage of white starlight and orange fire that mirrored and refracted in the crystalline shards flaring into existence all around.

“Now open your eyes, while our plight is repeated.”

“Still deaf to our cries,”

“Lost in hope we lie defeated!”

“Our souls have been torn,”

“And our bodies forsaken.”

“Bearing sins of the past,”

“For our future is taken.”

     Something flickered, spun through the fractals of crystalline power, formed and coalesced.

“War, born of strife, these trials persuade us not,”

     A Carbuncle, a creature of legend and myth and Messengers. It sprang into being in a burst of soft topaz fur, swirled and leaped after the twisting crystal shards with something that might have been joy and might have been fury.

“Words, without sound, these lies betray our thoughts!”

“Mired by a plague of doubt,”

“The Land, she mourns.”

     Another Carbuncle, this one a bright sapphire. It formed and sprang fearlessly onto Cyra’s outstretched arm, scurried up to drape around her shoulders in solidarity while Regis and all those with him gaped at the presence of Messengers, called down by his daughter’s magic as still it rose and unfurled —and how had she lived this long? How had she survived keeping this much power locked beneath her skin? Astrals it was little wonder she was disabled by her pain—.

“Judgement binds … all we hold,”

“To a memory of scorn.”

“Tell us why, given Life, we are meant to die,”

“Helpless in our cries?”

     Another sharp crack of the cane striking the floor, a declaration and command as she railed at the unseen sky to witness. To suffer. To borrow. To reason. Each word punctuated by a crack of her cane striking stone with enough force to shake the room, her magic towering and spiraling out to fill every corner and echo and atom of air. It reached, up and out beyond the room, and surely the Citadel itself was shaking at this point as fire trailed down her hair and shoulders like living things, as ice spiraled out in arcane patterns on the floor and clawed its way up the pillars in quest and demand. Ozone thrummed in the air, the promise of a storm too long denied and Regis was torn between terror and pride as he felt her magic reach, up and out and beyond as Cyra stretched out her free arm and demanded of the world to answer. Answer.

     Answer together.

     The world went still as something ancient stirred.

     And answered her.

     Beside him, Cyra’s husband wheezed a soft curse of disbelief and wonder as power coalesced six times over. Cyra lowered her hand, her Carbuncles wrapped protectively around her, one at her feet and one on her shoulders, her breath shaking from exhaustion as magic stilled and silence fell.

     Arrayed around her, some so large they barely fit in the chamber, the Astrals stared down at the tiny, frail mortal who had called them down.

     For an eternity, nothing moved. Nothing dared to breathe or move or think. As they could do nothing but stare at the Six, all of the Six who stood before his daughter, and watched her with expressions that on mortal faces might have been astonishment.

     Might have even been nostalgic joy.

     The Infernian moved first, a great hand touching his arm as he looked down at himself as if in surprise, and the part of Regis that was not panicking noted the spiraling scars curling across at least half of his body, dark and raw, not unlike a wound that had only just been burned free of some great infection. Then he looked down at Cyra again…

     And knelt, a fist over his heart, a soldier before a queen rather than an immortal being before a frail, bookshop owning illegitimate daughter of human kings. The Infernian’s voice was like fire and crumbling ash as he opened his mouth…

     And continued the song.

“Thy Life is a riddle…” 

     A breath and a whisper of winter cold as the Glacian folded her hands, bowed her head, and took up the song,

“To bear rapture and sorrow.”

The Archaean’s voice was ancient and steady as stone, yet soft as the hush of wind through old ruins as he too pressed a fist over his heart, and bent his massive frame —still not as large as the form seen in the Disc of Cauthess, somehow this was small enough to fit the chamber, if only barely—.

“To listen, to suffer,”

The Fulgarian echoed like far off thunder and the taste of rain as his hands folded over his staff and his lips turned upward in what could only be a smile.

“To entrust until tomorrow.”

The Hydraean’s fins stirred, her voice the rumble of tides and soft hiss of water across the sand.

“In one fleeting moment, from the Land doth Life flow…”

     All eyes swung, inevitably, disbelievingly, to the Draconian, who floated above the stones of the floor, his wings of many blades stretching out so they almost brushed the shoulders of the Archaean and the fins of the Hydraean.

     All eyes watched, as he drifted to the floor, his great sword coming to rest in front of him as his head bowed in a knight’s salute to a queen.

“Yet in one fleeting moment, for anew it doth grow….”

     A fragile silence, a greeting and a history Regis could not hope to comprehend.

     A single mortal voice, rising in answer to an unspoken greeting from the Six beings who had answered her call.

“In the same fleeting moment…”

“Thou must live … die …”

“And know…”

     And while the world looked on in uncomprehending awe, Cyra … Cyra took in a breath that for once did not twinge, took a step forward that for once held only the barest ache rather than a constant throb of pain. She was exhausted, wrung dry from truly releasing her magic for the first time in so many, many years, and yet…

     She was happy. So very, very happy.

     Cyra looked up at the Six Who Had Answered, at the wild, immortal beings she had known once a long time ago —had slain and chained and Summoned, then had turned around and taught, as best as she could, what it meant to care for the little beings that called upon them for aid and not enslave their minds and souls—. At the beings who, a lifetime ago, had been enemies and allies all at the same time.

     And she smiled. “Hello, my ducklings,” she teased with the mischief of the Warrior of Light, the nickname light on her tongue, picked centuries ago specifically to annoy the immortal creatures who both aided her battle and caused her such problems, “did you miss me?”

[lallemcnt]

without feeling, 2.6k words 🍃

lucas is a bit overwhelmed by quarantine. an elu social distancing drabble.

(or, 2.6k words of expressing all my feelings induced by social distancing through lucas.)

It’s cold outside.

It’s a little bit misty. The minaret of a mosque and spires of grand churches disappear into a grey-hued nothingness that catches the wind like a kite, spreading like acrid smoke, staining the sky in miserable doom: the red warning of traffic lights less vibrant and severe, less of a demand, an imperative to stop, and more of a weak sign of I still exist; there are still rules to follow. The sun exerts its will the hardest when usually it doesn’t have to do more than rise up from the horizon. Its potent presence and unmistakeable warmth is not quite so disarming. This is a first for the sun. Narrow beams of light puncture through where they might, at the weakest points of the fog’s intent: through slits of wooden floorboards, gaps in rusted blinds — hitting the edge of make-up smeared mirrors and feeding the forest-green leaves of succulents that create canopies on burnished-brown bookshelves.

And Lucas feels it across his bare back as he lies on the sofa in contemplative thought. No one thought plays centre stage, captivating this audience of one in a velvet filled old structure dedicated to entertainment. Or rather, on this blue velvet sofa upon which he is currently lying, stomach down, face resting on his hands as he stares out on the disappearing city. Curtains billowing around windows that have definitely seen better days and could do with a loving touch of paint.

The ocean waves. A fishing boat. The last time he had a cup of coffee. When he should realistically be doing laundry next. A slight head tilt shows an overflowing woven basket. Soon. When Eliott will be done with the commission he’s been working on for the past four days — Lucas is excited to see it. But he’s bias. Everything Eliott does is mesmerising in Lucas’ eyes; he falls a little bit more in love with him every time he sees the creations formed from such a brilliant mind. When will Eliott call the work day quits for today. He wants to see him, touch his hand, which he hasn’t done for the past six hours, because Lucas despises encroaching on Eliott’s space when he’s focusing and doing what he loves. Hates the idea of being a nuisance or disrupting a miraculous train of thought just for the ridiculous reason of him feeling needy and wanting attention.

What would it be like to experience the rain in a rainforest?  This thought snags.

It recalls a memory.

At age ten, Lucas’ class was tasked with painting a scene from this famous painting. He can’t quite recall the name, but he remembers a broad canopy of cobalt coloured umbrellas clutched in the hands of men in top hats and tails, and women in petticoats, hair tucked up into chignons under a furious downpour. By the end, each class’ section of the painting would form to recreate an entire tableau of mixed-media, a cohesive mess of blue.

It lends his thoughts to Eliott once more, and they won’t shift. Lucas glances at his watch: 17:33. A sigh. He drops his head back onto his hands and rolls over onto his back, disgruntled by the thumping feet of their upstairs neighbours on the ceiling which is beginning to look worryingly like paper stained by coffee. Their landlord would not be happy.

Stretching out his limbs, the weak sun strokes a long finger down his spine as Lucas climbs to his feet, dragging the ends of his joggers down his calves with his feet. He shuffles towards a small closet slash utility room, turned Eliott’s office, dragging his t-shirt from the back of the sofa with his hand as he goes.

Tiptoeing, Lucas leans in the doorway of the decidedly tiny room, shirt clutched in hand. Observing from a slight distance, holding his breath and his shirt to his chest in the hopes of not letting loose a single sound. As quiet as a moose. As stealthy as a wolf. Serotonin and endorphin boost at just the sight of him, causing the sides of Lucas’ mouth to lift at the human person hunched over a table they saved from a neighbour who dumped it in the bin building. Restoring it from a wood-chipped, faded white-yellow desk, abandoned and discarded, with broken draws to a moon-chilled silver with baby blue accents. The draws reconstructed on a productive Sunday morning after Eliott managed to get several defrosted waffles stuffed into Lucas and a cup of coffee, which Lucas detested but made a ritual of because it was a grown up thing and he always seemed to feel a little tired.

Now, he yearns to run his hands up Eliott’s back and kiss his freckled shoulders. Lie on the sofa, snuggled up so tight they became a sine organism with no way of disaggregating. Permanently etched together like quotation marks; the perfect fit. But, as slient as a mouse, Lucas aimed to be. Even as Eliott shifting in his seat and Lucas saw he had put on jeans of all things. Yes, they were stuck at home but...jeans? He felt a rumble of laughter hit his chest and dashed from the doorway trying to prevent its outbreak, and in doing so, was in all ways unquiet, feet hitting the wooden floorboards hard.

“Lucas?” A sigh was all the response. Though not an unhappy one.

Oh, the wonders a voice could do and make you feel. Sometimes feel never felt like a big enough, grand enough, expansive enough word to encompass what it really meant. Nor could anything compare to one’s name being uttered by the person who made the word feel feel too small a word. His very bones and nerves and fingertips were on fire, but then again that could be logically reduced to the fact that Lucas was quarantined with his boyfriend who he didn’t speak to much during the day — on his own accord and to the reluctance of Eliott — but was separated by a nimbly, hallow wall and he simply wanted to kiss his face off every second of every minute. It was simple really. Not much to it. Except his undying love, of course.

Another soft: “Lucas?”

The person in question returns to the little office and peers in expectantly. Eliott is resting his face in his hand, elbow on desk, hair ruffled and in need of a wash. As soon as Lucas appears his dazed eyes contract a more alert appearance, wistful and quite content with the sight he brings.

“You hungry?”

“Are you?”

“Kind of. I was thinking—”

“That we should have cheese toasties! Brilliant idea, Eliott. You finish up, if you’re ready? I don’t wanna rush you or anything, and I’ll be chefing away.”

“You’re not rushing me, and anyway, if you were, which you’re not,” Eliott replies, voicing rising slightly as he gets to his feet to move toward Lucas who retreats at the idea of imposing his presence on Eliott. “I would love you to rush me, because I’m sick of looking at it all. I’m tired. And I would much prefer to look at you instead.”

Reaching Lucas, Eliott runs his hands through Lucas’ hair till he’s cupping the back of his head, and then drawing it down the scope of his neck and shoulder, skimming lightly over collarbones — leaving an imprint in Lucas’ bones and muscles, a memory of a lover’s touch — and trailing down an arm lined with goose bumps until fingers are slotting together. A gift of warmth and blesséd touch. One Lucas is eternally thankful for. He is at his most appreciative when it comes to Eliott. For him, anything.

“Cheese toasties?” Lucas asks, face flushed from the loving caress of Eliott’s words that fall off his tongue as easily as they cost him nothing.

“Hm.” Eliott raises their entwined hands, lifting Lucas’ hand palm down so he can plant a sweet kiss onto it and then his knuckles.

“And then I was thinking...we, I mean, I, could paint your nails,” Lucas is almost, slightly breathless and it’s all a bit embarrassing. He rushes on, “It’s literally all I could think about this morning until my brain sputtered out from boredom.” He laughs a bit, self-conscious.

“Let me have a hug first, please?”

Lucas can hear the tiredness seeping out of every syllable, Eliott’s shoulder sink slowly down with each words like a deflating balloon left of all its oxygen. He reaches up to cup Eliott’s cheek, the skin soft and pimply behind his hand, he plants a quick peck on it before snaking his arms around Eliott’s hips and squeezing him just enough that he isn’t suffocating him but feels that steading presence of bodily contact, one t-shirt away from skin on skin. Lucas feels the reciprocation instantly, Eliott’s arms around Lucas’ shoulders, and then slipping a fraction further down as Eliott pulls him into the cocoon of his body.

“Ahhh.” Lucas can’t help the sigh of contentment. The verbal confirmation of satisfaction.

Warm breaths hit his neck, Eliott’s chest shakes marginally against his, and his arms tighten around Lucas who pushes at Eliott’s arms, because he is actually starving, suddenly, potently aware of it. He slides down and out of that particular safe haven and walks slowly backwards, eyes locked with the mystery of his boyfriend’s, the secret of their colour claimed by the first atoms of the world that created pigmentation. Sliding his t-shirt on he observes Eliott watching the last stretch of his abdomen disappear from, a slight hand clench is visible as he lifts his hand to rub over his face, and Lucas can’t help but laugh properly now as he enters the kitchen. Lucas is not a seductive person, but he does find pleasure in the way something small he does, not even consciously provocative can affect Eliott so.

Lucas spins around on his heels remembering that Eliott doesn’t, in fact, own a sandwich toaster so he improvises. Cheddar, four slices of toast and in the preheated oven. He’s gonna have to clean the oven afterwards, but it’s not like he doesn’t have the time for that: time he is in an abundant supply of these days.

While devouring their cheese toasties, Lucas and Eliott find themselves wrapped up in blankets on the sofa. Lucas is concentrating like a child trying their hardest to colour inside the lines of a picture as he sits bent over painting Eliott’s index finger a muted blue and his thumb a dusky pink. With a leg stretched over Eliott’s he inches forward as the former skips through a playlist on his phone sending the sound of bass and drums into the far reaches of the room, into the fissures and crevices of the walls decorated in black and white portraits and enticing landscapes of fruitful trees and sandstone buildings.

These photos shake Lucas a little at his core. Lucas dreams of running along cliff sides made of limestone, skimming his feet in the freezing loches of Scotland, picking mangoes from trees in Malawi during October, just before their rainy season commences. He’s been dreaming of far off places for days, wishing to escape from their confinement, daring to live a little wilder, further, deeper. Someday. Though this future he couldn’t quite make out in his head, secure behind a veil, much like the weather outside.

His eyes cloud over and he tries to focus back on the task at hand, sliding the side of his thumb down the corner of Eliott’s pinky finger where the brush veered off course. He wipes his left eye with the hand that was holding Eliott’s in place, trying to be subtle, because he feels stupid. He feels entitled and furious at himself. So he goes back to his task without a word, attempting to sink back into the motions and the music; the swipe of the brush, the sound of Eliott’s contented “this is it” as he finds the right song, settles into the melody of it and throws his phone to the other side of the sofa.

Social distancing has been at once soothing and triggering for Lucas’ anxiety. The beginning was a frustrating time, arriving when he finally thought he had some semblance of a plan formed. For his future. Then it all derailed and he was traversed into an existence of blissful indulgence in seven series TV shows and warm baguettes not reached lukewarm because he had somewhere to rush off to; waking up at 9 or 10am instead of his usual 7; walking around the block, stepping into a park for the daily fresh intake of vitamin c, watching fluffy creatures prance around the forbidden grasslands. Now, he knows he’s on the brink of a tumble downhill, a dip in a deceptively solid surface, and all he keeps hearing from online personalities, from friends and instagram stories is that “this is to be expected.” God, how tired he is of hearing that perfunctory sentence. Frankly, he wishes, fruitlessly, for someone to teach him once more how to cope, to be fucking okay. His ten week course of CBD ended the first week of quarantine and while he supposedly has the tools to rationalise, to acknowledge his thoughts and recognise some of them are to be untrue...it’s not quite so easy, because he can’t debunk them while stuck in a tiny city apartment. He is very literally restricted in space. So he’s on hyper alert for himself and Eliott, tainting the very air with his insecurities and fears. But that’s not quite right; he’s too consumed by himself, selfish, he thinks, you wouldn’t even notice the signs with Eliott. Sometimes he wants to be allowed, allow himself, to feel sad, dispirited, hopeless. He wants to lie on his bed and stare at the ceiling, thinking of nothing but the way some areas are slightly raised. To sleep. But he hasn’t been diagnosed with depression, he’s not depressed, he doesn’t get depressed. Just sad and vapid, occasionally. The instances are few and far between.

He has his mum to reassure him. He wouldn’t call it comforting though she tries: “We’ll all get through this. You will, Lucas. That job is waiting for you, remember? Take a deep breath with me, okay?”

Today though isn’t as bad as it was two days ago, he feels himself getting out of this cave of darkness, this allocated place of sorrowful isolation, because he also has this. The security of these arms and this chest he rests his face against. That kiss on his head. And this person who can’t fight it all away for him, can’t always find the right words to comfort him, like Lucas cannot be a constant solid presence of stone in the flow of a rapid river for Eliott, he has to be patient and assume the pace Eliott sets.

They can’t always be the right answer, but they can try.

“I think you’re gonna need to repaint this hand, Lu.”

It takes him a moment to gather himself. He’s been resting here for some time, though time is inconsequential here so the length is lost to him. As he sits back up and his face disconnects with heart beat and muscle and skin, it feels flushed on the connect side and his eyes dry. He takes in Eliott’s painted hand, now smudged and clicks his tongue, shaking his head at the same time.

“Give me the polish.”

As Eliott reaches out to grab a mint-green bottle of polish, he responds in kind. “Try this.” Lucas shakes the bottle and glances at Eliott in askance. Eliott shakes his head, a small smile on his lips, not teasing. “Trust me.” No, not teasing. More in expectation of something good, something sweet.

And Lucas complies as he is wont to do, savouring those eyes and the hundreds of thousands of emotions they express in a single moment.

It tastes good.

Strawberries.

It tastes like sweetness.

[deviationdivine]

Everlasting You | Connor x Reader

TLDR: Not everything lasts forever not even for an unending machine...

Word Count: 1.6k

TW: Heavy Angst, Mention of Death, Character Death

A/N:This is something I needed to get off my chest as certain feelings on humans and androids in relationships go. While I feel Connor himself is not immortal in the full sense he does not age. He may wear down as technology is known to do but the mortality of humans is clear. Probably the most angsty piece I have written thus far and I am supposed to be on break. My personal torture is real...| 200 follower Celebration Drop Still To Come 

Touch. Everlasting touch: synth, tangible. This is how he shows his love.

Liquid, thirium is azure in bloom. This is how an angel dies.

Abstract in palette you swirl in his aura, so tangled and true this love drips from pert lips cool. Oh but so new they crave. Tender flesh bodily and warm collides with liquid, simulated but shed as you desire. See him as he is in his spurious state of being. Oh but he is alive, a different breed, a facsimile. Skim the surface and reach out to heaven, rich in chocolate of his adoring gaze.

Fire burns beneath cool, fingers ghosting upon the sweet flesh of you. No matter how frigid his skin may be still you incinerate under his thrall.

Meeting, becoming, one as moon and stars; Connor is yours. You are his.

Two heavenly bodies harmonize. He worships, the very air that is clinging to you and he wishes with every thread inside to be that air. Yet he is unworthy. In the end Connor knows how wrong he was to feel. If he could turn back time, no matter how agonizing to his deviant heart, he would never tell you. As long as it meant you live as you should.

Why must humans wither? Why must he suffer this?

  Maybe he should cry for help.

 “I died once, Y/N.”

The android’s breath is so soft, so fluid at first you think he might be dreaming. If androids can dream in that sense of subconscious domain, flutters within abstract functionality of the brain. His state of visionary quest is made up of code, memory data bank transforming into new visuals. He once suffered a nightmare about the Zen garden. It was not long after the first time you shared this bed together.

Breath is still as you gaze at his face. Flashing scarlet floods the beautiful azure that always draws you nearer. Into his shelter, this glorious shield all for you; tracing a fingertip around circular indicator steadies his stressful aura.

“Connor,” his name eclipses the sun. Sweet, full and forever on your breath it brings him home.

“I still recall,” he continues, tilting his face towards the delicate palm of hand. One that always offers affection, love most androids never knew existed for them. Even as a prototype, made to be special he only ever felt worth held by you. 

“I recall the flutter of wind. Sailing, falling down listless as a sinker in the ocean. My memory was fresh then, new but uploaded to this body. This one that you have loved since our meeting.”

#313-248-317-52

Serials no longer mark him but he is Connor Mark II forever feeling, reliving a weightless drop. Felled from stories on high, slipping, slipping down until blackness; he is still wary of heights.

“I was still a machine then. Now as a deviant…death will truly claim me.” Even as Connor struggles there is nothing more real than what alights each destiny. This fated love will subsist infinitely.

Lips press against crimson, kissing the very android part of him. Accepting his veneer beneath the mask is easy when it is he himself you cherish. Love means never having to be alone. It means everlasting, impenetrable fortress shielding hearts as one.

“Nothing will ever take you away from me, Connor.”

He melts into the declaration. It is more. It is an oath. You believe it so much and Connor begins to realize those very words are a painful truth.

“I will love you forever, Y/N.”

He blames it on himself. This love will surely kill you. Stealing away everything you deserve: growing old together, having children…

You tell him no. No, this is what you want. This is all that you will want. No other thing in your personal world because he is yours ever since he confessed. Who are you to kid the world, lie to those heavens above? He was yours the moment your eyes met. Chocolate warmth a home, sweet home and contented abode for two.  

    First snowfall following revolution is a blissful, high priority memory. Stored away in his mind to examine, utilize as an escape from reality. You are his realism.

Flurries swirling, soft white powder crunching beneath soles. There you wait bundled up but still Connor feels the need to warm you. Enveloping in his arms, an eternal embrace that must live on until there is nothing left. Existence is a fixed point. Yours is meant for more but the android formerly sent by Cyberlife, the android who chose deviancy, to be alive, is selfish as any human. Selfishness tangles your human orbit to him.

Others may see you as a tiny satellite in a vast universe. To him you are more expansive than thousands of galaxies, rivaling any celestial heaven that may exist.

“Connor, where were you?” Demanding an answer it’s easy to see how upset and angry. It spills in fury overtaking any tears initially. For him to disappear this way! “Why did you just leave like that? Without telling anyone? I-I thought you…”

A soft breath answers his delicate touch against your cheek. Connor’s eyes brim in emotion, LED crimson spotlight, swiping tears off your face. “I needed to be alone,” he confesses. “To realize, Y/N.”

“Realize?” You repeat quiet in a fog of cold air.

“I love you.”

There is no sound. There is no world. Only this one shared between two. His declaration is fearful, conflicted perhaps but oh so true. Tears run anew. Streaming down your face, flooding this beating heart thudding only for one: Connor, the android sent by Cyberlife.

“Connor, I love you too.” 

Slips of breath mingle in a fissure of atoms, natural and artificial, more than a kiss but a fusion of two souls. He owns the most beautiful of all. Whether he believes he possesses one or not, you believe. So much you believed and the rest of your life you gladly spend. All for that precious android, that man who loved.

  And he loved you. He loved you until the stars faded away from the sky. As you fade with them, growing ever increasingly distant from his immortal coil. Yet he still yearned, still held, and still caressed you as those days when you first became lovers. 

Nothing held him at bay from this burning inside a synthetic heart. This heart he gave to you and still you own it. Even as breaths slip away, Connor remains yours to this day. 

Is there a heaven for androids? He ponders more each day. 

Can he see you as he once did before? That young, beauty so soft, innocent and opposite of him: cold, emotionless, and constructed. 

It was you that fed life through artificial veins. Wires, tendrils reaching beyond programming, reaching out in a song as you were his angelic soprano. Words of love he had never known. Until you he was merely a tool. To be used, controlled and torn asunder from deviancy he so chose. He did not flounder. He thrived. He lived.

He lived for you.

Now his life is broken, battered remnants long from those days when it was just the two of you together.

  Maybe he should kill himself.

  Tomorrow is too long. Nights are too empty. What must he do to see your face again? Why must he suffer for being made instead of born? All the android wants is for you to be alive once more. In his arms, whisper in his ear, giving him all of your love that he never deserved.

He stole you from it all. He stole your human life. All for selfish emotion in this disease of deviancy he wants to rip out from his system.

Deviancy is nothing anymore. Deviancy is a curse. He did not know he could cry until the day you drew your last breath. Streaming, grotesque down perfectly smooth, untainted, unwrinkled skin as you died a shell of your once vibrant self.

Connor seeks redemption in what he has done. What he took away from you. No life should have been lived beside him if he could not live beside you.

“Y/N, please…”

Tears run the sharp slopes of his face finding that spot originally of confession. No longer covered in snow but he sits alone, a mournful statue he sinks deeper into bench seat. Stress levels are too much. He wills them. He wants them…

  Shutdown Imminent

  “Forgive me,” Connor pleads with your essence. Seeing you alive in traces of fragmented memories, long before Sumo first passed, long before Hank; the android clings to your smile.

“I’m here, Connor.” The promise is sweeter than he remembers.

He leans into the touch of your hand. Gentle fingers mold with the harsh edges of his face that should have aged with you.

“I love you,” the android whispers, blind to shutdown warnings but never blind to you. Welcoming this true death, rising from seat in his mind, he can feel you. Solid as he places hands to the waist he would always long to grab playfully, tasting the lips he wills to be part of his system. 

You are part of everything. This is your secret place. In his death from deviancy, wiping away everything he fought to become, dying most blissfully in your real embrace.

Snow falls then. Around your figures, wisps of constructed memories together in your own private Zen garden. Kissing you full, passionate and reclaiming those vows spoken so long ago. 

Once again there is a smile upon his lips reunited with you in this blessed after life. Reunited as his constructed body is left behind, died from a broken heart, one that many humans might find miraculous in something not alive.

This-this is heaven after all. Androids really do find their way in. Connor found his way back to you in this glorious sail beyond the veil.

  Sail with me into the dark….

Sail… 

Tag List: @tropfenlady @your-taxidermy @elydith @connorswink @tommy-10-k 

[nicoletteduclare]

These fireside meetings were always a bore, and Maxwell tried not to close his eyes for the brief respite that it would provide if only for the fact he did not need an earful right now. Someone giving him grief for not paying attention would require him to actually reply, and to reply, well, he'd have to cough up the whole reason for this meeting quite literally. That would be a whole new conversation and involve more questions and annoyance then Max was particularly interested in dealing with.

Besides, there was a headache blooming behind his temples, most likely thanks to the flowers in his throat. There were very few people he'd humor with listening to right now. They're all complaining about managing their own (admittedly, rather fragile for most of them) sanity more often. The surprising fact is that he is too. Unlike the lot of them, though, Maxwell is acutely aware of the source.

It would be lovely if they could just finish up already, he can make out some idea of moving camp, seeing as they can't seem to find the source, and he closes his eyes to ignore the shadow out of the corner of his eye, desperately wanting to cough.

This batch seems like it'll be painful. The dark petals are amazingly useful, or, well, they would be if he could actually use the codex more often, but having them come up randomly is quite damaging, even to his own mental resilience. Not to mention his physical state, which is far more delicate. There's been quite a lot of blood lately. Feels like his mouth always tastes of copper.

Even as a child who was far too eager to believe in magic and fae, even then, Maxwell had considered this a myth. Coughing up petals because the heart yearns for someone? Absolutely ridiculous, a complete fairy tale. Not to mention that he'd completely been too afraid to tell Charlie for at least a good few months, and he'd never coughed up petals then.

And he absolutely loved her, loved her so much... and then he'd managed to screw the whole bloody thing up and fail to protect her and ruin the both of them. If he'd just... if he'd only...

It left his stomach sour, and Maxwell valiantly tried to shake the thoughts of the past from his mind. That, honestly, is probably the biggest reason for these blasted flower petals, though there are quite a few.

Why get close to someone else again, when all he's ever brought to anyone is misery? Why fail someone again? He's ruined every single good thing in his life through a wonderful mix of no forethought and too much pride. Everything good crumbles in his hands, and who's to say, even if his affections where returned, that it wouldn't blow up in his face, that he wouldn't fail and ruin them the same way he'd ruined Charlie. What if they ended up worse off then Charlie?

What was the point of even considering that it was possible?

He'd rather let himself choke to death on flowers before letting that happen to someone that he cares about again.

There's a nudge from his side, and his eyes flutter open. "I'm really starting to wonder if you ever pay any attention to anything we talk about." Wilson was looking at him, a scowled frown on his face.

He either has to reveal the petals by coughing them up or just swallow them down, and as painful at it is, Maxwell chose the later, looking away from Wilson to speak. "I pay plenty of attention, Higgsbury." Even though his throat ached, probably scratched raw, he managed a dry, even tone, though it was a little strained.

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose, an annoyed sigh escaping and Maxwell noticed the wilted flower crown perched quite nicely on his head. "Whatever you say. We're going to start moving camp tomorrow, maybe see if there's something new we've missed that's driving everyone insane. It's been getting pretty bad... though I doubt it even bothers you."

He just nodded along, pretending that whatever it was absolutely did not bother him, and watched Wilson sigh again and get up. A few moments in front of the fire before turning to go off to the tents, and Maxwell is glad they're all scattering, he can feel the urge to cough start to rise.

If only Wilson knew the half of it.

Though, if he even knew... Maxwell bit his tongue to keep from coughing just yet and moved to go find a private area to remove this mess from his throat. It wouldn't make much difference anyway.

- Death was becoming far too frequent, though it wasn't like any of them really noticed, or at least if they did, none of them pressed it. The most reaction he'd picked up on was Willow muttering something about being irresponsible, and he almost scoffed at her. He couldn't remember exactly what of this lovely floral disaster was the crux of all of his dying, the usual fog of revival masked it.

Since he couldn't remember, and he didn't want to exactly risk being found out, Maxwell fell into the habit of being alone for his own sake, and in some ways, everyone else's as well.

The idea of this... affliction, being found out, was mortifying. Besides the agonizing questions, this did destroy some of the facade he'd worked hard to put up; that none of them meant anything to him. And considering that, the idea that his affections would even be remotely reciprocated was downright laughable and utterly hilarious in the worst possible way.

So, Maxwell had accepted the thorny stems, sharp edged rust red and ink black petals, and the pain that came with it as his penance for even daring to let his heart consider another love after the first one had been utterly demolished by his own hubris. The headaches, the shadows out of the corners of his eyes, the world slowly becoming a gray husk shot with streaks of red? That was an added bonus. Even as he managed to keep himself from teetering at the edge of his sanity, the world was never quite as vibrant as it should have been.

The time between deaths was getting shorter, and the Maxwell couldn't help but wonder if there was a point where the time between his deaths would be only hours. That, or he'd finally succumb to the terrorbeaks.

Maybe this is what he deserved. It was about time, considering how many years it's been since Charlie pulled Wilson from the throne and threw the two of them together. Besides, the guilt surrounding this mad little game he'd thrown together certainly wasn't enough.

Just as well to have a bloody punishment to fit the crime.

The last death was only a week ago, or was it five days? One of the two, and no matter, even though he couldn't remember the circumstance surrounding the last handful of deaths, something told him this was near the end. He was on his hands and knees at the base of a pine tree.

He'd actually been trying to make himself useful for once, what a joke, honestly. There was a tiny notch in the tree from an axe, but it didn't matter. What mattered was the not-so-tiny pile of blood soaked petals underneath him, more blood dripping from his mouth as he stared at them, eyes trying to focus under the strain.

His arms were shaking to hold up his body weight, and yet, as he heard a voice, Maxwell tried to force himself to stand. A mix of pride and self-preservation, he couldn't let this be seen. Especially not by...

"Stars and atoms, Maxwell, what the hell are yo-..." The question was left unfinished as Max's strength left him, collapsing back down as he choked up more petals, an awful gagging noise before silence. Wilson was already next to him as there was a pathetic gasp for air, a warm arm trying to help him up or Heimlich, one of the two, winding underneath, but it was far too late this time.

-

The next thing Maxwell could remember was the cold marble flooring that meant camp, and that frankly, was absolutely terrifying. He hadn't had the materials, or really the strength to recreate a meat effigy since the first death by his affliction; touchstones were his main means of revival while he worked to at least manage the coughing fits somewhat.

Instead of the wood and broken stone around a touchstone, dead pig heads staring at him, Wilson was looking at him in the twilight, a small fire going, his own pack tossed nearby.

The place seemed... empty, for camp. Usually there was a lot more fuss if someone was revived, and while there was a little bit of relief towards that, it was... unnerving until he saw the lack of any of their usual structures, things were broken down to be reused. It was their old, recently abandoned camp, seeing as the fire-pit was still in good condition.

He hadn't gotten up yet, eyes just tracing so he could figure out what to do, but before he could get farther into figuring out the situation, Maxwell was joined by Wilson kneeling next to him.

"Why didn't you tell anyone, you absolute idiot!" He hissed between his teeth as he dug for something. While it was obvious he'd died, the reality of the situation didn't quite set in as he gave Wilson a confused look before pushing himself away in shock, sitting up.

Wilson must have seen him die. Logically, then, Wilson had seen the petals. Not that he could remember the man's reaction, which was probably a good thing, but it was the only conclusion to his words.

Wilson knew.

That was quite frankly terrifying; and while he was trying to process this horribly unlucky turn of events, Maxwell couldn't react before there was a godawful needle jabbed into his arm, the sleeve having been pushed up before he was fully awake.

"How long?" Wilson asked, eyes alert and narrowed as he practically glared at Maxwell, before turning back to the bag, fishing something else out with a mutter of "Frankly, if it wasn't for my mother's stories about her younger sister's death due to this, I wouldn't believe it." Maxwell used the mild distraction of rustling for something to stand up, his own pack was near enough to scoop up, ignoring the wobble in his legs.

"It's none of your business, Higgsbury." Lies are so easy, still, and but this one is quiet, Maxwell's shoulders tensed as he backed up, ignoring the gold chain in Wilson's hand.

It's dropped back into the bag as Wilson stood up, glaring at Maxwell, arms crossed. "None of my business? Really, Maxwell?" Looking away is so much easier then confronting this. Heavens, everything truly does go wrong, doesn't it. "You think that it's 'none of my business' when this is probably what's been affecting the rest of us? I saw the kind of petals you're dealing with, I'm not stupid. Not to mention that you're wasting resources then. I thought you might have just gotten into a few scrapes, but no, you were hiding this from us. You think that it isn't my business? Really?" It's certainly venomous, and while it looks like Wilson might have more to say, he isn't in the mood for this, teeth clenched to keep himself from coughing up more of the blasted petals right then, before he turned on his heel, not a word, and walked away.

It was always a lost cause, he knew that from the get-go, but this proved it far past a shadow of a doubt, and Max knew that he was going to be saddled with this for a long, long time, as he closed his eyes and headed to the woods.

-

Maxwell sorted through the pack, making sure his things had been undisturbed by any other survivor or monster that might have stumbled upon his bones from the last death. The codex was there, despite how useless it was in his condition. Every little bit of sanity counted, but on the off-chance he was surprised by a giant or something, a fighter might buy him some time to get away. He already had enough deaths to handle. Then there was his winter gear, traps and tools, some medical supplies; bandages and salves, plenty of torches and fire wood, and finally, thankfully untouched, was his stash of food. Nothing extremely wonderful, Maxwell wasn't stupid enough to risk his health more, but rabbits and mole-worms were easy enough pickings to supply him with meat, along with berries and carrots and the occasional gobbler.

He'd retrieved a few choice materials in the middle of the night, when Wilson revived him, but frankly, he'd already had most of his own supplies. Thankfully, his tent and chest were at the outskirts of camp by choice, and he was quiet enough to head off without anyone noticing. He hadn't actually taken much more then the winter gear and his copy of their maps, the essentials considering that it'd turned to winter only a week after he'd left.

He had a walking death sentence. Carrying more then the basics seemed stupid.

Still, sometimes it was a bit obnoxious, he wouldn't mind having a fur roll to wrap around himself right about now. Instead, he shivered as he slid the vest off the skeleton and retrieved his stupid warm hat. He managed both of them on before pulling out a frozen thermal stone out of the interior pocket of the vest, another shiver wracking his body.

He slid it into his pack to reheat soon, pulling out the map of the underground caves instead. He'd have to mark it off once he got a fire started, but he mentally noted where he'd been in the caves when he'd woken up. Another touchstone down.

It was obvious that he was going to run out of them soon, but he didn't want to, he couldn't, face any of the other survivors right now. Knowing Wilson's inability to keep his mouth shut (far more charming when it was about science, less so when it dealt with... well, this, and he probably had, as he said, it affected everyone,) he had to hope none of them had believed it. He wouldn't have, certainly. Even with the reality of honest to god magic, Maxwell would have scoffed at the idea of this fairy tale being real. It was a story, told to children and young adults to warn them away from being foolish with their hearts. To keep people from pinning for those they couldn't be with.

Well, he'd never been good at listening to warnings, had he? His chest ached all the time, these days, probably due to the floral infestation. He'd probably suffocate on them once again, and waste yet another touchstone.

Maxwell started to cough as he put away the map and stood up, a few petals falling out of his mouth and laying against the white snow. He couldn't help but remember the first morning this had happened as he walked away from the bones.

The night before, the pair of them had been forced into watch after stumbling back into camp late, and they took the time to patch themselves up. Hound mounds were always trouble, but cactus flowers were too useful to not gather in the summer. However, Wilson had forgotten the territory range, and ventured just a few inches too close for the hound's comfort.

A few shadow clones and a spear were perfectly fine for getting rid of the nuisance, but neither of them came out of it unscathed.

At least it hadn't been the dragonfly, but still. Wilson had pulled a hound off of his back, the last one, thankfully, but it'd torn open the flesh under his shoulder blade.

Normally, he'd have insisted he could take care of it himself, but between the exhaustion and pain, he accepted Wilson's offer of help, besides, it was hard to bandage his back. The normal banter, a few light jabs of 'how do you honestly survive out here, you're paper,' from Wilson, as well as a mutter of being glad it was superficial, hands gentle on the bare skin next to the wound as Wilson looked it over.

It'd been surprisingly... nice, but over all too soon. Wilson had shifted over so they could sit next to one another as Maxwell had looked at the damage to his clothing, already planning repairs before he looked over at his companion. Wilson looked... exhausted. The permanent bags under his eyes looked darker then normal, and he was well aware of how badly Wilson (and most of the others,) handled the night. It would be worse on an already tired mind.

Before he could really think about it, Maxwell offered to take over fully, a smart comment of "I don't need you falling into insanity on me," dying on his lips when Wilson smiled.

A tired thank you, and between the smile and the slightly wilted flower crown perched on Wilson's head to try and make the night easier had completely derailed any thought besides the soft, fluttery feeling in his chest as Wilson left. He'd tried very hard not to think about it for the rest of his watch as he repaired his shirt and suit jacket, until Wickerbottom arrived from her nightly reading nook to relieve him. He'd gone to bed halfway through the night with a frankly terrifying realization, and woken up to the start of a nightmare.

Obviously, hindsight is 20/20, unlike his own eyesight. That wasn't the catalyst of his affectionate feelings towards the scientist, but it was moment it finally, really, dawned on him. He'd tried to keep his distance from the other survivors once he was thrown into the mix, but Wilson was apparently a special case, and that was terrifying. Caring deeply about him scared Maxwell down to the very core of his being, and the realization of his feelings came with that terror.

It may have been that feeling, the fear that had buried in his stomach as he repaired his clothing, that brought these suffocating flowers along. Choking on his own fear.

But the fear was warranted. He ruined things so easily... especially Charlie, the last person he'd felt anything like this towards, he'd ruined her life and it was a thing he could never repair. Maxwell was fairly certain that even on the slim chance that these feelings were returned, he'd destroy it, without meaning to, as well. And with their last conversation, words that still sometimes came up in his thoughts, and another reason for avoiding the whole lot of them... well, at least he couldn't break something that was never going to happen in the first place.

A cold piece of comfort, and he shivered as the wind managed through the layers. Time to find a place to light a fire and warm up for the rest of the short day.

[thekillerqueen1945-blog]

I AM THE FUTURE YOU

CHAPTER 1                        

  The Genesis

To think about the unthinkable we need to transcend the reality. To understand the future, we are obliged to understand the past. I am going to show all your flaws, failures, uprisings and falls. I am the one, that saw it all. Still, I am not the creator; I am not the creation, merely the reflection of the creation-you and the world around you. The way you reflect this creation is the direct reflection of your inner world which resides in one's soul. It is something old and beautiful within you that yearns for knowledge, but it is still young enough to love another body of the mortal.

 Every story, every tale has its origin, it is its personal Genesis. Therefore does yours and so do mine. Both stories are connected, both are merged. To understand one you need to know the other. That is the key. I will confess the story of the essential core of my being, by retelling your story of humanity. This way by painting the story of you, the fragile, mortal humans of Earth, I will reveal mine. You falling creatures that think of yourselves above everything else. You believe of yourselves as the masters of ground you live on. You have forgotten how small and insignificant you genuinely are in the vast of the Universe and its many inhabitants. There are many more creations than a bubble you live in. Some above, some below, some small like a pocket, some, even bigger than your limited brains can comprehend. I would need an endless number of pages and an infinite amount of hours to write about every single universe, for they are infinite, and as they are, so am I. I know that by now you are eager, like a sponge that  absorbs the water, to collect all the features I have about those universes. Humanity is a bit like a sponge; development consumes the existence.  Mankind tends to blend all the experience, but not to develop its spiritual value and intellectual reality but to bust false ego and show of the doubtful virtue. Then, slowly but firmly like the sponge saturated with dust, it leaves stains wherever thou go, but unlike the sponge that leaves pinches on food and drink, humanity neglects behind its wars, death and ruin. You weren't always like that, weren't you?

 Science says that it all begins with cells, atoms and subatomic particles. You know that story or should I assume hypothesis, right. The Big Bang Theory, the creation of the first cell, Darwin's theory of evolution and all such. It goes something like this:

 The time beings. The universe goes to superfast "inflation" from the size of an atom to the size of an orange or grapefruit in 10-43 seconds. Could you imagine a world shaped like a grapefruit or like an orange? It indeed was like that, although I did not know how the orange or the grapefruit looked like at the very moment. But that orange was in great nothingness or in some vast black space. It was more like a sandwich, and other universes were tranquil below and above, old and huge, while yours was like a little seed planted and ready to eventually grow in a big old oak tree.

 Before anything happened, there was nothing. Then Nothing spoke: "Who am I ?"

From the question, that reecho the nothingness, three powerful entities were created. Infinity, Time and Death – all the reflections of Nothing were born or should I say re-born. They were eager to answer the question that Nothing claimed. “You are a horizontal line between what is expected to be said and what is told," spoke Infinity quietly.

" You are a light glimpse between the two infinities." contradicted Time

"You are both wrong. Nothing is between the end and the beginning." cold voice of the youngest of all charged emptiness with its sound of Death.

Nothing listened to each of them and then spoke  “Infinity is between what is meant to be said and what is said. Time is a little glimpse between eternities. And Death, death is a force between the end and the new beginning. How then, I can be what you all are !?"

 The three entities were at the lack of words, speechless at the moment of time. And in that breathless conversation, Silence was born. It is not known how long Silence was wrapped around them, it does not know when the game occurs, in the past present or the future. But one thing is for sure, I know that I am a part of the event, and so is each one of you.  There is likely a problem hereabouts in the time and place that your little, weak mortal brains cannot comprehend.  

 Silence finally broke with the warm and loud voice, that ecocide through all the praise it.

“ Nothing is everywhere. Nothing is everyone.”

“I do not understand what you mean Voice.”

“What I am saying is that Everything is Nothing and Nothing is Everything. All of us is everything” spoke the Voice calmly.

“Who are you ?" asked Nothing by slightly confused voice.

“I am the Creator. Everything, like you, is as well" answered the Voice.

“Everything…” whispered Nothing and went into soundlessness again.

 At the same moment when Nothing whispered, life begins, and the story started to unravel.

 What if I say that your universe is just the particle trickle of the dew on the edge of the yeard in the world within the creation inside the universe. Contemplate it or not the revelation is clear like that. You are very, very small, but you are still the piece of the Creator, part of Infinity, and part of everything.

The Big bang is, by the scientists of your civilisation, the origin of your universe, and your fragment. But the real birth was far more before. My siblings and I watched above you, change within you under the vigilant eyes of parents Time, Infinity and Death. Offcourse that we did not just stand here and watched you, we had intervened in your life when necessary, but all history was just too dull at the end. We talk, we ask questions, and we try to answer them. We are not the all-knowing and all-powerful, after all.

 We did not speak at the beginning.

Our infinite conversation started with the wise words of Father Time.

 “ Humans are travellers on the cosmic journey, the stardust dancing in the whirlpool of the infinity. Life is normal. They just stopped for the moment to love, to encounter each other, to share. It is a precious moment, a little timeless stand in the eternity."

 Now you can see how the actual version of the creation happened, it consists of many parts, and it is one of the ingredients of all religious forms and scientific beliefs.

 “People are just boring, weak waves of peace of the Stardust, why did you mention them Father?" questioned curious Life.

"Because we are all underbelly connected. We are all one." was the reply.

"Although we are all one, some of us are more honoured than the other. For example, human beings love Life and hate you Death." Life considerately mocked Death.

"Did you ever wonder why?" asked Death, slowly getting closer.

"No, but..." Life was abruptly interrupted by the Death " Because you are a beautiful lie, and I am the uninvadable ugly truth."

"Nevertheless " obviously intimidated by the Death, " I wonder how this insignificant humanity was created, how their world came to be? " asked Life.

  At that moment I find an excuse to speak myself.

" I know, I know exactly what happened. I can describe the story if nobody minds." I hinted enthusiastically.

" All right, my dear. Reveal us the story and soothe down" soft and gently continue the Time.

" So, the first moment that ever happened was something like the Big Bang, the voice of the dark matter that caused everything " I began my story of Genesis.

"So what happened next ?" required Life rolling its eyes.

“Next thing that happened, after the Big Bang, stands at around 10-32 seconds. Post expansion and the universe is the boiling, hot soup.”

Of course, it is not made of tomato of vegetables, since the plants were created billions of years after.  I smile shyly " It was a soup of electrons and additional scraps."

I have maintained the story by not minding the Life”s random remarks

“Scientists would love to sip the soup, I mean they spent an entire lifetime following tiny atoms and cells by the heart of the scope, but basically they are missing the bigger picture. “ Life bonded now more into the story.

“Correct, that big picture is the one I am trying to paint. Although contrary to popular belief, I am a pitiful artist. " I replied smiling widely, “ Now we are going to the last part of the very first time of the creation. The importance of this situationcontinues in a reduction of the temperature, that caused the quark[1] taste to milk. That was how the first noble moment of the universe was designed.”  

 “ The first birthday of the universe.

 Happy Birthday to you.

 Happy Birthday to you.

 Happy Birthday, Dear Universe.

 Happy Birthday to you” responded Life joyfully.

 “After that initial, first bit, the universe started to celebrate anniversary less often ending with its birthday every couple of billions of years. Regardless of it all, I count, notice and always recorded every moment in time, every moment of each of the infinite number of the universes.  You may think of me as a colossal nerd,  OCD person or a creeper, but believe me, I am more powerful than you could ever grasp. You should fear me, dread me and I consider that you already do." I spoke, more to humanity than to family.

" But as I told you before, the more you know about yourself, the more you will know about me."

"Yea, yeah. You are so scary; I think I faint" performed Life.

 After the first celebration in honour of the universe, we will jump on the moment that was tiny but yet important.  That was the 3rd minute of the creation. The temperature was still high108 ° C, and everything was boiling. It was too stuffy for electrons and protons to form fragments. Therefore they blocked light from glowing.

 I recall the flash with melancholy

" If you are truly curious about this, and I know that some of you are, you can examine some specialists or sages; they will probably reply to you in such manner that you will be confused and lost in version. Although I know that many, if not all of those ones are faulty."

I went through questions of why and how that is followed. " What happened next, after the universe became the superhot mist?”

“The Mist! Such an exciting and mysterious word, even for the soul as old as me. Mist are everywhere around as in the air, in songs, poems, books, as below us and above as well.”

I replied and immediately started to recall memories. “ It is a state in between reality and fiction, a realm between light and dark, a kingdom between life and death. It is around even when you can't see it.”

 “Humans fear of mist, they don't realise that it is necessary to remind themselves that all of the life is not what happens in front of the noses or their sights.  They do not perceive that hope they clasp on in the darkest of ties, hides in the mist. The life opportunities are brought by a bit of the spray of the uncertainty. People do not see that they have to walk through the foggy haze to change and whether the change is good or bad is not defined by itself but by a person and its choices wise and stupid ones. Listen to my advice, and do not let agony, regret, fear or depression to make you blind to the fact that every new day and every new moment carries whit in the abundance of opportunities to move your life in the direction right for you, in the mist you live paths. Most of the forms live in a cloudy fog. It's like a vivid book, and you like the character swiftly set in it, but you do not question the mist around it. You know that something important is going on, but you just can't figure out the scheme. You don't know what part is supposed to play or what the story is actually about. You just stand there like a puppet waiting for a puppeteer, lost in the mist of your own confusing thoughts within the more significant vapour. " Death spoke its gruff monologue.

 “ Do not let your life to be like that, don't just eat, sleep, procreate in that marathon by no finish line, whit no cheering, whit no witnesses, just a  no-end line within you …  " Infinity stopped to catch a breath or two and then finished,  "Find the purpose for your travelling, find the meaning in your experiences. Trust me. Beyond the cloud always lies simplicity, just as there is the light in the clarity.”

 “The proper order of the Things are often a complex mystery, is it not? Infinity gave us quite a lot to consider at and reflect about, right?" I was thinking loudly, “While you think and reflect on complexity; I will continue my tale.”

 It was 300 000 years after the creation of time in your worldly measurements. The temperature fell down; electrons are finally connected with protons and neutrons in fragment structure, mostly hydrogen and helium. Since light can finally shine, the sightseeing scene was more vivid, at that moment.

 “ It is striking how the light cast the dark abyss, is it not?” was my question for mostly myself again. “ However, as long as there is a light, there shall be darkness in coexistence.”  

 Darkness is always before the light, steadily waiting to come, no matter how fast light shall travel. Many do not see the lasting bond between this couple.

 “How would anyone classify the light if did not saw darkness first?” I was asking a question again, and again, “ And how would anyone know what the secrecy of knowledge is if it did not dare to shine?”

 If you ponder about this on the individual level, your mind begins to experience itself as never did before. All the uniqueness about it is survival on the fragile line between light and shadow, the Sun and the Moon, night and dawn. Each force is consist of both flash and cryptic, the question is, how much of which you will let out? While these two forces continue to twist, fight and shape, other significant events took place in the universe, and something rose to exist for the first time.  

 When the temperature was around -200° C, and after 1 billion of earthly years the scene was cold and dry. Gravity made hydrogen and helium gases blend to form the giant vapours that will create future galaxies; smaller clumps of gas collapse to build the first stars.

 I continued with this story, rapidly and enthusiastically as the very first time…

"It is exciting how much of time is necessary for the Star to be formed. In the past, people were hugely dependent on stars, its radiant light and scene on the night sky. As time passed, the people appear to forget the importance of cosmic fragments and the appreciation of their beauty has faded. Everybody believes that stars are leaders of the light and solicitudes of darkness while many are blinded to the fact that both are nothing more but the slaves of his or her own desires and fusses, torn continuously between demons and angels, chained for internity in delusion made by themselves in the fear from the truth."

 Now it was, apparently, turn for the Time to be wise and speak.

“One part of the truth is that everything starts to exists will eventually stop to exist. Stars arrived, and stars will die. That happened around 15 billion years after the Great beginning. Galaxies group together under the gravity force and the first star casts lapse and eject the heavy elements into time and space. First, dead star fall was magnificent,  and remains will eventually settle into the new star, planet and therefore to new creation and/or civilisation. That is how the entire cosmic system, planet Earth and every single piece of the human body o was created from the first carbon waste."

 Can you imagine? Your bones and flash, all you can witness around were originated from the dust of dying stars, from the cloud that lives in you like a singular part of life itself. It sounds dramatic and dark, somehow forbidden to comprehend. Life is sprouting from the earth of the death! It is interesting how one think about both, but distinctly and I wonder when those two went different ways in mind of comprehension. Why many fear death and eventually forget how to live, and at the same time all are born from clouds, ashes and remains. Such a significant disadvantage in life to vanish before real death happens at all.

 As I already mentioned life, let me tell you how life on Earth was created.

“All living things possess carbon within them. In light of this, Earth needed to have a vast supply of carbon to supply a rich diversity of life. The carbon was available due to the violent nature of the Erath at the beginning, when volcanoes spewed various elements into the Earth's atmosphere. Since other elements were present as well, many chemical reactions started to take the place which resulted in the creation of various new features and the compounds. One of those created compounds were the building blocks of the protein, small, simple and not diversified. There and then the early sign of life on Earth inhabited the sea and absorbed the organic material created by the reactions of Earth at the time (i.e. the creation of amino acids). The building blocks formed first bioorganisms and also acted as a food source to them. It is the common belief that from this point forward, in the science universe, of course, the evolution took place. There are many other scientific theories of the genesis,  on life on Earth, and I won't tell you more, nor I will tell you which one is correct. Your belief is your choice, although, all of them might be incorrect at the end what life is but a constant questioning of basic or advanced settings?”A plant that is incapable of synthesising its own organic carbon-based compounds from inorganic sources, hence, feeds on organic matter produced by, or available in, other bodies. Heterotrophs are the consumers in the food chain, mainly the herbivores, carnivores and omnivores. All mammals, some fungi and most bacteria are heterotrophs. They are not capable of producing their own food. Therefore, they obtain their energy requirements by feeding on organic matter or another organism. One lives on others death, so it was necessary to label and form to each of those two paths in our memory since it seems smart at the moment.An organism is a heterotroph if it obtains its carbon from organic compounds. If it obtains nitrogen from organic compounds but not energy, it is still considered an autotroph (such as carnivorous plants).Organisms that obtain carbon from organic compounds may either be: photoheterotrophs or chemoheterotrophs. 

In general, organisms in the evolutionary chain became more involved in their nature, i.e. the first organisms were likely.

“You know how they say life goes from A to D. From the birth to the death. And what is C then? C is the choice. Life is full of choices, many paths you can follow ar even make new ones. Decisions are significant and essential as for example will the war happen or not, or minor and everyday as will you continue to read this book or not. " interpreted Life in the manner of a Zen master.

 Besides this scientific and objectively accurate view of the genesis of the life on the Erath, there is religious view as well. And there the God exists, maybe even more Gods or some kind of higher power occupied continuously in the manner. In Christianity and Hebrew culture, there is a book in the Old Testament called The book of the Genesis in which is described how God created the Earth life.

 Genesis 1:26 “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.

2 Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.

3 And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light.

4 God saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness.

5 God called the light “day,” and the darkness he called “night.” And there was evening, and there was morning—the first day.

Then God said, “Let us make mankind in our image, in our likeness, so that they may rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky, over the livestock and all the wild animals, and over all the creatures that move along the ground.”

27 So God created mankind in his own image,

in the image of God, he created them;

male and female he created them.

…God saw all that he had made, and it was perfect. And there was an evening, and there was morning—the sixth day. “  

 “Almost everyone knows this story from the Bible.”  Life said acting like the drama queen.

“I mean, we witness Bible being written and it was not so interesting and amazing as humans and you, obviously, make it be."  

 There are many more stories, myths and legends of the creation of mankind. In Vedas is said that there are 4 yugas as 4 big time laps - Satya Yuga, Treta Yuga, Dvapara Yuga and Kaliyuga. We are now in 4th lap or Kaliyuga. And then when a white incarnation of the Lord destroys the Erath, and its last time lap the cycle will repeat.  4 Yugas create one Divya-Yuga – 4.32 million human years. 71 Divya – yuga creates one Manvantra- 306.32 million human years. 14 Manvantras creates one Kalpa or one day of Brama - 4.32 billion years. 36 000 Kaplas and same amounts of the nights create the life of Brahma- around 311.04 trillion human years. The universe begins within the 1st  day of Brahma and ends with last night.

Everything is created by the supreme being- Lord Visnu. This is a simple and very brief summary of Genesis in Vedas.

 If you desire to know more about all, take a risk in accepting your modern technology or big old books, little humans.

Think a little bit more. If you try to connect those stories and myths, it all fits just like the puzzle. Of course, you have to distinguish which ones are real and which fake. It makes sense, does it? All facts science proclaimed also could have happened. The Big Bang could be very well the beginning of the first day of Brahma. Interesting, right?  

 I was finishing the tale “Remember what I said before. Everything that is born will die. So will you, and so will your universe.”

 Do not worry about me. I shall exist, till the end of the time.

 "Can we just stop with the conversation for now and concentrate on watching humans. You are becoming more boring than them" Life spoke turning its back from one.

"All right, my child" confidently said the Time, knowing it has Infinity to always back him up.

" Do not be so full of your self, Life?" said Infinity, but Life never listened.

    Time never stops, never changes or waits for everyone.

It last forever.

It moves in eternity.

It teaches everyone what really matters!

[musemash]

TUCKER TRANSMUTES LOSS INTO GRATITUDE – by David D. Fowler / updated July 18, 2021

NOSTALGIA FOR MOVING PARTS is the fourth book by gifted British Columbia poet DIANE TUCKER. The embedded videos present a visualization of the title poem; her recitations of selections from the book; her tribute to George Herbert; and her book launch readings, with guests Sheri-D Wilson and Kevin Spenst. Multi Facet Fables offers several of her poems below.

Turnstone Press describes her work as follows: "Poised between thoughts of mortality, and an exquisite taste for the most tender, small details of life, the poems in Nostalgia For Moving Parts are whimsical, quirky, and resonant with memory. Deeply grounded in the rainy mists and green reeds of the Canadian west coast, solitude becomes a spiritual practice – transmuting loneliness and loss into grand appreciations, for the gift of childhood and the untravelled road ahead."

Fellow poet Rob Taylor writes: When Diane Tucker hangs up a payphone in Nostalgia For Moving Parts' title poem, she observes that 'there is (oh unexpected pleasure) a real click.' When she lays down to sleep: 'the prayers / that fight up through me make a sort of hum.' Click and hum. Nostalgia and prayer. What's been and what will always be. Nostalgia For Moving Parts reminds us how to hear and see the ephemeral in the eternal and the eternal in the ephemeral: the moving parts of all our lives."

Finally, playwright Ron Reed enthuses: "Three poems about childhood... made me cry... So particular, so much compassion. Get yourself a copy. I'm not kidding." You can find the book at this link: https://www.turnstonepress.com/books/poetry/nostalgia-for-moving-parts.html

CHILD'S POSE Both hands spread to feel the floor, the child I am is still kin to carpet, tile, dust-drift beneath cupboards. The child I am spreads forearms along this coolness, taking in how much the floor gives and resists. She curls into her kneecaps, warm familiars, pressing into the small dark made by her greying head. The tops of her feet flat against the ground, the child I remain makes herself hummock, hill, barrow full of the self's jewels, small spine a path from darkness to darkness, arms twin tree roots cradled in earth.

DANNY Skipping ropes at school, their woven heft. Steel poles around the roofed playground, the rain running down them luminous, metal-melting. I’d press my tongue against a pole and drink. School was a world of delicious new textures: fat crayons, creamy manila colouring paper, notebooks, worksheets stacked fat as animal bodies. Tables and chairs with shiny metal tubes for legs. Even light at school felt stronger than at home. They showed us filmstrips of marmalade leaves against a blue blue sky, all technicolour-crisp. How I loved those glowing celluloid leaves! Then the cloakroom hooks’ imploring curves, parallel silences in calm, rectangular shadows, the pavement tap-dance beat of skipping ropes. How I loved school, the sweet order of desks in grids. So I wasn’t totally upset when, in grade two, Danny with the French last name tied me to a pole with a skipping rope so he could kiss me, Danny with the round eyes, a cherub’s mouth, curly hair. He was small even among the small, as I was. No doubt I’d flirted with him, grade-two style, cute and clueless. I thought myself a lady. Were kisses procured? I bet there were a few. Soon the rope loosened and I made a dash. But Danny pushed me back. A metal pole I loved, from which I’d drunk the rain, rushed up and struck me in the bone below one eye. A shiner it was called. I had a shiner. I’d seen them on TV, cartoon-red beefsteaks on faces. Danny got the strap then, or another time, or both. He came back to class subdued, his crying eyes swollen. As if a hiding could patch up his love-starved soul. He chased girls, he lifted skirts, he stole kisses, and the grown-ups just spanked his ass? Poor Danny, tiny paramour, tiny batterer! As long as I knew him, Danny chased the girls, staring expectantly through big brown eyes. Whatever makes boys seize girls roiled in him. That yearning he had, no strap could smack it out. And no black eye stopped me flirting. I was seven and had imprinted on romance like a baby bird. I followed its Hollywood promises everywhere, persistent and imploring as a cloakroom hook.

IF I CAN BE BRAVE I love to lie on the rust-orange carpet by the shiny floor that stops at the heat vents, black slats like little venetian blinds. I peer between them. Can I see the basement? Can I hear Grandma and Grandpa talking? I slide along the varnished floor in sock feet, turn and creep down the basement stairs. If I face it, the darkness, if I can be brave, Grandma will give me a glass of 7UP and scratch my back on the green and white brocade couch and let me watch every last minute of The Lawrence Welk Show. Let me make it through the black basement kitchen, then run into the living room. Lamps will be on. Grandpa will smoke a pipe in his brown leather chair. Grandma's hair will shine in its perfect silver waves. Everything will be safe, blanket-cozy, almost-bedtime good.

BEAUTIFUL GRADE FOUR TEACHER always wore his shirt half open, had dry-look hair and eyes bigger than Donny Osmond’s. Sometimes he used swear words in class. I fell hard in grade four love. I remember the day I had to wear the hand-me-down dress to school. Polka dots, pleats, Peter Pan collar. 1974 was bell-bottoms, feathered hair, Three Dog Night and Doodle Art. It was neither pleats nor polka dots. It was in no way a Peter Pan collar. But crushy teacher, lounging atop a desk, fixed me, with round, pale eyes, in his stare. He grafted two trees to a single rootstock, kindness twinned forever with desire. You look smashing, he said, in that dress. The world lit up. I clutch that moment, talisman still, the heat that flowered when he noticed my smallness, my sadness, and spoke.

LOVE THE SAD MEN The small, huge things that sad men do, sad men who build with everything but words. Build dollhouses, train sets, HO mountains from cereal boxes and plaster of Paris, building the mountains they can for their sons. For daughters they build scroll-sawed shelves to hold phalanxes of dolls, blown-glass animals, Barbie barns above the bed’s blue lace. Sad fathers who’ve eluded words carve magic circles in their back lawns for swimming pools. They sieve stones out of the soil circles so nothing will nick the pools’ thin blue skin. This is the testament of sad men who live starved of words: drywall, carport, pickle jars of nails, lawnmower, farmer’s tan, house paint, apple tree, soldering gun, handsaw, wood plane. Wood shavings falling from the vise, wooden curls on the cold garage floor, wooden curls warm on little girls’ ears.

VANDUSEN GARDEN IN OCTOBER Imagine being planted long enough that your roots grow up through the earth, breaking the mossy surface the way a fish’s spine rises from the bronze lake. Imagine walking in a chilled silence until you hear three black squirrels chewing and hear their tiny hearts beat when the raven screams. Imagine white-gowned women in a fern dell. Imagine they’ve swallowed all of the October light and shine with it like walking birches. Imagine small bridges over a dry stream. Imagine every leaf assembling, red-gold current of autumn wind running under ice-hearted stones. Imagine pausing there, letting the chill slip itself down your back, into your lungs. Imagine your coat, your scarf, your boots loosen, open, and let slip in November’s sleek and blandishing hands.

UN-SISTER The un-sister who barely came to be in this world stayed in God's mind with the un-roses: red almond-shaped shadows. I dream her idling about the un-garden with all the un-born, bodiless smiles painted on the airless atmosphere of the vast un-place of the un-made, faux perfection of the un-tried and un-spoken. I hold up my hand of flesh, bathed in particle waves of material light. It cannot close around nothing. We're always bearing handfuls of atoms. Even when very still and thinking of my un-living sister among the haze of un-created flowers, matter sparks. Light dances across synapses in the mind's dark, where everything imagined has its name, its own small electric body.

[mhaase1]

Sabbath Ramblings: The Breastplate Of Presence. - Ben Greenfield Fitness - Diet, Fat Loss and Performance Advice

Last night, the Lord anointed me with His Presence. It came out of the blue. I was never really fully aware of how unpresent I am and have grown to be for so long until He spoke this truth to me in a moment of silence.

It began with me thinking about the way I spend my day, and dwelling upon the Groundhog-day-esque nature of much of my life these days: accomplish one task, move on to the next task, complete the next piece of content, read the next book, listen to the next podcast, prepare for the next meal, have “quick conversations” on the phone, shoot off hurried email replies, rinse, wash and repeat. But see, God cares about each day. Sure, 2 Peter 3:8 in the Bible says that a thousand years are as a single day to God, yet this doesn’t mean he doesn’t still care for each of these days, hours, minutes, seconds, and microseconds.

And this means that for us to be fully grateful, fully aware, fully impactful, fully purposeful, fully excellent, and living fully to the glory of God each day we must also be present each day, present each hour, present each minute, present each second, present each microsecond, and perhaps most importantly: present each breath.

This anointing of and extreme awareness of Presence that God gifted to me is hard to describe, but I will try. I felt Presence fitted upon my torso like the most thin, delicate, fragile glass breastplate you can imagine. It is completely translucent, shimmering, glowing, and flowing with each twist and move of my body. Like glass, Presence can shatter at a moment’s notice, but unlike glass—and more like water or a seamless fluid—it can instantly reform after it is broken, if the awareness of the broken Presence and the desire for Presence returns. As one learns to care for this “breastplate of Presence,” one can grow better and better at keeping it from shattering, and reforming it when it is broken.

One of the best ways to maintain the integrity of Presence is with breath. Imagine that each inhale charges the Presence with a deep white and blue light, and each exhale sends tendrils, vibrations, frequencies, and atoms of that Presence wherever God inspires you to direct your Presence.

The world so desperately needs Presence, doesn’t it?

In an age of constant distraction, and doing, doing, doing as human doings instead of human beings, most people’s Presence is constantly non-existent or shattered. Yet not many people speak of the importance of Presence. Mindfulness, yes. Focus, yes. Awareness, yes. But Presence has an altogether different ring to it when the word is said aloud or envisioned as this breastplate upon the body.

I want to help teach Presence to people. God has placed this upon my heart. Family is foundation, so I must begin by teaching my twin boys River and Terran Presence. Presence for each tiny bubble of air in each of their young inhales and exhales. Each padded footstep out of their bed in the morning. Each ray of sunshine that strikes their skin. Each drop of rain that settles on their head. Each bite of food slowly lifted to the lips and savored and chewed. Each sip of wine and olive oil and yes, even water. Pure, unadulterated Presence must saturate the life of one who wants to be fully connected to loving others and loving God..

How is our Presence broken?

Sure, as I’ve already mentioned, our daily distractions—particularly technology, work, and endless to-do lists—threaten each moment to break our Presence, but I think the vicious cycle begins when we are young. Think back to your childhood, something so many of us fail to regularly do. Remember who you were as a child before you began to feel the pressure to become who you thought the world wanted you to be, rather than your true, authentic self God called you to be. Presence began to fade when it was overwhelmed by all the running, lifting, twisting, twirling, spinning, catching, releasing, starting, ending, consuming, and endless trying and yearning as you tried to be who the world wanted you to be, rather than that fragile breastplate of Presence remaining with you on the constant because you were satisfied with the peace of being who God had called you to be.

If you return to this Presence, if you momentarily stop dancing through the bullets of the matrix of life, you can become connected to your true purpose. You are not ashamed of your purpose statement, you are not so caught up in the doing that you forget about the being, and you have deep knowing that if you cannot be present, then there is too much. 

You know. Too much to do. Too much to tend to. Too much to make. Too many promises to keep. Business to tend to. Books to write. Books to read. Tests to take. School to do. Things to record. Phone calls to dial. Equipment to clean. New things to try. Mail to open. Mail to send. Yes, yes, yes to all the shiny pennies and “opportunities” accompanied by a relative lack of “no, this distracts me from Presence.” These tasks and to-do lists can all seem very honorable and productive, but at the end of the day result in little meaningful impact versus focusing with excellence upon one fully present task done well or one fully present conversation that leaves someone feeling truly cared about because you took the time, looked into their eyes, listened with patience and loved.

Until today, until I truly realized what Presence is, my purpose statement was “to empower people to live a more joyful, adventurous, and fulfilling life.” But I realize now that this purpose statement doesn’t place me in the present, and indeed, tempts me to be and even paints me into a corner of being some kind of strong, chest-thumping warlord who leads people on adventure quests in a never-ending cycle of unfulfilling doing. So what is my true purpose statement after much reflection and introspection upon the importance of Presence?

I’ll tell you. 

To Read & Write, Learn & Teach, Sing & Speak, Compete & Create In Full Presence & Selfless Love, To The Glory Of God. 

I feel a deep sense of Presence in that purpose statement, and if I can go forth and love others with that purpose statement while remaining fully present, then I know deep in my soul that I will be living as God has truly called me to live.

So I now commit, I promise and I prioritize for the rest of my days to wearing this breastplate of Presence, and to sharing Presence with others in as deep and meaningful a way as I can, from the first breath I take upon waking, to the first step I when my feet touch the ground out of bed, to the first sip of water that touches my lips and onwards into every experience and interaction of the day.

In next week's post, I'm going to tell you how to hone your own purpose statement, but in the meantime, I'd love to hear your thoughts about Presence, and if you plan to commit to having more Presence yourself.

Ask Ben a Podcast Question

[myaekingheart]

73. Red Dot

               Rain pounded against the roof, the sky dark and cloudy overhead. For Kakashi, it was the perfect weather to stay in and read. He made himself a quick bowl of tamago kake gohan and settled in for a night of Makeout Paradise. He was only three pages in, however, when there was a frantic knock at the door. He set his book down and answered, his heart jolting into his throat. Standing on his doorstep, soaked and manic, was none other than Rei Natsuki.

               “We need to talk” she insisted, pushing past him into his apartment. Her hands were shaking at her sides and for a moment he feared it didn’t have anything to do with being cold.

               “Rei, what’s going on? Is everything alright?” he asked, slowly closing the door and approaching. The minute he got close enough, she started slapping him on the forearm as many times as she could manage. “W-what was that for?!” he asked, recoiling. The longer he went without an explanation, the more panicked he became. He was almost too scared to get an answer.

               “You broke your damn promise, you asshole!” she shouted. She gripped her hair and began pacing the room. Her breathing was uneven.

               Kakashi blinked. “What are you talking about? What promise?” he asked. The only promise he ever recalled making was to keep her safe always. If she was upset about what had happened earlier that week, he could argue that she jumped into the fray on her own. Although, he admittedly did feel embarrassingly useless. He hoped that wasn’t the catalyst for her anger.

               With a frustrated groan, Rei pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets and tilted her head back, sharply turning before walking in the opposite direction. “You promised me you wouldn’t slip up!” she shouted. “But you broke your promise!”

               Kakashi cocked a brow quizzically, a sudden sense of fear creeping into his bones. “W-what do you mean?” he asked.

               And then she said it. The words fell from her mouth and every atom inside of Kakashi’s body froze. He felt like he was trapped within a dream, that at any moment he would either wake up safe and warm and unaffected or find the floor caving in, swallowing him up in an inescapable darkness. He could hardly breathe as the words reverberated through his head. “Kakashi, I think I’m pregnant.”

               He sunk down onto the edge of the bed, dazed and confused, recounting every second of their last night together. Had he pulled out? He could’ve swore he did. But what if he was too late? What if something happened? He definitely pulled out, though. Didn’t he…? He had to have pulled out. He always pulled out. Uneasy, he pulled Rei close to sit beside him. “A-are you sure? How do you know?” he asked. His eyes glanced uneasily down at her stomach. How far along was she? How long had she known? Did she want to keep it? Was it even his? The thoughts became increasingly panicked the faster his mind raced.

               “My period’s late” she murmured, wide eyes locked on the floor. She struggled to catch her breath. Tiny droplets of water fell from her hair onto her thighs. “My period is never late.”

               “D-did you take a test? Do you want to?” he asked. He was ready to run to the drug store and pick one up for her right now if she needed, not even caring about the potential rumors that could arise. He was certain people would have a field day at the sight of it: Kakashi Hatake of the Secondhand Sharingan, renowned ninja, buying a pregnancy test. But he would do it for her. All she had to do was say the word and he would go.

               Rei shook her head. “It might be too early, I don’t want to run the risk” she said. Though deep down, she was far too terrified to take one. She didn’t think she had the strength to confront that little pink plus sign. A frustration rose within her then, kicking her shoes off the floor and burying her face in her hands. She cursed the universe and whatever deity up above was controlling this whole freak show, if there was anyone at all. She really didn’t need this right now. Just when she was trying to get her bearings on her life and gain a sense of true independence, life had to pull her back like a dog on a leash and choke the fuck out of her. No, she had no room in her life right now for a baby. There was no way this could really be happening.

               “Have you had any other symptoms?” Kakashi asked her. A part of him felt extremely interrogative now, but he wanted all the information he could get his hands on. This was important and he needed the full story in order to know how to best process all of this, and thus react accordingly.

               “I-I don’t know” she said, and her body started trembling more violently. “I can’t sleep, everything I eat makes me feel sick, my whole body hurts. I don’t feel…right.”

               Kakashi knew full well that they were broken up, but this defied separation. He scooted closer and wrapped his arms around her tightly, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He hoped the embrace would help calm her, but if anything it just made her worse. She wiggled out of his grasp and slid back onto the bed, muttering a pained Oh god and wedged her head between her knees. He reached over and pulled the trash can up and into her lap, watched her hyperventilate with eyes squeezed shut as she suppressed nausea. His heart broke just looking at her, seeing all the pain she was in, and knowing it was his fault. And this wouldn’t even be the worst part. Really, this was only the beginning. She immediately reached out and gripped his hand tight then, squeezing it as tears streamed down her cheeks. All Kakashi could do was rub the back of her hand with his thumb and whisper soft nothings, then said, “I think you should spend the night.” She couldn’t even find the strength to protest. All she could manage was a quick nod through heavy breaths.

               Spreading a blanket out, Kakashi settled onto the floor. Giving Rei the whole bed was the least he could do. Deep down, he desperately wanted to curl up beside her and let her know everything would be okay, but he had to remind himself that they were technically still broken up. Rei had yet to say anything on the contrary, and he insisted on honoring that. And besides, he didn’t really mind the floor that much. He doubted he was going to get much sleep, anyway.

               “Kakashi…?” Rei then whispered, snapping him from his thoughts. She laid very still on her back, the trash can tucked right beside the bed in case she needed it in the middle of the night.

               “Hmm?” Kakashi asked, turning toward her.

               “If I really am pregnant…what are we going to do?” she asked. There was a weary desperation in her voice that scared him.

               Sucking in a deep breath, Kakashi replied, “What do you want to do?” It was her body and therefore her decision. Whatever she chose, he was willing to support.

               Rei shook her head and groaned. “You can’t just push all the decisions on me!” she whined. “This involves you, too.”

               “But I won’t be the one growing a baby inside of my body” Kakashi replied back. “Your body is going to go through hell, not mine.”

               The thought of it sent Rei’s entire body quaking again. She pressed her hand to her lower stomach and sucked in a deep breath, imagining the tiny embryo lurking inside of her uterus, an intruder she hadn’t expected and didn’t know how to manage. “Either way” she said in a sharp exhale, “This is your problem, too. I can’t do this on my own.”

               Blinking, Kakashi then asked, “You’re sure about that, right?”

               A jolt of anxiety rushed through Rei in response. Was he insinuating she was going to have to raise this child on her own? She clenched her fists at her sides in angry panic. How dare he. “About what?” she spat.

               “That it’s, uh…my problem” Kakashi said slowly.

               Rei leaned over the bed, lips pursed, and whacked him on the arm hard. “Who else’s would it be, you idiot?!” she shouted. “Did you really think I’d rebound that fast? Unlike you and your pyscho date.”

               “That wasn’t my fault” Kakashi defended. “She wouldn’t take no for an answer. I only agreed to avoid conflict.”              

               “Oh, yeah, and almost letting her steal your fucking eyeball totally conts as a relaxing little night out” Rei spat. She rolled back over shaking her head and staring up at the ceiling. “What a piece of shit.”

               Kakashi sighed and laid down, propping his hands behind his head. They sat in silence for a long while then, Kakashi allowing Rei some distance to cool off. Nothing he had to say would mean anything if she was this aggravated. After an appropriate amount of time had passed, he finally asked, “Rei…about this baby…?”

               “What?” she sighed. She hated the way that sounded. This baby. It made her skin crawl. Her stomach fluttered and she gripped the sheets to fight away the anxious nausea.

               Her still-lingering frustration almost deterred Kakashi from asking the question. Almost. “Do you want this baby?” he asked. “I mean, would you want to have this baby and keep it?”

               “I-I don’t know…” Rei murmured, squeezing her eyes shut tight. “I don’t know what I want to do.”

               Sucking in a deep breath, Kakashi sat up then and rested his head on the edge of the bed, reaching out to rest a comforting hand atop her stomach. “Master Jiraiya has taken Naruto under his wing, and Sakura has been studying under Lady Tsunade. I don’t expect to be as busy as I’ve been lately. I’ll have more freedom to take care of the both of you.”

               Rei rested her hand atop his and fed him a small smile, polite but uncomfortable. “I appreciate the offer” she whispered. “But still…”

               “What?” he asked. He felt a sense of mania rising up within him. He knew she was scared, and he didn’t blame her. But what other option did she have? He yearned for her to fall into him again, to just accept fate and curl up in his arms. If this wasn’t fate’s way of pushing them back together, then he wasn’t sure what was.

                “I don’t know…” she whispered. “Kakashi, I hate this. I don’t want to deal with this. A part of me almost wishes I could just fall asleep and wake up cured like this is the common cold or something. As if enough rest and fluids will get rid of the virus and everything can go back to normal.”

               A jolt of panic rushed through Kakashi in that moment. His hand involuntarily increased in pressure upon her abdomen. “You’re not saying you want to…?” he started, but Rei already knew exactly what he was after. She pressed a hand to her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut tight, horrific flashes of the procedure flickering through her mind. It was the easiest way out, but did she have the strength? Would she regret it if she did? She didn’t know. “Rei, listen to me” Kakashi said, brushing the bangs out of her face. “You don’t have to do this alone. I know you’re scared. I know this was unplanned. But please…just trust me. I’m not leaving you. We can make this work. I promise.”

               Rei looked back at him with tears in her eyes, chewing her lower lip to keep herself from wailing. If she let herself break down, she knew she would wake up everyone in the entire apartment complex. They didn’t need to know about this. Looking into his eyes, however, she could barely hold it together. This was all so fucked up. Her head ached from all the conflict. Things were never simple, were they? It was always one thing after another after another after another.

               She thought back to when she was a child, those silly ideas she had in her head of being the first pregnant ninja on duty. The idea that she could not only do both but excel. But she was just a kid back then. What the hell did she know? In reality, it wasn’t so simple. If she was to go through with this, if this was real and she received foolproof confirmation that she truly was pregnant, she would be forced to sacrifice everything she had worked so hard to achieve. And she would have no choice but to return to Kakashi, to depend upon him yet again. The offer was hard to deny when he was sitting right in front of her like this, desperation in those mismatched eyes and a tenderness to his touch. He didn’t have to say it for her to know he wanted this. The fact that she wasn’t as sure made her want to scream. Why wasn’t she sure? Why didn’t she know what she wanted? Why couldn’t she just make a goddamn decision?

               “Are you sure you’d want to do this?” she asked after a long stretch of silence. “I mean…it would be asking a lot. If we go through with this, what the hell would we even do? How are we going to handle this?”

               Kakashi drew her hands up to kiss them softly. “We can find a nice house, someplace with lots of room for the baby to play when she’s older. It would be the three of us together, and we could wake up to each other every morning and fall asleep together every night. We could be a happy little family. I would provide for the both of you. I would make sure you’re taken care of. I’ll stick by your side through the whole pregnancy, attend every doctor’s appointment and birthing class and read every book.”

               Here, Rei laughed softly and shook her head. “Are you sure that won’t ruin Makeout Paradise for you?” she asked. “I doubt you’ll ever look at vaginas the same way ever again.”

               Kakashi shook his head. “I don’t care” he said. “You’re more important.”

               It was at that that Rei frowned, a tinge of fear hitting the back of her throat. “I don’t want you to sacrifice everything for this” she said, an undercurrent of panic in her voice. “Maybe we just shouldn’t do this at all. Maybe we shouldn’t have this baby.”

               Gripping her hand a little tighter, Kakashi shook his head. “No, everything is going to be fine. Trust me” he said. “We can make this work. I know we can.”

               “But there’s so much shit to consider, Kakashi” she said. “What about work? What if things get hectic again and you can’t be here? Or worse…”

               He already knew exactly what she meant. Flashes of his father played through his mind, his limp body on the living room floor. “That’s not going to happen” he insisted. “I won’t let it.”

               “But you can’t always control those sorts of things, Kakashi” she whispered. “What if you’re on a mission that goes south? What if something happens and you don’t make it home? And you end up like…like Naru…? I just…I can’t risk worrying about that.”

               “What can I say to make you feel better?” he asked, cupping her cheek and scooting close enough to press his forehead against hers.

               “I-I don’t know…I don’t know” she whispered, closing her eyes and gasping for breath. She could feel the adrenaline course quicker and quicker through her veins, her pulse beating harder and faster. This was too much. She didn’t want to do this. She didn’t think she could do this. She couldn’t abort the thing, but she couldn’t bring herself to accept motherhood and everything that came with it. Maybe this was all just some sort of fucked up dream. She’d wake up any minute perfectly unaffected. Everything would be fine. Everything needed to be fine.

               Sensing the unevenness of her breath, Kakashi began rubbing small circles on her stomach and whispering soft reassurances. He considered digging that ring up from inside his dresser, of getting down on one knee and proposing to her right then and there. He wanted to support her no matter her decision, but he knew that deep down there was no way she could bring herself to not get sucked into this. If she needed a consolation, he was more than willing to give it to her.

               “I always thought” she started, her voice a hoarse whisper, “that when I finally got pregnant, I would be prepared for it. It would be timed right, and I would be ready. But now…I don’t think I’m ready. I don’t think I can handle a baby right now but…but I can’t possibly back away from this. If this is even really happening.” She curled up with arms wrapped around her stomach and buried her face in the sheets. “I’m not ready to be a mom, Kakashi…I don’t think I can do this.”

               “Rei, shh…” he whispered gently, brushing the hair out of her face. “I know this is scary, but ready or not you have to make that choice. If you decide to do this, I promise you I will do everything I can to be the best father to this child. Have faith in me, Rei. You can depend on me.”

               There was that word again. Depend. A dark, spiky monster of a something rose up within her chest at the thought, a frustration and defeat. She groaned into the pillow and shook her head, squeezing Kakashi’s hand tight. “I know I can, but…” she started, but Kakashi intervened with a slew of desperate promises, repeating the same things he had said earlier in the night. He was so hungry for this, so set on forging this future with her. Deep down, she knew she wanted the same but…the timing was all wrong. She had unfinished business to attend to. In her current state she could not be a mother, even though she could not afford to grieve anyone else either. There was no way out. She was damned either way. “Kakashi, please…” she interrupted weakly. “Just…just stop. I just want you to…lay with me…”

               Kakashi blinked a few times, mildly taken aback, then settled and obliged. He carefully climbed over her and curled up behind her, tugging her close so that her back was pressed right up against him. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her tight, kissing her freckled shoulder and the crook of her neck. “I’m sorry” he whispered. “We’ve done enough worrying for tonight. You should get some sleep. And if you want, I’ll take you to the hospital in the morning. We can see a doctor and figure everything out then.”

               Sucking in sharp breath, Rei nodded slowly and then closed her eyes. She wondered what time it was, how long she had been here, how long until the sun was to come up, and especially how different this would feel in nine months. She envisioned herself up all night, covered in breastmilk and spit up, frazzled and frumpy and deflated. A shiver ran down her spine at the thought. Having a baby was a monumental change. And then a terrifying thought occurred: even if this fell through, if something happened like a miscarriage that would arguably save her from the impending storm, and she was able to go through with her predetermined plan, what if she was never ready? Would she ever feel enthused and prepared for something like this? Her entire body fell into plateaued panic as she drifted off into an unresolved sleep.

               Kakashi watched as she dozed off, running a hand along her side, rubbing her lower stomach, and nuzzling the back of her neck. He fell asleep that night thinking about the future laid out before them and the promise of a baby. Everything was going to be just fine.

               Come morning, Kakashi rose bright and early. He hated leaving her side, but took comfort in knowing that he wouldn’t be gone for long. He raced to the market and picked up fresh fruit and her favorite pastries from that shop down the street. He worked quickly and quietly upon his return to plate everything, even going so far as to place a cute little flower on the breakfast tray. This was his best chance. He would surprise her with breakfast in bed, then get down on one knee and ask her to marry him. It would be the perfect start to the rest of their lives together. It was foolproof.

               Rei stirred awake to the sweet smell of fresh baked dough and warm fruit filling. The first thing she saw upon creaking her eyes open was the tray on the nightstand before her. A pile of pastries sat high on a plate, beside them a bowl of fruit—tangy strawberries, juicy mandarin oranges, big chunks of watermelon, blueberries and grapes and slices of banana. Then she looked up to find Kakashi sitting before her, a grin on his unmasked face.

               “I hope you slept alright” he said.

               There was something weird about all of this. Perhaps she was still just half-asleep, but she felt disconnected from her body and the world around her. Something heavy sat in the pit of her stomach. She slowly sat up, her head aching and her back sore. Her stomach cramped the moment she reached for a bite of food, wincing. Kakashi’s smile disappeared and he rushed to her side. She shifted in bed, and then it was very clear to her what was going on. Her face turned beet red and her heart dropped into her stomach. When she shifted, there was something warm and sticky slathered on her thighs. She peeled the sheets back slowly and there it was. Blood.

               Kakashi instinctively recoiled and Rei pressed a hand to her mouth, quizzical and embarrassed. “I got my period…” she whispered, touching the blood as if to ensure it was real. The more she thought about it, the more it all made sense. She had been under so much stress and had hardly been eating. It was no wonder her period had turned irregular. Her mind then flitted through every moment of the previous night, and she wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to feel relieved or disappointed. It wasn’t a problem after all. She was never pregnant in the first place. This was all just a gross overreaction and the thought of it made her so disgustingly embarrassed, she could crawl under a rock and die.

               Kakashi could feel the engagement ring bouncing around in his back pocket, suddenly so much heavier than before. He dropped down into his desk chair, eyes locked firmly on the blood. Could he still go through with this plan? Or were the current conditions no longer appropriate? He rubbed his forehead and sighed.

               “Oh god…I’m so sorry” Rei whispered, staring at the red stain on his white sheets. “I-I can try and get that out for you…if you want…”

               Kakashi shook his head. “No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it” he replied, trying to sound a lot brighter than he felt.

               A forced laugh escaped Rei’s lips then. “Well…I guess we dodged that bullet, huh?” she asked.

               “Mmhmm” Kakashi nodded. “Yeah…we did.”

               Another stretch of silence passed. The aftermath of their scare loomed over both of them tauntingly. “I’m sorry for what I put you through last night” she then whispered. “I’ve been in a really weird head space, I just…I wasn’t even thinking. I probably never should’ve come over in the first place.”

               “No” Kakashi rebuked. “I’m glad you did. You should’ve. You didn’t know.” He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure if he could meet her eyes, before adding, “Besides, what if you were really were…you know? I would’ve rather you have been here. With me.”

               Rei nodded slowly, drawing her knees up to her chest. “Yeah…you’re right.”

               Kakashi fed her a brief smile, but inside he was dying. This all felt like such a cruel joke. The universe was taunting him, feeding him the promise of everything he ever wanted only to snatch it away when it was just within reach. His eyes skated to the untouched food on the tray, and he motioned for her to go ahead. “I know you haven’t been eating much lately. Please.”

               He was so hard to deny, especially after everything that had happened. She reached out and grabbed a pastry, pulling it apart and eating it slowly piece by piece. They sat in a long silence, nothing but the muffled sounds of the bustling morning streets permeating their space. Kakashi then reached over into his drawer and pulled out a half empty pack of sanitary pads, tossing her one. “You might need this” he said quietly.

               She caught it in mid air and turned it over in her hands, a small smile touching her lips. He had no reason to hold onto these—it wasn’t like she was a frequent guest anymore. The fact he still had them, however, was just proof of how desperately he was still clinging to hope. His disappointment was almost palpable, and Rei could feel her body sinking back into a fit of depression again. What if she had been pregnant? Would everything have been okay if the world had just given them this one unexpected thing? She couldn’t tell. But her autonomy…what else would’ve been at stake? She was forging her own path, one where Kakashi could not follow. At least now she knew she no longer needed to fear losing everything she had worked for, but in doing so had she lost something perhaps far more valuable? The same question from the past few weeks began to play over and over in her head: had she made a huge mistake? The answer wasn’t so easy. She pressed a hand to her aching, vacant stomach and then murmured shyly, “Thank you, by the way. For, uh…for taking care of me last night.”

               It took Kakashi all of his strength not to rush toward her and wrap her in his arms, to beg her to come back. He yearned for her. Soon she would get up and go home—who knew when she would be back? He needed to revel in every moment he had left with her here before he lost her again. He desperately wished he didn’t have to lose her again. Nodding slowly, he replied, “It’s not a problem.” If only he could’ve said what he really meant: I’m so in love with you.