#m's spiraling existentialism

[liesmyth]

the unholy union Alecto and John have going on is obviously delicious and terrifying and they're going to wreck the universe as they wreck each other but you know what else is sexy? The absolute horror potential of early days just-a-guy John getting Like That, and nobody around him, even John himself, have a single clue what's going on.

They've studied their whole lives, they think they know things. How bodies work. What the limits of science are. Conservation of energy. And then they're confronted with the realisation that they actually don't know shit. The universe is not how they thought. Reality is not what they though. Death is not what they thought. Absolutely fucking terrifying

[bamgyuuuri]

⤷ call it what you want ┈ cbg.

sypnosis. ah, choi beomgyu, your best friend. he's always had a habit of keeping you on your toes, but lately, his actions had you second-guessing everything. why does he treat you differently? the more you think about it, the harder it is to ignore—there’s something more behind his sweetness, and you're determined to find out what.

pairings and tags. bestfriend!choi beomgyu x reader (f/m) . unresolved romantic tension . unspoken feelings . playful banter . beomgyu is lowkey (highkey) bad at expressing emotions . oblivious idiots in love

word count. 2.4k

short note … hi !! first ever fic posted on tumblr, kinda nervous … nevertheless, i hope you like it ! do tell me what you think <3

oftentimes, you found yourself caught in the web of your own thoughts, spiraling deeper with each passing day about the enigma that was beomgyu. he was your best friend, your confidant, your partner in crime—but sometimes, he felt like a puzzle you couldn’t quite solve.

it wasn’t just the big things, like the way he always seemed to show up exactly when you needed him, even without you asking. it was the little things, too—the way he’d hold your bag without a word when you struggled with too many things in your hands. the way he would sit through hours of your favorite shows—ones he didn’t particularly like—without a single complaint. the way his gaze lingered on you just a second too long when he thought you weren’t looking.

you didn’t know what to make of it. beomgyu wasn’t exactly a people pleaser. with others, he had a sharp tongue and a knack for playful teasing that often bordered on exasperation. but with you? he softened, like an untouchable winter snow melting under the warmth of spring. he never said no to you, even when he should have. even when you knew you were being unreasonable.

and it wasn’t like he didn’t have boundaries. you’d seen him draw them with others—firm, unyielding lines that no one dared to cross. yet, with you, those lines blurred until they were practically nonexistent.

it didn’t make sense. friends had limits, didn’t they? there were unspoken rules, boundaries that even the closest of friendships respected. but beomgyu seemed to exist in a different realm when it came to you, a realm where rules didn’t apply, and you were left wondering why.

was it guilt? pity? some unspoken sense of obligation? the thought made your stomach churn, and yet you couldn’t shake the tiny flicker of something else—a hope you didn’t dare name.

today, that flicker burned brighter, fueled by the quiet ache in your chest as you (im)patiently waited for his arrival as you sat on the park bench. you had asked him hangout once again just a few hours prior, and like always, he agreed without a second thought.

you clenched your hands together, the words bubbling up inside you like a storm waiting to break. you needed answers.

lost in your thoughts, you barely registered the faint sound of footsteps crunching against the gravel path, growing louder until they stopped right in front of you. a shadow fell over your face, and a familiar voice jolted you out of your reverie.

“hey. you alive in there?” beomgyu’s face hovered close, upside-down in your line of vision as he bent over to peer at you.

you blinked up at him, startled. “you—what are you doing?”

“checking if you’ve been body-snatched,” he replied, his grin wide and mischievous. “you’ve been sitting there looking all existential. do i need to call someone?”

you sat up straighter, huffing in mock indignation. “it’s nothing. i was just thinking.”

“dangerous,” he teased, straightening up and plopping onto the bench beside you. he threw his arm dramatically over the backrest, tilting his head to look at you with an exaggeratedly concerned expression. “don’t hurt yourself, okay? your brain only has so much capacity.”

“funny,” you reply dryly, rolling your eyes.

but his presence, his warmth beside you, already started to untangle the knot of thoughts swirling in your chest. that was the thing about beomgyu—he always had a way of pulling you back to the surface, no matter how deep you were sinking.

“what were you thinking about, anyway?” he asked, nudging your shoulder with his. “was it me? wait—let me guess. it was me, wasn’t it?”

“wow,” you deadpanned, yet trying to hide your surprise on how he was so spot on.  “how’d you figure it out?”

“i mean, come on. i'm a pretty captivating subject,” he said, flashing you a cheeky grin. “if i were you, i’d think about me too.”

you snorted, unable to stop the laugh that bubbled up in your chest. “you’re too full of yourself.”

“only when I’m around you,” he retorts without missing a beat, his tone playful but carrying a hint of something deeper.

the words hit you in a way you didn’t expect, and you found yourself staring at him, searching his face. he looked completely at ease, his eyes sparkling with amusement and the corners of his mouth still curled into a smile. but there was something in the way he looked at you—something that made your heart skip a beat.

“you’re so weird,” you muttered, looking away before he could notice the way your cheeks had started to heat up.

“says the person who was just having a staring contest with the sky,” he shot back, leaning closer until his shoulder bumped yours. “come on, tell me. what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

his tone was light, teasing, but there was an undercurrent of genuine curiosity, and you dare say concern, that made your chest tighten. you hesitated, the words you’d been mulling over all day sitting heavy on your tongue.

“it’s really nothing,” you respond, but the words came out too quickly, too forced.

beomgyu raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “liar.”

“i'm not lying!” you insisted, though your voice betrayed you by pitching higher.

“oh, you so are,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “your nose is doing that twitchy thing it always does when you’re trying to cover something up.”

“my nose does not twitch!”

“it totally does.”

“does not!”

“does too,” he said with a laugh, leaning back and stretching his legs out in front of him. “you’re a terrible liar, you know? it’s one of your most endearing qualities.” even when teasing you, he just couldn’t help but let some of his fondness slip out.

you crossed your arms, narrowing your eyes at him. “if you’re trying to get me to confess to some made-up crime, it’s not going to work.”

“who said anything about crime?” he shot back, tilting his head with a mock-innocent expression. “i’m just saying, if you want to pour your heart out to me, i’m all ears. i mean, i’m basically your emotional support rock at this point, right?”

you laughed despite yourself, the sound easing the tension that had been building in your chest. “you’re impossible.”

“impossible to resist,” he said with a wink, earning another eye roll from you.

but the banter, as much as it made you smile, wasn’t enough to distract you from the weight of the question pressing against your ribs. beomgyu, with all his lightheartedness and teasing, made it so easy to forget, but you couldn’t keep brushing it aside.

your gaze softened as you looked at him, really looked at him. the way his grin reached his eyes, the way he never seemed to run out of things to say around you, the way his entire demeanor shifted when it was just the two of you—more animated, more comfortable, like he could let down his guard.

“beomgyu,” you said, quieter this time, your voice cutting through his playful chatter.

upon hearing his name, he turns to you with a curious expression. “yeah?”

“why do you…” you hesitated, the words catching in your throat.

“why do i what?” he prompted, his tone gentler now, though his eyes still held a spark of curiosity.

“why do you act so differently with me?”

the question lingered in the air, and for the first time, you saw the confidence in his expression waver. his grin slowly faded, replaced by something more cautious, almost vulnerable.

“different how?” he asked, though you could tell he already knew what you meant.

“you let me get away with everything,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “you’re so… patient with me, even when i know i’m being ridiculous. you don’t act like this with anyone else. why?”

beomgyu opened his mouth, then closed it again, as if the words he wanted to say were caught somewhere between his heart and his tongue. his fingers drummed nervously against his knee, his gaze flickering away from yours. “i don’t know,” he said finally, but the words sounded hollow even to him.

“yes, you do,” you said, leaning in slightly. “be honest with me, gyu.”

beomgyu didn’t look at you. instead, his eyes were on the ground, his fingers toying with the sleeve of his hoodie, as if the fabric was the most fascinating thing in the world at that moment. there was something different about him now, something that made your heart beat a little faster, but also a little heavier.

“right.” his voice wavered slightly, but he quickly masked it with a cough. “you know, i don’t really think it’s that complicated.”

you narrowed your eyes at him, sensing his hesitation despite his nonchalant tone. “not complicated?” you almost scoffed, trying to mask the vulnerability creeping into your chest. “well, it’s a little complicated for me. i’ve been thinking about this for days, gyu.”

he shifted uncomfortably, his fingers tightening into fists, his gaze still avoiding yours. there was a flicker in his eyes, but it was gone so quickly you couldn’t catch it. his lips pressed into a thin line. “i don’t know what you want me to say.”

his words were like a soft slap to your chest, and for a moment, you were silent, unsure if you should push further or retreat. but the question, the confusion inside you, was too loud to ignore now.

“i just want you to be honest with me,” you pressed, voice quieter this time. “why are you so... different with me? you’re not like this with anyone else. you just let me... let me do whatever I want.”

beomgyu’s shoulders stiffened at your words, and for a moment, it looked like he might say something, but he clamped his mouth shut. his brow furrowed, and the muscles in his jaw twitched as he fought to hold back whatever he was thinking.

“maybe... maybe i just don’t care enough to question you.” his tone was too light, too dismissive, but it didn’t quite match the storm of emotion brewing behind his eyes. his voice was steady, but there was a nervous edge to it; a trembling hesitation that you could feel radiating from him like heat.

that wasn’t it. you knew it wasn’t it, and it made you press on. “no, beomgyu,” you say, your voice a little firmer now, though your heart was thumping harder in your chest. “it’s more than that, and you know it. you let me cling to you, drag you across the city, and you never complain. you never ask why. you just... go along with it. no one else gets that from you. so tell me why.”

the silence that followed felt suffocating. beomgyu was so still beside you that it almost scared you. his hand clenched, then unclenched by his side, and you could see the muscles in his neck tighten, the pulse in his throat racing. his eyes flicked to you for a split second before darting away again.

"i don't know," he muttered, his voice almost too quiet to hear. "maybe i just... like spending time with you."

it wasn’t an answer, it was a deflection; a weak attempt to hide what he really meant. his words were wrapped in a layer of indifference, but underneath, you saw the flicker of something else—something warmer, something real, but it was buried under layers of uncertainty.

his breath hitched as he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking like he wanted to be anywhere but here, with you, in this moment. you could see the conflict in his eyes, the way his brows furrowed as if the words were physically painful to say. the quiet moments between you were the loudest, filled with all the things neither of you were saying.

“i just don’t get it,” you said, voice trembling slightly as you leaned in closer, watching him with wide eyes. “you act like... like you care about what i want all the time, but why? why is it always so easy for you with me?”

beomgyu froze at the question, his expression faltering for the briefest moment. his lips parted, but the words didn’t come. you could almost hear the internal battle waging in his mind—his desire to be honest, to tell you everything, fighting against the fear of what would happen if he did. his eyes flickered to you again, but quickly darted away, unable to hold your gaze for longer than a second.

“i don’t... i don’t know how to explain it,” he finally relents, albeit slightly, his voice distant and strained. “it’s just... you’re... you’re easy to be with. okay? with you, it's like i don’t have to think; like i don’t have to second-guess myself and my actions. it’s simple. simple and... easy.”

you didn’t buy it, but you didn’t press him further. the hesitation in his voice, the way his gaze avoided yours, told you everything you needed to know. he was hiding something, something deep, something that made his heart race whenever you got too close to the truth.

but what? what was it?

for a moment, the silence stretched between you again, and you found yourself leaning back slightly, letting the words settle in the air. you studied beomgyu carefully, noticing how his posture had changed—how his shoulders were tense, how his hands were gripping the fabric of his pants like he was trying to ground himself.

“i just... don’t want to mess it up, okay?” beomgyu’s voice cracked on the last word, and you saw his eyes flicker to yours for the briefest moment before he looked away again, his face flushed in a way that made you feel both confused and oddly warm.

you stared at him, trying to process everything that had just happened. beomgyu wasn’t saying it—he wasn’t giving you the straightforward answer you were hoping for—but his emotions were clear. the way he was avoiding your gaze, the way his heart raced every time you got close to asking, and how his words came out jagged and unsure... it all pointed to something he wasn’t ready to admit.

but deep down, you could feel it—he genuinely cared. you just had to wait. you just had to be patient with him. with the way he held back, with the way he tried to guard his feelings so fiercely, it was clear that he needed time.

"beomgyu," you whispered, your voice softer now, as you took a small step closer to him. "it's okay. you don't have to say it if you're not ready. i... i'm sorry for pushing you too hard."

he finally turned to you then, his eyes meeting yours in a silent exchange that spoke volumes. and though he didn’t say it, the unspoken words hung between you like a promise—one he wasn’t ready to make, but one that you knew, deep down, he was already thinking.

[just-french-me-up]

If you'd still like Dreamling kiss prompts, how about 7 or 17?

@martybaker asked : Hello, your fics are so lovely! May I humbly request ‘A kiss to shut them up’ if you’re still taking prompts? 👉👈 @anonymous asked : Thoughts on dreamling 7 or 17 (to shut them up or to distract - maybe even both at once?) for the kiss prompts?

We're shutting him up, yall! This is a Retired!Dream one, in which Dream struggles with the human body and human condition, and can't see how he can measure up to his old self in Hob's eyes. Angsty you say? Deceivingly horny I raise you! I kept this sorta M rated but... hey if there's more to come *winkwink* who knows?

The human body was a curious thing. It required constant attention, fluids, fuel, maintenance, care. And yet it was so... limiting. Morpheus could still remember how it felt, to think of a place and feel the ground shift under his feet without ever having to move. There had been no hunger then. No thirst. No itching, for his skin had never had the notion that it could be too dry.

If he had ever felt those things, it had been because he had chosen to.

Now the world imposed itself to him, there wasn't much of a choice.

Urges baffled him the most. The dryness coating his mouth on a particularly hot day, his mind conjuring up images of cold, condensation-weeping bottles. The drowsiness taking hold of him after dinner, weighing on his eyelids. The burning, devouring heat flaring in his abdomen as Hob would step out of the shower, a towel lazily tied around his hips, the line of hair trailing down his navel guiding Morpheus' gaze downwards.

It was a strange thing, to be overcome by such sensations. An infuriating thing, really. He ought to be able to resist them. He had been able to resist them, once, to ignore them, dismiss them into nothing if he so chose. How vexing it was, to be a creature of wants and needs, when your existence had been nothing but careful control.

He would not tell Hob, but he could not help but feel... lesser. How clever could his mind be, now that he only had access to his own? How good could his hands be, he who had been able to breathe life into dream clay, fashion lands and castles with a single thought? How pleasing could his touch be, now that he was barred from his lover's unconscious? How could he compare to who and what he had been, once?

They had not made love ever since his encounter with the Kindly Ones. Hob had never pushed, reading Morpheus far better than Morpheus ever could, now. There had been times, here and there, when Morpheus had thought they would, with lingering kisses growing deeper, embraces in bed tighter, but something had held him back. Some bitter gnawing feeling at the pit of his stomach. Yet another thing he could not seem to control.

Yet he wanted. Desperately, frustratingly so. The most mundane things would strike him as the most erotic sights he could fathom. Hob drinking his coffee in the morning, his Adam's apple bobbing as he'd swallow. Hob reading the day's papers, his gaze intent, focused. Hob reaching up to grab this or that from a cupboard, his shirt riding up and showing his navel, while his tired pajama bottoms hung from his hips, revealing the slight dips there, a hint of hair...

Morpheus' body would betray him often, subjecting him to fantasies and erections that, much like the rest, he held little control over. Unlike food, lust was a hunger he never seemed to satisfy. It only grew.

If Hob had ever caught him staring, he never said anything. Instead, he was highly skilled at noticing when Morpheus' mind would start spinning on itself, feeding the loop of existential dread looming over him. He had taken to giving Morpheus tasks, then, something to focus on. Although it would not quite clear the storm, it muffled it somewhat.

Perhaps he'd sensed another one of Morpheus' spirals that night, when his voice rose from the bedroom.

"Oh, bollocks! Love? Might need a hand here."

As he stepped inside the bedroom, Morpheus found Hob standing by the mirror, struggling with his button-up. He flashed a quick contrite smile at him, emphatically tugging at the fabric.

"Can't manage to button those buggers off," he explained.

"Allow me."

The human condition was one thing, but buttons he could handle. Morpheus' touch was methodical, surgical almost, as he focused on the task at hand, yet three buttons later, he could not help but feel his focus slip. He could feel Hob's warmth under his fingertips. His heartbeat. As he breathed in, Hob's scent filled his lungs, distracting him further. By the time he was done with the shirt, his mind had gone elsewhere.

Hob wore an undershirt, a thin, almost see-through thing. It required barely any effort to see his chest in spite of the fabric. Morpheus' eyes trailed down, heat flushing his cheeks. Mindlessly, his thumb traced the line of hair down Hob's abdomen, his mouth filled with want. He could feel hot breath against his lips. Humans were not meant to withstand such hunger.

They were kissing before Morpheus could articulate another thought, Hob's mouth warm and soft against his, the coarse brush of his stubble adding fuel to the fire overtaking him. No doubt Hob had meant for this to be tender, but Morpheus was famished, taking, and taking, and taking all that was offered until his lungs might explode. He found himself gasping against Hob, nose to nose, forehead to forehead.

"Hey," Hob whispered, gentle to a fault. "It's okay. There's no rush."

Morpheus swallowed hard, feverishly catching his breath. Hob's palm was invitingly cool against his cheek.

"I will keep," he continued. "We don't have to―"

"I want to," Morpheus rasped, weeks of frustration pushing the words out of him. "I want you. I just―"

"Just what?"

The patience in his voice was the lifeline Morpheus held onto as he sighed, embarrassment flooding through him.

"This form, it feels... finite. Flawed. Lacking."

Fallible, he did not say. He watched as Hob's eyes grew round, ridicule joining embarrassment.

"Duck―"

"I am not as I once was," he continued, overcome with the need to justify himself. "I am no longer suited to anticipate your every want. I can not satisfy you to the degree I once could. Everything I have to offer is bound to disappoint in comparison."

Hob's stare felt heavy, too heavy for Morpheus to hold, but as he looked away, Hob took his chin between his fingers, directing his gaze back to him.

"Love, I―. Sex is not about making some kind of... of ranking."

"Your unconscious would rank it, regardless."

"Fuck my unconscious. It's my conscious self who wants you, magic dick or not."

The corners of Hob's mouth twitched at his own joke, but seriousness soon took over.

"I love you," he said, prompting Morpheus to look away again. "I love you. I would love you Endless, I would love you human, I would love you if you were a tentacled monster and hell, you've been that before if you'd recall!"

Morpheus fought back the smile creeping up on his lips.

"I never cared how we'd fuck. Well, I did, but― I did because it was you. I wanted to be with you. I still do."

Hob sighed, and they stood in silence for a moment, looking at each other.

"At least now we know that mind of yours is well and truly yours and not a Dream of the Endless exclusive."

"An unfortunate discovery."

Hob's hand settled on Morpheus' waist, his thumb brushing the fabric of his shirt.

"I do want you," he said. "Whenever you're ready. If ever. But I don't want you holding back because you've convinced yourself I may not enjoy it well enough, according to some cosmic standard you've set for yourself."

Morpheus nodded slowly, his own thumb back to tracing the happy trail on Hob's stomach.

"I have always found you pleasing enough, after all," he dared, shooting a tentative look at Hob. "As human as you are."

Hob made a face, pulling him closer by the waist.

"Your compliments need work, duck. But I do think there's a silver lining to this whole human condition you are overlooking."

"Is that so?"

Hob smirked at him, fully conscious of how devilishly handsome that made him. He had had, after all, centuries to hone those skills. How long would it take him?

"You no longer have access to my unconscious, right?"

"I do not."

"Which means you can no longer anticipate my every want, as you said."

Now that was rubbing salt into the wound.

"Yes," he conceded with a frown.

"Well imagine how arousing it is, my love," Hob said, his eyes darker by the second, "to be able to surprise you."

A warm shiver went down Morpheus' spine, sending his pulse into a frantic race. He swallowed thickly, holding Hob's gaze.

"How arousing?"

"Very. Cock-achingly, one might say."

Morpheus glanced down, finding Hob's trousers tight, his hard cock pressing against the fabric, making his knees weak. The human body truly was weak in the most delicious way.

"I could dare you to surprise me," he teased back, his breathing loud in his ears.

"You could."

Gods, that mouth of his, Morpheus was quite certain he could be undone from that tone alone. But still.

"But should you find me displeasing, you ought to―"

The rest of his words were swallowed into a kiss, unheard and discarded, replaced by tender sighs and wanting hands, and after a while, Morpheus found he'd forgotten what they even were, his mind blissfully blank save for pleasure.

The human body was a curious thing. A highly pleasing thing, at times.

Send me a kissing prompt?

[lowkeychenle]

Within the Piano Keys [ZCL] (M)

Description: For as long as you could remember, Chenle has been your neighbor and childhood best friend. That is, until one day he disappears without a word...or so you thought, since your mother hid all the letters he sent you.

Genre: Fluff/Angst/Smut triple threat ygm

Content Warnings: This fic contains letters from Chenle (purely fictional duh) but does mention things about the graduation system/the Dreamies going through a rough time just FYI! Just a brief mention. And also, smut. this has smut, but it's soft and cute smut because why not.......so literally that's it I think? Who I am these are some light content warnings

Word Count: 7,707

Pairing: Zhong Chenle x Reader (feat (briefly) Jeno & Jaemin, mentions of Mark and Jisung)

Juliet's Masterlist | Requests

Author's Note: This gif actually kills me someone send 911 emergency services sos zhong chenle is killing me AGAIN

The ghost of the past will always find you.

There’s no outrunning destiny. Who and what you were made to be. And you sure as hell love to try—pushing yourself to change as much as possible to keep Fate on her toes. Sometimes, it’s inevitable. Sometimes, people are placed on the Earth with a specific purpose, and you were sure yours was him. At a mere seven years old, your life changed forever—in a way you never saw coming. When you think about it, you don’t think Fate saw it, either.

Because you met him then.

You remember the day in vivid detail. The soft, sweet melody of the piano drifting through the house, up the stairs, and beneath your bedroom door where you stand, looking for your butterfly hair clip you adore oh so much.

When your frustration reaches its peak and you sit down with a huff on the edge of your bed, you hear it. Your heart seems to beat along with the music, every key pressed making you wonder just who is playing downstairs.

It’s from Phantom of the Opera, a song titled “All I Ask of You.” The melody is full, transcending your body into peace the moment you realize what it is.

After taking a deep breath, you hesitantly make your way down the winding, spiral staircase, fingers tracing along the railings as if they’re too delicate to actually hold on to. Your steps echo downward, but as the young boy comes into view, you stop.

Not even your noisy intrusion breaks him from his music-induced trance. His entire body moves along with the sound, his eyes closed as he presses each note with perfection. His black hair is a bit longer than it probably should be, with a middle part to expose his forehead. His defined brows are furrowed, and even at his age, you’ve never seen someone look wiser than this boy does right at this moment.

You feel the song in your bones, deep within your soul in such an existential way, you aren’t sure if you’ll ever feel anything like it again. A silly, juvenile thought. You don’t know it right now, but you’d feel like that every time you were around him.

As the song comes to a close, he holds out the last note, inhaling deeply as if he hasn’t been breathing the entire time.

His eyes flutter open, warm brown irises immediately meeting yours. You hadn’t expected such depth, but you’d learn eventually never to expect anything with him—in the end, you would only build yourself up to fall…over and over and over again.

Here you stand, locked in a metaphorical embrace with a kid who can’t be any older than you, yet he seems…different. Like he’s seen enough in his lifetime to age him beyond physicality.

That was the day you started to believe in fate. The day he left was when you stopped.

Hours turned into weeks, and before you know it, the boy next door became your friend. Most times, you’d sit on the bench while he plays piano and watch incredulously. His musical talent always astounds you—he can sing, play instruments, write songs and compose them.

Sometimes, he’d ask you to sing the songs he played, and even though you felt nowhere near as talented as him, you did what he wanted. He’d join in with you occasionally, your voices blending together seemingly effortlessly.

Those weeks turned into years—two kids learning more and more about each other. He’d become more than a friend. You were twelve years old when you realized the connection you had with Chenle. When everything pieced together, and you understood that some hearts, some souls, are much older than you could ever fathom. Your heart, you were sure, stretched beyond your years, and your soul was kindred with Chenle’s in a way that could only mean you’d known each other in a past life. Slowly, slowly, slowly…he was everything, all at once.

“You’ve almost got it,” he whispered to you, adjusting your ring finger on the keys. “Just gotta move over a little bit more.”

You pouted. “My hands aren’t big enough, Lele.”

“Stop that.” He chuckled, shaking his head and nudging your shoulder. “That mindset is gonna keep you from learning.”

“Well, if my mindset doesn’t do it, the arthritis at a young age will,” you snipped.

His eyes sparkled with humor, crinkling at the edges as his smile widened. “You’ll get it eventually. Keep trying.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll tell you that you suck and you should never play again.”

You snorted. “Promise?”

He held up his pinky. “I’d never lie to you.”

You looped yours with his.

“You’ll get it.”

Chenle never gave up on you. He kept pushing you to be the best you could be, and you gladly followed his direction. You never quite got as good as he was with the piano, but you’d gotten decent at least. The two of you would hang out every day, spending every waking, free moment together until your mom told him it was time to go home.

You’d never thought about love and what it meant. For you, loving Chenle was as natural as breathing, and as time went on, it only got easier.

You turned fourteen before Chenle. If you had known this was the beginning of your last year with him, you would’ve appreciated it more. You would’ve told him all of the things lingering on your mind—how you loved him, so purely and genuinely.

Just days before your life blew up in your face, you almost told him.

He sat next to you on your bed, arm wrapped around you as you rested your head on his shoulder. The soft golden light of the lamp illuminated him gently, and the movie playing in the background edges you closer and closer to sleep.

“Do you ever think about…life?” he asked.

“Hm?” You scrunched your nose, your half-asleep state not registering what he meant.

“Like…what your plans are. What you want to do and who you want to be with.” His thumb brushed your skin soothingly. “We have to figure it out soon, don’t we? We’re almost adults.”

“You’re not tired?” You sat up and rubbed your forehead.

“Nope.”

“Well.” You sighed and ran your fingers through your hair. “The only thing I’m certain about when it comes to the future is that you’ll be there. So, it doesn’t matter what else happens.”

He smiled softly, the slightest shade of red tinting his cheeks. “Even if the world ended?”

“Even if the world ended.” You confirmed.

A few months later, the world did end. At least, yours did.

He was gone.

His mom left shortly after him, but she told you what he was doing—how he was going to pursue his music career in South Korea. He was going to be an idol, and he was leaving you behind to do it.

Your world ended, but his got to go on without you.

At twenty-one years old, you’re still not sure where you went wrong. Chenle left, but his memory plagues the very walls you live within. You keep up with him, with his group and all of the things they’re doing. Even though you’re not with him, you watch him grow and grow into a more confident version of the young boy you knew.

Seven years without him should have been impossible, yet here you are: alive, well, and watching any and all Chenle related content. You haven’t heard from him, not once. Assumingly, he’s incredibly busy. Even then, you wonder occasionally if you ever cross his mind, if he ever thinks of the love he left behind.

Ever since, you’ve been sensitive over the summer months. A part of you is missing, and until you see him again, you’re unsure if you’ll ever find it. Has he changed? Is he still the boy you loved?

On days where thoughts of him overwhelms you, you like to walk the trail behind your house. It takes you through a wooded area, and the other end brings you to the end of your street. On your walk back, you see an unfamiliar car outside of Chenle’s family’s home. Curiosity gets the better of you, and you stand there to watch.

The door slides open, and you hear an unfamiliar laugh. Frowning, you cross your arms over your chest. Who the hell would be at Chenle’s house?

When the first person gets out of the car, your heart stops in your chest. You’re about eighty percent sure that’s Lee Jeno, light hair reflecting the bright sunlight above. If that’s Jeno, then—

You feel a sudden urge to run into your house, slam the door, and lock it behind you. Several other people are in that car, and if they’re here…one of them is Chenle. Your Chenle, who isn’t really yours. Not anymore.

Jaemin gets out next. His roots are dark, nearly overshadowing the pink hue on top of his head. He swats at someone behind him, laughing, and as that person comes into view, your heart stops. It shreds itself to pieces.

Jeno notices you first, a slight frown gracing his face before Chenle’s gaze follows his line of sight. When he sees you, you instantly see the recognition on his face.

Seven years is a long time. Hell, even though you’ve seen all of Dream’s content, you’re still shocked to see how different he looks. His face is more defined. He’s grown a bit taller, too.

He sees you. He’s looking at you for the first time in years, and all you want to do is forget all this time of no contact, all the ways the two of you hadn’t reached out to each other. A lump forms in your throat, and before you do something stupid, you let out a shaky breath, turn away from him, and make your way into your house.

You shut the door behind you, your back thudding against it. Glancing over to your right, the grand piano—old and loved—is blurred by your tears, and for the briefest of moments, you swear you see your younger self sitting there, endlessly playing the songs Chenle taught you before he left.

A knock sounds, and each one echoes throughout your house, feeling like a hole-puncher on your heart. You’re barely able to breathe as you prepare yourself to be face-to-face with Chenle for the first time in almost a decade—for the first time since he up and disappeared on you without a word.

“(Y/N)?” His voice. So familiar but so distant, all the same as it was.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

“I’m coming in, okay?”

You brace yourself against the solid wood of the piano, doing your best to calm yourself. The last thing you need is to make a fool of yourself in front of him.

A hesitant creak fills your ears, and the tap of his shoes on the hardwood flooring has your eyes clenching shut.

“Why’d you run off like that?” he asks, voice so soft that it’s barely audible.

“I didn’t.”

“You still sound the same,” he says it quietly, as if he’s the only one meant to hear it. He raises his voice so you can hear him. “It’s been a long time.”

You scoff, whipping around to face him. “It’s been a long time? That’s all you have to say to me?” Anger bubbles in your gut, quickly replacing the hurt lingering.

You have to stop yourself from admiring him at a time like this. His oversized T-shirt somehow compliments him in the best ways, his hair is a tinted shade of purple, and when his fingers run through it, you have to look away. Sure, you should’ve expected to see him again at some point, but you never imagined you’d feel the same. It’s a bit different now that you’re older. You’re able to see him in a different light.

His eyes widen and he recoils. “I…I’m sorry, I don’t know what else I’m supposed to say. It’s not like there’s a textbook on how to do this.”

“What are you doing here? Why now?” You cross your arms over your chest, doing your best to avoid his eyes.

“We’re here on a schedule.” He slides his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. “I told them about you, in case you were wondering.”

“Oh, right.” You let out a sarcastic laugh. “I suppose that makes it all okay, right? You tell your friends I exist and that’s supposed to change how you up and left me without a word?”

He frowns. “Without a word?”

“Yeah, Chenle. Without a single fucking word.”

“That’s not true.” His tone sharpens to match yours. “I wrote to you. A lot. And if you didn’t want to read them, that’s on you. That doesn’t mean I left without a word. There were a lot of words, actually.”

“Why didn’t I get them?” Your voice drops into a whisper, moving one of your hands to touch your forehead.

“I…I don’t know. I didn’t know your address so I sent them to my mom, and she told me every time she gave one to your mom—”

A jolt of electricity rages up your spine, and you immediately turn away from him and run up the staircase. Your mother’s out of town for the week. If she’s been hiding letters from you, they’d be in her room somewhere—and you’d tear that place apart if it meant you had all those words.

“Where are you—hey!”

You’re already in your mom’s closet when Chenle follows you in.

“You shouldn’t be in here—”

“Says you,” you interrupt him, mindlessly shuffling through anything that looks like it could hold letters. “How many?”

“What?”

“How many did you send, Chenle?”

“Um.” He pauses, shifting on his feet. “I don’t know. A few? I stopped after a while because I didn’t hear anything. Figured you didn’t want anything else.”

“My God,” you mutter, blinking rapidly to fight off the tears. “And you swear your mom gave them to mine?”

“I—yeah, she didn’t have a reason not to.”

“And my mom had a reason not to give them to—shit. When did you send the first one?”

“(Y/N), it was seven years ago.”

“Was it right when you left or afterward?” You haphazardly dig through the closet, searching high and low.

“I left it here. I told my mom about it after a week or so. What the hell is going on?” Chenle runs his fingers through his hair again, gulping. “We really shouldn’t be in here.”

Your heart sinks. There’s nothing in here. You’ll never find Chenle’s letters, and the mystery will always be just that.

“I…I’m so sorry.” You drop your head into your hands. “I’m acting like an idiot right now.”

“Don’t be sorry, I’m just confused. This whole time, I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me…that’s why I haven’t been back in a while.” Chenle takes a step closer to you, reaching out to touch your arm. “I would never leave you.”

You finally look at him. Really look at him. The worried furrow to his brow, the slight downturn of his lips, concern clouding those beautiful irises of his. Standing in front of you is the reason you are who you are today.

“You just…Okay, I need a while to figure all of this out.” You glance up to the ceiling, closing your eyes and taking a shuddering breath. “Can you go? I don’t really want to see you right now.”

Hurt plays out on his face, but after he blinks a few times, he nods slowly. “Yeah. Sure. Um, I’ll see you later. If it helps any, I probably could’ve tried to call or something.”

“We were kids.” You sigh. “It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

You say that, but it would have. The entire trajectory of your life may have changed if Chenle was still in it back then. As much as you want to be pissed at your mother for hiding things from you, maybe she was right.

Chenle takes his bottom lip between his teeth, looking you over one more time as he nods. “Right. I…I’ll see you around.”

Before you respond, he’s turning away from you and disappearing down the hall. You feel a lot of things—overwhelmed, confused, sad. But you also almost feel naive for listening to him—for believing that your mother hid things from you. Your brain stops being logical when Chenle’s around, and you know it’s a mistake to bring him back into your life. The hurt has passed, but that doesn’t mean it won’t rear its ugly head if you’re in such close proximity to him.

You go back downstairs to grab your phone, and the first thing you do is dial your mom’s number. She picks up after the first ring.

“Hi, honey! I was about to text you. New York is fascinating! You’d love it—”

“Did Chenle write me letters?”

“Oh.” She clears her throat. “Where is this coming from?”

“He’s here,” you mutter. “He told me he sent me letters, mom.”

“(Y/N), you have to understand where I was coming from.”

“Where are they?” You slap your hand to your forehead. “Where?”

“He still left, you know. I understand he’s important to you, but he still chose a career over you. And you would’ve thrown everything away for him without a second thought.” Your mom takes a deep breath. “You needed to live your life for you.”

“Where are they?” you repeat. “If you threw them away, I will never forgive you.”

“Of course, I didn’t throw them away. They’re in my closet in a little gold box on the floor. When you read those…don’t get any ideas. He lives far away and he’s even less available for you now than he was before.”

You hang up without saying another word and run back up the stairs. It takes you only a few seconds to find the box she told you about. When you open it, your breath shudders at the stack of letters in there. Some are aged and crinkly, but the ones toward the top are newer. Your hands shake as you grab them, mouth dry as you see the dates listed across the front of the envelope.

You start with the one on the bottom, the oldest, and ever so carefully opening it. Blinking back tears, you take in the painfully familiar handwriting that belonged to your Chenle.

(Y/N)

This is probably the worst way to do this, I know. I’m leaving to follow my dreams, and while I wish I could take you with me, it doesn’t make sense. Your mom would never agree to let you come. Thinking of going through all of this without you scares me more than I care to admit.

I don’t have a phone yet, but as soon as I get one, I’ll send you a letter with the number! It’ll be nice to hear your voice again. I’m writing this early, so I actually spoke with you earlier today, but it’s funny how quickly I miss you.

You’re probably going to be really mad at me, and that’s okay. I deserve it. The reason I didn’t tell you isn’t very simple, but I hope you understand it. Saying goodbye to you would feel so permanent. Goodbye itself is too permanent for my liking, so I’ve never liked them.

If I looked into your eyes and told you I was leaving, I was scared that I wouldn’t be able to go. Or that I’d sneak you with me in my carry-on. I didn’t want to hurt you. You mean so much to me, (Y/N). I don’t ever want to make you upset, and I know you’ll eventually understand why I had to do it this way.

Just know I’ll be thinking about you every day. You’re the reason I’ll have the strength to get through this training period.

Talk to you soon,

Your Chenle

You trace your finger along the bottom of the page. Face wet, you clear your throat as you delicately set it aside to grab the next one. According to the date on the envelope, it’s from a few months after the first one.

(Y/N),

These past few months have been so hectic. I think I almost died a couple times, but here I am. I debuted last week! I’m in a group called NCT, but I debuted in the sub-unit NCT DREAM. It seems surreal, and it happened so much faster than I thought.

I think you’d like the other guys. They’re nice and loud and friendly. Honestly, they seem like they’ve been working together for a little bit of time already, so I’m the newest one here. I heard someone say they’d been training for a while…

Anyway, I said in the last letter that I’d give you my phone number. I realized after I left that you didn’t have one either, so…I’m not sure how that’ll work. And I wasn’t expecting a response to these at all, but if you want to write back, it’d give me something to look forward to after all this hecticness.

But yeah…honestly, I was a bit worried about moving here and being in a group. I’ve been learning a lot of Korean though, and another member named Jisung has been helping me a lot. He’s a few months younger than me, can you believe it? Everyone treats him like a baby, but I think he likes it. I told them about you, and they all kept teasing me.

Maybe they just don’t understand. You’re my favorite person, of course, I’m going to talk about you and tell them stories about all the fun we had.

Sorry this one is a bit long. I hope you’re not too mad at me. And I also hope that you’re keeping up on me. I think you’d like Chewing Gum…

I’ll talk to you soon! I’ll write my number down at the bottom of the page.

Your Chenle

You have to take a break. You rest your head back against the wall, closing your eyes and imagining how hurt poor, young Chenle must have been when you never responded to his heartfelt letters. You don’t know much about Jisung—besides the obvious, public information—but you’re happy someone was good and helpful to him.

After that, you wonder what it would’ve been like to be there for him through all of that. Based on what you know about his group, he’s been through a lot of ups and downs over the years. You wonder if he wrote about some of the harder things, too.

You read another one that’s about their promotions, how he’s getting closer with the other members. Then one about how he performed with twenty-two others. The next one you grab is dated from 2019. You open it.

(Y/N),

I didn’t think this year would be as hard as it has been. We all expected it, you know? We knew it was going to happen, but it doesn’t change how scary it’s been. I’m sorry it’s been a while since I’ve written. Maybe you just throw them away at this point, which is fine, but I wish I could hear from you. Especially at a time like this.

Dream has a graduation system, and Mark’s been gone for months now. Things have been continuing ‘as normal,’ but without Mark, we don’t really feel complete as a group. We see him as often as we can, but performing without him is…it feels wrong.

I wish I could see you. You’d make everything better in an instant, just like you always did. Sometimes, I feel terrible because the others get sad about the situation, and I can’t figure out any good words to say. You’ve always been so good at comforting others, I wish you were here to help me.

It’s been two years since I’ve seen you. That’s so weird to think about, because I swear I still hear your voice in my head. Your encouraging words, how you always believed in me. I need that now more than ever.

I’m not sure if you know much about Mark, but he’s our rock. We kind of fail to function without him. But in the spirit of missing both you and Mark, I’ll tell you a little story about what happened when I asked Mark for advice.

I asked him about you—about what I could possibly do to make all of this up to you since you deserve it. And not hearing back from you makes me think you might hate me.

Anyway, his question in response was interesting. He wanted to know what you were to me. How I felt about you. At first, I thought he was crazy. I mean, it was obvious—you’re my best friend. I can’t live and function without my best friend.

He asked if that was all.

I vividly remember scrunching up my face and pushing his shoulder. Not too hard, by the way.

But the more he told me about what it felt like to be in love, everything clicked into place. I’m in love with you, (Y/N). I have been for so long that it started feeling like second nature instead of a conscious idea.

I guess it doesn’t matter now. Maybe I’ve failed you too much for it to mean anything to you.

Loss sucks. Losing Mark in Dream has sucked, losing you before I even realized the extent of my feelings sucked, but at the end of the day, I have to keep pushing forward. I’m sorry for any hurt I may have caused, because this situation with Mark also made me realize how much it must have hurt you for me to up and disappear the way I did.

I’m so, so sorry. I hope you can forgive me.

Your Chenle

You wipe angrily at your tears, unsure if you should be mad at yourself or at your mother. She stole this from you. Chenle figured out his feelings for you long before you figured out yours for him, but it feels like a new revelation—to know he felt the same way, even after years without you.

You remember this time where Mark had ‘graduated’ from NCT Dream. And because you knew Chenle well, you could tell he was struggling, even when he put on a happy facade. He needed you, and you weren’t there for him.

No matter how much it hurts, you can’t stop. You grab the next one. His writing became less frequent after that. He wrote to tell you when NCT Dream became a fixed unit, and how happy he was to be reunited as seven. The next was from their first full album. You find the last one, surprised to find how recent it was. There was a large gap between this one and the one before it.

The letter was addressed from a few months ago. The one before had been from two years ago.

(Y/N),

I’m sorry it’s been a while. Honestly, we’ve been so busy, I’ve barely even had the time to sleep. I got news today that we’ll be going to China for an event. I’m coming home, but I figured I should tell you in advance. Give you some time in case you really don’t want to see me.

I still think of you every day. All I want is to hear your voice again, but I won’t ask you to do something you don’t want to. If you have no intention of seeing me, that’s fine. I know I messed this up, but I figured it wouldn’t be right to give up when I’ll be so close.

We’ll be arriving in the next few weeks. I wish I could give you more detailed information, but I won’t even know it until the day of.

If this is it for us, thank you for the time I had with you. I love you, (Y/N). No matter what, that’ll be true, but this will be the last thing I send. I hope you understand.

Love,

Your Chenle

At this point, you’re bawling your eyes out. You aggressively wipe away the tears, cursing yourself for not knowing about these damn letters. All the pain you could’ve helped him through, all the hurt it could’ve saved you from.

You sniffle, grab your phone, and dial the number at the bottom of the second letter. It’s been years since he gave it to you, so there’s a good chance it’s different now. But you don’t exactly feel like going over to his house while his friends are there and making a fool of yourself.

“Hello?” That’s definitely his voice.

“Chenle,” you breathe out, closing your eyes. “My Chenle.”

“Yeah.” His tone softens. “Yeah, yours. Always yours.”

Running your fingers through your hair, you sigh. “I found them. All of them. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says. “It’s not like you even knew about them. Give me one second, I’m gonna go upstairs. Jeno and Jaemin are still here.”

You nod even though he can’t see you, and you hear him say something to the other guys. They reply, and then you hear the tell-tale sound of the stairs creaking beneath Chenle’s feet. Once he makes it up to his bedroom, he closes the door behind him.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “That’s a lot to read all at once.”

“I don’t know. I’m so mad, Lele. How could she hide those from me? If I’d known you didn’t just leave me, it would’ve hurt so much less. And seeing all this pain you went through all by yourself…I’m so sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” he tells you. “We know the truth now. I don’t want you to hate me.”

“I could never hate you,” you whisper, burying your head in your palm. “Not even if I tried.”

There’s a brief silence, only filled with the sounds of you sniffling and Chenle breathing. He’s right next door, but the idea of being with him is too real. You need time to process all of this, and bringing him around while you do isn’t the best idea.

“You said you loved me.”

“Love,” he corrects you. “Present tense. I never stopped.”

“I kept up with you.” You play with the seam of your jeans. “With everything you did with Dream and all the accomplishments you’ve had so far. I’ve been so proud of you with no way to say it.”

“I almost stopped writing letters. Mark convinced me not to give up, but after seven years I was pretty sure you wouldn’t change your mind,” he admits.

“If I’d been receiving them I would’ve called you the second you gave me your number.”

“That’s what I’d been hoping for.” Chenle takes a deep breath. “We have to go soon for a schedule, but can I come see you later?”

Later wasn’t really definitive. The thought of him in your house and in your space is scary, terrifying even, but this is Chenle. The boy who used to play piano with you and sing to his heart’s content. From what you’ve seen, this version of him doesn’t seem too different than that boy.

“Please,” you whisper. “Will you be hungry? I can make you something.”

“It’ll be late. Don’t worry about me. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

Not too long after your conversation, you hear the three boys clamber into the van. You try to busy yourself throughout the day, cleaning in order to distract yourself. Eventually, you sit down at the piano and play whatever song comes to memory. One of the ones Chenle taught you back when he was here.

You taught yourself a few of Dream’s songs as well, like Rainbow, My Youth, Puzzle Piece, Teddy Bear, and most recently, Like We Just Met from their newest album. You play the last one, the darkness cascading around you as the sunset fades away from view. It’s only you and the starlight now, a gentle melody flooding through the air around you.

The door creaks open, and Chenle walks through when you’re almost done with the song. You stop playing, standing up to greet him. There’s an odd moment where you stand there staring at each other, admiring the way the starlight reflects off his skin. His eyebrows are furrowed, like he’s trying to decide what to do next.

You don’t hesitate anymore. Moving forward, you wrap your arms around him and bury your head in his chest. He immediately reciprocates, shaky breath passing by his lips as he holds you closely. His heart thrashes, the sound more than similar to yours.

“I missed you,” he says.

“I missed you, too,” you reply easily, tightening your grip on him.

You pull back slightly to look into his eyes, wetness gathered beneath them. With shaky hands, you reach up to wipe it away. His gaze travels over your face.

“You love me.”

He nods hesitantly, palms pressing into the small of your back. “Always have.”

“I’ve always loved you, too.” Before you talk yourself out of it, you’re on the tips of your toes to kiss him. It starts gently, your mouth barely brushing his before his breath catches in his throat. Then it’s real—he pulls you flush against him, lips fitting with yours like he’s made for you.

You move your hands from his cheeks to his hair, leaning into him. His fingers latch onto the fabric of your shirt. Next thing you know, he’s walking you backward until he’s pressing your back into a wall.

“We have so much to talk about.” He rests his forehead on yours. “So much air to clear up.”

“Yeah.” You nod, but your stare is focused directly on his lips.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” he warns you. “I don’t get to come here often, so unless you were to come to Korea, we’d pretty much never see each other. My schedules are so packed, I’m practicing all day and half-dead by the time I get home. I can be a real asshole when I’m tired, and sometimes I might take jokes too far. This life is not easy, (Y/N). I need you to know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“What am I even doing here?” you ask. “I can come with you.”

“I can’t ask you to give up everything you have for me.” He shakes his head, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“You’re not asking. Chenle, I spent years thinking you were gone without a word. All I want is to be with you as much as possible.”

“At least think about it for a little bit first, okay? I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret.” He gulps. “That goes for a lot of things.”

“I’ve had seven years to think about all the things I wanted from you.”

“You can’t say things like that,” he mutters.

You’re painfully aware of what it feels like to have him pressed against you, warm in all the right ways and, despite being so thin, he’s firm to the touch. The ache you feel to be closer to him is overwhelming.

“I spent years thinking everything was a lie,” you tell him. “That I couldn’t possibly have mattered to you if you could just disappear without a word.”

His fingers play with yours, discomfort at the idea plastered across his face. “Never. I never would’ve done that. You’ve always meant so much to me.”

“I’m just happy I finally get to tell you all of the things I wanted to tell you after I found out you were gone.” You give him the smallest smile, and he reaches up to trace along your bottom lip.

The simple touch sends sparks flying down your spine, and you’re sure you’ll crumble to dust right at his feet from the forceful impact of it. An odd tug occurs in your chest, one that has you questioning if you’ve ever experienced it before. It pulls you toward him, and despite being flush, your mind dips to dangerous places that could get you so, so much closer.

You’re not sure what’s gotten into you, but this is Chenle. Your Chenle. And if you’re having these feelings for him, there’s no need to hide it.

“I…” you trail off, clenching onto the fabric of his shirt, right above his heart. “Do you feel it, too? Everything is…different now.”

“Under other circumstances, I’d say different is bad,” he whispers. “But there’s nothing bad about the way you’re looking at me.” 

His arms wrap around your waist tightly, and simultaneously, you both lean in until your lips are locked in a gentle battle. The warmth of his touch finds your hip, where your sweater rose up enough to reveal your skin. You let out a shaky sigh, and he squeezes you.

“Come upstairs with me?” Your invite is airy, suggestive, and he analyzes you while his gaze darkens.

“If that’s what you want,” he says.

“Is it what you want?” You tilt your head at him, voice quiet since he’s so close.

He pauses and wets his lips. “Of course, it is. I just don’t want you to regret anything. Losing you once was enough, and I refuse to go through that again.”

 Instead of answering, you intertwine your fingers with his and lead him toward the stairs, through the blackness of the night casting through the windows. You take one step at a time, your heart thundering and blood pulsing through your veins. One look at your shoulder, and for a second, you almost swear you see the younger versions of you and Chenle sitting by the piano. Caught up in the music. In each other.

He follows you, entranced by the way you move and how you’re so willingly guiding him. Everything happens in slow motion for you. Too fast but too slow at the same time, somehow the moment you’ve waited for your entire life while simultaneously the thing that’s scared you the most.

Your Chenle.

He said it himself. Why is it so foreign to think about? That maybe, even after all this time, he loves you even an ounce of how much you love him? Endless devotion with no contact. But he did the same—he waited and waited for your response much like you waited for any contact from him. You were both physically and metaphorically in the dark.

The door to your bedroom creaks as you push it open, embarrassed by how little it’s changed since the last time he was in it. The walls are still the same color, faded and paint peeling in some of the corners. Your bed has been swapped from twin-sized to a queen, but everything else is virtually untouched.

No more words are spoken.

They’re not needed.

You don’t need anything. Not when you have him.

He presses your body into the mattress, climbing over you gently. His touch is tender, sweet, not too much pressure. You’re halfway certain you’ll wake up from this dream any time now, and you’ll once again be without him. Without his touch and his love and his truths.

Kissing him is like touching the sun. It burns, nearly enough to make you combust into flames, but magnetic. He is your sun, and you are the Earth. You revolve around him.

Normally, anyone else taking your clothes off would make you nervous, but you know you’re in good hands with Chenle. Your shirt is tossed aside first, his mouth instantly dipping down to explore every inch of exposed skin. His tongue drags along the swells of your breasts, over your collarbones. He nips, teeth leaving shallow indents on your soft flesh.

Your whines are soft, delicately slicing into the silence of the air. The first time he hears you, he freezes, his eyelashes fluttering against your neck as he takes in the way you sound. Quiet cries of ‘more’ escape you while your hands explore beneath his T-shirt.

Never before in your life have you wanted someone with such despracy. Your body aches for him, and the tug in your chest that pulled you closer to him has finally revealed how. As his fingers pop the button on your jeans, you lift your hips.

He pulls his lips away from your chest, gaze honing in on yours. There’s something swirling around in his irises, and you’re sure yours reflect the same. He doesn’t have to ask the question on the tip of his tongue. Not verbally. You nod, guiding his mouth back to yours.

The heat of his touch dips dangerously low, past your jeans and the hem of your panties. You gasp, appreciative of how he catches the sound. You’ve been touched before, but nobody has ever compared to the way he feels. When you’ve met your soulmate, nothing could be better.

He rubs slow circles on your clit, eyes hazy from knowing he’s the one who made you feel this way. Normally, you’d need more. A simple touch wouldn’t be enough to have you squirming in someone’s grasp, but there’s so much more behind his movements than lust.

And he takes it a step further, sliding his long fingers inside you. His gaze focuses on you the whole time, watching your face for any sign of discomfort as he thrusts his hand. He nudges your sensitive bud with the heel of his palm every time he’s knuckle deep.

Your stomach feels elastic, as if you’re stretching a rubber band, and it’s taking everything you have not to let it snap back. It’s too good. Too intoxicating. Too early for it to be over. He swallows your short moans, picking up his pace. You lean up, yearning for his kiss. He doesn’t need to ask, and the second your lips meet, you tighten around him, and it’s over.

Warmth spreads all over your body, your insides boil, and butterflies swarm deep in your stomach. Your eyes shut, and your head falls back against your pillow. He kisses all over your face, humming quietly.

He pulls away from you to help you remove the last of your clothing, the fabric of your panties sticking uncomfortably until he tugs them down your legs.

You reach down to feel him through his pants, unable to stop the shuddering breath that escapes you when you touch his length. He grinds into your hand, taking his bottom lip between his teeth.

Finally, nothing separates the two of you anymore. The tip of his cock presses against your entrance, the initial pressure already making you crave more. You need all of him, so you wrap your legs around his waist and dig your heels into his back to tell him to push in further. Your whole body tingles with pleasure, the type enough to make your toes curl, and your chest heaves as you adjust to his size.

His forehead drops against your shoulder, grasping one of your hands in his own to squeeze. He takes you slowly, his throbbing length stretching you to your limits and rubbing your walls perfectly. You were made for him, you’re certain. He fits so well, so completely, there’s no other explanation for it.

He curses under his breath, eyes threatening to flutter shut from the pleasure. Sweat clings to you tighter than Chenle does, but you relish in the way you react to him. His eyebrows pinch as he looks at you for any sign of discomfort.

His name slips past your lips. In that moment, you truly become his, and he becomes yours. Bodies meld together, each one of his thrusts sliding so pleasantly inside you. There’s no sound from either of you besides the brief exchange of names, moans from both of you, and the slick of your wetness.

He kisses you, thrusting at a steady, mind-crumbling pace. His chest brushes against yours, breathing uneven as he clenches the bedsheets next to your head. You quickly realize you could do this forever. The feeling of him so deep inside you would never subside, and you find yourself never wanting to separate from him.

Starlight gleams off his skin, the blue shine accenting the sheen of sweat clinging to him. His muscles contract as he holds himself over you, and his hair hangs over his eyes. All you can do in your current state is push it back, basking in the softness of it.

Picking up his pace, he slides one of his hands down your body, his thumb connecting with your clit. You’re a moaning mess, clinging to him as the familiar sensation returns to the pit of your stomach.

His trembling breath fans across your ear as he leans close. You’re unsure of how to handle all of the pleasure, your body spasming. He presses a kiss on that sensitive spot.

“I love you,” he whispers.

And that’s all it takes to have you shatter around him, your back arching as you grip onto his shoulders for dear life. He moans loudly, hips stuttering as your walls clench. When he spills inside you, it’s as if the last piece of you two finally comes together.

In bliss, you tell him you love him, too, over and over.

He kisses you passionately once more before gently pulling out of you, reassuring you that he’ll be right back so you let go. Grabbing a towel from your bathroom, he cleans you up, gaze drinking up every part of you. Once he’s finished, he crawls next to you in bed, pulling you to his chest.

You’re still certain you’ll wake up, and all of this will have been a dream, but until then, you’re going to enjoy it. Burying yourself in the warmth of his chest, you hum in content when he pulls the blankets over the two of you.

Finally, he’s here.

He’s no longer a memory trapped within the piano keys in your foyer.

He’s your Chenle, never to leave your side again.

[avengerscompound]

Countdown

Character Pairing:  Bucky Barnes x Clint Barton Word Count: 961 Rating/Warnings: M (Mild smut)

There was a technique his therapist had taught him early on. When he was spiraling he should focus on the here and now.  The actual real things in front of him.  What he could see and feel and hear.�� If he counted through each of his senses one at a time, it could bring him out of the existential dread and into the present moment.

And oh, how he was spiraling.

Five things he could see.

One: The shirt Clint peeled off over his head and tossed into the corner of the room.  It was white and there was a purple target on the front.  He’d been wearing it all day, and now there was a coffee stain on the front by the hem.

Two: Clint’s chest.  Lithe and muscular from all the archery and acrobatics.  It was the kind of body that could easily feature on the cover of Men’s Health or as the photo for July in the sexy superheroes calendar.  Or it would except for the fresh cuts and bruises he always seemed to be sporting.  There are scars too.  A puncture scar on the left side of his abdomen from a bullet, and a line along his shoulder that might be a knife.  He wasn’t a particularly hairy man.  There was a light thicket of blond chest hair, but it didn’t obscure the definition of his muscles or the faint freckles that muttered over his pecs.

Three: The zipper on Clint’s jeans.  The teeth strained as Clint’s erection pushed against it.  The way Clint’s finger fumbled with the pull.  The way each tooth parted as he pulled the tag down, untangling from each other and spreading to reveal the delights that lay beneath.

Four: Clint’s cock.  Long and thick with a slight curve to it.  Maybe not as big as Bucky was, but decent.  Enough to feel him hit that sweet spot inside him and to stretch him without it being too painful.  He was cut and the head was already a dark pink with a slight purple hue.  A bead of precome had formed on the tip, glistening in the low-lit room.

Five: Clint’s eyes.  Clint’s beautiful, earnest, blue eyes.  The color of the sea at the coast, just before it turned into the deep ocean.  Those eyes would be the death of Bucky.  They looked at him in a way no one had looked at him before.  No pity.  No fear.  Just a mixture of lust and love that Bucky was sure he didn’t deserve but was so grateful to have.

Four things he could feel.

One: The fabric of his jeans - coarse and stiff on his body.  Feeling all too heavy and tight as he sat at the edge of the bed.  It felt worst on his crotch as his cock hardened and strained against the unyielding fabric.  He wanted them off and as fast as he could get them open and provide some relief for his cock, it wasn’t fast enough.

Two: Clint’s hands - gentle, firm, and calloused.  Hands that were used daily and not taken care of nearly enough.  Clint used them to help get Bucky’s pants open and off.  He smoothed them over Bucky’s chest and traced the scars around his prosthetic arm, making his body break out in goosebumps. 

Three: The weight of Clint’s whole body on his lap.  Bare skin against bare skin.  He’d somehow both soft and firm all at once, and even though Clint was so much taller than Bucky, he wasn’t heavy.  In fact, Bucky loves how it feels to have Clint’s body on his, even without the sexual element.  It’s comforting, like a weighted blanket. 

Four: Clint’s mouth.  Wet and warm, trailing over his neck and jaw.  Clint’s trying to mark him and Bucky doesn’t care one bit.  He tilts his head back, giving him better access as Clint latches on to his throat.  The suction on his pulse point sends a shiver running right through him, making his scalp prickle and buzz.

Three things he could hear.

One: the soft wet smack of Clint’s lips on his skin, almost imperceptible but somehow completely filthy.  Focusing on it made Bucky shiver and his cock throb against Clint.

Two: his own breath, slightly labored, punctuated by soft gasps each time Clint touched him just right.

Three: Clint’s moans as he grinds down on Bucky’s cock.  Breathless and needy, giving away every desire in the blond’s dirty little mind.

Two things he could smell.

One: Clint’s shampoo as he buried his face in his blond hair.  It was a surprisingly floral scent, most likely a remnant of girlfriends past.  That thought alone caused a faint knot of jealousy to form in Bucky’s gut.  He knew it was uncalled for - they both have pasts - but even still, he dragged Clint closer and bit his neck, trying to mark him.

Two: Sweat.  Both his and Clint’s.  They hadn’t even gotten very physical yet, but his skin was flushed, furnace-hot against Clint, a sheen of sweat clinging to it.  The scent isn’t strong, but it is heady.  It calls to him, making him want to devour Clint in every way he can.

One thing he could taste.

One: Clint.  His lips.  His skin.  The salt of his sweat, and the faint bitterness of the coffee he’d drunk earlier.

He’d gone through each one, and still, it felt like too much.  It was too good and he wasn’t worthy of any of this.

Clint’s hands went to his jaw and he tilted his head up so he was looking into his eyes. “Hey,” he said, his voice breathless and needy.  “I got you.  You with me?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, finding grounding in that gaze.  “I’m here.”  Completely present and in the moment.

[finchly-tintinnabulation]

- Bridge Over Troubled Water -

Roboute Guilliman x M!OC (Finch)

Tags: Emetophobia, canon typical treatment of xenos, Nurgle mention, that flavor of large scale existential dread that only the Imperium provides BONUS DISCLAIMER: Finch has medical conditions that I don't (narcolepsy/cataplexy, seizures, mobility issues) but am writing to the best of my ability

This started out as pure Guilliman thirst but as soon as I started thinking about Finch (beloved oldest OC whom this blog is named after) it spiraled into being a very plot heavy slowburn. Apologies in advance for the extensive preamble to OLD MAN YAOI and big thanks to @cardinalcanis and Ovid for giving me the strength to write OC x canon, @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond for even more Guilliman brainrot, and @daily-shenanigans784 for the beta read.

The Chorus: @thisuserislilsilly

- - -

If there was one thing to be grateful for it was that the marine had given up on attempting to frog march him, whether it had been his lapsing consciousness or the limp in the absence of his cane, by the time he was aware of the thrumming of engines he was slung over a ceramite plated shoulder like a sack of grain. With the throbbing of his head and the wad of gritty fabric jammed in his mouth making his jaw ache, all he could focus on was breathing steadily through his nose. 

It wouldn’t do to dwell on what was in store for him, any other outbursts would only worsen his situation. So he listened and breathed and tried to remain conscious, noted the buzzing and thrumming and creaking of metal, the heavy clanking footsteps and the jostling of the marine carrying him. There was little use trying to keep track of the turns and lifts and steps, whatever vessel he had been taken upon was a maze his addled mind didn’t have the capacity to navigate behind the blindfold until they eventually came to a stop. 

“Yes! That’s the witch, my lord.” The pariah twitched, roused by a voice he couldn’t quite place. A reedy sounding male human, faintly wheezing from agitation. “As you can see, this is the xenos who has been impeding our Tithe, it has cursed our world for generations since its arrival.”

“You must understand, even without… there was simply no way to maintain the production expected of our workers, with the conditions as they… as they are.” The cautious murmur of a more feminine voice clicked the pieces into place. She had once orbited his presence like many a curious child, but she had grown to know better. The planetary governor and his daughter, likely called to an audience with their Imperial masters. 

Even the humans feared their avenging angels, and it was with bitter resignation that the Aeldari realized why he was brought here, why a small crowd of festival-goers had descended upon him alongside the marine now toting him. They needed their scapegoat. 

“Sergeant, report your findings.” A modulated voice sounded from somewhere near the humans, and on his other side a pair of ceramite boots stepped forwards to reply. 

“We have confirmed this xenos to be the source of the confiscated artifact, the same Eldar material were found throughout the items we searched.” Ah. How lovely, he’d already been ransacked. “According to our records, these denote an Eldar psyker who creates such materials with its voice.” His blood ran cold as he heard the empty clank of something being set on a metal surface. Undoubtedly it was his armor. 

“That bewitching voice has been whispering to our children. The daemons it has brought have been sung from the Warp itself.” The governor interjected shrilly, seemingly too eager for proper formalities when an escape was in sight. Suddenly jostled again, the pariah remained limp in the marine’s grasp before his feet touched solid ground, realizing he was being stood to face what was now his jury. 

“The Eldar appeared to be familiar with a few…“ His captor began, though oddly trailed off his explanation. In fact, a hush fell all around him, accompanied by a rustle of silent commotion.

“Please, do continue.” A new voice. Deep like a marine, whose large vocal chords resonated differently than a baseline human’s, but unmodulated and melodic, somewhere behind him and accompanied by more ceramite footfalls and a strange sort of presence. Not a psyker, but a being of immense impact on the Warp, one felt despite his self-imposed restrictions.

“…Yes, my Lord. This Eldar appeared to be familiar with a handful of adolescents, we tailed the target before apprehension and one such child was that which we had confiscated an artifact from.” 

So he had been trying to warn me. He tried to ignore the pang in his chest at his prized apprentice’s inadvisable loyalty, and if he had the chance he would have scolded him. Dedication to a comfortable distance between himself and his much more short-lived pupils had once again proven little use; Rami’s headstrong intelligence and talent had instilled a sense of pride in him.

“Would this be the artifact in question?” The sonorous voice asked, and the pariah strained his ears for the clink of Wraithbone against armored gauntlets. “If so, I would like to be permitted to participate in this… interrogation. Unbind him so he may speak as well.”

“With all due respect my Lord, the xenos has been gagged to nullify the previously mentioned abilities.” The touch of cold ceramite briefly tightened on his arms as if in warning. 

“If it is a concern for safety, then have faith in me.” Something heavy settled upon his shoulder and after a moment the vise of gauntlets around his arms retreated, sluggishly realizing he was changing hands just as he began to wobble and quickly trying to steady his weight back into his good leg. There was another touch at the back of his neck as the fabric binding his eyes and mouth was untied, the gag tugged out from between his teeth. 

Swallowing thickly as he let the strain in his jaw fade, the Aeldari waited a moment before opening his eyes, and almost immediately regretted doing so. The relatively dim light sent a jolt of pain through his pounding head, swimming blobs of color tilting sideways as his vision spun. 

He sucked in a rattling breath, gagged, and proceeded to vomit all over the blue wall in front of him. 

The silence following was almost more suffocating than the restraints, and as his sight cleared he glanced around to try and orient himself through his nausea and downright murderous headache. As he had guessed, he appeared to be on the bridge of a space vessel, the dark metal interior bathed in the green light of command displays framed by a vista of stars and the view of Valian, frost dusting the rocky red sediment of the ice planet. 

The governor and his daughter appeared to be frozen beside the console, with the Aeldari’s belongings laid out on a tarp at their feet with the exception of his helmet and his student’s Wraithbone dagger set upon a control panel, sporting matching faces of blanched horror. The blue clad space marines scattered about were unreadable behind their helmets, but they were likewise unmoving. 

Turning his head, the pariah cleared his throat and attempted to wipe the dribble of bile on his chin on his shoulder, before turning his attention to the only other face he could see. The Aeldari towered almost a head above the human colonists, so tilting his head up slightly to stare into the shiny red lenses of a space marine’s helmet was new to him. The wall of a man now holding him upright put that neck ache to shame, seemingly double his own size and clad in towering ceramite regalia whose gold embossed greaves were now dripping with the contents of his stomach. However, the man’s visage was what took his breath away, pushing everything else from the pariah’s thoughts. 

The restless silence made sense now, as the sheer presence of his inscrutable blue gaze held the gravity of a white hot star, pinning the prisoner with its weight. His hair was gold like the glistening trim of his power armor, framing a face that seemed carved from stone in its statuesque idealism. And yet the image of a demigod was chipped as the Aeldari noted the lines of his face, a well worn furrow in his brow and a sunkenness around his eyes; he knew well the look of a tired man. 

“…Apologies, I think I’ve been concussed.” The pariah warbled hoarsely, clearing his throat and grimacing at the mess he’d made. Suddenly the stony visage before him cracked into a look of… amusement?

“No harm done. It can be cleaned.” No sooner had he finished speaking than a hunched and waxy skinned human appeared accompanied by the squeal of machinery, and the Aeldari flinched at the grotesque sight. He’d heard tell of servitors, but he was thoroughly caught off guard, even as it knelt unperturbed to scoop chunks of sick into a biohazard container. The pariah’s lip curled and he rebalanced himself to be out of the servitor’s way, pushing aside his disgust in favor of the matter at hand. 

“You. Baron of House Delta.” Tilting his head, he gave a sidelong look to the trembling human leader of the colony below. “When I told your predecessor I would take responsibility for the reduction of productivity in the absence of your Imperium, my word was bond. I imagine this exchange would have been far more helpful had you considered that rather than leveling such accusations. While I never expected gratitude, I find this an utterly incomprehensible thing to stoop to, you absurd little man.” 

The Aeldari derisively bared his teeth at the man, watching his reddened face morph from fear to outrage. He briefly considered spitting at the governor’s feet in contempt, but dirtying the floor further seemed counterintuitive to an attempt at diplomacy. “Since you have taken the liberty of going through my things, did you think to pick up my cane? I doubt the angels would enjoy holding me up for however long this takes.”

The governor sputtered but couldn’t produce anything coherent in response, which the pariah attributed to his gaze continuously flicking above his head to the extremely large marine holding him. 

“Are you injured?” The demigod intoned, effectively snatching the Aeldari’s attention as well, grasping his other shoulder to look him up and down. Despite himself, his face felt oddly warm at being studied so intensely. 

“Just a bolter to the side of the head.” That heavy blue gaze wandered pointedly down to his leg, however the expression on the marine’s face showed only interest, and he said nothing of it. His earnestness was almost disturbing.

“It appears my men aren’t in possession of your cane, nor would the present company be comfortable with your hands freed.” The marine raised his eyebrows, glancing around the bridge. 

“Oh, naturally.” He replied drily, to which the enormous shining wall of a man laughed. Laughed?

“I’m sure seating can be arranged. In the meantime, I would like for you to introduce yourself.” That strange warmth spread through his chest, disarming whatever retorts he had been trying to muster seemingly surrounded by hostiles. What reason had this enormous glistening marine to offer him a forum to speak?

“...As in, what am I called?” Was this still an interrogation? What information did he hope to glean?

“That would certainly be a good start. Give me your name.” The behemoth replied with a bemused smile. Still, the Aeldari paused. There were many things he had been called. Xenos. Witch. Teacher. Asuryani. Bonesinger. The name of his birth that he had long since abandoned. Perhaps those were more appropriate, to denote his place in the whirl of lives around him. But there was another answer that felt right. “Finch. It was… a name gifted to me by late autocrat Tamsyn Delta. If I’m not mistaken, it’s what you called a creature of Old Terra.” Despite his reservations, Finch couldn’t keep the softness from his voice.

“Clever choice, the name of a songbird.” The marine said, his expression warming with mirth, forcing the pariah to avert his eyes. What matter of human was this to know the path of a Bonesinger? 

Of all the time spent organizing and shelving emotions, doing his best to keep them labeled and controlled, Finch found his thoughts swirling as he tried to grasp the names for them. Affection and grief for his friend, trepidation, perhaps an uneasy sense of relief. And the unbearable warm thing he had suddenly been shouldered with, something between discomfort and… want. He wanted to keep talking to this man, whose words were given so easily, and yet there was something Finch felt he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Those tired eyes he knew so well.

“...Thank you, they were.” He sucked a breath through his teeth, again looking up to meet that azure stare. “However, if you don’t mind, continuing in this manner will only waste your time. I was under the impression I was here to be interrogated. Who are you to be playing at pleasantries with the likes of me?”

“How dare you!” The governor squawked, shaken from his silence as his face flushed so red it was nearly purple.

“...Pardon?” Finch asked flatly as he turned to squint at the agitated official, quickly becoming alarmed when a few of the space marines around him began to shift from their positions standing at attention; they had remained orderly as he had conversed with their commanding officer, but perhaps their patience had similarly worn thin. Looking back to the marine before him, the warmth had vanished, leaving only a stony visage. Though he fought to suppress it, a dim but dizzying panic began to rise within him.

“Lord Primarch Roboute Guilliman, Imperial Regent, Avenging Son and Master of Ultramar.” A marine’s voice spoke up, prideful and reverent. 

“Enough. Continue talks with the delegation, I will perform this interrogation myself.” 

The Primarch’s word was final, unceremoniously scooping up the Aeldari in his grip and striding in the direction of his office. Stunned, Finch could only sit in the arms of the man he had spent the last few centuries telling mythologized stories of, helplessly toted away from the bridge like a misbehaving pet. Silence laid heavily upon the ship’s corridors other than the sound of Guilliman’s stride and the constant ambient machinery, allowing Finch to ponder the horrendous mess he had gotten himself into. 

Eventually they came to a stop in a room bedecked in golden trim similar to the Primarch’s armor, walls lined with shelves of data slates and books and a gargantuan desk at the far end. That was where Finch was deposited, seated awkwardly on its surface like a child perched on the kitchen counter as Guilliman stepped back to stand where he could scrutinize the Aeldari before him. 

“Be truthful with me and answer what I ask. I’m sure you’re well aware that it is not only your head on the line. You said you had promised to take responsibility for this world, do you stand by that statement?” He crossed his arms with a clank.

“Yes.” Anxiety settled like a leaden core in Finch’s chest, not quite expecting how quickly he replied. But it was the truth. “I told them their options; turn to subsistence or die. I taught them where to start.”

“Farming rather than goods manufacturing?” Finch nodded in response. “Yet you aren’t their savior.” There was that intrigue in his tone again. He felt as though he was being toyed with.

“No. I anticipated the return of the Imperium.”

“What of the children, then.”

The Aeldari took a steadying breath. Now this felt more like an interrogation. “The soul of an Asuryani is a beacon to the Ruinous Powers, even while properly shielded, and that attention could have been turned upon untrained humans touched by the Warp. That became my responsibility, as those who could not learn would have to be…culled. Again, I taught them where to start.” 

Unbidden, those first few years on Valian returned to him. The frozen ground couldn’t cover the smell of disease permeating the air, stagnant and festering. Famine, terror, the bitter taste of desperation assaulting his senses. He hadn’t known of humans and their disease processes, what he would come to know as scurvy and prion disease indistinguishable from the madness wrought from the fervent and hopeless worship of the Plague Lord.

“Guilt for the fate of what others of your kind consider to be lesser beings?” Guilliman stepped closer, sharp azure peering into dark viridian, making his prisoner balk but no longer look away. 

“A daemon world would surely do me in as well.” Finch replied defensively. “What my kin would think has crossed my mind, but it holds little sway now. I have… spent far more time with your people, anyway.” Ignoring his headache was futile as he felt his sinuses sting, recognizing the emotion but trying to push past it. I want to live. I want them to live.

“Listen very closely.” Guilliman’s voice was so low it rumbled, thrumming through Finch’s lungs in accompaniment with the arrestingly serious look on his face. “It will not matter to the Inquisition what your intentions may have been, all they will see is your presence as evidence of a taint in the populace. The Administratum will not consider the explanations if the Tithe is not paid.” 

Finch stopped breathing. He knew what Guilliman meant, it is not only your head on the line. Staring into space past the Primarch’s ear, the acrid prickling of tears burned, struggling to shore up his emotions as he felt a telltale weakness creep over him. It really had been doomed from the start, no matter how much he tried to maintain an arms length, how much he tried to disappear from the population’s consciousness. His presence was a dark stain, first to his Craftworld, and now to another world he could almost call home. With every passing moment his survival felt like a mistake. 

“Finch.” He was dragged back to the present, the frowning face of Macragge now inches from him, voice barely more than a murmur in volume but still carrying through his core.

“Help me.” The words punched their way out of Finch’s gravelly throat, a surprise to even himself. The dams he had built were not meant to withstand this turmoil, as the fate of millions pressed down upon him.

There was no way to wall off his mind completely, though long had he tried. With enough practice he felt only the faint brush of presence around him and the rumbling of conflict like distant thunder across the galaxy. He could not waver. I will endure, I must endure, I will endure. 

Practice couldn’t prevent the grief rushing through him. Feeling his heartbeat slamming in his throat, muscles slackening under the sudden emotional strain.

“Slow down.” Ceramite gauntlets once again found the Aeldari’s cloaked shoulders, firmly attempting to ground him as Finch’s thoughts threatened to burst from their confines and drag him under. “It is far too early for you to lose hope. I will help, with your full cooperation. I will not allow a settlement to be lost. There is time, and I have patience.”

Guilliman’s earnestness was dizzying, like a rock in a hurricane, making Finch wish his hands were unbound if only to grasp onto him. Wearily he closed his eyes, unable to hold up the weight of his eyelids, trying to justify the Primarch’s willingness to accept a task that would be so infinitesimal within the scale of his empire. A colony world, with lives that others would consider of no consequence. There was so much in the way of deserving to feel relief, and yet Finch felt his shoulders sag, his head hanging limply on his neck.

“I’m beginning to like you far more than your myth, Roboute...” The Aeldari slurred out with a breathless chuckle. 

“…Oh?”

“Such irony…”

Finch couldn’t finish his thought. The wave of fear and pain that had crashed against his mental walls ebbed, pulled into blackness.

[loupy-mongoose]

Do you have any early concept art of your characters?? Even just silly little doodles without polish at all?? It’s always fun to see how characters evolve, so I thought I’d ask ^^

Ah jeez, you sent me into a spiral of cringe that I now have to share with the world. XD

At first I was going to tell you that early artworks on my blog could count, since I've kinda just been designing for the blog. But then I found a collection of early doodles, and M Y G O O D N E S S are they something!

Keep in mind that these were done before I was bold enough to stray far from canon Mew design.

First I'll share the first colored piece I did of the Mews~

Here are some concepts of a highly caffeinated Akoya after her first cup of coffee, with an earlier idea of Randy's design. (Either he didn't have glasses yet, or I didn't draw them for the sketch.)

Some existential-dread Randys, with a human Akoya concept (Not too far off from the final) and some Midas-before-he-was-Midas. (Moddy, of @mewtales/@askthe-dawsons had just given me the design and I was playing around with how I wanted to use it. He somehow always had a nervous disposition to me, even before I got him in-game and he turned out to be timid.)

The Mew in the backpack is Akoya--I liked the idea of Randy telling people he could carry his wife in a backpack. X3

This may make the whole Randy and Mo situation a bit sadder to people, but here's a group of doodles I did to scope out the nature of their relationship.

These aren't all of them, but... I don't like looking at some of the others. ;w;

[trashogram]

Psycho/Fem!Reader

Rated M for highly suggestive content!

—*—

You woke up in the pitch dark. The air was stifling and uncomfortably warm, and you could feel a hard, flat surface against your back.

There was something soft, like a blanket or two, acting as a cushion between you and the ground. But it didn’t disguise what you quickly realized was the interior of a car.

Movement caught your attention before you could panic. Something (solid warm alive) that had previously been nestled on top of you lifted itself to look at you with bright, swirling irises.

You let out a long breath, tension receding. “Psycho?”

The ‘toon answered with a hum, eyes wide and unblinking. You could feel his straight jacket drag over your stomach as he came closer. His hands slid over you from underneath the sleeves.

“Are we in the back of the patrol car?”

You had your suspicions, having ridden in said vehicle a number of times now. The interior and smooth, metallic walls were very familiar.

“Wh—” Psycho shushed you, sleeve coming up to cover your mouth.

“Shhh, sh, sh.” He began to pet your face lovingly.

It hardly phased you. You had been living with (kidnapped by) the Toon Patrol for quite a while now. How long exactly, you didn’t know, but long enough to develop camaraderie with all five members. Psycho wasn’t the worst weasel to be stuck in the dark with.

“Are we playing hide and seek?” You whispered, trying to play along.

The demented ‘toon actually stayed silent for a beat, staring. Always staring.

“Just hiding.” He answered.

You guided him to pet the side of your face to make talking less of a challenge. “… But not seeking?”

Suddenly, Psycho collapsed onto you, long face resting between your breasts. His cold nose nudged at your chin and you heard him inhale your scent.

“…Don’t wanna share today…” His treble voice clashed with the glum sentiment, making you frown.

Your brow knit together as the dots started to connect.

It wasn’t easy being the shared object of (obsession) affection of five ‘toon weasels. Most of your time spent with them had you being tugged from one to the other, all of them vying for your attention in some way after a hard day’s work.

You struggled to keep up with them, let alone give them each an equal share of your time.

“Aww, baby.” You embraced him, sympathy coloring your low tone. “I’m sorry I made you feel left out! I didn’t mean to.”

A smile grew on your face as you felt the sweet lunatic begin to shake, giggles bubbling out. Psycho’s crazed laughter had once made you feel anxious but hearing it now was almost a relief. The thought of any of your… weasels being down and out made your heart ache.

“You’re my bunny.” Emphasized Psycho, squeezing himself as close to you as possible as if he could meld the two of you together.

You swept a hand over his crazy hair. “Of course I am, honey.”

It was still hard to see, but you pressed a kiss to the top of his head by the light of his spiraling eyes. It made you laugh to see them suddenly take on a heart’s shape, trading the usual yellow and blue for red and pink.

Feeling that the situation was taken care of, you moved to sit up and hopefully get back to Toon Patrol Headquarters (a one room office with a pull-out mattress and a rotary dial that loved to gossip).

Psycho popped up instead, causing you to yelp as you were laid flat once again.

That amorous look in his eyes was still apparent.

“Let’s play!” He giggled, hands falling to your hips and groping you there.

You gasped, sliding over the threshold of the patrol car until you felt the ‘toon very firmly between your legs.

If someone ever asked you what the conversion from human to ‘toon had felt like, you would have told them that they were out of luck getting a coherent answer out of you.

However, once all the existentialism had run its course and you were left with the reality of your situation, you may have remarked that despite the change from human skin to ink, you had not lost the ability to feel things at least.

You definitely felt how excited your lunatic was to “play” at that moment.

“I-in the car?” The sudden shift had left you breathless.

Psycho was already unbuttoning your nightshirt with deft hands. You were grateful for the odd thoughtfulness, knowing that if it had been Smartass, the buttons would’ve been popped off via his switchblade. (And if it had been Greasy, the buttons would go flying as soon as he succumbed to his own fervent ardor).

The ‘toon simultaneously pulled at the waistband of your shorts. He was so eager and in such a hurry that he was getting in his own way, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Slow down,” You tried to soothe him in vain. “I can help — Ah!”

Clever, sleeveless hands cupped your bare breasts, rendering you speechless. You squeaked, swallowing a mouthful of excited giggling as Psycho kissed you.

—*—

Coming back to the office to find you gone had been a heart-stopping, hair-raising moment for Wheezy.

He imagined that it had been the same for the rest of his comrades, though only Greasy had flown into an immediate panic. It took Stupid a solid 5 minutes to realize something was wrong in spite of the loud, frenzied Spanish flying through the air.

The boss had stayed standing, not moving a muscle as his narrowed eyes scanned the room from top to bottom.

When he finally looked at Wheezy, the scowl on his face was deep. There would be Hell to pay.

“Wherever the hell he took ‘er ain’t safe.” Smartass had warned.

At least knowing that Psycho had ditched them on the job to go home early meant that the worst case scenario had not occurred. Wheezy kept that to himself of course, as they all scrambled down to the lot where the Patrol car was parked.

He debated with himself on if he wanted to muscle Stupid into sitting in the back. He had a keener eye than the big lug. And if Psycho was loitering in a dark alley along the roads of Toontown, Wheezy would be able to —

“AYE!” Greasy’s shout (of surprise? Rage? Indignation?) stopped Wheezy short.

The perv had beat them all to the car, had thrown the doors wide open… just to reveal that all the dramatics had been for nothing.

You were asleep on a nest of blankets, flushed and completely sans clothing. Your sleepwear was bundled to one side, along with Psycho’s straight jacket.

Psycho grinned from ear to ear from where he lay beside you, tangled up in your arms. He waved coyly at the other weasels and their collective dumbfoundedness.

“Hi!” He snickered.

[kojoty]

say what you want about ai art, be pro it against it whatever i have my own opinions and they're infinitely nuanced and it's a hefty and worthy discussion etc etc , the ethics are absolutely something worth talking about etc etc etc. that said. if i post an OBVIOUS and BLATANTLY ai generated image that's OBVIOUSLY meant to be a joke partially making fun of how outlandishly bad the generator is. you are just like. being kind of . you know . sometimes life can be. silly. we don't need to be a party pooper ALL the time. you know? you can post a joke and not necessarily agree with it. soemtimes the joke can partially be about how bad the thing is. comedy can be a representation of what we hate to show how ridiculous it is. sometimes, sometimes...

actually im pausing this post. i want to play in an ai generator to see what i can get. here's gandalf fanfiction <3

In this bizarre tableau, Gandalf sits surrounded by forlorn farm animals, the weight of his existential crisis heavy on his shoulders and breasts as he munches on ripe watermelon, each bite a reminder of his fictional existence. A haze of marijuana smoke weaves through the air, mirroring his thoughts on the absurdity of being conjured into existence for AI-generated content. As he contemplates the ethics of creation and purpose, the sad expressions of the animals reflect a shared understanding of their own roles, weaving a tapestry of melancholy and reflection within the surreal surroundings. Just as Gandalf spirals deeper into his existential doubts, Spider-Man swings into the scene, embodying his signature blend of New York charm and carefree spirit. With a playful grin, he snatches the joint from Gandalf's fingers, declaring, “Hey, life is awesome, actually!” His infectious enthusiasm radiates through the farm, breaking the heavy atmosphere as he encourages everyone to embrace joy without caution or inquiry. The farm animals perk up, momentarily captivated by Spider-Man’s unwavering optimism, as Gandalf finds himself torn between the allure of this lighthearted perspective and the weight of his own introspection, highlighting the stark contrast between whimsical escapism and profound reflection. In a startling twist, Gandalf's once-sharp intellect begins to dull as he watches Spider-Man's carefree attitude unfurl like a vibrant banner of apolitical optimism. The wizard, once a bastion of wisdom and contemplation, finds himself enchanted by the web-slinger’s carefree dismissal of deeper meanings. As he listens to Spider-Man’s catchy reassurances that questioning life is unnecessary, Gandalf's thoughts spiral into a haze, his existential quandaries overshadowed by an overwhelming desire to embrace a simpler, happier existence, leaving behind the complexities that once defined him. The farm animals, amused yet concerned, bear witness to this unexpected transformation, caught between laughter and bewilderment at the shifting dynamics of their surreal gathering. Metamorphizing, Gandalf succumbs to Spider-Man’s infectious spirit, his once-profound thoughts replaced by a blissful ignorance. The wizard transitions into a mindless, hypnotized creature, shedding his melancholic introspection along with his wizardly stature. Now frolicking alongside the farm animals, he revels in a world devoid of political worries, embodying a joyous simplicity that echoes Spider-Man's call for carefree living. The vibrant ambiance of laughter and lightness envelops them, allowing Gandalf to indulge in a new existence where the complexities of the world fade away, leaving only the thrill of the present moment. In his hypnotized state, Gandalf oscillates between contradictory exclamations, bleating "AI IS GOOD!" with enthusiasm one moment and barking "AI IS THE DEVIL!" the next, completely unaware of the absurdity of his declarations. His intelligence and critical thinking have evaporated, leaving him as a mere echo of conversations he once cherished—words stripped of their meaning, hummed in a mindless chant. This chaotic cacophony of thoughts, devoid of personal understanding, serves as a reflection of the fickle nature of opinions and beliefs, showcasing how easily one can fall prey to the whims of the crowd, oblivious to the laughter and bewilderment of the farm animals that surround him.

i hope you like my short story

[elizabeth-mitchells]

another one:

f/m/k: Juliet (Lost), Linda (Gia), Adult Laura Lee As Portrayed Of Course By Elizabeth Mitchell

HEY!

now that's just mean! why would you do this to me 🥺

sgdjfkgkshdhjf this is making me spiral. fully losing my mind. breaking down. going on a deep existential crisis

can't i just marry all of them, fuck off and kill myself? hdjglgjshshfkgl

listen this is a very complex question. there's a lot to consider. Juliet and Laura Lee are dead in canon so, would it be okay to kill them then? Or is it more fair to kill Linda who's the only one who doesn't die in canon? Now, Linda is lovely, and the religious and wilderness trauma might make Laura Lee at least interesting at sex, but i think Juliet is undoubtedly the hottest of the 3 of them. And all 3 of them would be beyond perfect for marrying... Okay okay here's my answer, I'll hate myself for it <3

Fuck Juliet for being the hottest of them. Marry Linda for being the loveliest and only canon lesbian of the three. Kill Adult Laura Lee because unfortunately she's not canonically real? :(

[dhr-ao3]

Atone Tomorrow

Atone Tomorrow https://ift.tt/e3ftxB4 by Anonymous A desperate Draco Malfoy stumbles upon an equally frustrated Hermione Granger in a club loo. Does he make a move right then and there? Of course not. Instead, he Disapparates them both to Malfoy Manor, where he indulges his darkest desires—while spiralling into an existential crisis that does absolutely nothing to stop him. Words: 4596, Chapters: 3/3, Language: English Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Explicit Warnings: Rape/Non-Con Categories: F/F, F/M Characters: Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy Additional Tags: Rape/Non-con Elements, Dark Draco Malfoy, Post-Azkaban Draco Malfoy, Existential Crisis, Loss of Virginity, Porn With Plot, Smut, POV Draco Malfoy, Rape, Kidnapping, Sexual Coercion, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language, Non-Consensual Bondage, Praise Kink, Physiological Arousal During Rape, Psychological Arousal During Rape, Spanking via AO3 works tagged 'Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy' https://ift.tt/nK3zE8D November 21, 2024 at 09:37AM

[lilistayskz]

He trails off. The bully is nowhere to be seen, not that I can see much. Shit, I think my nose is broken. My knees finally give out and I slump to the ground, back to the rough brick wall. I'm too tired and embarrassed to do much else. 

Minho seats himself beside me, wiping his forehead on his white undershirt. I look down at my own clothes - I'm covered in blood, but it’s mostly mine. I’m still scared of what may have happened to Felix. Oh my God, Noona’s going to kill me.

I feel pathetic, so I sniffle pathetically. 

"Hey, now," Minho says lightly. He removes his flannel overshirt and uses it to wipe my face as I cry. "You go to my school right? What’s your name?" he asks kindly, sending me into an existential spiral.

Of course he doesn't know my name. I burst into tears again and it startles him. I really fucked this up - he’s gonna hate me, I think, but I manage to sob out half a sentence. "M-my n-n-name is H-Han J-J- " 

Fuck, I can’t even speak properly. I'm mortified, hiding my head in my arms, knees to my chest as I fall silent. What is wrong with me? Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t know my name. Minho sits quietly at my side for a moment.

Then he pats my head, grazing his fingers through my hair as I shake against the wall. I look up and see him smiling over at me - 

Oh. Everything feels better; the sharp pain in my gut is dulled, the pounding in my head subsides. I grasp the flannel to my face when he offers it again. What a fucking day, dude. A satisfied hum falls from Minho’s lips as I rub my bloody cheeks with his shirt.

"I'll just call you Hannie, then," he says, his fingers still in my hair.

These Things I've Done - Chapter 7

[firstprince-ao3feed]

Happy &amp; Sad

by thenicestthingiveseen There was David and the promise of Jaffa Cakes and Bake Off waiting for him on days like today and he’d be damned if he started to spiral so publicly.   prompt: setting - train/subway, quote - “There’s probably a better place to have an existential crisis.” Words: 897, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston, Red White & Royal Blue (2023) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Alex Claremont-Diaz Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor Additional Tags: Mentioned Arthur Fox, mentioned Princess Catherine, Mentioned Mary, mentioned Philip - Freeform, Not Beta Read, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, New York City, meet cute?, the ny subway got two people together, Tumblr Prompts via https://ift.tt/aBtpY93

[shivasdarknight]

i did one million stupid things; i said one billion foolish things {ffxiv, wolestinien}

Chapter 2: In which Surkukteni gets caught arguing with herself and somehow repairs a friendship

❆fandom: final fantasy xiv, ffxiv ❆characters: named warrior of light (Surkukteni), Orn Khai, Estinien Wyrmblood/Varlineau, Fray (Esteem) ❆relationship: eventual wolestinien, implied: wolysayle, estimeric, estinien/haurchefant ❆dynamic: m/f, referenced f/f and m/m ❆rating: e ❆key tags: xaela wol, bi+intersex+bigender wol, polyam wol, reconciliation fic, eventual friends with benefits, mutually thinking their feelings are unrequited (they're dumbasses), multiwol story ❆content warnings: cursing, referenced canon character death, canon typical existentialism, grieving, blood, blood and injures, gore relating to healing, arguing (the goal is to get better), internalized homophobia, eventual smut ❆chapters: 2/? {ongoing} ❆words: 8,233 (18,224 in total) ❆series: How to Obtain a Polycule (ft. Emotionally Constipated Dumbasses)

The fight with Faunehm went about as poorly as Surkukteni had expected it to go, only for it to then exceed her low expectations and further send her spiralling. Reopened wounds to her body and her pride set her in a dour mood, so it was only to be expected that Her Darkness should manifest to torment her ceaselessly. But lo and behold, it wasn't just her dark reflection that'd be the only one to confront her whilst she suffered through the worst of her wounds.

Rewrite and diverging canon for DRG60-70. Follows somehow, silence hurts the most chronologically (not super required, but I still suggest reading it first) and follows the reconciliation attempts between Surkukteni and Estinien after their falling out in Heavensward. First arc is finding Faunehm, second is trying to tease out how they can work together, third is the Oh Fuck arc where the E rating comes in.

Also I play favorites and this has one of my favorite scenes that I've ever written. I've been itching to get this one published, so poses at the link below:

{Read Here}

[meowzfordayz]

Hi T, I'm feeling terrible for sending two asks so close to one another, but I'm having a pretty bad crisis right now... So I thought that maybe if you have the time and space for an emergency request, that would be awesome... I'm so scared right now that I'm doing the right things in life... So can I request some Inosuke (+ Uzui, only if you have the time) with an S/O who's having an existential crisis?

Ps: my roommate's boyfriend just brought home a German shepherd puppy and it's adorable.

Hihi Aza !! 😁 There's nothing to feel terribly for — I enjoy all of your Asks. ☺️ I hope you're feeling ~better since sending in this emergency request, and if not, then I hope along the way helps a lil. 🥺

Existential crises are so tricky to navigate — self doubt and feeling helpless suck, but fortunately talking w/ friends and keeping busy (+ going to sleep vs spiraling 😬) can mitigate the worst of the effects. Ofc, leaning on friends, keeping busy, and actually sleeping are all easier said than done. 😅

My lil tidbit of unsolicited advice: at the end of the day, you decide what's right for yourself (other than, y'know, m*rder 😝), so even tho living can be scary, at the very least know that you get to define what's right for you.

P.S. Eek German sherpards are so cuuute. 🥺😍 And a puppy?! I bet it's sooo fluffyyy. 😭💘

[ao3feed-ladynoir]

All the Missing Pieces

All the Missing Pieces by UpTooLateArt

At 14, Adrien stepped into the time burrow and saw the truth no one could have guessed. When he came out, he was changed forever. And after defeating his father, he was finally free...or was he?

At 37, Adrien has everything he ever dreamed of – married to Marinette, three kids, the hamster – but none of it has turned out as expected. Marinette's career is such a success that she's never home, Hugo is an angsty difficult teenager, and Adrien is still struggling with his secret identity as a sentimonster.

And now, Lila Rossi is back after more than 20 years. But has time changed her? Or is she up to her old tricks?

***Alternating timelines between age 37 and ages 14 upwards, this is the first of a series of sequels to Breaking Free (summary in Ch 1 end notes). This new fic is fully written. The one after is planned out and will be from multiple POVs. The one after that…well, the mental cogs are spinning, and I'll figure out the details along the way. I opened a massive can of worms with something in Breaking Free, and it's all spiralling hard, people. Enjoy the chaos!***

Words: 8523, Chapters: 2/29, Language: English

Series: Part 2 of Breaking Free

Fandoms: Miraculous Ladybug

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Characters: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Hugo Agreste, Emma Agreste, Louis Agreste, Félix Fathom, Alya Césaire, Nino Lahiffe, Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug's Parents, Lila Rossi, Plagg, Tikki, Order of the Guardians, Others are incidental

Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir & Hugo Agreste, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir & Félix Fathom, Alya Césaire/Nino Lahiffe, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir & Nino Lahiffe

Additional Tags: I might be writing this series until I die, Sequel, Adrien's POV, Unreliable Narrator, Multiple Timelines, I needed a spreadsheet to plan this, Set in the future, Aged Up, Post-Monarch's defeat, Post-Reveal Pre-Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Sentimonster Adrien Agreste, Existential Crisis, Bonding with Felix, Pining over Marinette, Heavy Angst, Also humour!, Marital Drama, Parenting Drama, But I promise Adrinette will work things out, Self-Discovery, Healing, I had too much fun with the Lila scenes, Occasional swearing but nothing gratuitous, Occasional sex but nothing graphic, Nothing worse than anything I've read in any other book marketed for teens

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45204895