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zaynessbeloved · 1 month ago

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A Duke's Promise

Synopsis: In a world of whispered expectations and carefully arranged futures, your life was meant to unfold quietly beside your sister’s—until the man promised to her began to look at you instead.

The Duke of Ravencourt was meant to be hers. Courted her with duty, danced with her out of tradition. But slowly—delicately—his eyes began to wander. To you.

Content warnings: Regency Era AU, Regency Romance, Slow Burn, Forbidden Love, Arranged Marriage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Tender Romance, From Courtship to Marriage, First Time Feelings, Mutual Pining, Letters as Love Language, First Kiss in a Garden, Longing Across Ballrooms, Dancing as a Love Language, Love Confessions, Marriage Proposal, Wedding Night, Honeymoon Seclusion, Flash Forward Epilogue, Loving Marriage, Reader is Pregnant in the Epilogue, First Time, Consummation After Marriage, Fingering (implied), Oral (female receiving), Breeding Kink (soft & emotional), Table Sex, Library Sex, Bath Intimacy, Hand Kisses through Gloves, Stolen Glances.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 6.5k

A/n: This story began with one idea: what if Rafayel existed in a Regency world of whispered courtships, candlelit ballrooms, and dangerously improper strolls through the gardens? And then… well, then it became everything. The fan fluttered. The heart raced. The gloves came off. Literally.

If you love yearning, poetry, burning touches behind closed doors, and the kind of romance that leaves you sighing into your teacup—then I hope you enjoy every soft, scandalous step of this journey. Prepare for aching glances, stolen kisses, and perhaps a few gasps behind a fan. Because this is the Season, after all.

With all my heart, —Lex

Chapter 1

The manor had not known this much noise in years.

Maids fluttered between corridors like startled birds, arms burdened with ivory silk, pearl-dotted gloves, and lace-trimmed slippers. Somewhere in the east wing, a heated debate arose about whether the new French ribbon complemented or ruined the eldest daughter’s gown. In the drawing room, their mother fanned herself with a fluttering hand and sighed dramatically into the air, as if managing two debutantes had taken five years from her life already—and it was only the first day of the Season.

And you? You sat near the window, watching the grey spring clouds roll across the sky, utterly untouched by the chaos. Or at least pretending to be. Your reflection in the glass looked pale, thoughtful, expectant. As if even you weren’t quite sure what you were waiting for.

“Would it kill you to act excited?” came a voice behind you.

Your sister. Eleanora glided into view like a well-practiced scene in a stage play—tall, elegant, every curl in place. Her dress had already been fitted days ago. Pale rose, delicate embroidery, soft gold accents. The kind of debutante gown that said: look at me, then look again. Her confidence wasn’t arrogance. It was simply… inherited.

“I am excited,” you replied without looking at her, chin resting in your palm. “I’m vibrating with anticipation. Can’t you tell?”

She rolled her eyes and sank gracefully into the seat beside you. “Mother’s convinced I’ll receive a proposal by the second ball.”

You blinked slowly. “That’s optimistic.”

“She’s not wrong,” Eleanora said, half-smiling. “There’s already talk. Lady Whitcombe swears the Duke of Ravencourt will be at the Astor Ball. And he—well, you know how long the arrangement has been in place.”

Ah. Him. You’d heard the name whispered since you were old enough to understand what betrothal meant. Rafayel Vale, the future Duke of Ravencourt. Promised to your sister since they were both children, in one of those quiet family agreements made with wine glasses and sealed with handshakes and fortunes. You’d never seen him. Never met him. But you’d heard of him.

They said he rarely came to town. That he’d been abroad for years. That he was... peculiar. Brilliant, but peculiar. That he collected ancient art and turned down nearly every social invitation. That he had no interest in courtship, except the one already chosen for him.

Your sister’s.

“I wonder if he’s dreadfully boring,” you mused aloud.

Eleanora snorted. “He’s a duke, darling. I’d hardly be expected to love him. Only not embarrass myself at dinner.”

You turned to face her then. “Do you mind it?” you asked quietly. “That you’ve never met him. That it’s all been arranged.”

Her expression softened, then faltered. Just for a second.

“I mind being married off like a trinket. But… I also mind not having a choice,” she said. “And choices, these days, are only afforded to girls who marry well.”

A pause. “You’ll have more freedom, you know,” she added lightly. “You’re not promised to anyone.”

No. You weren’t. Not the eldest. Not the heir-maker. You were the afterthought in pearls. But freedom felt like such a fragile thing when it was wrapped in expectation and painted in powder and rouge.

There was a knock, then the door creaked open.

“The carriage is ready, Misses,” said a maid, curtseying low. “Your mother says the ball waits for no lady.”

Your sister rose in one graceful sweep. You followed, smoothing your skirts and forcing a smile.You did not know it then. Not as you stepped into the carriage, nor as the first ballroom doors opened before you. Not as your name was announced or champagne touched your lips.

But somewhere in the city, a man named Rafayel Vale had also dressed for the evening.And the Season had already begun.

The ballroom glittered like a dream dipped in gold. Chandeliers bloomed overhead, throwing crystals of light across silk gowns and polished floors. Laughter curled around the violins. Perfumed fans fluttered like butterfly wings. It was the first ball of the Season, and every eligible family in London had come to play their part.

Your mother had insisted on white for your debut—soft chiffon, pearl beading at the waist, sleeves just off the shoulder. You felt like a porcelain doll being paraded across a chessboard. But Eleanora? She was art. A single glance at her, and suitors flocked like moths to a flame. Her rose-colored gown shimmered with every turn. Her laughter fell in just the right places. She danced as if she’d been born to do it.

She probably had. You didn’t mind. Not really. You sipped at your champagne near the edge of the floor, nodding politely to a young gentleman who’d just tripped over his own shoes trying to reach her before the next waltz began.

“She’s rather enchanting, your sister,” came a voice beside you.

You turned. A tall, freckled young man smiled at you, slightly flushed with wine. “But I find myself curious about the other debutante at her side.”

Your brows lifted. “Curious, or drunk, My Lord?”

He laughed, unoffended. “Both, perhaps. May I have the next dance?”

You hesitated—then took his hand. The music rose, and so did you. You danced. Twice. Once with the freckled gentleman—Lord Daniel something—and again with a kind-eyed viscount who fumbled through small talk but smiled at your wit. You laughed. You curtseyed. You did everything you were meant to.

But it was impossible to ignore how the room revolved around Eleanora. She hadn’t left the floor. A new partner every song. An admiring audience wherever she paused. You caught glimpses of her between turns—her eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed, posture perfect. And then… a whisper.

“Did you see? Lord Ravencourt is here.”

The name slipped between fans like a secret.

“I thought he wouldn’t come.”

“He never does. But this Season—well, everyone knows why.”

“He’s to marry the Everleigh girl, isn’t he?”

“The older one, yes. They say it was arranged when they were five.”

“And is it true he—”

You turned too fast, looking for the voice, the source. But all you saw were swirling gowns and smiling mouths. No sign of him. Your heartbeat kicked just a little faster, for reasons you couldn't name. You’d heard the name all your life, but now… he was here. In this room. Breathing the same air. And yet—You couldn’t find him.

Eleanora laughed again, a musical sound that carried across the dance floor as she twirled in the arms of a dark-haired gentleman you didn’t recognize. Perhaps it was him. Perhaps not. You watched. And listened. But Rafayel Vale, Duke of Ravencourt, remained as elusive as his reputation. Just a name. Just a whisper. For now.

Another glass of champagne was placed in your hand—your third of the evening, perhaps fourth. The effervescence prickled pleasantly against your lips, the sweetness refreshing but not enough to cool the flush that had crept across your cheeks after so many turns about the ballroom.

You’d danced with no less than six gentlemen—each perfectly polite, each thoroughly forgettable.

“You dance with such elegance, Miss Everleigh,” said one. “Your sister is lucky to have you by her side,” said another. “Might I call on you this week?” asked a third.

You smiled, curtsied, responded with the appropriate level of civility. But your mind had long since drifted elsewhere—pulled by curiosity, by the weight of a name that kept brushing past your ear like a breeze you couldn’t quite catch.

Rafayel Vale. The Duke of Ravencourt. And still, no one pointed him out. No introductions. No dramatic arrival. You were beginning to suspect he hadn’t come at all—despite the whispers, despite the excitement that had rippled through the room like a pebble dropped into still water.

You were about to take your leave from the floor when you caught the flicker. A subtle shift. The orchestra hadn’t stopped. The conversations hadn’t paused. And yet— It was as if the air had gone still. You turned. There, just beyond the far end of the ballroom, near the top of the grand marble stairs, stood a man dressed in midnight black.

No one announced him. He didn’t need it. He stood with one hand loosely gloved, the other resting against the gold edge of the balustrade, and surveyed the ballroom below with the kind of expression that didn’t demand attention—but commanded it nonetheless.

He was beautiful in the way storms are beautiful—elegant, distant, dangerous. His hair was tied loosely at his nape, the soft wave of it brushing against the collar of his coat. His eyes, from what you could see across the distance, were sharp. Watchful. His jaw cut clean beneath the candlelight.

You didn’t need to ask who he was. You knew. The Duke of Ravencourt has arrived.

“Ah, there he is,” someone murmured near you, confirming it.

Your heart fluttered unexpectedly. He descended the stairs unhurriedly, greeted no one, and walked with the ease of someone completely uninterested in impressing. And yet, every head turned.

Even Eleanora’s. You watched her gaze snap upward, watched the moment his eyes met hers—just for a breath. Then, with unflinching grace, he crossed the ballroom and offered your sister a bow.

“Miss Everleigh.” His voice was low, velvet-draped steel. Refined. Controlled.

Your sister curtsied perfectly. “My Lord.”

And for the first time in your life, you stood mere feet away from the man who had, without even knowing it, been promised to your family since before you could spell his name. Rafayel Vale.

You didn’t speak. He didn’t look at you. But something inside you stirred—a thread pulled taut, a chord struck too suddenly. So this is the man my sister is to marry. So that was him. The man whose name had been sewn into the fabric of your family's future like gold thread. The Duke your mother spoke of in hushed tones. The one your sister had been destined for before she’d learned how to flirt or curtsy properly.

And yet, you didn’t linger on the sight. You watched long enough to see Eleanora extend her hand. Watched him take it with a bow too shallow to be entirely respectful, too intimate to be entirely proper. Interesting. But not your concern. So you turned away.

“Miss Everleigh.” You faced the gentleman with a smile just sharp enough to cut through the fog of champagne.

“Lord Renswick,” you greeted, dipping into a curtsey. “You’ve finally decided to brave the dance floor?”

He grinned sheepishly. “It’s hardly bravery when the reward is a turn with the loveliest debutante of the evening.”

You tilted your head. “Flattery, my Lord? We haven’t even danced yet.”

“I’m hoping to improve your opinion before I embarrass myself,” he said, offering his arm. “Shall we?”

You allowed him to lead you into the next waltz, your slippers barely whispering against the marble floor. You danced. And laughed. And when he stumbled, you teased. Another gentleman approached you before the music faded. Then another. The evening passed in a haze of pleasantries and compliments, silk gloves and careful steps, and smiles that never quite reached your eyes.

You were being seen. Not just as Eleanora’s sister—but as yourself. And still, somewhere behind the swirling figures and murmured invitations, you caught the occasional sound of his name.

“The Duke hasn’t danced with anyone else.” “He spent nearly the entire evening in conversation with her.” “They’re to be married before summer, I hear.”

You didn’t seek him out. But you noticed. He didn’t hover near the punch. He didn’t court attention. He simply existed, like a line drawn in darker ink than the rest of the room.

Eleanora had his company almost exclusively. They spoke often, heads bent slightly toward one another. She laughed in that polished way she’d perfected since finishing school. He only smiled once—or maybe you imagined it. He offered his hand to two other ladies for a dance. Out of courtesy, not interest. Both looked dazed when returned to their chaperones.

By the time the final waltz played, you found yourself near the windows again. A gentle breeze filtered through the open panes. The sky outside was deep and velvet blue, dotted with the promise of rain.

You pressed your fingertips to the glass, cooling your skin. Behind you, the ballroom glittered on. Your sister was still dancing. With him. So that is the man who will be her husband. You didn’t envy her. Not truly. He was distant, unreadable. A mystery, yes, but not yours to solve. You were only curious. Just a little.

The ride home was quiet at first. Outside the window, London twinkled beneath the night sky, gas lamps glowing like stars trapped in glass. The carriage wheels clattered softly over the cobblestones, a rhythmic lull that always came after a long night of dancing.

Inside, you sat across from your sister, your gloves resting delicately in your lap, your fan still tucked in your hand—more habit than necessity now.

Your mother sighed for the fifth time in ten minutes, fanning herself furiously though the carriage was hardly warm.

“Well, I’d say that was a successful beginning to the Season,” she declared. “Eleanora, darling, you were radiant. Simply radiant. And you, dearest,” she turned to you, “were charming. I heard Lord Pelham compliment your wit, you know. Wit, my love, not just your appearance. A rare thing.”

You offered a faint smile. “How generous of him.”

Eleanora chuckled softly, her face half-lit by the carriage lantern. She looked pleased—no, content. A strange softness in her expression, one you didn’t often see outside the confines of private moments like these.

“Six dances,” your mother continued. “Four requests for calling hours, and—oh! Did you see Lady Renswick watching your every move?”

“I did,” Eleanora murmured. “She nearly dropped her fan when the Duke took my hand.”

Your mother’s fan stopped mid-wave. Her expression turned reverent. “Ravencourt. Good heavens. I still can’t believe he came. I truly thought we’d have to drag him out of some crumbling estate by force.”

“He was...unexpected,” Eleanora admitted, her gaze turning briefly to the window. “Not at all what I imagined.”

You looked at her then. Not sharply, not with envy. Just with interest.

“What did you imagine?” you asked softly.

Eleanora tilted her head, thinking. “I suppose someone older. Colder. Not so… sharp. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does, it’s never empty.”

You hummed. “And?”

She smiled—small, knowing. “He watches everything.”

You raised a brow. “Even you?”

A shrug. “Especially me.”

Your mother gave a delicate gasp of delight and resumed fanning herself with renewed vigor. “Well, it’s settled then. We’ll expect him to call within the next two days. Perhaps earlier, given how much time he spent at your side.”

“I don’t think he’s the sort to follow expected schedules,” Eleanora said, almost absently.

You didn’t say it aloud, but you agreed with her. You leaned your head against the side of the carriage, watching the lantern light flicker over your gloves.

The Season had begun. Your sister’s future—the one stitched in gold and promise—was unfolding. And in the shadows of it… a man made of silence and storm had finally stepped into the light.

——

The garden smelled of lilacs and early rain. Sunlight spilled over the hedgerows in gold-tipped strokes, catching on the edges of your teacup as you sat beneath the shade of the wide ivory parasol. Bees hummed lazily between the roses. A soft breeze stirred the hem of your skirts, carrying with it the faintest echo of music from last night’s ball.

You swirled the honey into your tea absently, listening to the soft murmur of your sister and mother seated nearby. They were reading from The Society Pages, lips twitching with every name mentioned.

“Lord Eastmere danced four times with Lady Henrietta—that will certainly be remarked upon,” your mother sniffed.

“And here—‘Miss Eleanora Everleigh glowed in rose silk and grace, receiving the attention of none other than the elusive Duke of Ravencourt.’”

“They flatter,” Eleanora murmured, though her eyes gleamed over the rim of her teacup.

You didn’t comment. You let the sound of the page turning fade into birdsong and breeze. The first caller arrived before noon.

“Miss Everleigh,” the butler intoned with perfect composure. “Lord Renswick requests a moment of your time.”

You rose, smoothing the folds of your skirt, and offered a pleasant smile as the young Lord was shown into the garden.

He bowed. “Miss Everleigh. Might I say, the morning pales in comparison to your presence.”

You didn’t roll your eyes—though it was a near thing. “Good morning, my Lord. How kind of you to visit.”

He spoke of the ball. Of your dancing. Of how he hoped to see you again. You responded with grace, with interest even—but something inside you remained still. Unmoved. He wasn’t unpleasant. None of them were.

A second gentleman came not long after. Then a third in the late afternoon, with a bouquet of spring blooms and an awkward compliment about your voice. Each caller was welcomed, each given your attention, your politeness, your laughter in the right places. And yet…

With every charming smile and gloved hand pressed to yours, you found your thoughts drifting. To silence. To shadows. To eyes that hadn’t yet sought yours. By the time the sun began to lower, streaking the garden in amber light, the butler reappeared once more.

You glanced up, brushing a stray wisp of hair behind your ear. “Yes?”

He cleared his throat gently and bowed. “No further callers for the day, Miss.”

You nodded, not disappointed, not expectant—only thoughtful. “Thank you.”

You returned to your tea, now gone cool. Across from you, Eleanora had set aside her book and was absently turning the stem of a rose between her fingers.

“He hasn’t called,” she murmured.

You looked up. “The Duke?”

She nodded once. “Not that I expected him to arrive the next morning with a bouquet and a poem, but... he did say he’d be in town this week.”

You sipped your tea. “He doesn't seem the type to rush.”

“No,” she agreed. “He isn’t.” Her voice held no bitterness. Just observation. Eleanora didn’t chase affection—she expected it to arrive, eventually, on its own terms.

You glanced toward the garden gate. The warm breeze rustled the hedges, but no footsteps came. Still. It was early. Much too early to assume anything. By evening, the callers were gone. Your mother was content. Your sister, thoughtful. And you?

You were content to watch. To listen. To wait—not for him, but for the Season to unfold as it always did: slowly, elegantly, and with its own peculiar sense of order. If the Duke was to be part of your sister’s story, he would arrive in time. And if he didn’t? Well, that too, would be telling.

——

The gown was periwinkle this time, threaded with pale silver and pinned at the shoulders with clusters of tiny sapphires. You had said nothing when your maid fastened it, only watched your reflection in the mirror with mild detachment while she smoothed the folds. Your sister had gone through three dresses before settling on one.

“Do you think he’ll be there tonight?” she asked, not looking up as your mother arranged curls at the crown of her head.

You knew who she meant. “I imagine so,” you replied simply. “It is Lady Warwick’s ball.”

That was the third time she’d asked this week. He hadn’t called. Not once. Not even a letter. After all the glances, the evening spent in her company, the conversations in corners and near the card tables, the dance others noted… and still, nothing. The Ton had started to notice. Even the papers had commented on it, their tone careful, but curious.

Your mother tried to stay composed, but the tension in her voice betrayed her. “He’s a duke, darling. He’s dreadfully busy, I’m sure. Arrangements, estates, affairs of business—men like him do not spend their days penning sonnets and waiting in parlors.”

But it wasn’t poetry Eleanora wanted. It was certainty. And he, with all his poise and polish, had offered none.

Lady Warwick’s ballroom was suffused with gold light and the scent of blooming orange blossoms. The crowd was lively, the musicians sharp and practiced. By the time you arrived, the dancing had already begun.

You made your greetings. Smiled when expected. Allowed a young baron to compliment your hair. You even laughed once—genuinely, this time. Eleanora remained composed beside you. Her gown was elegant, her posture perfect. But you knew her well enough to see the flicker of restlessness in her eyes. Where is he?

You saw it the moment he stepped into the room. He was dressed in dark navy and silver this evening, a sapphire brooch pinned at his collar. He didn’t linger at the entrance. He didn’t pause for greetings. He moved straight through the ballroom, parting the crowd with nothing more than presence. And then, there he was. Standing in front of your sister.

“Miss Everleigh,” he said with a bow deeper than the one he’d offered last time. “I owe you an apology.”

Your sister turned. Blinked. “My Lord.”

He reached into his coat. From his gloved hand, he drew a small, velvet-wrapped box and placed it delicately in her palm.

“For my absence,” he said simply. “I assure you, it was not meant as discourtesy.”

You didn’t look away—but you didn’t move, either. A quiet statue at your sister’s side. Eleanora opened the box slowly. Inside was a brooch—silver filigree shaped like a crescent moon, a pale gemstone set in its center. Not extravagant. Not loud. But tasteful. Rare. Beautiful.

“You needn’t have,” she said, voice softer now.

“I did,” he replied. Then, “May I claim a dance, if you haven’t promised it?”

She hesitated—but only for a moment. “Of course.”

You stepped back as he offered his arm. She took it. They moved to the floor once more, the crowd subtly turning to watch. And you? You remained at the edge, untouched by the drama, your fingers gently clasped, your thoughts still clear.

He had returned. He had apologized. He had done what was expected. Nothing more. And yet, somewhere—deep in the space between music and silence—you felt the first ripple.Not interest. Just…a shift.

You didn’t watch them dance. Not because it hurt—it didn’t. Not because you were jealous—you weren’t. But because watching felt unnecessary. Predictable. Rafayel Vale had returned, and he’d returned to your sister’s side. As he was meant to. As he had been for years, in name if not affection. So you turned away. And smiled when another gentleman bowed before you.

“My lady,” came a smooth voice, warm like polished amber. “You’ve been standing far too long without a partner. Might I correct such a tragedy?”

You lifted your eyes. He was striking. Not in the brooding, storm-swept way the Duke was. No, this man wore charm like a perfectly tailored coat. Light brown hair, elegantly curled. A golden signet ring on his right hand. A smile that curled ever-so-slightly at the edge—like he knew something you didn’t. And his title?

“Lord Wessex,” he said with an elegant bow. “Second son of the Marquess of Clarendon. Though I’m told I’m the more tolerable of the two.”

Your brows lifted, amused. “You’ve quite the opinion of yourself.”

He grinned. “Only when justified. May I?”

You placed your gloved hand in his.

Lord Wessex was a skilled dancer. Not just in form, but in conversation. Where others had asked the same tired questions—What are your hobbies? Do you enjoy embroidery?—he inquired about the books you read. The places you wished to see. The way your eyes lit up when speaking of the sea, despite never having seen it.

He kept you laughing. Thinking. On your toes. And when he led you to the refreshments table, he didn’t hover or smother. He offered you a glass, nodded at your thanks, and kept the conversation moving like a current pulling you along.

“They speak of your sister and Ravencourt as though the match is already sealed,” he said at one point, gaze drifting toward the couple in question.

“It was arranged,” you replied lightly. “A long time ago.”

“Arranged,” he repeated. “That word always leaves such little room for choice, doesn’t it?”

You glanced at him. “You don’t believe in arrangement?”

“I believe in lightning strikes, not family bargains.”

You tilted your head, a little smile tugging at your mouth. “Then I suppose the Ton must frustrate you endlessly.”

He laughed. “You’ve no idea, Miss Everleigh.”

By the end of the evening, you’d danced with him twice more. Once by request. Once by invitation. Both times left your cheeks flushed and your thoughts pleasantly tangled.

And while your sister ended the night with the Duke beside her—the talk of the room once more—it wasn’t his presence that lingered on your skin as you stepped into the carriage. It was Lord Wessex’s voice in your ear, still echoing,

“Lightning strikes when you least expect it, Miss Everleigh. I do hope I’m standing close when it happens.”

——

The sun had barely settled above the rooftops when the butler arrived in the parlor, his expression neutral, but his voice carrying just enough weight to make the room pause.

“Lord Wessex and the Duke of Ravencourt have both requested to call this morning.”

Your mother nearly dropped her embroidery. Your sister froze, her teacup held midair.

You simply blinked. “Both?”

The butler inclined his head. “They await in the front drawing room, Miss.”

For a moment, no one moved. Then your mother clapped her hands together as if summoned by divine will.

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Eleanora, you look lovely. That gown is ideal. And you, dear—yes, you’ll stay. It would be rude not to.”

You almost laughed. Rude, of course.

The drawing room had been polished to near-blinding shine. Fresh flowers in the vases, just slightly overdone. The maids had barely finished arranging the tea service before the two men were escorted in.

Rafayel Vale entered with the same quiet command as he had at the ball. Dark coat, silver cufflinks, gloved hands behind his back. He bowed with effortless grace, and his gaze settled on Eleanora with a soft nod.

“Miss Everleigh,” he greeted. “Thank you for allowing me the visit.”

Eleanora curtsied, serene as ever. “You are most welcome, my Lord.”

And beside him—light, where Rafayel was shadow—stood Lord Wessex. Smiling, charming, a pale waistcoat and a sunlit presence. His gaze found you immediately.

“Miss Everleigh,” he said warmly. “I feared you might have forgotten me since last night.”

You raised a brow. “That would’ve been quite the feat, considering how many times you stepped on my slipper, my Lord.”

He grinned. “A bold accusation. Perhaps I should call more often to defend my honor.”

Tea was served. The Duke sat beside Eleanora. Their conversation was soft, low, and polite. Words about estates, travel, the architecture of Bath.

You and Lord Wessex? Laughter. Playful remarks. A small joke about your mother’s over-watered lilies. And a question about your favorite poet, which—unlike others—he actually listened to. He watched you speak with a kind of gentle interest that was easy to receive, easy to enjoy. The Duke, for his part, never once looked your way.

——

The party was held on the sprawling estate of Lord and Lady Pembroke, beneath cream-colored canopies and strings of flowers that fluttered like silk ribbons in the breeze. There were games set up on the lawn. Plates of sugared strawberries. Lemon water and delicate ices passed on silver trays. You walked beside Eleanora, both of you fresh-faced in pastels. She wore a lilac gown. You wore blue. And they were there. As they always seemed to be, now.

Rafayel Vale, tall and composed in a dark grey coat, standing close beside your sister beneath the shade of an old ash tree. Listening as she spoke. Offering a quiet smile when she made some soft remark. And across the lawn—your suitor. Lord Wessex, lounging like he belonged in every summer painting ever created. When he caught sight of you, his expression lit up immediately.

“Miss Everleigh,” he called, rising with one graceful movement. “You’ve saved me from the tortures of idle company. Walk with me?”

You glanced at your sister. She gave you the faintest nod. And so you did.

You walked the gardens with him, spoke of travel and philosophy and music you weren’t supposed to enjoy. He offered you a wildflower he plucked from the hedgerow. You laughed and told him it clashed terribly with your gloves.

And when you paused to rest beneath the roses, you found yourself glancing across the lawn. Rafayel was still there, standing just a few steps behind your sister now as she spoke to another couple. But his posture had shifted slightly.

His gaze was no longer on Eleanora. It was on you. Not direct. Not rude. But unmistakable. A flicker of awareness. A moment caught like a breath between pages. And then, as if realizing it himself, he looked away. Just as Lord Wessex turned to say something clever that made you laugh again.

The grand hall was glowing. Every window draped in silk, every chandelier lit to bursting. The air shimmered with perfume and warm anticipation. Music poured from the raised platform where a quartet played their first waltz of the evening.

You had barely stepped two feet beyond the threshold when he appeared.

“Miss Everleigh.” Lord Wessex. Handsomely turned out in dark green, his cravat pinned with a gold brooch shaped like a fox. His smile was brighter than the chandeliers. “I was hoping to steal your hand before some other poor soul got the chance.”

You lifted your chin. “You assume I’d say yes, my Lord.”

He bowed low. “I rely entirely on hope and your mercy.”

You let out a soft laugh—and extended your gloved hand. “Very well, Lord Wessex. Just this once.”

He looked triumphant. The dance was effortless. You moved together as if you’d done it a hundred times before. You knew he’d make a joke right before the turn. That he’d lean in slightly before the dip, just close enough to make your skin warm. But never improper. Never forward. He was a gentleman with a wild spark.

Afterwards, he offered his arm and guided you to the refreshment table, refusing to let a single foppish Lordling cut in. You spent the next hour beside him—talking, sipping chilled wine, laughing so hard once you had to hide your face behind your fan. He made it easy. He made you feel seen.

Across the ballroom, the Duke stood by Eleanora once more. They spoke in quiet tones. He escorted her to a dance. Then another—not hers, but another lady’s, whom he partnered with as expected. His face remained unreadable. His words careful.

But every time your laughter rang out or your gown brushed past the edge of the room, his eyes found you. Just for a second. A flick. A pause. A look. Not interest. Not longing. Not yet. But curiosity. Not because you demanded it. Not because you tried to steal it. Only because you were there—and something about you lingered, even when you were no longer in the room.

Lord Wessex offered you another dance before the night ended. And you accepted, with no hesitation. The Duke, for his part, asked none of you. But watched—just once more—as you danced away, your laughter drifting like perfume behind you.

——

The bell above the door gave a soft chime as you stepped inside. It was cooler here. Dimmer. The thick scent of paper and aged wood pressed gently around you like a familiar shawl. Shelves towered around you, heavy with worn spines and leather bindings. A world apart from ballrooms and fans and powdered smiles.

You pulled your gloves off delicately, tucking them beneath your arm as you wandered. Most ladies preferred the modiste. The milliner. Or the tea room on Hanover Street where the windows let in perfect sunlight. But here? Here, you could breathe.

You found yourself in the poetry section—of course. One gloved finger brushing the titles, searching for something half-remembered. Brow slightly furrowed. Alone with your thoughts. Until a soft shift of leather soles caught your ear. You turned, expecting a clerk. And froze.

He stood not three paces from you. Dressed in deep blue, no cravat, no gloves. Simpler than usual, though no less composed. The Duke. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The absurdity of it made your lips twitch—of all places. He regarded you with that same unreadable expression. As if trying to make sense of something.

“Miss Everleigh,” he said at last. Voice low. Measured. “This is… unexpected.”

You curtsied ever so slightly, regaining your composure. “My Lord. I might say the same.”

A pause. His gaze flicked briefly to the book in your hand—Keats, you realized. Then back to your face. “You favor poetry?”

“On quiet days,” you replied. “And rainy ones.”

Another pause. He nodded, almost to himself. “A fine choice.”

You waited, wondering if he would say more. He didn’t.

“And you, my Lord?” you asked, a touch of amusement laced through your words. “Are you here for poetry, or politics?”

His lips curved just slightly. “Neither. I prefer philosophy. Or… anything with weight.”

You arched a brow. “Is that so, my Lord?”

He looked at you for a long moment—still distant, but not unkind.

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” he said finally. “But I’m not displeased.”

Your heartbeat ticked once. Then twice.

“Nor am I, my Lord.” you said simply. “But I should let you return to your… weighty thoughts.”

He inclined his head. “And you to your verse.”

You curtsied, slight but proper. He bowed in return. No lingering glances. No breathless goodbyes. Just two names exchanged, two minds acknowledged. And a silence that somehow said more than the words themselves.

——

It was one of those warm spring afternoons where everything felt too golden. The garden terrace was filled with soft laughter and the rustle of silk skirts. Ladies fanned themselves under shade trees. Gentlemen clustered near the wine table, discussing horses, Parliament, and who had worn what at last Thursday’s dinner. You arrived beside your mother, your carriage late by fifteen minutes—one of the wheels had needed adjusting.

“Smile, darling,” your mother said as she adjusted your glove without asking. “Your sister may be absent, but you mustn’t let that reflect poorly on the family. A touch of color in your cheeks wouldn’t hurt either.”

You smiled. You nodded. You adjusted. Eleanora had woken feeling unwell—no fever, but pale and weak, and your mother would never allow a less-than-perfect appearance at a public affair.

“You’ll attend in her place,” she had said. “Just be seen, dearest. And speak kindly if anyone asks after her.”

So now you stood in her shadow—only without her beside you to cast it. You moved through conversation with practiced ease. Three ladies asked after your sister. One older gentleman mistakenly called you by her name. You corrected him gently, no sting in your voice.

And then you excused yourself, moving toward the edge of the terrace where the rose-covered trellis offered a moment of quiet. You were just reaching for a glass of water when a familiar voice drifted behind you.

“Miss Everleigh.” You turned. There he was. Rafayel Vale. Alone.

Not at your sister’s side. Not deep in conversation. Not scanning the crowd for another lady to dance with. He stood a respectful distance away, one hand loosely behind his back, the other holding a glass of white wine.

“Your Grace,” you greeted calmly, offering a curtsy. “I’m surprised to see you without company.”

His lips twitched. “It seems the pattern of surprises between us continues.”

A pause. His eyes studied your face—not in a way that lingered, but in a way that noticed. “Your sister is not attending?”

You shook your head. “She’s unwell, my Lord. Nothing serious, only a passing fatigue.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” His voice was quiet. Smooth as ever. But beneath it—something unreadable. Again.

“I hope you don’t feel... obligated to entertain me in her absence, my Lord” you added, careful. Light.

“I don’t.” The reply came quicker than expected. Not curt. Just honest.

Your brows lifted, amused. “Then what brings you to my corner of the garden, my Lord?”

A pause.

“Curiosity, perhaps,” he said. Then added, almost like a confession, “...You have a talent for appearing where I least expect you.”

You blinked. And then—smiled. Just a little. “I assure you, my Lord. I don’t do it on purpose.”

“Pity,” he murmured. “It’s becoming a habit I rather look forward to.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Because someone was calling your name—Lord Wessex, of course, waving from the edge of the terrace with that signature grin.

You turned back to the Duke. “If you’ll excuse me, my Lord”

He inclined his head. “Of course.”

You curtsied again. He bowed. And you walked away—toward the man who wanted you, and away from the one who had only just started to wonder if he should.

“Was that the Duke I saw you speaking with?” Lord Wessex asked, offering his arm as you returned to the center of the terrace.

“It was, my Lord.” you replied, fingers brushing the embroidered edge of his sleeve as you accepted.

“And how was His Grace this fine evening? Did he frown at you with poetic intensity?”

You smiled. “Polite. Curious, perhaps. But no frowning.”

He clicked his tongue, mock-disappointed. “How dull. I had hoped for at least a glower.”

You laughed, soft and warm, as he guided you toward a quieter corner of the garden path, where lanterns hung low and glowing between branches of wisteria. You walked in companionable silence for a moment. Then—

“You always find me,” you said lightly.

“I always look,” he said without hesitation. That stilled you—just a fraction. Not because it was dramatic. But because it was true.

The conversation drifted easily, like it always did. He asked about your favorite lines from the bookshop. You asked about his childhood summers spent on a windswept estate in Devon. He made you laugh with an imitation of a distant cousin who once proposed to a woman mid-faint.

It was easy, this thing between you. Not dull. Not predictable. But certain. And when he asked you for a dance under the stars, you said yes without thinking twice. You danced in the soft evening breeze, the music from the terrace drifting down like petals from above. His hand was steady. His eyes never left yours.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he murmured as you turned.

“Apologies, my Lord. I hadn’t realized.”

“Quieter than usual. Not unhappy, I hope?”

“No,” you said truthfully. “Just… present.”

He smiled at that. “Then I’ll consider myself fortunate.”

Somewhere on the terrace, the Duke danced with another lady. He did not fumble. He did not charm. He did not smile too wide or step too close. He was composed, as always. Fulfilling his role. Bowing when required. Saying the right words. But when your laughter drifted once more across the lawn, his eyes—just for a second—turned toward the sound. And lingered.

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

side note: credits for two pictures used for the banner go to their original creators.

taglist: @syluslittlecrows

next part

#love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel x you #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #lads rafayel #rafayel x mc #love and deep space #lnds #loveanddeepspace #qi yu #rafayel regency era #rafayel duke #regency era au

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thevoidstaredback · 8 days ago

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Part 1

Gotham City Airport was, for better or worse, on the outskirts of the mainland, basically not even in the city, meaning that it was almost a straight shot from there to Bristol. Another place that isn't technically part of the islands that make up Gotham City, but who is Danny to judge? A spiteful bitch, that's right.

The car parked and he rushed out to grab his bags before Alfred could. Then, he made it a point to drag his feet the entire way up the drive to the doors of the Manor itself.

"Talk about old money," he muttered.

As he already knew, the sky that covered what he was calling the Gotham Archipelago and all of it's sister-cities-that-are-actually-a-part-of-Gotham-City-for-some-reason and Bludhaven was murky and blocked out all chances of seeing the sun, let alone the stars. He'd be amazed if he even saw a single person with a natural tan in this place.

And the cloud cover, despite what Gothamites would have everyone believe, isn't even clouds! Most of it's left over shit from rogue attacks that've found their way into the condensation cycle! Fear gas is too heavy to evaporate properly, but too light to stick to the ground; whatever Mr. Freeze puts in his ice sticks to whatever clouds there are like glue, holding them together and keeping them in place; light pollution from both the actual lights and the fires that start every week; whatever toxins have made it into the harbor and river; et cetera.

And don't even get him started on the names on the Rogue Gallery Roster! It's great and all that they're explaining their whole gimmick, but can't they be at least a little creative?

"Danny?" Damian said, making him realize that he'd made it to the gilded front door that was way too tall for any human.

Alfred pushed the doors open. "Welcome to Wayne Manor, Danny," he turned with a smile, "You're home for as long as you'd like it to be."

Danny scoffed and hefted his bags up the stairs.

The entry hall was more befitting of the phrase 'Grand Lobby', somehow making the too-large doors seem normal. A grand staircase was carpeted red, leading up to the second floor. There was a gold and pearl chandelier, too, flanked by two smaller, identical chandeliers. Huge windows on wither side of the door were framed by red velvet curtains, open and letting whatever sun they could into the room.

He felt small. He hated it.

"If you'll follow me, Danny, I'll take you to your room." Alfred started to walk up the stairs, Damian following only a few steps behind him.

Danny didn't move. "I'm not sleeping in a room big enough to be an apartment."

Alfred turned and looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "It would be inappropriate to put you up in the servant's quarters."

Damian was looking at Danny like a kicked puppy. Well, as much like a kicked puppy as his training allowed him to look. Danny didn't particularly care.

"Then stick me in a shed. I'd rather not spend the summer feeling agoraphobic, thanks."

"I can assure you that the others in the house-"

Danny interrupted Alfred by shaking his head. "I don't want anyone to know I'm here."

"But, then how will you patrol with us?" Damian asked.

"Go without me," he answered.

"Now, now, Danny," Alfred said as he walked back down the stairs, "I will not allow you to spend the whole summer cooped up in a garden shed."

"Great!" Danny smiled falsely, "Then I will take my things and go back-"

Alfred grabbed a hold of his bags and swiftly started his way back up the stairs. "Then you will simply have to go without your stuff. What will your mother think-"

"I don't have a mother." Danny spat, making the two others pause. He took a deep breath. "Fine. If that's how you want to play, then fine." He glared up at the two. "Game fucking on."

Part 3

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literaryvein-reblogs · 5 months ago

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A List of "Beautiful" Words: Variegation

Variegation—diversity of colors

Bar code - variously patterned bars and spaces

Barber pole - diagonal stripes of red and white or of red, white, and blue

Butterfly - brightly colored

Calico - blotched or spotted, predominantly white with red and black patches

Candy cane - red and white

Chameleon - changing colors

Checkerboard - having two alternating colors

Cheetah - yellowish to tan coat covered with numerous round to oval black spots

Confetti - brightly colored

Crazy quilt - patchwork without a design; colorful, jumbled

Dalmatian - white with many black or brown spots

Harlequin - a variegated pattern; a combination of patches on a solid ground of contrasting color (as in the coats of some dogs)

Iris - rainbow colored

Jaguar - brownish yellow or buff with black spots

Joseph's coat - having many colors; with variegated foliage

Kaleidoscope - variegated changing colors or patterns

Leopard - tawny or buff with black spots arranged in rosettes

Mackerel sky - a sky covered with rows of altocumulus or cirrocumulus clouds resembling the patterns on a mackerel's back

Marble - veined or mottled appearance

Moire - wavy watered appearance

Mother-of-pearl - iridescent

Nacre - mother-of-pearl; iridescent

Ocelot - tawny-yellow or grayish coat dotted and striped with black

Opal - iridescent play of colors

Patchwork quilt - various colors and shapes

Peacock - tipped with iridescent spots

Rainbow - a multicolored array

Serpentine - usually dull green and often mottled

Shot silk - two or more colours producing an iridescent appearance

Spectrum - a continuum of color

Stained glass - colored glass

Tapestry - characterized by complicated pictorial designs

Tortoise shell - mottled brown and yellow coloring

Watered-silk - pattern like that of silk subjected to watering

Zebra - patterned in stripes of black or dark brown and white or buff

More: Lists of Beautiful Words ⚜ Word Lists ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

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m1d-45 · 5 months ago

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Midas, i'm FREE!

Work has been EXHAUSTING since the last time we chatted on tumblr, but i think your request box is open, and i'm feeling a request of cuddling otters of fontaine with platonc/sisterly bond with Siegewinne!

OTTERS! I fucking LOVE those little guys they look so fluffy!

And Siegewinne is so adorable and has Wrio for a -cough Father/boss cough- so Yeah.

-🥘Stew

a wondrous earth

note: i definitely did not realize that you didn't mention sagau at midnight so. just pretend okay shhh

word count: 2k

-> warnings: nothing explicit but does take place post-fontaine AQ and kinda assumes you know the lore.. containes a few wink/nudge references at most.

-> gn reader (you/yours)

taglist: @samarill || @sarienic || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @ryuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt || @rozz-eokkk

< masterlist >

teyvat was beautiful. even through a screen, you could lose yourself wandering for hours, taking in the flowing rivers, delicate flowers, the way the clouds swept over the sky like they themselves were savoring the view. wildlife scattered the paths, butterflies in the air and birds chirping from every tree. sometimes you turned off the music and dialogue just to sit and bask in it.

it was no different now that you actually were in teyvat. if anything, the heightened detail only deepened your love for the sights. you could watch every feather shift, not limited by graphics and models, feeling the spray of saltwater across your skin. perhaps it was simply because fontaine was where you’d first awoken, but it would always hold a soft spot in your heart.

the city itself was stunning, with pristine white buildings that shined with even the slightest sun, the meka moving with fluid gears that barely whirred as they passed. coins littered the bottom of every fountain, the smell shifting from perfume to fried food to fresh fruit, tempting from their stall. you could have spent the entire day roaming its streets and only barely brush the surface of everything to see inside. flora, fauna, people and meka and melusines and you, the streets just populated enough to be welcoming without crossing into overwhelming.

it could be argued that its beauty was due to being the centerpiece of the nation. perhaps outside of its mother of pearl walls were ruined homes and muddied streets that would surely dim your favor, and perhaps that was why neuvillette was so gun-shy about recommending it to you. though he was very professional about it, you’d played enough of the archon quest to know that his insistence on tending to you personally was more out of worry than any sort of actual need. your years of amassed mora had found its way cleanly into your pocket upon arrival, and that combined with your knowledge of fontaine would certainly be enough on its own to find you a nice, cozy life, even without the whole “god of all” thing.

that seemed a bit too intimidating anyway. no, you were more interested in watching romaritime flowers bloom in the rain, and whatever other duties came of your title could wait. celestia had yet to come knocking and most of the higher officials seemed allergic to even thinking of suggesting something else to do, so your time was your own.

(while it was a bit funny, their want to help seemed to push the line of fervency. it was worrying, and another reason to spend some time out wandering on your own. they’d been through enough, and the last thing you wanted was to be another weight on furina’s shoulders.)

thankfully, fontaine was vast, and held no shortage of sight to see. with a bit of persuasion—read: barely hinting at it once while navia happened to be in the room—you were equipped with a travel bag and set off on your own, heading north. unfortunately, there was no way to cross to the other islands without taking the aquabus, and you did want to see the institute and the opera house for yourself.

fortunately, fontaine’s waters were fresh.. or, at least fresh enough that one could swim in it without a mask… or oxygen tank…

you’d figure it out. there was not a single chance that you wouldn’t at least try. even if you didn’t have whatever blessing that allowed the traveller and others to dive freely, the elements seemed to like you well enough, and who would pass up on the chance to see fontaine’s waters for themself anyway?

not you, certainly. you crouched in the shallows and cupped the waves in your hands, bringing it to your mouth and taking a cautious breath.

it felt, expectedly, perfectly fine. normal, even. you let the water fall, but didn’t exhale anything else but air. there was no pressure in your lungs, no burning need to cough, just an odd warmth that spread from your throat downwards. you didn’t know why—you’d somewhat assumed that vision wielders had some sort of internal “gills” that pushed out excess water—but shrugged it off, double-checking that your bag was safely stashed within a bush before wading deeper. the water was a bit cool, but not cold, welcoming you in like a freshly-made bed after a long day.

unsurprisingly, fontaine’s great lake was just as beautiful as the city. in the shallows alone, romaritime flowers gleamed, reflecting the light they absorbed from the sun over and over within their thin petals. fish in rainbows of colors flocked among the depths, rays of light reaching down and inviting you to follow.

the fish were mostly apathetic to your presence. they neither fled nor turned, just allowing you by as if you were one of them. the few meka were a bit more curious, coming up and bumping your hand to ask why you had descended with them. with a bit of coaxing, you let one of the smaller ones allow you to hold onto its fins, pulling you deeper still. crabs scuttled along the floor, stingrays following the dappled rays of light. even this far down, you could still see easily, watching algae sway and jellyfish bloom without error.

at some point, your meka stalled, lingering in space and turning around. its searchlight flicked over you and the sand, inching back the way you came. was this the edge of its patrol route? you waved it goodbye and it waited a moment more before finally moving away, slowly at first before returning to speed. there were probably others you could take back anyway… provided you remembered where you were anyway.

…that was a problem for later. you turned and swam, following the valley. it was getting a bit shallower, and the sun was beginning to dim, but your curiosity was not yet satisfied. you pushed, and continued. a deeper valley of the ocean came into view, a deep bowl marked by large columns of bare rock on the far side. there were more jellyfish around here, and a few stingrays with shining blue skin. you swam to some, curious, but as soon as you got close it turned and met you more than halfway, circling twice like a cat who’s owner had finally come home. you pet over its wings, the transparent blue layer making your fingers buzz. the ray pushed into your hand, and when it left for another cheerful circle, your palm was blue. despite the fact that you hadn’t felt tired or in any way abnormal since diving, the sight of the film over your hands settled confidence over your mind. whatever came, you’d be able to handle it.

why? you had no idea. was there really a way for you to to absorb xenochromatic abilities? was this even that anyway? who cared, really, if you weren’t hurt?

you pet the stingray again with your afflicted hand—not wanting to stain both, in case it was somehow something harmful—and look around the valley, soaking in the view. the sunlight had turned slightly amber, but it never hindered the sea’s beauty. pink and blue jellyfish, octopi shooting pearls of water back and forth. how, you had no idea, but you weren’t going to ask. not that they’d be able to answer, anyway.

tired out, the stingray settled by your side, tail loosely flicking to keep in place as the water shifted. despite the fact that it had definitely touched your skin elsewhere, only your hand remained blue. that cemented in your mind that this was one of the xenochromatic creatures, though to do so without the odd lasso was interesting.. then again, if you could make flames sway and wind pause, then who’s to say you couldn’t throw a few water blades?

the water hummed, something coarse brushing your other arm. you turned, but there was no other animal wondering about your presence. instead, after a brief moment, you recognized the figure swimming beside you as sigewinne, just not as you remembered her. she was really only recognizable through her antennae and bright red eyes, the bright nurse’s uniform of her standard model replaced by some sort of wetsuit and a thick belt around her waist. her heart-shaped purse was also replaced with a basket tucked into her elbow, but the lid over it was latched closed, preventing you from seeing inside. once she saw that she had your attention, she pointed up, and you followed her to the surface, albeit slowly. you didn’t really want to leave, and if she was anything like the others then she’d ask you to come into the fortress.

you surfaced beside her, taking a moment to adjust to the air, coughing twice while she pushed some hair from her eyes. it made sense she’d have an easier time adjusting, but you still felt a bit foolish. what happened to the whole “god of all” business?

“first water?” oh, that one was new. the others in the city tended to use titles related to justice. “may i ask what you’re doing out here so late?”

“i was just exploring, that’s all. what are you doing?”

she blinks, then pulls up her basket, undoing the latch and holding out. within, you can see some various plants, each wrapped and bundled tightly. “i was just collecting some herbs. most of the workers have retired and i’m not usually needed around this hour. are you cold at all?”

she looks genuinely worried, which makes you smile despite yourself. “no, i’m alright, thank you.”

if you were talking with anyone else, you’re certain they would have pushed. everyone in the city seemed hell-bent on making sure you never so much as caught sight of something imperfect.. but sigewinne just relaxes, nodding. “okay. if you’re looking for somewhere nice, may i suggest going east? there’s always otters there, even at this hour.”

otters. you’d almost forgotten about the star of the seas, so distracted by meka and your new powers. “that sounds lovely. would you mind showing me where?”

“of course!” she smiles and you swear you’ve never seen anyone happier, following her beneath the waves. fortunately, your abberant power faded when you surfaced, leaving you able to swim beside her without fear of acidentally triggering it. maybe you can ask about it later…

regardless, the trip is short. she takes you up into the shallows, onto a flatter plateau only about ten feet deep. true to her word, otters dot the surface, likely drawn by the plentiful clams in the sand. the few swimming about eagerly swim up to you, a sharp contrast to the other sealife. they nudge clams into your hand and curl eagerly into your hands, their fur soft and dense. they can hold their breath for longer than you’d think they’d be able to, letting you settle in the sand and pet them for as long as you wish. the water is brighter too, the edges of their fur catching the light.

with time, the sun will fall and your friends will tire, but it is still evening. you watch as sigewinne plays catch with an otter and its shell, smiling at the sight. it’s nice to be like this, tucked beneath the waves with someone who treats you almost comedically casually. maybe its due to her nature, maybe its because she’s a doctor, but that doesn’t really matter. you’re definitely going to savor time spent with someone so sweet.

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kestarren · 2 months ago

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Nacreous aka Polar Stratospheric Clouds over Brumunddal, Norway. Photo © Per Steinar Prøven, 14 Jan '25.

#Per Steinar Prøven #photography #polar stratospheric clouds #PSCs Type II #nacreous clouds #mother of pearl clouds #cosmic skies & clouds

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forlix · 2 years ago

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𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞・l.f.

— five times you want to tell your best friend you love him and the time you finally do.

words・7.7k

pairing・idol!felix x gn!reader

genres・fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, best friends to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn w/a happy ending, 5 + 1 trope, idiots in love who are also afraid of love, you do the math

warnings・alcohol consumption, discussions of anxiety, lots of emotional vulnerability, like a surprising amount of crying icl

playlist・jazz bar by dreamcatcher・spring day by bts・through the night by iu・eight by iu ft. suga・house song by searows・not mine by day6

a/n・i borrowed the title of this beautiful day6 song for this fic; give it a listen if you can (especially while reading part four). happy late birthday, lix <333 thank you for being you

One. The door to the café opens with a soft jingle, bringing a chilly draft into the room and causing you to draw your scarf tighter around your shoulders.

Theoretically, you come here to study—but people-watching has become a simultaneous pastime. There was that couple with a pair of samoyeds, so fluffy that they looked like walking clouds; a mother and son, hunched over their croissants, arguing in a classic “don’t cause a scene in public” tone; an elderly woman in bicycle shorts asking for extra shots of espresso in the menu’s most caffeinated item.

And now, there is him.

“Hello,” the ashy-haired stranger says to the barista with a quick, polite bow. “May I have a medium caramel latte? Hot, with sweetener, please. Thank you.”

His voice reminds you of the notes of a cello, of the feeling of running your fingers through tufted velvet. When he turns away from the counter, he’s slipping a card back into his wallet, and you catch a glimpse of long lashes and a scattering of freckles. You cannot see his face, as it’s covered by a black mask, but that only propels the question further: who are you?

And perhaps it is destiny herself who hooks a gentle finger beneath the stranger’s chin and tilts his head upwards, because when he inadvertently steps into a patch of sunlight, his brown irises illuminate like molten amber, and they are fixed upon you.

You feel your lips part, your stomach turn. You don’t know if your cheeks are so warm because of your piping hot tea (your third one today) or because of the newfound eye contact with someone so ethereal.

But you are sure that the corners of the stranger’s eyes crinkle ever so slightly, as if his lips have just curved into a smile beneath his mask.

“Felix,” the barista calls, and you turn the name silently on your tongue.

Maybe you are exhausted from work and not thinking straight. Maybe you are more starved for change than you’ve ever been. Or maybe you’re just prophetic. But you think you sense forever in this man, with his freckled cheeks and pretty eyes.

That is the first time you want to tell Lee Felix you love him.

Two. The second Felix comes into your line of vision, you sense that something is wrong.

You hold up a hand in greeting, and the smile he returns is sincere but muted, as if it pains him to move, to breathe. He sounded weary on the phone earlier—can I see you tonight? Just for a bit—but only now that he’s in front of you do you see the extent of his fatigue, seeping into his sunken shoulders and lightless eyes.

“Hi,” he says once he’s close enough.

“Hey, you,” you answer, rising out of your seat. Instinctively, he extends his arms toward you, and you draw him into a hug that is fleeting and familiar. He smells faintly of laundry detergent and vanilla, and it makes something within you ache, like an oyster searching for its absent pearl.

When you pull away, your hands move to your best friend’s cheeks, cocooning his face so you can get a better look at him. Even under the sparse streetlights, you see that his eyes are slightly bloodshot, the shadows beneath them deep and sullen. Has he been crying?

“Bad day?” You ask, your hands falling back to your sides.

“The worst,” he returns with a weak smile.

“Wanna take a walk?”

“Yes, please. How long do I have you for?”

This is what you do when your schedules are too packed for you to make real plans: take strolls wherever is most convenient, for however long either of you can spare. Sometimes that’s five minutes, sometimes five hours. But you know that you need to be here for him tonight.

“As long as you need me,” you say.

You turn around to pick up your drinks (a decaf caramel latte for Felix and a black milk tea for yourself), and you don't see the way his smile comes back a little bigger the second time, the way his cheeks warm slightly under the moonlight.

There’s a small park a few blocks behind your apartment. Granted, it's not a very good park, with only a tiny, sad playground and very little foliage, but it is an excellent stargazing spot, due to it being so dark and desolate. You and Felix decide to head there now, your arms touching as you walk through the quiet residential area.

Ten minutes later, blades of grass are poking the back of your head, and directly above you is a sea of scattered stars, flickering like millions of faulty flashlights. Felix’s voice is leaden when he starts to speak, breaking the park’s fragile silence. He tells you about his fears, about how earlier today they overwhelmed him so much that he wanted to lock himself away from the world and throw away the key. He tells you about his dreams, about how even in his relentless pursuit of them they sometimes still feel as amorphous and unattainable as fragments of mist.

The way he always does when he’s around you, Felix spills parts of himself that he never thought he could entrust to anyone. And you don’t say a word, your knee leaning against his, listening, understanding. (But you wish you could tell him a lot of things: that you care for him more than you ever believed yourself capable; that you hope for his happiness more than your own; that you don’t have the words to heal him, but you would give anything to find them.)

By the time the two of you leave the park, it’s almost midnight, and the streets have fallen silent save for the occasional whoosh of car wheels on cement and the distant lamentations of cricket choirs. You’re making small talk now, and Felix is smiling a little easier. It seems your conversation worked in cheering him up; a temporary fix, you’re sure, like a bandaid where stitches should be, but seeing his eyes crinkle and hearing his laugh again is enough to soothe your worry for the rest of the night, at the very least.

“You’re sure you’ll be okay going back yourself?” You ask once the two of you reach the entrance to your apartment building.

“Yeah, of course.” Felix touches the back of his neck apologetically. “I’m sorry I kept you out so late.”

“Nonsense, Lix. I’m always here for you.”

Felix averts his eyes to his shoes, and you’re caught off guard by his facial expression: exhausted but contemplative, and possessing a sense of tenderness. It is a look that you don’t think you’ve seen before, and you feel your heartstrings pull at its unfamiliarity, its strange softness.

You say your goodbyes, but your "let me know when you get home safe" is cut short when you feel a hand catch your wrist, just as you’re entering the building.

How Felix doesn’t notice your frantic pulse beneath his touch is beyond you, but instead he parts his lips, and his next words resound in your mind as you try and fail to fall asleep that night.

“I can’t explain why, or how—but I feel braver when I’m with you, Y/N. I meant to tell you that earlier.”

And those three words rush to your mind fleetingly, like saltwater crashing against the shores of your mind. Even when the tide has subsided, they remain on the sand, waiting to be read aloud.

“Thank you,” Felix mumbles, “for everything.”

You don’t read out those words, of course. Instead, you reach up to squish Felix’s face and call him a sentimental dork, to which he rolls his eyes affectionately and bats you away, and the moment is over. But when you turn to go, your heart is pounding so loudly that your reply may as well have been a confession.

Three. You sink into your mattress, careful to keep your tea within your mug’s rim, and let out a hybrid of a groan and a sigh that is strikingly reminiscent of an old man lowering himself into a worn armchair.

You can’t remember the last time you had a cold this terrible. It feels as if your lungs took a plunge in a vat of wet cement and then rolled around in gravel immediately afterward. And it’s got you in the mood to do nothing but listen to the heavy drops of rain knocking against your window, curl up with a good show and a hot drink, and bask in your own congestion.

But then your phone, which you left in the bathroom, emits four deafening notification sounds, and you haul yourself back out of bed with a groan-sigh that’s twice as anguished as the last.

When you reach the hellish device, your best friend’s name greets you, and your ire dissipates momentarily.

From: Lix 🐣 Hey hey From: Lix 🐣 We still on for dinner tonight? From: Lix 🐣 Just gonna be me, Minho, Seungmin. Jeongin has a vocal lesson From: Lix 🐣 Please don’t play the “if Jeongin doesn’t go neither do I” card again I’ve had enough of it!!! ENOUGH

You let out a throaty laugh that sounds like one of Minho’s cats battling a hairball, heading back to bed.

From: Y/N 🌙 ahhhh i meant to text you earlier, but i have the worst cold From: Y/N 🌙 no clue how or why i caught it but i feel like fucking shit. it’d be a bad idea for me to come over right now From: Y/N 🌙 sorry :( can we raincheck in a few days? From: Y/N 🌙 (that way jeongin can come too!!!)

Felix dislikes this last text, and you snort into your tea.

From: Lix 🐣 Yeah, of course. Don’t apologize From: Lix 🐣 Do you need anything? You’re eating and sleeping well, yeah? From: Y/N 🌙 sleeping, YES. From: Y/N 🌙 eating, not really 😅 but i don’t have much of an appetite anyways From: Y/N 🌙 don’t worry about me. i’ll be raring to go in a day or two

Felix starts to type a response, but the gray dots disappear after a bit, and you set your phone face-down on your nightstand. He probably has to get back to work, and you have to get back to your episode.

Slowly, the soporific fragrance of chamomile and the lull of relentless rain start to weigh on your eyelids, and you slump unconsciously into your makeshift fortress of blankets, your show playing to nobody.

Night has fallen by the time the door of your apartment clicks open, and Felix pokes a head into your dark kitchen, cautiously calling out your name. When you don’t respond, he slips inside and moves to your kitchen counter, where he unloads the bags in his arms. A spare key to your place dangles from the opening of his hoodie pocket.

There’s a quiet knock on your bedroom door, another call of your name—infinitely softer this time, like how one would speak to a dove. But Felix finds you out like a light, even when he closes your laptop and puts it on your desk, checks your temperature with a gentle hand to your forehead. It feels normal enough to let you sleep, but warm enough that he brings a glass of water and two pills of ibuprofen to your nightstand, placed within your reach, should you wake up in the middle of the night needing them.

Using only the slivers of light coming in from the hallway, Felix allows himself to look at your sleeping form. Your breathing is callous but steady; your face pallid but peaceful. And if only you'd seen see the tiny, helpless smile that pulls at his lips; if only you'd heard the pulse protesting against his skin, yelling at him “do something about this, you fucking idiot, and do it soon."

But you don’t see or hear anything; you just speak, instead.

“Stay with me,” you whisper, and Felix’s hand freezes on your doorknob, his eyes widening in the darkness. “Please?”

There is a lengthy period of nothing, during which neither of you makes another noise; there is only the sound of your clock ticking, raindrops rushing against the windows, and Felix’s heart in his ears.

And then he moves.

“C'mere,” Felix murmurs once he’s lying down next to you, and you nestle into his embrace as easily as if you've always belonged there, your face burrowing into the crook of his neck, your arms winding around his waist, searching for him, asking for him.

Felix has always expressed his affection for people through touch, and you’ve gotten used to his constant hand on your shoulder, his leg resting against yours. But he thinks this is the first time you’ve initiated physicality outright, and he feels a concerned pang in his chest at your unexpected vulnerability. He lifts a hand to cradle the back of your head, running his fingers through your hair.

“Gonna get you sick,” you say with a wet sniffle, your voice muffled against him. And Felix presses a kiss to the top of your head, perhaps without thinking as much as he should have; but who can blame him for forgetting to think when he’s holding you the way he is?

“Don’t care,” he answers readily. “I'm not going anywhere.”

At some point before you fall back asleep, you think your mouth actually forms the words I love you, subtly and silently and into the fabric of his hoodie. But you resume your slumber before you can think more of it. (Felix waits until your breathing is steady again, checks your temperature one more time; and only afterward does he allow his eyes to close.)

The next morning, you wake to an empty bed and a Post-It note explaining that Felix had to run to a recording session: Check your kitchen! See u soon x. Accompanied by a small, messy doodle of a baby chick popping out of its egg.

Your face melts into a smile when you see that the fridge is chock-full of fresh groceries and the pantry has been restocked with your favorite snacks, including a batch of Felix’s world-famous sea salt brownies—accompanied by another note with another doodle, this time a crescent moon wearing your sneakers. Sugar is prolly bad for you rn. Pls have in moderation!

When you pull out your phone to thank him for everything, you see his remaining texts from yesterday—and you feel momentarily empty, as if only then noticing that you've been missing a fraction of your soul your whole life.

From: Lix 🐣 I’ll drop by tonight to check on you From: Lix 🐣 Wait for me, okay?

And he is right in front of you, just out of reach.

Four. “This isn’t a bad idea, right?” Chan asks under his breath.

“Nah, they’ll be fine,” Minho replies, clapping a hand on the leader’s shoulder. “Y/N will take care of him.”

A loud yelp comes from up ahead, and the men whip around quickly enough to crack a joint—only to realize that the noise was the opening note of DAY6’s “Not Mine,” and you and Felix have just launched into song so terribly and so loudly that it’s probably awoken the entirety of Seoul.

“And who’s gonna take care of Y/N?”

The two men look at each other for a moment before deciding they’re not interested in talking the two of you out of a disorderly intoxication charge.

“Let me know when you get back!” Chan hollers after you, and they reenter the karaoke bar in a hurry.

The members decided to go out for karaoke after finishing promotions earlier that week, and Felix invited you to come along. And you might've gone a little overboard with the mango sake, but your level of tipsy is nothing compared to that of the blue-haired boy draped over you.

Felix is rather prone to hangovers, you’ve discovered from past experiences, so the moment he started speaking in some kind of nonsensical Korean-English mutation that not even Chan could understand, the members tasked you with taking him home early. Now, Felix has his arm around your neck, less out of affection and more out of a genuine requirement for support, doing his best to walk in a straight line. He hasn't stopped grinning for the last hour, and it doesn’t seem like he’s going to run out of energy anytime soon, not as long as there’s more of DAY6’s discography to butcher.

In spite of your foggy mind, you're well aware that your best friend has never been prettier. He sets the bar high as it is, but then you throw in the flushed lips and cheeks, the lopsided, ditzy grin, the wine-kissed complexion, and life becomes terribly difficult for you. It doesn’t help that alcohol amplifies his proclivity for physical contact—he's been attached to your hip all night, holding your waist, pulling you into incidental hugs.

Needless to say, your current situation is a bit precarious; but you don't know that. Not yet.

The two of you finish your disrespectful rendition of “Not Mine” just as you pass the apartment’s front desk, and it is only when you see the deadly look that the receptionist gives you over the brim of his glasses that you finally feel sober again. You have the sense to incline your head in apology. Felix, however, launches into “You Were Beautiful” without a care in the world.

You dig a pointed elbow into his ribs as you hit the up button, and his singing abruptly falters with a pained huff. "Ow."

“Take an intermission, superstar,” you say. “The receptionist looks like he’s ready to throttle us.”

“Ah, he would never. We’re tight,” he returns, and before you can stop him he’s lifting his head, raising his voice. “Have a good night, Mr. Seo!”

Your nose scrunches into an apprehensive wince—but instead, you think you hear a hint of a smile in the man's cool reply.

“You too, Mr. Lee. Keep your voices down, please.”

“Yes, sir!” You and Felix reply in unison. Felix gives you a smile that says I told you so before he nestles his cheek against your shoulder, and you shake your head. Nobody is immune to the boy’s brightness.

Entering the building seemed to be effective in calming Felix down. The elevator ride up is silent save for a bit of quiet humming, and you finally see a bit of sleep on his face when you open the door of his dorm and turn on the living room lights. He lets you escort him to his bathroom without a word.

“I’ll be here if you need me,” you say, reaching to pat his cheeks a couple times. “Be careful in there.”

“M’kay. Thank you," he says with a drowsy smile, and closes the door.

You pull out your phone and open up your messages with Chan, remembering his parting request.

To: Chan 🐺 we got back safe!! To: Chan 🐺 lix is gonna be okay. i'll take care of him

A few minutes later, a notification appears at the top of your screen; Chan left hearts on both of your messages and sent two in response.

From: Chan 🐺 Thanks, good to hear :) you get some rest too, okay? From: Chan 🐺 Bro tore that sake UP

You begin to type back a retort—give me a break it was basically JUICE—when you hear Felix call your name, his voice muffled through the bathroom door.

“What's up?” You answer.

“I think I’m...stuck.”

Now what the hell does that mean?

“Can I come in?”

“Mhm.”

You open the door, and your attempt to suppress your laughter fails with flying colors. Felix is well and truly stuck in his crewneck, the gray material swathed around his head, his arms positioned in some kind of advanced pretzel formation.

“You are a hot mess, Lee Yongbok," you sing, moving toward him, and he whines from inside his cotton prison.

“Please don’t kick me while I’m down.”

Grinning, you bring your fingers to the hem of his top and attempt to lift it over his head. He’s managed to tangle himself quite impressively, and the next few minutes are spent with you trying to extract him, like he’s that one nose hair that your tweezers have never been able to reach, all while he's moaning and groaning about the fabric catching on his earrings, about his joints not being able to handle this kind of pressure anymore.

He emerges from the crewneck a while later looking positively disgruntled. You toss the gray mass onto the counter, proud of your handiwork.

“So maybe I‘m a hot mess,” he concedes. “A little bit.”

“That's alright. We all have our moments,” you giggle. “Come on, let me help you with your jewelry.”

For a second, he looks like he’s about to protest—but the look you give him reminds him that his motor functions are currently on strike.

“Okay,” he mumbles adorably.

You position yourself a little closer to Felix and lift your hands to the nape of his neck, where the clasp of his chain lies. It takes you a few tries to undo it, and you end up having to use the mirror above the sink for guidance. Soon, there is a soft click. You set the chain down next to the crewneck before your hands return to the sides of his face, this time to tuck long, light blue strands behind the cuffs of his ears. Your fingers run over the curves of his silver earrings.

“Are these bothering you at all?” You ask nonchalantly. “I forgot you had so many piercings.”

In your peripheral vision, you see Felix’s lips move, but no sound comes out. Puzzled, you move your eyes to meet his, and it takes you one blink’s worth of time to understand the source of his speechlessness.

Somewhere between your reaching up to touch his necklace and the present moment, you’ve come incredibly, dangerously close to him. Close enough that you can count the freckles that speckle his skin like fallen stars, that you can feel the heat of his body against your own, that Felix’s eyes are nearly crossed trying to maintain eye contact with you.

Your heartbeat lodges itself firmly in your throat, and your thoughts evaporate into complete and utter disarray. There are three differently-worded apologies on the tip of your tongue within seconds. You immediately start to pray that he won’t remember this tomorrow morning. And your strongest impulse is to move; to get as far away from him as possible, before either of you does anything you'll regret.

But there is something that overwhelms your every instinct, and stops you from budging an inch. And that is the way Felix is looking at you, unblinking brown eyes filled with something that doesn’t have a name. It is the same tender expression that’d surprised you the first time you saw it, and it is with a spiraling stomach that you finally realize what that expression is.

You reach your conclusion a second after he does.

Felix’s hand lifts to cradle your jaw, his face moving closer to yours. Your foreheads touch, wisps of his hair falling over the bridge of your nose, your senses engulfed by the vanilla of his cologne and the touch of sweet wine on his breath. The scene is as delicate as a dragonfly’s tail dipping into a pond’s surface; even a minuscule disturbance would shatter this limbo instantaneously.

A part of you wishes that it would, but nothing does. There is only his pulse, perceptible through the thin cloth of his tank top, vehement beneath your fingertips—and your heart, naked and frail, sitting upon the palm of his hand.

Felix doesn’t push you away; he doesn’t kiss you. He does something far worse.

“I love you,” he whispers.

A few seconds. That is how long you stand there for, with every word of every language you know inaccessible, every qualm and doubt and source of anxiety that plagued your mind moments before now distant memories, every ounce of your energy channeled into keeping yourself upright.

But the few seconds feel like forever. The same way he has always felt like forever to you. The same way you imagined you would spend forever loving him, close enough for him to love you back, but far enough that he’ll never know the true nature of your affection: greater and truer than anything anyone would ever call friendship.

An urgent question suddenly surfaces in your mind: is he still drunk? He was falling up, down, and sideways minutes ago. Surely this was an intoxicated slip of the tongue. But you discern the slight tremble to Felix’s breathing and the intensity in his heavy-lidded gaze, all far too intentional, far too conscious to be wine-induced—leaving behind one impossible possibility.

You should be having your happy tears kissed from your face right now. You should be over the moon, relishing in the sensation of two stars aligning at long fucking last, the way you’ve dreamed of since the very first time you laid eyes on Felix.

But instead, you just feel inexplicably and profusely afraid.

You won’t remember the specifics of the next few minutes. You think you stumble away from him and whisper I’m sorry through watering eyes, though you don’t really know what for. He sputters something in return, his tone so desperate and confused that you feel your heart break to pieces on the spot. You apologize again, leave the bathroom, and move towards the apartment door as if your life depends on it. In your peripheral vision, you notice the crease of concern on Mr. Seo’s face when you stalk past him, tears now flying freely down your cheeks. You run into Minho and Jeongin when you step out of the building, and you see the worry that creases their faces, hear their voices calling your name. Jeongin's hand closes around your wrist—are you okay?! What the fuck happened?—but you do not, can not say anything, not right now.

And then you are alone again, and you briskly walk the two miles back to your apartment. Your mind and heart are every bit as foggy as the somber night sky that hangs over your head.

Five. When the two of you step out of the restaurant and into the evening, Felix turns around to face you, launching into his best tour guide walk.

“And, with that,” he says with a glowing smile, “we are nearing the end of our tour of Sydney.”

“Noooo,” you lament, reaching your arm out. Felix falls back into step beside you and links it with his, the movement like clockwork. Your jackets scrunch up together where your elbows bend. “Already?”

“Okay, the tour’s been going on for two days and you haven’t paid a cent for my toil. Don’t push your luck.”

Your laughter spills into the otherwise quiet avenue, the setting sun throwing shadows across the cement, but it always feels like midday when you have the brightest man in the world by your side.

When the two of you discovered you had a free weekend on the same days, Felix conjured up the idea of going home—and suggested that you go with him. You’d freaked out for a bit, but then Felix reminded you that his mom texts you on your birthday and that you’re on multiple different subscription plans with his sisters, and you collected yourself quite quickly. There was a lot of cheering over the phone when Felix informed his family that they’d finally get to meet you in person.

But such a fast trip to the other side of the world proved to be no easy feat. Felix took on the task of piecing together a travel plan that would cover most of his favorite spots in forty-eight hours. The last two weeks were filled with him fretting over the details and you fretting over him, asking time and time again if you could help with anything, only for him to shoo you away with a single hand and a pointed “you are my guest. Now leave me.”

With assistance from every other resource at his disposal, though, he pulled it off, and the weekend has been wonderful thus far.

“I think that was some of the best food I’ve ever had, seriously,” you hum. “I’ll be dreaming about those appetizers for the rest of my life.”

“I'm glad. It took a Socratic seminar to choose the place, after all."

(The Socratic seminar in question: a two-hour FaceTime call and an intense match of rock-paper-scissors between him and his siblings, aimed to decide on where Felix would take you for dinner the second night. Only for his mom to ignore all of their efforts and insist upon her own choice of restaurant instead—no ifs, ands, or buts.)

“We have to try your sisters’ recommendations the next time I visit, don’t we?”

“Yes," he returns, shuddering. "I think my family is done for if we don’t."

He has one place left to take you, and the two of you head there now, shoulder to shoulder, arm in arm.

A month has passed since that night.

You’ve tried with every fiber of your being to put the whole thing from your mind, of course to no avail. You see Felix’s flushed lips and gentle gaze every time you blink; you hear his “I love you” every time you’re alone, the words whispered in the wind and dragged over the earth, in tandem with your footsteps.

You wanted to fucking die of awkwardness in the few days following, but it was never an option for you to avoid Felix for long. The two of you still went on convenience store runs together; still met up for coffee before work; still continued your business as usual, against all odds. And you owed it all to Felix and how he knows you better than you know yourself. He didn’t try to talk to you when he sensed that you had nothing to say; nor did he try to bring you back when you felt miles away. He would just silently slip a pack of your favorite cookies into your grocery basket or order your drink on your behalf.

Felix had questions and wanted answers; there was no doubt about that. But he held his tongue, granted you as much space as you needed to come back to him. And you did, in your gradual, meticulous way.

You’re finally going to bring it up tonight. You’ve planned to since the day you confirmed the trip, and you hope that the final stop of the tour will be the perfect place to bite the bullet.

“We’re here,” Felix says.

The two of you have arrived at the bank of a wide river, and you’re at a temporary loss for words. To your right is a bridge that spans the distance of the water, and to your left is a stunning, panoramic view of the city of Sydney. Twilight has turned the buildings into dark silhouettes against the autumn sunset, and the water reminds you of a palette of oil paints with how it reflects the pinks and oranges in the sky.

Felix feels you tighten your hold around his arm, and he smiles when he sees the wonder in your eyes. He wishes he could see this place for the first time again.

“Not bad, huh?”

“No,” you murmur. “Not at all.”

“C’mon.”

Felix leads you to the center of the bridge, where he props his elbows atop the metal railing and looks over the water. You join him and pull out your phone, but no settings or adjustments render your camera capable of capturing the landscape's beauty.

(Until Felix throws up a peace sign and pokes his head into the corner of your frame. Then it stands a fighting chance.)

“What is this place?” You ask, your shoulder touching his when you also lean over the railing. “Why are we the only ones here?”

“Crazy, right?” Felix says proudly. “I dunno. I think it might be private property, or something. But it’s only a few blocks away from my house and on the way I used to take to school, so I used to come here all the time, always around this time of day.”

Felix’s gaze moves over the sky, oblivious to the fact that his eyes hold whole rainbows of their own.

“There was never anyone around, but I could still hear the birds chirping and the wind in the leaves. It felt like a corner of the world had been sealed off just for me. I’m glad to see that nothing’s changed.”

Some time passes, and Felix tells you more stories about this peculiar bridge: how he asked someone to formal and got rejected and came here to reflect on his actions; how he had to take two different buses every day because his school was so far away from his house, but he always stopped here to feed the families of mallards that came out to swim in the mornings, even if it meant he’d be late; how this was the last place he went to before moving to South Korea, because he knew he’d miss this nook of Sydney most.

Of all the places you've visited, you think this one will remain with you longest. As time elapses, the colors of the sunset augment and deepen, dyeing the world in ways that remind you of the aurora. And then there is the man, wearing a gentle smile to match his softened features, his voice to your ears what honey is to a sore throat, telling you about his past, letting you into yet another chamber of his soul.

You are in no way prepared to butcher the sanctity of this moment, but you know that you can only run for so long and so far. You owe it to him. You owe it to yourself.

When the sun’s final rays are clinging the faraway mountaintops, Felix lifts himself off the railing and stands up straight. “Ready to go home?"

And your hand finds his, the pads of your fingers cold against his skin. Felix is surprised at first, but then he sees the hint of sadness in your eyes and the tension in your shoulders, and he understands what’s coming.

“I want to talk to you about that night,” you say.

Felix doesn’t respond for a few seconds. But when he does, his voice is so soft and so infuriatingly kind that hearing it makes you want to sob.

“...you don’t have to, Y/N.”

“No. I do,” you return, startling even yourself with the firmness in your voice, "I don’t want to keep dancing around the topic, not when you’ve been waiting for as long as you have.”

You feel Felix’s gaze on your face, as if he’s trying to read between your lines, and then he yields with a slight incline of his head.

“Okay.” And the stage is yours.

You don't start talking right away, your mind reeling with the effort to organize everything you feel and verbalize everything you want to tell him. It isn’t until Felix gives your hand a gentle squeeze—you’ve forgotten that you’re still holding his—that you feel rooted in the moment again.

It’s Felix you’re talking to; your soulmate, your sunlight. Nothing you are about to say will ever change that. This, you believe with every fiber of your being.

So you take a deep breath.

“When you said those words,” you begin, and the words sound alien in your voice, despite how many times you’ve rehearsed this conversation in your head, “I couldn’t process a thing. I was so happy, but I was so, so scared. I’ve spent the last month trying to figure out why I was so scared, and I can’t say that I know for sure yet, but I have a much better idea now, and—it’s a lot of things.

“For as long as I can remember, I have only ever been able to love profoundly and deeply, with everything in me. And over time, I led myself to believe that nobody would ever be able to understand or reciprocate my love, not in the manner I want most.”

You feel yourself starting to waver, but you find strength in his touch.

“But you changed that, Felix. You walked into that café that afternoon with your voice and your smile, and suddenly I’d found you—someone who experiences life the way I do, who loves the way I love. And every day since, I’ve been surrounded by you and your effortless warmth and your beautiful soul. It was only a matter of time before I started hoping, constantly and stupidly, that you would one day love me, the same way that I—”

Your voice catches in your throat like a heel slamming into car brakes, “love you” hanging so dangerously from the tip of your tongue that you’re stunned it doesn’t fall out right away.

“But that’s why I’m fucking terrified,” you go on. “When you told me you loved me, I felt like I could fly. But I also felt like I was falling—and maybe this is because I was still tipsy, I'm not really sure—but in that moment I saw a world where we weren't there to catch each other, where something had gone horribly wrong and I'd wake up one morning and you’d—you’d just be a distant memory.

“And that was the thought that shook me so badly: losing you. Leaving you.” You’re crying now, tears paving golden trails against your cheeks. “For whatever reason, that was the first thing that came to mind, and it broke me.”

You need to wrap it up, and fast, if your faltering voice and racing heart are any indication.

“I meant it when I apologized to you that night. I’m sorry, Lix. I’m sorry I made everything so fucking complicated. I’m sorry that I ran away. I’m sorry that I hurt you, or worried you. But I want you to know that I feel more for you than you will ever understand; I just need a little more time to put it into words. So, wait for me—”

Your eyes squeeze shut, and you finally cave, your last word coming out in a shattered rasp.

“—please.”

And the syllable has barely left your mouth when Felix lets go of your hand, only to bring his arms around you and pull you to his chest with such urgency that the breath momentarily leaves your lungs.

When you fall against him, you fall entirely apart. You have no idea where all the feelings are coming from, only that they’re suddenly overwhelming your every sense. And you start to cry, really cry, your fingers seeking refuge in his jacket, in his hair.

The sun departs at last, and night starts to fall. You lose track of how long you remain in this position, shaking with hushed sobs, fighting to regain control of your emotions. But Felix stays with you through it all, muted tears of his own intermingling with yours in the material of his scarf. He holds you carefully yet fiercely, like you really will crumble if he lets go.

And he waits, because of course he does. He would wait lifetimes for you.

One. The way you thaw is like melting snow.

It happens under your nose for the most part, but it is slow, sure, and irreversible, and you open your eyes one morning only to realize that the world outside has changed—and so have you.

You roll over and pick up your phone. There are unread messages from Felix sitting in your notifications, probably confirming the plans you made to get coffee before work today, but you put them on hold for now. Instead, you open up your camera roll and find an album, labeled with a sun emoji and yellow heart.

You made this a few months after you met Felix, and you’ve doted on it since, in the sense that you update it almost every day. Funnily enough, though, you’ve never looked through the album just to look through it. Maybe because you’ve never had the time or felt the impulse, but more likely because you know that the album is a visual time capsule of your relationship with the most important person in your life—which has never been purely platonic for you, despite how hard you’ve tried to change your heart.

Looking through it would mean acknowledging your true emotions, something you’ve never felt ready for.

Now, you open the album without a second thought, a preemptive smile on your lips. And you find yourself swept out of your bed and thrown back inside each of the pictures you see, reliving the moments as vividly as if you’re watching them on film.

This is one of your favorites, taken during a late-night tteokbokki run to a small restaurant behind Felix's company building. Felix was laughing so hard at one of your stories that he could only take bites of his meal every five minutes. His face had broken into a dazzling grin, his figure blurring as he lurched forward in his seat, trying to pull his hood over his face in secondhand embarrassment. Snap. He is always handsome, extraordinarily so, but you think you love the way he looks here most of all: every guard of his lowered, carefree, happy.

Another is from the first time you met Chan. Nowadays, your interactions with the boys consist mostly of running into them at Felix's dorm and making friendly small talk. But it's always been different with the oldest member. The first time Felix introduced the two of you, you clicked straightaway, and you had to have spent four hours after dinner just talking, scouring the city for something cold to eat. By the end of the sweltering summer night, the three of you were perched atop a short stone barrier in a secluded corner of Seoul, right outside the best bingsu place in all of South Korea. Felix had leaned over to steal the last cube of mango from Chan’s bowl, to Chan's dramatic protest. Snap. And Chan is like a brother to you now; you will never be able to fathom how much light Felix has brought to your life, be it through him or the people he loves.

A computer screen displaying a League of Legends scoreboard, in which Felix has died more times than there were minutes of the game. Snap. You (not sober) in the center of Felix's living room, your body poised in what is supposed to be the chorus of “Queencard," Felix and Bin completely losing their shit on the couch. Snap. His head bowed in anguish over a bowl of brownie batter after he mistakes salt for sugar. Snap. A low-quality, tiny Felix on stage, the brightest grin on his face when he finally manages to spot you in the nosebleeds. Snap. Your dining table creaking under the weight of all the gifts he got you for your last birthday. Snap. Him and one of your best friends from home, arms around each other, peace signs thrown up, beaming. Snap.

There are countless more, and they are all so incredibly near and dear to you, all thanks to the freckled boy in each.

You respond to Felix's messages (“be there soon!”), and then move to get dressed. There is a new sense of certainty in your gait when you emerge from your building and into the quiet morning.

The weather is lovely, the fresh sunlight cream-colored against a cloudless sky, the light breeze shuffling the new leaves about. A hound’s ears twitch when you hurry past its home; it is too drowsy to investigate your presence further. The only sounds in the air are the chattering of sparrows in the branches above you and the soles of your shoes, moving quickly across the sidewalk. The wonder in the world is more palpable to you today than it’s ever been.

Soon, the chalk-written menu and hand-carved wooden sign of your favorite café come into view, and you open the door. There are only a few customers inside, and you spot your person right away: his long, dark hair partially pinned back, his figure flattered by a black long sleeve and jeans. He has a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, as well as two drinks on the table before him: one caramel latte and one black milk tea.

When he hears the door jingle, he looks up, and the smile that melts across his face is so fond that you can’t believe there was ever a time when you doubted his feelings for you.

The way his loving smile mirrors onto your face is as inevitable and involuntary as destiny herself.

“Hi,” Felix says, rising from his seat.

“Hey, you,” you answer. “Wanna take a walk?”

And so you do.

You link arms, as always; you try each other’s drinks, as always; you manage to talk about everything and nothing all at once, as always. But when his company building comes into view, your footsteps come to a halt, and your hand fastens around the cuff of his sleeve.

“Hey, Lix—"

When his eyes meet yours, the sun hits them just right, and you have not known anything as clearly and certainly as you do right then.

“—I love you.”

Felix can only stare, his eyes so wide that you can see the whites of them all around, his straw falling from his parted lips.

Then, a smile starts to creep across his face like spilt syrup.

“Say it again.”

“I love you, Lee Yongbok.”

He sets his bag and drink down on the pavement. “Again, please.”

“I love you,” you repeat, starting to laugh. “I love you, I love you, god, I love you, Felix, so fucking much—”

Felix brings his hands to either side of your face, leaning his forehead against your own. And this time, there is no hesitation, no fear—only starlight when he tilts your chin up and finally, finally presses his lips to yours.

Butterflies erupt in your stomach, hordes of them flapping so fervently you feel as though you might take off into the air, but you seek out his elbows, then his shoulders, and then the back of his neck, anchoring yourself to the earth, to him. Felix kisses you like he will never be able to again, and it is all you can do to savor how the curve of his smile feels against your own; how he murmurs the words “I love you, too” in between breaths. He tastes like sugar and smells like shampoo. He feels like forever.

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