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jealousjealousgurlll · 20 days ago

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His fashionista

⠀:¨ ·.· ¨:⠀ ⠀ `· . ୨୧⠀

Hi everyone! This is my first story on Tumblr, I've been wanting to write for awhile especially about Luigi. If there is any flaws or feedback please please please let me know, comments are on!

I have a few extended concepts for certain bullet points, if there one that sticks out the most let me know and I can create an extension on it.

Mood board for this story

Thank you for reading and take care xoxoxoxo ᰔ ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩

Pairing: Luigi Mangione x reader

Word count (story only):2,018

Warnings: None just fluff ;)

Imagine you, an inspiring fashion designer falls for the dorky data scientist named Luigi Mangione.

Based on living in Maryland

-First encounter:

Your favorite fabric store is next door to his favorite cafe. Staring at you and your well detailed outfits throughout the window Luigi would be distracted from his work observing you.

The first time you saw him was picking up an order from that same coffee shop. On your way out, you made eye contact with him. Nothing really stood out about him honestly.

Second encounter/first conversation

You were in line to place your order, in the meanwhile you were adding final details to your latest sketch and a tap on your shoulder came to your surprise. He looked familiar, you thought. He asked you about your sketches, talking your head off you both held up the line. After ordering, you and him sat and discussed your interests and careers.

He observed every detail about you, something about his presence swept you in, his intellectual yet humorous personality made you grow curious about him. Before leaving for your meeting, he asks for your phone number and social media handles.

-Stalking or “obsessively analyzing”

You glanced at Luigi’s instagram, wholesome guy with minimum fashion however he looks great in a suit and with a clean cut.

You became Luigi’s newest fascination, having a fair amount of digital footprint, Luigi observed your instagram first. Trailing back to your high school days posing with friends in art class, your instagram stories had poems you wrote. He even discovered your fashion blog and youtube channel. Reading every post you made and spending hours watching your videos. He took a few notes on your favorite restaurants, your birthday, anything that was sentimental.

-Texting and facetime

Whenever you guys text, he responds back immediately. He would send you random articles and ask your opinion. One night when texting back and forth, he asked if he can FaceTime you. You agreed which led to a 5 hour conversation. He was wearing glasses and you asked if they were real, to which he said “it’s for fashion”. His witty humor and cheerful spirit made it easy to talk to him

-Hanging out

Luigi initiated most of the hang outs. Secretly he planned everything (how a boyfriend does), from taking a pottery class together, trying new restaurants and going to yoga classes. Hanging out at each other’s apartments eventually came around to which he would clean his apartment, nervous of your opinion. In reality his apartment is organized and fits him perfectly. The compliments and the stares you gave looking around made him feel secure. Luigi loved your apartment, the vibrant colors, the messy table filled with scattered papers, fabric around a plugged in sewing machine. Your apartment is a perfect representation of you!

-Feelings?

The more time you spent with Luigi, the more you developed feelings for him. When taking a stroll with him, you notice yourself staring at his side profile “I like big noses” . The tik tok audio from Doja Cat appeared in your mind, the curls that formed his hair you found cute. When it was summer, his sunkissed tan complimented him so well . Scanning your eyes up and down, there was definitely physical attraction, the physical attraction and the connection you guys built in the past months made you crush on him in secret. The fear of him not reciprocating the same feelings terrified you. Whenever a few days passed by and you hadn’t seen or spoke to him, you started to miss him and would reach out. Luigi on the other hand, he describes it as “love at first sight” , extremely dramatic and a sprinkle of delusion, he adored your style, the confidences you had when walking into a room. With the connection that was created by you guys, his attraction to you skyrocketed. He also mentioned his feelings he had to you to his sisters, encouraging him to ask you out. His sisters found it precious that he cares so deeply for you.

-Flea market memories

One of your hang out adventures landed you guys in a flea market. One of the vendors that caught your eye had a vintage sweater. In your mind, this sweater would be a great fit for Luigi. You showed him the sweater and insisted he tried it on. Luigi gave in and tried on, the sweater was a perfect match . The vendor, an older gentleman, said to him “listen to your lady, she knows her fashion” assuming the two of you were in a relationship. Standing behind him, you hugged him from the back Luigi subconsciously smiled at this reaction. He agreed to get the sweater which you couldn’t be happier.

-Train trip

You and Luigi went on a train trip to North Carolina. A nine hour train ride may sound gruesome but having Luigi by your side made this an unforgettable trip. Listening to music together from sharing wired earbuds, stealing each other's snacks. You started to doze off after a few hours in, drifting your head onto Luigi’s shoulder. It wasn’t intentional at all. Luigi didn’t mind, he actually liked it. He smelled the shampoo in your hair, getting a special view of your facial features “so pretty” he mumbled. When you woke up, you made direct eye contact with Luigi, he giggled at your facial expression while you immediately moved your head out of embarrassment. “I am so sorry” you frantically apologized, “It’s all good” his voice was deep and slowly turned you on. This trip definitely brought you guys closer physically and emotionally, staying in the same room you saw Lu in a different light. He is a clean person. He always puts the toilet seat down after using it. During the visit, you both went hiking together, it was your first time ever and Luigi was basically a pro. He helped you whenever you were close to stumbling, assuring you that you will be just fine. “See I told you it’s not difficult, it’s relaxing right?” Hiking was something you had no interest in but with a little encouragement from your bestie westie, hiking is your newfound favorite physical activity.

-Hair troubles

One night, you heard a ding on your phone. A text from your contact named“Loo-ee jee” appeared.

“Hey, are you busy?”

Responding back “No what’s up?”

Luigi facetimes you, in distress, discussing his hair problems. He explains that he cannot remember the shampoo he used as a child living at home, he had some event to attend in the afternoon so he wanted to wash his hair and try something different with his curls. He begs for your help and you agree to help him. Meeting him at a “beauty supply store” foreign in his world. You both grabbed some hair care products and went back to your apartment. You guided him through the process of taking care of his curls and even wrote down the step by step manual to follow on his “wash days”. He ended up spending the night because he was a little tippy from the wine he brought over(don’t drink and drive kids). Both of you indulged in a few glasses, he mentioned the wine was from a family member in Italy (hmm exotic you said to yourself). Both of you crashed on your couch, he laid in your lap wrapped in a large fuzzy blanket. You woke in the middle of the night to see Lulu in your lap, you liked it. He looked well rested and comfortable. This entire night wasn’t supposed to happen actually. Luigi faked his cries for help solely because he missed you and wanted to do something more intimate with you. You never realized if he was legit hearing about his mishaps you just wanted to help your friend.

-Styling Lulu

At Luigi’s apartment, you joked about his style playfully. “I bet in your closet you have no more than 5 things including your blue bali shirt, adidas hoodie, a random slightly used button down shirt and your Upenn shirt”. He rolled his eyes and tried to laugh because it was true. His fashion can be described as low minimum, he didn’t really care about having a surplus of clothing or being the most fashionable in the room. Fashion was foreign to him, while it was your way of life. He asks you to help with his style and you were treating this as a project. Spending some time in the downtown area to shop, you and Luigi went shopping. Stopping in the first store, you immediately see something with potential. Grabbing short sleeve crew necks in different colors, picking up the shirt to hold up to Luigi you were thinking this is a good start. Solid basic shirts yet it is upgraded to his current style. Intentionally you picked up the shirts a size down because you wanted to see Luigi’s muscles pop out. Picking out the casual black and white, you also grabbed a plum(deep purple) shirt and an olive green. Luigi liked the colors you picked for him and made a purchase. The next store you found many gems for him, a few pairs of vintage Levi’s jeans fitting him perfectly, an upgraded adidas hoodie, grey nike sweatpants, some linen shorts and even a Upenn varsity jacket. Dropping you off to your place, before walking out of his car Luigi thanks you for your help and leans in for a hug. The hug was warm and made you feel fuzzy inside, pulling away your cheeks turned red. He stayed parked until you made it to the elevator, turning around one last time to wave to him and even blew a kiss. He caught your kiss and motioned, putting it close to his heart.

-Making it official

After befriending Luigi Mangione for an entire year. You expressed your feelings to him, it was difficult because of the fear of rejection. His reaction was something out of a fairytale, he reciprocated the same feelings you had for him. About a week after this conversation he planned a dinner for the both of you. It was at a contemporary sushi place, the architecture and interior design in the building was seductive, lowly dinned lights and chirper music played. Luigi arrived with a bouquet of purple and white flowers. Your eyes beamed with joy to see them, he made a note from watching one of your youtube videos that purple and white are your favorite colors for flowers. He was wearing the same sweatshirt he got at the flea market, his hair was freshly washed and cut and added a detailed watch to his outfit. Smiling from ear to ear when you saw him wrapping your arms around him felt peaceful, a similar feeling to home. You guys talked and talked, a few cheesy but cute pick up lines were said to you. Luigi’s words were blissful, constantly wanting to make you laugh. Finishing up your entree, the waiter came to your table and said “Dessert?” replying back “No thank you”, Luigi replied “Yes, your best dessert”. A few minutes pass and the waiter places down a white plate in front of you. There was chocolate writing on the plate, reading off it says “Will you be my girlfriend?” with macaroons and chocolate covered strawberries. Coming to you as a sweet surprise you look up at Luigi with a nervous smile he says “So what do you say?” . Licking your lips before responding you say “Yes I would love to”. He smiles and balls his fist to say a silent “Yes” out of pride. He came over to your side of the booth to embrace you with your first kiss with him. His lips were smooth and gilded gently with yours, a little tongue was added by you and he loved it. When walking out of the restaurant to your car, you were on cloud nine. Luigi besides you holding your hand he opens your car door and says “Goodnight girlfriend” you smile at his words and say “Bye bye boyfriend”.

#fanfic #new to tumblr #luigi mangione #luigi mangione x reader #freeluigi #freefineshyt #luigi mangione fanfic #unitedhealth group inc #x reader #fashionkilla #firsttimewriter #i love my moots #unitedhealthcare #fuck ceos

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gingersnaptaff · 18 days ago

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Y Mab Darogan 1

(Stained glass window depicting Cadwaladr and his flag in Llandaff Cathedral, Charles Powell, 1919)

(King Arthur (top left), St Tewdrig, and St Cadwaladr, stained glass window in Llandaff Cathedral. Situated in the North Aisle, Charles Powell, 1919)

'The awen predicts they will make haste;

We shall have treasures, possessions, and peace

And broader leadership and lively leaders;

And after war, dwellings in every area;

Men fierce in fight-clamour, furious warriors,

Swift in attack, slow to leave defence-

Fighters that scatter foreigners as far as Caer Wair'

- the opening first lines of Armes Prydain

Something a bit different today but I thought I'd yell about ‘Y Mab Darogan’ or The Prophesied Son, who was seen as a messianic figure in Welsh literature and was appellated to four* (!) different lads (including King Arthur). This will be a long one so please have a snack and a drink at hand. You're gonna need ‘em.

Now, Y Mab Darogan as a concept first crops up in the 10th Century poem ‘Armes Prydain’ (The Prophecy of Britain) from the Book of Taliesin. Andrew Breeze postulated that the poem was written in about ‘940 AD.’ Taliesin’s status as ‘a seer’ write Gwyneth Lewis and Rowan Williams in their introduction to The Book of Taliesin: Poems of Warfare and Praise in an Enchanted Britain means that ‘it is not at all surprising’ to find a collection of Prophetic poems alongside the others within Llyfr Taliesin. ‘Its themes,’ Lewis and Williams further write, ‘are recycled in several later poems looking forward to a reunification of the British - usually Under the leadership of Gwynedd - and the advent of a heroic deliverer.’

It's a call for all Celtic nations (Welsh, Scots, Irish, Cornish, Britons, Manx) to come to arms against the Anglo-Saxon invaders - as can be seen in the lines 'long-haired champions, masters of war/ Will come from Ireland to drive out the Saxons.', 'Both loyal men will come from Alt Clud, / A resplendent army to drive them from Britain' 'A powerful host will come from Llydaw (Brittany),' 'Let the Cymry rise up, a war-like company' and 'On all sides shame will be the Saxons destiny' and, although it doesn't feature King Arthur proper it's writing kinda alludes to his death.

To zoom through some background, Hywel Dda (yes, he of Law fame) was seen as very much toeing the line to the Angles - who y'know were (and kinda still are) Wales’ traditional enemies. Now, for ol’ Hywel, this had meant that when Edward the Elder ruled over Wessex had had to cleave to him to ensure that Wales didn't get battered within an inch of its life as had all other Celtic nations in Britain (so the Gaels, the Picts, etc, etc). However, once he was out of the picture and his son, Athelstan, had taken over, an alliance of the kingdoms of the Strathclyde*, Dublin, and Scotland had all risen against him. In a break from tradition - y'know, the whole Men of the North business where it was acknowledged and expected that the Welsh would aid their compatriots - Hywel vehemently denied the three kingdoms’ aid leading to their defeat at the Battle of Brunanburh in 937.

Obviously, this pissed A LOT of Welsh lads off.

I mean, yeah, it'd piss me off too. if I expected a battle only to find out we weren't getting one cuz some lawmaker lad had to keep his neighbours happy I'd be LIVID. So this poem was written! No word if Hywel read it, but I imagine his Goodreads review would've been a firm one star.

In it, it refers to ‘Thus they'll avenge Garmon's* friends with force/ Four hundred and forty years on' and, according to the Annales Cambriae (my absolute beloved) in 537AD there was: ‘The Strife of Camlann, in which Arthur and Medraut perished; and there was plague in Britain and Ireland.’ which means ‘404 years’ after that is 941. Therefore, the poem is very much looking forward to the annihilation of the Saxons in 941 which kinda happened because Edmund had to accept a humiliating treaty at Leicester in 941, giving the north-east of England to the Viking leader Olaf Guthfrithson.

Also, the poem invokes two famous leaders - Conan of Brittany, and Cadwaladr ap Cadwallon of Gwynedd - in the line: 'Cynan and Cadwaladr, warlords in the armies' Cadwaladr is seen as hot shit - basically on par with Arthur as a ‘Great Deliver’ figure for the Welsh - and, somehow, the Welsh Dragon has become known as Cadwaladr's flag. Cadwaladr is also important because Henry VII (yeah, HIM) claimed descent from him. The hoped-for leader is seen as returning from exile - just as Cadwaladr is said to have done and Henry VII would later do once he'd hot-footed it to France to get aid - or arriving from over the sea - as Owain Lawgoch would later unsuccessfully attempt to do in the 1300’s - and ‘on their return they … overthrow corrupt or alien rulers within Wales, and rally other Welsh kingdoms to resistance and ultimate victory over the English.’

Now, as I previously alluded to, King Arthur is pretty much absent from the early corpus which makes up the ‘Mab Darogan’ legend. The ‘fierce resentment’ of the Armes Prydain makes no mention of him, and, therefore, we must look elsewhere.

We find it in the Gwyddelian composed Historia Brittonum. He's specifically indicated as fighting the Saxons (ons of the main tenets of the job, I think we'll all agree) and doing… okay. T. Charles Edwards states, ‘The victories of a Gwrthefyr, or an Arthur, might be glorious but they had no future,’ and, I think, it is this utter glory and utter ineffectualness that highlights the two main tenets of what makes you mab darogan, well, y mab darogan.

Arthur ‘echoes the achievements of Gwrthefyr’ in his chapter and so brings with it another key building block of y mab darogan. He is an echo of what has coms before and what will - hopefully, futilely - come again. A warrior will rise and lead through Britons - the Welsh, the natives of the land - to a brief taste of freedom before slipping away in a haze.

Furthermore, T. Charles Edwards states, ‘Perhaps the main concern of the author of Historia Brittonum is to encourage the Britons to come to terms with defeat of loss and territory.’ Arthur, like Macsen Wledig before him, is a rallying point for the Welsh. A flashpoint. Arthur is the ‘British Dux’ or warlord, the rebellious leader at will bring the Saxons to heel.

The legend of him being Y Mab Darogan amongst the Welsh is thought to have taken widespread hold after this. He's seen as a rallying cry for various rebellions and poets made use of his stature to advance various other disaffected Welshmen's causes. The Anglo-Norman text ‘The Description of England’ states that ‘openly they [the Welsh] go about saying,... / that in the end, they will have it all; / by means of Arthur, they will have it back... / They will call it Britain again’ So this would firmly put him in the bracket of The Welsh Lord and Saviour, kiss fuckin kiss. Furthermore, Daniel Helbert in his essay, ‘The Prophetic Hope in Twelfth Century Britain,’ states ‘at the close of the twelfth-century, the idea that King Arthur would return from the grave and lead his people to victory was not a new one,’ for the power and popularity of this legend both within Britain and on the continent as a whole (i.e. in Brittany where Arthur - and, later, Owain Lawgoch - is also seen as a somewhat Messianic figure in his own right) had an ‘allure’ to it. This suggests that, to me, the ‘Breton/Briton Hope’ was always a powerful sticking point in people's heads. Arthur had already left an indelible mark on culture, be it Welsh, Anglo-Norman, or otherwise, and people would use it in whatever ways suited them.

But I also must caution against believing this outright. *sigh* Arthur is Welsh*, yes. The building blocks of his myth are Welsh. I do not dispute that. However, O.J. Padel says that no contemporary Welsh source of a prophecy concerning Arthur's return to Britain has been found, and Charles T. Edwards further states: ‘Although the use of a Welsh battle-poem has been suspected, perhaps rightly no such source is likely … And if there was such a poem celebrating Arthur's battles, its date remains entirely uncertain.’ While there exists plenty of poetry on Arthur's ‘descendants’ as it were, Owain Lawgoch and Owain Glyndŵr, there is nothing particularly concrete for Artie and, furthermore, we must both rely on non-Welsh texts AND Henry VII's propaganda during the Wars of the Roses when he was challenging the Plantagenets for the English throne.

(Personally, Arthur just likes to be a tricksy bastard and I wish he'd CEASE AND DESIST. Bro, I went to ur fuckin Grotto in Corwen* when I was a kid. You OWE me.)

Conversely, Arthur has been used to legitimise the English’s rule over the native Britons. Edward I, after his conquest of Wales, used ‘Round Tables’ to celebrate and justify his conquest of Wales - one of many Big Kicks in the Teeth for us, ngl, other than letting the Prince of Wales be a baby because he only babbled*, and having the true last Princess of Wales, Gwenllian, be shut up in a monastery when she was a baby - and the consequent ‘reunification’ of Arthurian Britain. The Galfridian texts also were even used to justify Edward's claim over the Scottish throne - after the House of Dunkeld came to an untimely end with Margaret, the Maid of Norway's, death at sea when she was only 7 - as Arthur conquered Scotland. Geoffrey of Monmouth, I'm hitting your ghost over the head with a boot. One with iron toe caps. And smeared in dung. Arthur's use as a colonial tool by both the Normans’ and the Plantagenet dynasty cannot be overstated. To do so is a great disservice that doesn't do anybody - least of all the Celtic countries who had their great mythological king beaten into this oppressive tool to try and bring them to heel - any favours.

Aled Llion Jones writes in Darogan: Prophecy, Lament, and Absent Heroes in Medieval Literature that the imagined victory of y mab darogan represents a ‘return to a united, unified legendary state of organicism’ which was once conjured in a long-lost son called ‘Unbennaeth Prydain or ‘The Sovereignty of Britain. Furthermore, Brud and Brut (that's Prophecy and History for all you non-Welsh speakers out there) were near-homonyms in medieval Welsh and the Brut y Brenhinedd - ‘Chronicles of the King's,’ which are an adaptation of Geoffrey of Monmouth's Historia Regum Britanniae - was framed as being the story of how British lordship over Ynys Prydain had been gained, flourished, and lost to the Saxons. Prophecy, therefore, provided how it would ultimately be won back by those who would come after Arthur.

But, I mean, Wales would have to wait to find out who their next Mab Darogan would be. Next week: Owain Lawgoch's Hot Shit Tour of France: How he Became Y Mab Darogan, Fucked About in Guernsey and Got Assassinated When He Was Cutting His Hair.

Some notes!

*Garmon is St. Garmon the Gaulish Bishop who visited Britain in the first half of the fifth century

*You could make the case that Owain Gwynedd could be seen as Y Mab Darogan considering his various run-ins with the Normans. However, you could say that about The Lord Rhys also and, if we’re getting into the meat of it, neither of those two lads are even seen as having faulty alarm clocks. Or chillaxing beneath a mountain.

*Strathclyde wasn't incorporated into Scotland until the 11th Century when it was annexed into the Kingdom of Alba. It would still be known as Ystrad Clud at this time.)

*Technically, Brythonic which is the forerunner to the Britons but, like, the language of the texts he is primarily featured in is Old Welsh. I know he's seen as an English figure but that's wrapped up on years and years of colonialism.

*That baby was later known as King Edward II whose reign was less than impressive, but extremely gay. Nice to see him committing to the Remarkable cosplay ngl. (Idk if he ever did that. I just think it's fun to imagine he did. Bet he was Lance.)

*The Grotto was so fuckin fun. If I can dredge up a photo of the Red and White Dragon fighting then I'll fuckin slap it up because ooooh, baby, it was SO COOL. Also, they had an animatronic Arthur asleep under a mountain. ANYWAY.

*Myrddin/Merlin was also associated with prophecy in the early Welsh texts particularly those about the mab darogan.

Background Reading and Sources:

Land of My Father's by Gwynfor Evans

The History of Wales by J. Graham Jones

Wales: England's Colony? by Martin Johnes (A Banger.)

The Book of Taliesin by Gwyneth Lewis and Rowan Williams

The Arthur of the Welsh by Rachel Bromwich (T. Charles Edwards is included in it. Strongly recommend it.)

The Earliest Welsh Poems by Joseph Clancy

Arthur in Medieval Welsh Literature by O. J Padel

The Welsh Triads by Rachel Bromwich

Lastly a quick aside: this is my theory but it is entirely possible that Arthur disinterring Bendigeidfran's head in Branch 2 of the Mabinogi could be seen as him taking up the 'heroic deliverer' role from an earlier Celtic hero. Certainly, while his head remained buried at Gwynfryn (White Hill, speculated to be Tower Hill in London) 'no oppression would ever come from across the sea to this island while that head was in its hiding place.' Bendigeidfran, like Arthur, was seen as the High King of Britain, and there is certainly an echo of Arthur about him. Arthur, in a fit of hubris, disclosed the head of Bendigeidfran from its resting place because 'it did not seem right to him that this Island should be defended by the strength of anyone, but his own.' And this 'was known as one of the Three Unfortunate disclosures,' so the Mabinogion says.

I'm not an academic but it is perhaps something to think about.

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sarahisslytherin · 8 months ago

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•❣•୨୧ 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢𝙨 - 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙞𝙞𝙞 ୨୧•❣•

benedict bridgerton x princess!reader

summary: your father has arranged for you to wed a prince, so you meet benedict for a late night rendezvous to tell him your affair is doomed. however, the night takes a different turn.

contains: angst, a heavy makeout sesh and mentions of sex.

a/n: part three of the series! this one's a tad bit spicy babes! PART I, PART II

word count: 1k

You secure your hood over your intricate curls before stepping out of the carriage. The alleyway is scarcely lit by the lamps lining the street. The heels of your boots clack slightly against the slick cobblestone, a bit of rain still lingering. You haven’t seen Benedict since that night in the garden, and you haven’t been able to bring yourself to write him back. Poem after poem has stacked upon your vanity, and with them have fallen Benedict’s hopes of seeing you again. That was until the last letter you received from him with little more than an address and a plea that you meet him there at the stroke of midnight. So here you are.

You knock on the door, looking over your shoulder to make sure the carriage is gone and that you haven’t been followed. The door is swiftly opened, and you make such haste entering that you don’t get a good look as Benedict until he closes the door behind you. His eyes look tired, bags beneath them and a sad twinkle about them.

“I wasn’t entirely sure you would come.” he sighs, and the disappointment in his voice breaks your heart. “I’ve brought you to my art studio. I know it’s dangerous bringing you into town but I couldn’t think of anywhere else and I had- I had to see you.”

You remain silent, glancing at your surroundings. There is little light in the salon but it was enough to illuminate Benedict’s half-done sketches and paintings of you. Marble sculptures line the walls as well as scattered books and brushes. The place is full of everything that makes him who he is; the man you cannot and do not wish to stop loving.

“Benedict, it’s not what it seems.” you turn and assure him as you remove your hood. His eyes light up at the sight of you, not unlike the first night his gaze met yours across the crowded ballroom.

“Is it not?” he asks bitterly. “Because it seems that you’ve grown weary of me and my affections. It feels like a knife in my chest, like you’re slipping through my fingers like sand.”

You shake your head, your brows furrowing as tears begin to gather in your eyes at his words. You cup his face gently in your hands as you speak. “Benedict, you could not be farther from the truth. You have occupied my thoughts from the moment I met you - no - saw you! I am aware that of late I have failed to return your letters and affection, but it is not out of cruelty or dwindling interest. It is my father, he has arranged a meeting with a prince. If it goes well, I am to marry him. That is why I haven’t been able to face you. You must believe me!”

Benedict’s face has fallen slack with shock. His hands come up to take your own. For a moment he doesn’t speak, only presses kisses to your hands, the hands he so desperately wishes to comb through his hair, to hold as you sway to music, to slip a wedding ring on.

“So you still love me?” he asks with a whimper, and you don’t know how to express your reply other than with a quick nod and a passionate kiss. Suddenly Benedict’s hands are in your hair, then roaming across your back before finally settling on your waist. He carefully pushes you against the wall, caging you with his arms, exposed from his rolled up sleeves.

“I shall take that as a yes.” he smiles between labored breaths. You thought you’d never see that smile again.

“Take me instead.” you gasp, your voice barely above a whisper.

Benedict freezes, his hold growing tense. “My love, you are royal. I cannot compromise you.”

“I am already being forced to wed someone who I do not love; is this pleasure to be deprived from me as well, Benedict?” You give him a look brimming with love and lust and unbridled passion. Benedict has never been one for taboos or conservatism, and he wastes no time discarding his initial hesitation as he nearly smashes his lips against yours, this time with renewed fervor.

“I love you.” he grunts as he lifts you and you wrap your legs around his slender torso, his arms winding around you. “I love you, I love you, I love you…”

Dawn breaks through the window pane, casting your bodies in hues of orange and gold. Your eyes peel open, squinting as you notice Benedict at his canvas. A smile forms on your face as you prop your head up on your elbow, your body and disheveled curls splayed out on the hardwood floor, covered in only a thin sheet. “Adding another piece to your collection?” you inquire teasingly.

Benedict laughs. “I couldn’t waste the opportunity to sketch a nude portrait of the princess herself.” You smirk at him and sit up properly.

“I must go before my father thinks to call on me,” you sigh as you stand and begin to dress. “There is to be a ball tonight, at the palace.”

“I know.” Benedict says. “My family received invitations.”

“Oh.” you nod. “I see.”

Silence hangs heavily in the atmosphere until you speak again. “The prince will be there. He will most likely ask me to dance. Perhaps you should not go.”

Benedict shakes his head. “I am a grown man, love. I am perfectly capable of watching from the sidelines as the woman I love dances in another’s embrace.”

You tilt your head and cross your arms at him accusingly. He lets out a bitter laugh and comes up to you, wrapping his arms around you from behind and watching the view out the window from over your shoulder. He presses a chaste kiss to your neck. “Does your heart belong to me, Princess?”

You nod, letting your head fall against his as you do. “It does.”

“Well then,” he smiles as he twirls you around to face him. “I will attend the ball, if only to see you. I shall not plague myself with worry.”

tagging: @velvetcloxds @oweninadaydream @holdthegirrrl @enchantedbytomandhenry @sublimepenguinpeach-blog @dd122004dd @marvelspogue @emotionsmgcbabe @pIk-18 @larueluvr

#benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #princess!reader #bridgerton #benedict bridgerton angst #benedict bridgerton series

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eyelectricmoon · 1 month ago

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BUCK-TICK Rezisto - English translation & romaji

"Rezisto"

Blood, flesh, bones, words and a bit of poison We were created from that recipe Blood, flesh, bones, words and a bit of poison We were created from that recipe

His poem scatters pig entrails That’s one of the organic methods Moonlight howl, death dance, he is an impulse His heels match the rhythm, the night is deep

Yeah, today I’ll again hurt and keep living It would be good to be a rebel

Blood, flesh, bones, words and a bit of poison We were created from that recipe Blood, flesh, bones, words and a bit of poison We were created from that recipe

His poem scatters pig entrails That’s one of the organic methods Moonlight howl, death dance, he is an impulse His heels match the rhythm, the night is deep

Yeah, today I’ll again hurt and keep living It would be good to be a rebel Yeah, today I’ll again hurt and keep living It would be good to be a rebel

[T/N] an interesting detail is that the "will hurt and keep living" (傷つけて生く) part is written with the character for "live", rather than being left in hiragana. normally this construction would simply mean "i'll go on hurting [others]", but adding the kanji deepens the meaning to a more existential one ("to go on living is to cause harm")

the "it'd be good to be a rebel" line isn't 100% clear to me. "なれたらいい" can mean "i wish [i] could become X", literally "it would be good if [someone] could become X", but because of the lack of context we can only speculate if it expresses a person's wish to become a rebel, or is meant to be advice to others ["better become a rebel"], so i did my best to keep my translation vague too

kanji & romaji under cut

kanji

血と肉と骨と言葉毒薬を少々私たちを作り出したレシピはソレだ血と肉と骨と言葉毒薬を少々私たちを作り出したレシピはソレだ

豚の臓物を撒き散らすのは彼のポエムそれはひとつのオーガニックな手法月光咆吼　死の舞踏彼は衝動踵でリ��ム合わせながら　夜は深い

嗚呼今日も傷つけて生く反逆者になれたらいい

血と肉と骨と言葉毒薬を少々私たちを作り出したレシピはソレだ血と肉と骨と言葉毒薬を少々私たちを作り出したレシピはソレだ

豚の臓物を撤き散らすのは彼のポエムそれはひとつのオーガニックな手法月光咆吼　死の舞踏彼は衝動踵でリズム合わせながら　夜は深い

嗚呼今日も傷つけて生く反逆者になれたらいい嗚呼今日も傷つけて生く反逆者になれたらいい

romaji

chi to niku to hone to kotoba dokuyaku o shōshō watashitachi o tsukuridashita reshipi wa sore da chi to niku to hone to kotoba dokuyaku o shōshō watashitachi o tsukuridashita reshipi wa sore da

buta no zōmotsu o makichirasu no wa kare no poemu sore wa hitotsu no ooganikku na shuhō gekkō hōkō shi no butō kare wa shōdō kakato de rizumu awasenagara yoru wa fukai

ā kyō mo kizutsukete iku hangyakusha ni naretara ii

chi to niku to hone to kotoba dokuyaku o shōshō watashitachi o tsukuridashita reshipi wa sore da chi to niku to hone to kotoba dokuyaku o shōshō watashitachi o tsukuridashita reshipi wa sore da

buta no zōmotsu o makichirasu no wa kare no poemu sore wa hitotsu no ooganikku na shuhō gekkō hōkō shi no butō kare wa shōdō kakato de rizumu awasenagara yoru wa fukai

ā kyō mo kizutsukete iku hangyakusha ni naretara ii

#my translation #buck-tick #english translation #lyrics #b-t #subrosa #rezisto #hoshino hidehiko #imai hisashi #atsushi sakurai #vkei #romaji #higuchi yutaka #yagami toll #these lyrics make me feel some kind of way...... ahghghgh

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greetingfromthedead · 28 days ago

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15. The Next Page

Series: Apple Blossoms Pairing: Knives x GN!Reader Word count: 4k

Author's Note: Once again we have reached the end of another batch of chapters and it is time to take a break. I will keep repeating myself by saying just how grateful I am for the continued support on the series! Every comment and message really brightens my day and inspires me to keep writing about the dumb plant man. Apple Blossoms will return, but with my schedule being turned on its head and some writer's block haunting me, I cannot begin to guess when I will be ready to publish the next part. I still hope to see you then!

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Knives looks from the balcony as your figure disappears into the maze of streets below. He doesn't need to wonder where you are headed. Everything he knows about you points towards the little house with the sick girl. You said you would go back in the morning, but of course you wouldn't even be able to sleep if you didn't go there in the late evening too. Undoubtedly you took some more medicine with you, offering everything you can for the sake of those in need. He wonders why you didn't take him with you, but it is just a fleeting thought.

This is nobody's fault.

Your words still haunt him. Everything about your statement is untrue. No matter how Knives slices and dices it, he can point a finger. And mostly that finger points to himself. Everything miserable that has happened on this planet is because of him. Perhaps the awful things would have happened on another world; it would, after all, be in human nature to live in misery, but this here started with him. This is his doing, from scattering humanity on this planet to causing the death of the father of those children. What happened in October and everywhere else is a direct result of him reaching for his goals. And where did it get him? Weak and broken in the mercy of a human who causes him a constant headache.

Knives has tasted the bitterness of regret, but it does not burden him now. Despite everything, he does not curse his defeat or his choices. It is a strange calm to live without both regrets and ambitions. It is not peace, not even acceptance, just the lack of wind after a stormy day. But there is something. A restlessness deep within him. Perhaps a flutter of a butterfly's wing that could breathe life into the embers that have nearly gone out? Does it have something to do with you?

He looks down at the book in his hand, thinking for a moment before sitting down in one of the chairs on the balcony. His fingers trace over the spine of the book, feeling the rough texture of the cloth cover. He examines the fraying edges and bent corners. As he opens the book he observes how some of the glue has come undone with time, but considering everything this binding has seen, it is still in good shape. He marvels at the resilience of this well-loved book.

The quiet rustle of paper disappears into the noise of the late evening. Knives flips through the pages. One by one, he reads the poems stretching over the papers. Some are familiar, some are not. Every single one is a different poem from a distant time and place. Some speak of war and pain, others of love and hope. The different authors write in different voices; their choice of words and rhymes is unique to themselves. Knives consumes the ink on the yellowed paper with his gaze, line after line, page after page. But it is just that—ink on paper. Words written by people who are long dead, people who could never imagine the life he knows. It is a book filled with stories, lies. Describing mythical feelings too big for any one person to experience. Lavish descriptions scrawled across paper to evoke emotion. They are empty; they can't be true in his reality.

Hours pass as Knives continues to pore over the poems. What does anyone see in this? How come it has been appreciated by so many? What made you keep it for so long? Why did you give this to him? The words still feel hollow to him. Why would anyone bother building such a scaffolding of phrases when there is no point to it? There is no flame inside to shine a light on the intricacies. If it had been any other book, he would have set it aside a while ago. But you gave it to him. He can't be outdone by you again. You can't make a fool out of him.

"Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing." Your voice cuts in half the line Knives reads on the paper. He didn't hear you return, but that's not what makes his eyes go wide. He freezes, paralyzed by the words you spoke. How could you say that? You call him a sinner? You judge him for what he had to do? But it's not hatred that boils within him; it is something completely different, similar to the feeling when he hurt you with his words. A million thoughts race through Knives's head, a whirlwind of nasty feelings that bring the taste of bile into his throat. A physical reaction that raises the hairs on his body.

"Am I wrong?" you ask as he remains in silence. Your tone doesn't fit the words, "I could have sworn that's the one on the page."

Knives doesn't understand, still frozen in the chair even as you sit on the seat next to him.

"No, I was right!" You sound cheerful, your hand reaching over to touch the upper margin of the book. There is something scribbled in pencil on the edge of the page, barely visible. "Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing. Fyodor Dostoevsky. I remember because of the little doodle on the other page."

Knives watches your fingers trace the words as you read them aloud and the way you point at the little drawing on the other side. His heart remains racing in his chest. You didn't say those words to him, not about him either. You just echoed the words of someone else without thinking.

"Did I startle you? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to," you smile and lean forward to be able to peek at his face. "I thought you heard me approaching. I should have made more noise."

He slowly turns his head to look back, still unable to completely shake off the feeling that appeared in his gut so suddenly. No matter how hard he tries to school his features to be as uninterested as always, his eyes remain wide, his eyebrows twitching into a frown.

"My! You look like you've seen a ghost!" You chuckle lightly, your eyes shining in the dim light.

When was the last time anyone looked at him like this? When was the last time anyone laughed at him? He can't remember. It's been so long. Maybe the last time was on the ship? Before everything unfolded. Was it Vash who made fun of him? He can't remember. Any human he has had by his side has been afraid of him; even if it shows as respect or obedience, it has always been fear. Nobody would ever dare to look at him like this, to chuckle at his expression, or tease him. Even Vash's gaze had looked at him in anger and disgust, sometimes even pity, which Knives loathed the most. But what is this look in your eyes? You haven't showed fear towards him, not once. He has seen you angry with him. He has seen your sorrow. But you haven't looked at him with this inviting gentleness.

His frown softens, unraveling the tension in his expression. He looks at you, studying the lines of your face. He feels like he is drowning in your eyes, and the smile on your lips that grows more worrisome with every second that Knives doesn't reply. You tilt your head, trying to decipher the strange expression on his face.

"Smile for me, please," you say, still lighthearted despite the puzzled expression on your face.

Knives is taken aback by that request.

"Smile for you?" he speaks softly.

"Good, no slurring of speech. Would you try touching your nose with either pointer finger?" You continue, only confusing Knives more.

He keeps staring at you, not saying anything and not following any instructions either.

"I'm just trying to rule out a stroke," you explain, partially joking, partially not.

"I'm fine," Knives finally responds, ripping his eyes from you and looking to the side.

The book hangs from his hand, his fingers spreading the pages where he left off. He looks away, not only hiding his eyes but his whole face. You lean towards him, giving a strong nudge with your shoulder, enough to shake his whole body.

"Don't pout!" your cheerful voice rings out. "I'm just joking! Mostly."

"How come?" Knives asks but still looks away.

"I'm in a good mood! I went to see the little girl." Your voice comes down a little, the sound more tender than excited. "She woke up. She will be alright."

Knives doesn't respond, just continues staring at the dark desert. You look off too, glancing over the town's lights that don't shine as abundantly as the night before. Wind ruffles through your hair, tousling it gently. Everything feels vivid and exciting. You don't let Knives's pouting get you down.

"They were so grateful that they had flowing water again. It made a massive difference." You don't look at him while you speak, still gazing off into the distance. "You helped them. And you made it look so easy."

"I didn't do it for them."

"Well, whatever the reason, you did good, and they are still grateful for that." You speak as you look over to him again, still feeling giddy in your heart.

"Ow!" Knives exclaims and turns towards you to look down only to see you release the pinch on his arm. His reaction was so quick and genuine that you are sure he had no intention to display it to you.

He pulls his arm away, looking at you with a strange expression. His skin looks darker than usual, but it is hard to tell in the dimness that conceals his features. He looks so different in that moment, as if you had stepped through the layers and layers of veils to see the real person underneath. How strange. How different. How enticing.

What a headache you are. Knives can't even form a straight thought. His head spins from everything you say and everything you do. And those eyes that nail him to the spot. What is this? His chest feels heavy, his skin tender where you touched him. Perhaps you were right. Maybe this is a stroke. He is still sick; that has to be it. There is no other explanation. But would the world revolve around his head just as quickly if you looked at him with fear?

I like the way you look at me. The thought crosses Knives's mind, and he does his best to stuff it away into a far corner. What does it matter that your gaze is filled with bravery when you look at him? Why would he care for the mischief and mystery that lurk behind your eyes in this moment? You should be afraid of him. Keep looking at me with those brave eyes.

"What's wrong?" You wonder aloud as he stares at you again. He looks like he is in a haze, but you are still too drunk on relief and happiness, speaking more brazenly than you perhaps usually would. "Has the cat got your tongue?" you tease jokingly.

He still looks so awkward. Wide-eyed and silent. He acts more strangely than usual, making you wonder if it is your overflowing joy that is making him uncomfortable. That does put a bit of a damper on your mood. You glance over him, your eyes trailing down until you see the familiar book in his hand again.

"So, what do you think about it?" you ask, trying to get him to speak again.

Knives is glad for this change. He no longer drowns in your expression; he doesn't get lost in the lines of your face. And it is a question he can answer. He understands its purpose and doesn't have to wonder what you could possibly mean with your outrageous suggestions, like telling you what's wrong.

"It is filled with Earth poems," Knives answers simply. For him it says it all, but to you it should sound like a neutral declaration, vague enough to not sound rude.

"Well, I know that." You smile to yourself. "But isn't it interesting that despite the hundreds of years separating us from them, we still find ourselves drawn to the same words and emotions? Like nothing has changed. Yet the only thing that we seem to have in common with those poets is humanity itself. We don't even live on the same planet as them."

"You think so?" His voice is nearly as uninterested as always, distant and level, but there is a hint of surprise as his tone goes up by the end.

"Don't you think so?" you reply to his question with your own. To be fair, you aren't completely sure what he even asks about. The poems or the poets? Whatever the case, Knives doesn't answer. Instead, he closes the book and straightens up in his chair beside you. He looks ahead with a thoughtful expression, as if contemplating how to respond.

"I think I will go to bed," he finally states without looking over to you. He stands up from his chair as he speaks.

"Oh no, you don't!" you exclaim, a bit exasperated, and grab his hand. "You won't hide that wound from me! I'll come and check. Then you can go to bed!"

As you took his hand into yours, electricity sparked from his fingers up his arm, fading away into his spine, only leaving a tingle behind. His head turns towards you in a fraction of a second, his eyes wide with surprise. You don't usually grab him like this. How can he refuse you if you look at him with such determination? It takes every ounce of strength he has to snatch his hand from yours, but not because of your tight grip, but because of the fortitude it takes for him to snap out of this haze that suddenly numbs his body.

"Very well then," he says, his tone turning icy.

Knives leads the way, entering his room from the balcony door with you close behind. This feels different. He is agitated. A restlessness tightens his stomach and chest. He leaves the book on the edge of the bed as he passes it to turn on the overhead lights. The room is illuminated, and so are you. No longer does the dimness hide your face or your body. It only makes the unease grow within him. He feels a knot form in his stomach and chest. Why is this? What is this feeling? Fear? Why would he be afraid of you? Is it irrational paranoia? He doesn't appreciate being under the care of a human. That doesn't mean he should feel fear. Whatever this is, it is foolish and unnecessary. He will grit his teeth and bear it, never allowing you to see this temporary weakness. He will always maintain his composure, even if you are the one causing his distress.

You position the small table in his room that was used for yesterday's dinner to fashion yourself a little workstation. It is now beside the bed, and you bend the reading lamp on top of it. This should work. You don't expect to have to do anything too precise. You pull out a tube you bought from a trader today and leave it beside the light before heading to the bathroom to wash your hands.

The room feels too quiet for Knives. Despite the whisper of water, his ears ring. Not only that, his arm that you grabbed still feels tingly, and the tightness in his stomach and chest threatens to leave him breathless. Is this what you called a stroke? Or maybe it is a heart attack? Could something like that kill him? Doubtful. He just has to endure this. It will pass. He will heal.

While waiting for your return, Knives pulls the cotton shirt over his head and starts to unwind the bandages around his body that he had wrapped there himself yesterday. He couldn't bear coming to you with this. Couldn't bear the thought of asking for help. As a result, the bandages are loose around him, sliding about a lot more than usual. He had never paid much attention to how you did it, so he didn't know how to properly secure them.

You return from the bathroom with even more supplies that you must have brought from your own room. There's fresh bandages and a bottle of clear liquid. Knives watches you sit down on the edge of his bed and beckoning him closer with a smile. Without even thinking, his body complies, stepping right in front of you. He stands there rigid as a statue, his body leaning back a bit as if trying to maintain distance. Knives feels your hands like burning embers as they touch him to move him to the side just enough for the light to cast upon his wound. You have that familiar look on your face again, the focused and determined one Knives has observed on you before. This is the doctor in you, caring for your patient. It is so different from the teasing expression you had before, but it remains just as kind. He looks down, keeping careful watch over every shift of your expression.

"Good news is that it hasn't gotten much worse. But it is still badly bruised and not completely healed," you speak without looking up at him; nevertheless, your voice sounds worried. "That said, you have to stop touching it. It isn't healing like it is supposed to. You need to let it rest and give it time to recover properly."

Knives barely hears the words you speak. Almost everything he has goes into not grabbing your hand that touches his body. It feels so strangely warm against his skin. You keep speaking, but he can't focus on your words. He must remain still. He mustn't let on that your touch bothers him so much. He welcomes the rush of pain as you clean his wound with the clear liquid from the bottle. The familiar scent of Marvin's strong liquor stings his nose, but that too is an appreciated distraction. Your fingers keep roaming his side as you take care of him. Lines of fire are left behind where you lightly pull on his skin. Even the familiar pain can't drown that out. His fingers twitch, but Knives manages to remain in control before they would have reached out to capture your hand.

"Sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you! I just needed to make sure there's no infection." You sound apologetic, and you pull away from him. Yet the ghostly touch of your skin on his remains. It only gives him a moment to gather himself before you take the tube and smear his wound in a yellowish salve. He winces at it; however, it's not from pain but from your touch. Your mumbled apology falls on deaf ears as Knives tries his best to figure out what is wrong with him.

The worst comes when you adhere a blaster over his wound and secure it with bandages. Your fingers press the sticky side against him, and your arms reach around his body to take the roll from one hand to the other. It is possible you had told him to spin around, but he did not hear those words. All he can see is you leaning closer to him, almost like giving him an embrace. His arms hover uselessly at his sides, unsure of what to do. Part of him wants to reach out again, but what would be the point?

He looks so strange. Even stranger than before. You wonder what has gotten into him. Is he being so silent and weird because you scolded him? You only did it because you are worried for him. All his other wounds are healed, yet the one he keeps reaching out for stays the same. If only he would tell you what bothers him. Perhaps you would know what medicine to look for. But since all your questions have been met with silence, you are left feeling helpless.

You quickly clean up after yourself, all while being watched by his icy glare. What could he possibly be thinking about? He truly acts like a child sometimes. Guess you shouldn't be surprised that this is his reaction to being lectured by you. You wish him a good night before leaving with no answer through the conjoined bathroom.

Knives sits down on the edge of the bed, almost folding over as his arm reaches across his body to cup the wound. He can still feel the impression of your touch. He can place his fingertips where yours were, spaced out exactly the same. He traces his hand over his bandages and skin where yours had been. The way you cleaned and checked his wound, pulling on the skin and smearing the ointment all over it. Your touch haunts him more severely than it has ever before. Even the slightest graze of your hands against his skin has left tingling marks that refuse to be erased. It fills him with anger. How can a single human be such a pain to him?

The bed creaks as he gets up again to turn off the lights, but as he shifts, the book falls to the floor with a thud. Knives reaches down to pick it up, his eyes finding the pencil marks on the edge of the paper where the book had opened itself to.

"I'm not used to being loved. I wouldn't know what to do. F. Scott Fitzgerald."

The scribble doesn't mean anything to Knives. It doesn't speak to him. He doesn't believe in that fairy tale love described in literature. It is nonsense. Yet it turns the anger into rage. His chest finally breaks free of the binds that suffocated him while you were around. Everything burns within him, an inferno he hasn't felt since fighting for his paradise. It feels familiar, destructive. His fingers turn into claws, hooked and bloodhungry. He carelessly throws the book to the side while walking over to the light switches. His hand smears blood over the metal plates before plunging his room into darkness. The fury and pain burn away the feeling of your touch from his skin. If only it would erase you from his mind. If only he could forget those eyes of yours. If only he could forget the sound of your voice. If only you would fear him.

As he turns back, it seems like he sees your reflection in the glass window. The same brave eyes. The same kind smile. The same caring expression he seems unable to escape. He walks across the room and the illusion disappears. And so does his anger. He is all alone. Even the raging fire within him is nothing more than a flickering flame of a candle. His guiding light has always been an inferno, shining bright enough to drown out anything else, but now that it is gone, Knives sees sources of light he has never noticed before. Tiny flickers like stars in the night sky. How pathetic he feels. With the blaze gone, so is his strength. Slowly he leans against the glass, and even slower he slides down along it until he sits on the floor with his bare back against the window.

The curtains still smell of the incense that was burned yesterday. Knives suddenly feels so tired and weak, like everything he has ever been was burned to ash in his anger. He can't close his eyes. He cannot fall asleep. Not here. Not now. Not with the incense blurring his senses and you filling his mind. His fingers press deeper into the reopened wound that soaks his bandages with blood. He needs to stay awake. Why is this happening to him?

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happysunnyyellowlove · 9 months ago

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Today is my 37th wedding anniversary. Sadly, only 19 of these were spent with my husband, my soulmate, the love of my life, my best friend.

My soul has not been whole since his left this earth.

If you are struggling today as I am, please know, I will say an extra prayer and send positive thoughts your way as well. ❤️

“I still carry you on the insides of me: cave paintings on rib-caging. If I were a peach, you would be the pit that holds me all together. When I met you, I was something small and whole; I do not know how to get back there. You have the warmest heart I have ever set up camp in.

I still carry you on the insides of me: the contents of my suitcase heart. I will lug you around until it breaks my back and then some. I feel sometimes like I have scattered my pieces everywhere, but you are the piece I do not know how to leave at the foot of a stranger’s bed or between the lines of a free-verse poem. I want you to know that loving you is freeing; that loving you is like holding my head under water and coming up new again and again.

I still carry you on the insides of me. This will not always make sense to you”

― Trista Mateer, Honeybee

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emma23 · 2 months ago

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The philosopher’s dilemma:

Jonathan levy x reader

————————————————————————

Jonathan Levy sat at his desk, half-listening to the steady hum of conversation among his students. His morning philosophy class was his least favorite—not because of the subject (he loved existentialism) but because 8:30 a.m. was too early for anyone to tackle questions like What is the meaning of life?

He glanced up from the stack of essays he was grading and noticed Y/N walking in, ten minutes late as usual. She wore an oversized sweater and carried her coffee cup like it was a lifeline.

"Miss Y/N," Jonathan said, arching an eyebrow. "Decided to join us, I see."

"I’m here, aren’t I?" she replied, sliding into her seat at the back.

Jonathan fought back a smirk. Of all his students, Y/N was by far the most frustrating—and the most intriguing. She had a habit of making the worst possible choices, whether it was in her coursework or her personal life (from what little he’d gleaned). And yet, there was something undeniably captivating about her.

"Perhaps you’d like to summarize Kierkegaard’s thoughts on despair since you’ve clearly mastered punctuality," he quipped.

Y/N groaned. "I was late, not asleep. Give me a break."

"Fine," Jonathan said, gesturing toward the front. "But I’ll expect you to participate later. No slinking out of it this time."

She rolled her eyes, but there was a faint blush on her cheeks as she busied herself with her notebook.

Jonathan didn’t know when it had started, this peculiar fascination with Y/N. He wasn’t naive—he’d seen the way she occasionally glanced at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. He knew she had a thing for him, though she was far too stubborn to admit it.

And he? He’d be lying if he said he didn’t find her intriguing. Brilliant, in her own scattered, reckless way.

But there were lines. He was her professor, after all.

That didn’t stop him from being particularly amused when he noticed a folded piece of paper fall out of her notebook as class ended. She didn’t seem to notice, hurrying off to grab her next coffee.

Jonathan picked it up.

The first line of the poem caught his attention immediately:

"There’s a quiet fire in his voice, one that burns hotter than my worst mistakes."

Jonathan froze. He skimmed the rest, his face heating as he realized the subject of the poem was unmistakably him.

Jonathan wasn’t one to confront things directly. He was a philosopher; he preferred subtlety, nuance, the art of drawing things out. So, instead of asking Y/N about the poem, he decided to force her hand.

The next week, he assigned the class a creative project: write a poem inspired by philosophy. And then, he added the kicker.

"You’ll each read your poem aloud," he announced.

The collective groans were satisfying, but none were as dramatic as Y/N’s.

"You can’t be serious," she blurted out.

"Deadly," Jonathan replied, his gaze locking with hers.

When it was Y/N’s turn, she looked like she might bolt. But to her credit, she stood and unfolded the paper. Jonathan could see the slight tremor in her hands.

The room was silent as she began to read:

"He speaks of truths that cut like glass,

Of choices that unravel the soul.

He is contradiction: fire and ice,

A man of thought, and yet, of passion.

I burn under his gaze,

Lost in the labyrinth of what might be."

Jonathan kept his expression neutral, but his pulse quickened with each line.

When she finished, she quickly sat down, avoiding his gaze entirely.

"Interesting," Jonathan said after a long pause. "Miss Y/N, would you care to elaborate on the inspiration behind your work?"

"No," she muttered, staring at her desk.

"Shame," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "It’s quite compelling. Personal, even."

Her face turned scarlet.

After class, Y/N lingered, shoving her books into her bag with unnecessary force. Jonathan approached her desk, leaning against it casually.

"So," he said. "Fire and ice, huh?"

"Don’t," she groaned, refusing to meet his eyes.

"It’s not every day a professor discovers he’s a muse," he teased.

Y/N finally looked up, her eyes narrowing. "You weren’t supposed to see that."

"I disagree," he said, smirking. "It was...illuminating."

"Great," she muttered. "Can I go now? Or do you want me to write an ode to your ego, too?"

Jonathan chuckled, blocking her path. "I think we should talk about this."

"What’s there to talk about?" she snapped. "It’s just a stupid poem. It doesn’t mean anything."

His gaze softened. "Doesn’t it?"

That night, Y/N found herself in Jonathan’s office. She wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened—one moment they’d been arguing in the hallway, and the next, he’d invited her in under the pretense of "clearing the air."

"Why do you always make things so difficult?" she asked, slumping into a chair.

"Why do you always avoid the truth?" he countered, sitting across from her.

She glared at him. "Fine. Yes, the poem is about you. Happy now?"

Jonathan leaned forward, his expression unreadable. "And why is that?"

"Because you’re infuriating," she blurted out. "You’re brilliant and arrogant and...and you make me feel things I shouldn’t feel!"

The room was silent for a moment, the weight of her confession hanging in the air.

"I see," he said finally, his voice low.

"You’re not going to say anything?" she demanded.

He stood, walking around the desk to stand in front of her. "I’m trying to decide if this is the worst decision I’ll ever make," he said quietly.

"And?"

Jonathan’s lips curved into a faint smile. "I’ve made worse."

The kiss was inevitable, a collision of suppressed emotions and poor judgment. It was slow at first, tentative, but quickly deepened as years of tension finally broke.

"Jonathan," Y/N whispered against his lips, her fingers tangling in his hair.

"Y/N," he murmured, his hands gripping her waist.

They didn’t stop. Not when the lamp on his desk fell over, not when the stack of essays spilled onto the floor.

The next morning, Y/N stretched lazily, her head resting on Jonathan’s chest.

"You know this is insane, right?" she said.

"Completely," he replied, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

They lay in silence for a moment before Y/N smirked. "So...do I still have to read my poems in class?"

Jonathan groaned. "Go to sleep, Y/N."

She laughed, the sound echoing through the room.

#jonathan levy x reader #jonathan levy #scene from a mariage #oscar isaac #oscar isaac character #oscar isaac characters

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lachencha · 2 months ago

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A Million Springs: Anya Mouthwashing x Reader

i updated today?

you know i had to double itttt

this was based on my dreems

i hope you guys like it! and thank you for liking and reblogging you beautiful people!

does anya’s ghost count as a warning..??

Abandoned sheets of music lay scattered across your desk, with crumpled, balled-up ones overflowing the trash can. Sleepily, you scribble more lyrics onto a fresh page, writing words of love you wish you could've said to her one more time. It's been almost a year, but the ache hasn't dulled. If anything, it lingers sharper in the quiet.

She loved music. She loved when you sang songs to her, when you'd dedicate them to her during a gig. Though you never thought of yourself as much of a songwriter, she liked whatever impromptu melody you came up with. Anya liked everything—oldies, R&B, pop. You smile softly, remembering how diverse her playlists were during your late-night car rides, each song a little glimpse into her ever-curious heart.

You strum your guitar lightly. The sound feels hollow. Usually, Anya would be there beside you, swaying her head to the rhythm as you practiced, sometimes humming, sometimes shyly singing along. She was always self-conscious about her voice, and you never understood why. You told her she was amazing, better than she realized. But she'd always shake her head and laugh, playfully stubborn. She didn't believe you, though you wished she had.

You glance at the mess on your desk and begin sorting the scattered sheets. Anya would've scolded you for leaving it like this, she hated clutter. She used to tidy up your desk while muttering good-natured complaints. It feels wrong to organize it now without her, but you do it anyway, her voice echoing in your mind.

After a quick shower, you slip into bed, your body clean but your mind anything but. You stare at the ceiling, too tired to move but too restless to drift off. The silence presses heavy around you.

"(Y/N)."

Your breath catches. That voice—it couldn't be.

You sit up, your heart racing, and there she is. Your raven-haired beauty, her familiar eyes gazing down at you with a softness that breaks you. Her lips curve into a gentle smile, and you can't stop the tears that well up in your eyes. Slowly, almost afraid she'll vanish, you reach for her. She takes your hand, her touch warm and steady.

“Anya..." you whisper, the name trembling on your lips. You throw yourself into her arms, sobbing.

She holds you tightly, her fingers stroking your hair with the same tenderness you'd missed so desperately.

"I've missed you so much, Anya. You have no idea how much I've missed you. I wrote so many songs, so many poems—everything for you. I never stopped thinking about you. I never stopped loving you."

"I know," she says softly, her voice like a balm on your wounded heart.

She guides you to sit beside her, her hands warm against yours. "That's why I'm here," she says. "It hurts me to see you like this, to see you cry. I've heard every song you wrote for me, and I love each one."

"You did?" you ask, your voice breaking.

She nods, pressing a kiss to your cheek. "I did. But..."

She hesitates, her eyes searching yours as she holds your hands closer to her chest. "I need you to stop."

Your stomach twists. "Why? Do they bother you?"

"No," she says, shaking her head. "It's not that. But I can't bear to see you so broken. I just want you to keep going, my love. I want to see you happy."

You glance down at her hands, tracing the faint lines of her palm. "Do you remember the night we started going out? And you made me play my guitar for you?"

She chuckles softly, a sound that makes your chest tighten. "You kept forgetting the lyrics to that one oldies song."

"And you sang it instead," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. "It was the first time you let me hear you really sing."

"I only sang because you wouldn't stop begging," she teases, her eyes glinting with the memory. "And you made fun of me the whole time."

"Because you were so good, and you didn't even realize it." You grip her hand tighter, your voice trembling. "How am I supposed to keep going without moments like that?"

She looks away, her expression softening. "You'll make new ones," she says quietly. "And one day, they won't hurt as much."

"I don't want new ones," you say, shaking your head. "I want the ones we never got to have."

She cups your face, her thumb brushing away a stray tear. "I want them too," she admits. "But I'm not here to haunt you, my love. I'm here to remind you that you're still alive."

"How can I keep going?" you plead. "You were everything to me. How could I ever forget you?"

She opens her mouth to respond, but you press on, desperate to make her understand.

"Give me a million springs," you whisper, your voice trembling, "and a couple of centuries to adore you. After that, I'll forget you. I promise I'll never bother you again."

She sighs, her expression tinged with sorrow. "That's impossible."

You shake your head, tears slipping down your cheeks. "As impossible as it is to forget you."

Her grip loosens, and she lets your hands fall. "Please," she says softly. "I need to see you move on. I can't stand watching you cry over me anymore. Promise me you'll try. Promise me you won't live in the past."

You sigh, your chest heavy. "I'll try," you murmur.

She smiles faintly, her lips brushing your cheek in a final kiss. And then she's gone.

You wake up alone, her words echoing in the silence, and you stare at the empty space where she had been.

She's asking for the impossible.

Not even a million springs would be enough to stop loving her.

#anya mouthwashing #anya x reader #mouthwashing #mouthwashing anya x reader

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lewkwoodnco · 1 year ago

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tis the damn season - Lockwood x Reader

A/N: estranged best friends to lovers trope my beloved!!! 😍 AHHH this is one of my fav fics I've written in a while. Poem below is Golden Boy by Cecil Miller, and the Spanish line is taken from a streetcar named desire by tennessee (idk how 2 spell) williams! this might be less proofread than normal + includes a few of my pre-infection hallucinations? lottt of angst, wc 5.1k!!

P.S. I think I'll be doing a part 2 to buy me presents! but not until a little later ahah and also the 12 days of fics are totally going to spill over hahah

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST

Lockwood stares out the kitchen window. Both inside and outside, there is a bleak stillness in the air that sinks in his bones like a plague. It's too cold and too early in the morning for anyone to be properly out and about. But the season always messed up his sleep schedule more than usual, and now that they had taken a break from their cases for the holidays, there was nothing to occupy his treacherous mind, and its return to taut requirings of Christmases past.

Slowly, the other residents of Portland Row start to stir. George grumbles about their spluttering heating system and having to plod through the snow to get the mail, and Lucy promptly falls asleep in the cup of tea she's just brewed for herself. They were all exhausted, and rightfully so, given that the holidays was prime time for people to start looking into properly clearing out ghosts to keep their homes warm and cheery.

He slips out just as George's complaints about the heater start ramping up, and his mind is so scattered that he forgets to put his coat on. It's a little more brisk than what was completely tolerable, strictly speaking, but it was only just for a minute. When he reaches the mailbox, he runs into Mr. and Mrs. L/N, old family friends who had helped him more than he deserved over the years. They made some polite conversation while he rifled through the bills and letters.

"Oh, Anthony, we wanted to invite you over to tea sometime this week. Y/N's home for the holidays."

His hand slips and an envelope slices his finger open. It was bound to happen, given his glum and careless mood, and it takes every ounce of self-restraint to suppress his cry of pain in front of them.

"Home...as in here? London?"

Ever since she had left for boarding school, there would always be some talk of her dropping by for Christmas every year. But the plans would never be fully solid, or some other pre-existing commitment would prevent her from making the trip. He was suddenly feeling oddly claustrophobic. He glanced up and down the street, as if expecting her to be hiding in some bushes.

Mrs. L/N seemed to pick up on his distraction, and her brow furrowed with concern.

"Of course London. Where's your coat, dearie? Aren't you feeling chilly?"

"...yes. Now that you mention it...perhaps it's best I head back inside."

He gave a stiff sort of wave and walked back, mind reeling. Eight years. Eight years since he last saw her. What the hell was he supposed to do if he saw her now? How was he supposed to feel?

Luckily, he doesn't get much time to panic because as soon as he walks in, he narrowly dodges a wrench being lobbed at his head. Apparently, eleven freezing days with improper heating was more than what George could bear. It's usually a rather quick fix, but maybe the comparatively more extreme frost this year had corrupted the system beyond Lockwood's capabilities, because two hours later he was still no closer to getting it fixed.

Some time later, there's a knock on the door. He yells for someone to get the door, but he's buried too deeply in the house for anyone to hear him. Grumbling, he dusts himself off and walks to the door himself, head buzzing with frustration. He's so preoccupied with what more he could possibly do to get the heating working again that he doesn't think to check the peephole first. So when he opens the door, he gets the wind knocked out of him.

"Anthony."

It was her; rosy-cheeked yet looking effortlessly warm. Her facial features had lengthened and rearranged themselves as compared to when he last saw her, but there was still something expensive to the twist of her mouth and the crinkles near her eyes.

"It's been so long."

Even her voice was rich, like honey. Now that she was standing in front of him, the stitch in his chest from the morning seemed much more familiar. It had been some seasonally grievious paste that had coated his lungs and stoppered his mouth that made him feel eerily weightless if he dwelled on it too much.

He didn't know what to do. Exchange pleasantries, or skip to the part where he slams the door in her face? Before he could decide, he hears some shuffling behind him, and almost instinctively opens the door wider.

"Y/N. These are my associates. George Karim, Lucy Carlyle...Y/N L/N."

"Right. Lockwood and Co., was it?"

The four of them glance at each other, exchanging fleeting smiles for a good half-minute, before George has the sense to usher everyone inside for a cup of tea.

The kettle's already on, and George hands out the cups of tea waring mittens, his glasses barely visible behind the scarf mummifying the lower half of his head. If she notices the cold in the house, she doesn't comment on it.

They make some polite small talk. She's pleasantly amiable and a perfectly gracious guest, and talks about her Christmas dinner plans. Lockwood is disinterested and surly and wants to talk about his fragmented sense of self. At one point, his responses start to become so clipped that he earns a poorly concealed kick from Lucy, accompanied by a stern look. Luckily, it doesn't seem as if she's noticed. She was looking at the white blanket of snow over their garden carefully, as if dismissing their presence.

"Your garden looks beautiful. I'd love to have a look around."

George and Lockwood exchanged a look. It was freezing outside, and the harsh temperatures were clearly not worth braving for the little of the flowerbeds they could see. George opened his mouth to tell her as much, in his own snide way, but he hesitated. Lockwood felt his heart sink.

The thing was, she had had a magnetic effect on most people ever since they were kids, a quality that made it difficult for any grown adult to refuse her or for any child to oppose her. It was the same reason why she was sitting in his house, drinking out of his teacups, eating his share of biscuits (George and Lucy had clearly conspired as soon as they picked up on her staying for tea). But he had been sure that if there was anyone who could pull away from this siren call of hers, it would be George. The very boy who was meaningfully looking at him, trying to express some uncommunicable panic.

"Er...Lockwood?"

And so, he ended up taking her out for a brief and awkwardly quiet stroll in their garden once she was done with her tea. They meandered through the garden path stiltedly, and every snow-dusted weed and sapling seemed to astound her. Still, she divided her attention sufficiently to continue the ocnversation.

"Homeowner and agency head at fifteen. Impressive."

"Thank you."

"I bet you're the media's darling."

He shrugs.

She turns to him, eyes generously pooling with faux concern.

"It can't have been easy."

It wasn't easy, not that she would know anything about it. He wants to be spiteful towards her, lash out at her. God knows she deserved it. But something holds him back.

"So...that was George. And Luce."

She jerked her head back in acknowledgement, but he could see the slight smile playing at her lips as she did so. He had forgotten how terribly exasperating she could be.

"What?"

She shook her head, but that only made her smile grow wider, and so she finally relented. There's a vulpine twist to her lips that Lockwood has no patience for. "Nothing. I'm sure they're lovely people, of course. But if I wanted to know who you were hanging with while I was gone, I would have asked you."

He shrugged. "I wanted to share a bit of my life now. They're just about all of it."

She hums pleasantly, stopping short in front of one of the flower beds. She bends down and picks up a freshly fallen violet, its deep indigo harsh and unrelenting against the fresh, pure snow, against the season of vacancy and death. She holds it up in front of Lockwood.

"Viola Odarata. Symbolises humility. Flores; flores para los muertos. Flores."

A part of him wants to sneer at her in painful irony. How arrogant of her to think she could waltz back into his life as she pleased.

"That what they teach you in your boarding school? Useless facts about violets?"

She shivers, even though the air is completely still with no breeze, and her lips part. Too late, he realises he's gone too far. Her smile slips a fraction, and she takes on an air that makes him feel obliged to apologise. He resists it, and for a moment he sees something flash in her eyes, but it's gone before he can place it.

"Forgive me, but you don't seem terribly happy."

"The Problem's raging worse than ever. Happy things don't come by easy these days."

"...I suppose. It wouldn't -" For the first time, Lockwood thinks she might be feeling nervous. Her humanity, manufactured or otherwise, draws him in despite himself. "It wouldn't have anything to do with me...would it?"

He takes in her carefully manicured appearance, her intentionally pieced together life made up of the dreams she worked towards and achieved. And all he had was a house that was more of a burden than a blessing on some days and this inchoate dread over a Problem whose end was nowhere in sight. But he doesn't know how to express this resentment, this jealousy.

"I'm alright if you're alright."

Sad, dispirited eyes look into each other, searching for the fulfilment they're sure the other has found. She speaks in a tight voice.

"It's okay with the both of us, then."

She suddenly reaches out, and gently holds his finger with the papercut with a firm but comforting pressure. His first instinct is to pull his hand back, but he doesn't, and as the long seconds pass, he feels increasingly vulnerable. The cut was no longer bleeding, and was even well on its way to healing over just fine, but it was irritated from where he had relentlessly picked at it.

"Looks fresh."

She traces the cut with her other hand, violet folded in her palm, with a feather-light touch. The surreality of the moment - of her standing inches from her, her breath tickling his fingertips, her warmth spreading through him - catches up to him and makes his breath hitch. It was unbearably intimate and made him feel like the exposed, raw wound he had been nursing for the eight years she had been gone. And how like her to return with pockets full of unfounded promise to stitch the tears in his skin.

And just as quickly, she lets go of his hand and steps back, and Lockwood feels as though cold air has been forced into his airways. She tucks the violet behind her ear, and drifts back inside. The tilt of her joints is so familiar that it stirs something in him. Something long gone, something he was gripping like a fist.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When they return, Lockwood excuses himself to his room for a bit of air, ignoring how closely George is watching him. He sits on his bed and takes a deep breath. His nightstand has a few miniature picture frames on it, and in one of them the picture's been flipped around. It's a picture of him and her, taken a few months before she left. It's how he remembered her before seeing her today. Sometimes, when the urge grew too great, he would tilt the frame under his nightlight, and make out the barest outline of their figures looped together on the other side of photograph.

He didn't know what to make of her departure, all those years ago. One day, they were swinging on tyres in her parents' garden, and the next day, she wasn't at school. But as the years churned on, the string tying his heart to hers stretched and tore a slow and painful death from him, out of the cavity she left, and he never felt quite the same again. And as they continued to age, the wound became old news and scabbed over what was once raw and paralysing, but a part of him always wanted to know why she did it, to be angry with her for being so callous.

And now she was back, pulling him under by the ankles, ripping the gash open viciously.

He didn't know how exactly to deal with it, after years of thinking of her adjacently, daring only to keep her in his peripheral vision, where he was kept safe. Maybe it was all part of a larger problem; the twitch in his hand and his recurring nightmare.

He's ten years old again, at a train station he's never been to, and likely one that doesn't exist. It's hard to see just about any discerning features, except for the massive train peeking through the fog in front of him. He looks to the right, and sees her strong fingers wrapped around a railing, her standing in the door of the train. He can't be sure of much, but he's certain she's looking at him. He stretches the moment as long as it will last, because it's all downhill from there.

There's a terrible groaning sound, and the train reluctantly starts to chug along, steadily gathering speed. He walks alongside it, gradually picking up his own pace, until he's nearly sprinting. All the while, she watches him with amused eyes, secure in her place on the train. He's panting, choking on the fog, eyes streaming. But if he can just reach her scarf whipping in the wind, the train will stop, and she'll step out, cool and gleaming and impervious to the cloud of dust surrounding her and-

He wakes with a start. He knows how it ends.

She slips through his fingers every time.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She stays for the rest of the day, and the four of them spend a cosy afternoon decorating their Christmas tree, carefully dodging the random mugs of hot chocolate littered across the room. While they were digging out the ornaments from the attic, she finds a box that he, evidently, had not tucked away deep enough.

"Remember these?" She holds up a flimsy, crumbling Santa Claus ornament made of construction paper. "We had so much fun making them."

He nods stiffly, subtly shifting the box towards a corner in the living room. It smarts his eyes to look at the hideous thing, as if its very sight was corrosive.

"Took me a while to find them, though. It must be a pain to dig them out every year."

He puts down the bauble he's hanging, and sighs. "I haven't...brought these out in a while."

Even her look of perplexity looks artificial. "Why not? Aren't there so many happy memories attached to these?" Her face falls ever so slightly. "Do memories of me not make you happy?"

Luckily, they're interrupted by Lucy placing a handful of miniature marshmallows into their hot chocolate. When she moves over to George, Lockwood wordlessly starts hanging their crafted ornaments, and she doesn't press him for an answer. When they're done, the tree looks a lot more crowded and chaotic than it normally does, similar to how Lockwood was feeling with her around. He looks at her, and isn't sure how he feels about the asymmetry of having her here.

Later, when she's about to leave, it starts snowing heavily, too heavily for her to walk home. So after a phone call with her parents, she decides to spend the night. Lockwood's in his bedroom when he hears a knock on his door. It's her, dressed in a spare set of Lucy's pajamas.

"I thought you'd be awake."

She wanted to know what he was doing, and what he was doing was wrapping some Christmas presents. Immediately, she obligingly offered to help, and she was too eager for him to outright refuse. Of course, he might have thought differently if he had known how abysmally little she knew about wrapping gifts. And so they stay up till the early hours of the morning, both of them trying equally hard to teach her the most basic of gift wrapping skills. As the night wore on, they got increasingly drunk on laughter over her heinously criminal attempts and Lockwood's limbs started to loosen up. At one point, he had given up entirely and placed his hands over hers, puppeteering the night's only decent gift wrapping while she smothered her laughter.

He doesn't remember much after that. When he next regains his consciousness, he's lying curled up next to her, with the late morning sun streaming through his windows. He watches her breathe, slow and steady, with a face so relaxed, amiable and familiar.

As her eyes start to flutter open, he panics and tries to look anywhere else, which isn't easy given how she's only inches away from him. They glance at each other, silently acknowledging their positions, and the silence hangs heavy in the air. He clears his throat awkwardly, trying to put as much space between them as he can with his arm wrapped under her. "When do you leave?"

She scrunches her forehead as she thinks. It's one of the few parts of her he instantly recognises and he gets caught off guard by a rush of affection, and a flash of an impulse to smooth out the wrinkles.

"Monday."

He pulls a face.

"We'd have the weekend together. Isn't that enough?"

They stay quiet, watching specks of dust float through the sunlight filtering through his partially drawn curtains. With how close they are to each other, they're not looking at each other's face, and it's unclear if she's asking him, or herself, or the dust they're watching. Was it enough?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later that evening, Lucy wants to take a walk along some of the emptier roads in the snow. She takes their trip as her cue to leave but Lucy insists she come along, so she does. The four of them had cycled as far as they could, and when they reached the too-slippery parts of the road, they had dismounted and left their bicycles in a corner. Lucy and George were wandering around a bit ahead of them, while they slowly shuffled through the snow. She had picked up some newspapers on their way there, and was looking through them as they walked, taking particular interest in the odd article on Lockwood & Co.

"You've certainly had your fair share of media coverage."

"Along with a decent helping of frenzied media sensationalism, I suppose."

"My apologies. I forgot I was talking to the Anthony J. Lockwood of Lockwood & Co. Now, is the arson bit complimentary, or would I have to pay extra?"

She was teasing him, and it was irritating. There was a reticent air about him and after some politely delicate probing, which he had been too preoccupied to entertain, she had resorted to amusing herself. Toying with him like a figurine, the way she did all those years ago.

"You wear your grief so beautifully, Lockwood. Like...like jewels between your teeth..."

She pauses, flipping through the newspapers interestedly with inky fingertips, which flickered like shadows next to the soft white snow.

"...and you have such a winning smile. Golden boy." She laughs, and the sound feels like icicles pressing into his skull. "Golden boy," she trills, "you were a bit of a child. The world was having its way with you. You tried to...er, something...golden boy!"

She smiles at him lazily, expectantly, as if anticipating some kind of applause. But Lockwood is in no mood for her childish whimsies.

"I'm fine. I don't have any grief."

She frowns exaggeratedly. "'Course you do."

"I don't."

She mumbles, turning back to her newspaper. "Fine, then. Not like I'm the one holding onto...some kind of...ache."

He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. How could anyone be this self-aware and yet completely oblivious? The strain on his self-restraint peaks and he buckles within himself.

"Why are you here, Y/N?"

She looks away from the snow. "Lucy said it'd be nice out here."

"No. I mean why are you here, in London? Here, at Portland Row?"

Her lips are pressed together, and there's something guarded in her eyes.

"I just...wanted to see how you were doing."

"Liar."

The word drops from his tongue in such an aggrieved manner with such vehemence that it makes her choke.

"How could you say something like that?"

He scoffs. "Please, let's not pretend you weren't dying to leave at the first chance. Not that you had the decency to tell me-"

"-I was ten!-"

"- having me go through the humiliating process of finding out on my own-"

"What do you want me to say, Lockwood? I'm sorry I left? I'm sorry you were alone? I'm sorry I was too selfish to give a damn about you?"

"-and you'll come back, choking on your silver spoon only to leave again and again and again until you're all alone-"

"You never wrote!"

"I didn't think you'd want me to!"

"I didn't know what I wanted!"

"Then what do you want?"

"YOU, you idiot!"

He stares at her, speechless.

"I was ten. And I was so foolish. How could I have thought of anything but you?"

With that, the last of her rosy, polished, alluring boarding-school airs fell apart. He looks at her and sees his own anger and yearning reflected back at him; anger and yearning he's hardly ready to face. Despite all their efforts to get away from the other, to move on, something between them held fast. Or perhaps it was that they were hopelessly, irrevocably intertwined.

"Of all the roads I could have travelled, you are at the end of every single one of them. Every single one of them, except the road I did travel. I'm here, Lockwood, because I thought I might have...I might have chosen wrong."

"So you think you can just stroll back now that it's convenient for you? I didn't know if I'd ever see you again, do you realise that?"

"What do you want me to do, Lockwood? You keep pushing me away. I feel like part of a past you're forever trying to run away from. So fine! I'll leave, then. I'll go back to the sorry hole I crawled out of, back to friends I don't care about, back to dreaming of the only person who's ever truly cared about me. Is that what you want?"

She doesn't wait for a response, and turns around and walks away from him.

"Y/N, come back."

She silently picks her bicycle out of the snow, dusting it off.

"You can't cycle in this."

Still ignoring his words ringing through the dead winter silence, she steadies herself and cautiously swings a leg over her bicycle. Lockwood starts to walk towards her.

"You'll fall. You'll hurt yourself. Y/N. Y/N!"

But she's already off, gliding soundlessly like a ghost through frigid air on icy roads.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He's already regretting his words by the time he reaches 35 Portland Row. When he first walks in, the house is so deathly quiet that he's convinced she's left. But her bicycle is thrown down in the garden and he knows she's too averse to the cold to walk home in the snow.

He walks slowly, his measure footsteps echoing on the wooden floors of the house, and he eventually finds her in the living room, sitting with her back to the door, staring at the drawn curtains. The fading evening glow spilling through the edges is streaked across her face and there's a soft crunching sound. As he comes closer, he sees the bowl of ice glinting in her lap, like fractured light, with her face as blank as a canvas.

"Have you gone completely mad? You'll fall sick."

She doesn't even flinch, as if she hadn't heard him. When she speaks, there's a dreamy quality to her typically strong and clear voice.

"I didn't want to come back. This city is nothing I want. I was always going to escape some day. And yet..." she trails off with glazed eyes, as if trying to look through some distant fog. "...and yet."

"You were right." The run back had left him mildly breathless, but was also exactly what he needed to get rid of the buzz in his head, giving way to some much-needed clarity. "About the...heartache. I was just sick of it. You're miles away. I love you in your sleep. I still reach the end of road alone. But I loved you all the while and...somehow that made the pain of leaving you worth it."

"I'm restless. I'm lost. I'm selfish." She swivels her head with an unnerving smoothness, grin wide and grotesque, ice glinting between her perfect teeth. "I'm so alone, Lockwood. Just like you said."

He doesn't know what to say. He walks towards her and picks up her bowl but her fingers close around his wrist like a vice. The gleam in her eye makes him want to pull his hand back. He's too old to play her games and lose.

"That's a bad habit."

"I'm a bad habit. One you can't seem to kick even after all these years: tell me, Anthony, why is that?"

"Y/N, stop. You'll spoil your teeth."

It only makes her grind her teeth even more tauntingly. It's an awful sound. "Good. Let them fall out, one by one. It's what I deserve. Maybe I'll finally learn my lesson."

Her grip on his sleeve lessens, but she doesn't let go. She grips the bowl with her other hand even tighter, as if suddenly terrified.

"Leave me be, Anthony. Leave me...to my vices...and violets and...violence."

He reads her face. He tries to figure her out, to read her like the open book she once was to him. When he doesn't leave, she shovels more ice into her mouth, uncomfortably clacking with her teeth, and continues.

"I was racing ahead...into some glorious sunset, towards some fantastic rainbow, at the end of which was some miraculous snowdrop and a wish to soothe my nomadic soul. I didn't have time for the boy with the sad eyes two streets down from me."

"I convinced myself that you resented my escape from the Problem. I was 15 with the bitter taste of lemongrass in my mouth and a stitch in my chest when I realised I spent all those years missing you. I couldn't run away from it, not truly. So I pretend. I pretend you don't hate me and I pretend I'm not an awful person and I pretend there's a chance you'd want me as much as I want you. I came home to tell you how terribly fond I was of you. It was only at your doorstep that I realised I had run out of places to hide."

"I don't have time for love. Nor the capacity for it. But I am tired of trying to outrun it."

She closed her eyes. Her voice was barely a croak. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was leaving. If I could...I'd wish away the past eight years of misery." She opened her eyes. "Some nights, I can pretend they never existed. But I can't wish your happiness into existence."

Lockwood somehow finds his voice. "I thought this was the life you wanted."

"It is Christmas, once again, and my heart is lonely as an island...once again. What part of this could I possibly want?"

He lets go of the bowl of ice and covers her limp, frozen hand with his own. She speaks in a low voice, barely stirring the dust in the room.

"I'll never forgive myself."

He sits down next to her, his feather-light lips pressed to her temple. She feels drained, and exhausted, as if the spirit that had driven her for so long was finally fatigued. Her breathing was uneven and her lungs felt lopsided. But what a blessing it was to finally fall in the one place she knew her landing would be soft.

"One day. One day, I'll..."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He pulls out a fresh violet from his coat, still damp from the morning dew.

"Call it even?"

She accepts the flower and gives him a sweet smile. He revels in this smallest of victories.

Their peaceful moment gets shattered by the deafening train horn, which unpleasantly reminds Lockwood of where they are.

She hesitates for a moment, but then extends her arm and holds his face. There's a troubled look on her face, like there's something indescribable she wished to communicate just at the tip of her tongue. But the compulsion passes, and she settles for a trembling brush of his cheekbone with her thumb.

"You're such a darling, Anthony. I don't care what any newspaper or lawsuit has to say about you. You'll always be a darling to me."

"Good, because soon enough you might just be the only one."

She grins, widely at first, but then it chips, and for once he can admit that the sight breaks his heart. She gives him a hug, and he holds her like she's one of the precious metals that adorn her jewellery.

"You'll come back, won't you?"

"Perhaps. See you another weekend."

When they break apart, she swiftly picks up her suitcase with white knuckles and marches to the carriage without looking back. The train horn blares for a final time. The doors shut, and the wheels groan to life. He searches for her face, and finds it, but the reflection of the train station lights hides her eyes. It's at this moment that a disconnected part of him realises he doesn't want to wait for another weekend. He wants her here, and he wants her now.

The train picks up speed, and Lockwood tries to match it. But he's not trying to run. He knows that won't work, it never does.

"Y/N!"

That gets the attention of most passengers, including her. This train accelerates much faster than in his dream, and he's got an awful stitch running down the side of his torso by now, but he's beyond caring at this point. When she sees that it's him yelling like a maniac, she presses her flushed face to the window, eyes wide with disbelief.

"Would you stay?"

TAGLIST: @dangelnleif @elenianag080 @avdiobliss @mitskiswift99 @mischivana @houseoftwistedspirits @ahead-fullofdreams

#taylor swift #lockwood x y/n #anthony lockwood x you #anthony lockwood x reader #fanfiction #fanfic #lockwood & co #anthony lockwood imagine #lockwood and co #lockwood and co netflix #tis the damn season #evermore #12 days of fics '23

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slowfalter · 9 months ago

Text

My inner child has a crush on your inner child

driving home in silence

as an exercise in thought mining

as an exercise in poetry writing

and the best line I could think of was

we’re all poems in the end

or would that be the beginning?

and you said there’s a poem in that

and I said yeah a bad one

I can’t write long poems because my world is very small

mostly it’s a kettle and a bed

but these distend and retract as required

sometimes over the kettle you’ll swell and scatter

like sugar through fingers

your timelines hatch chromatic

from that crystal that hangs in the window

and I want to know all of the people you were before

even the ones who creep into your sleep

just to embarrass you

like the one with all the hair gel

and the one with all the frills

I'll pluck them from your family album

and cradle them in my palms

I’ll say it’s okay

I know it feels bad right now

but this will all be a poem in the end

or it would be if I could capture them for you

so I could show you

their finest light

and beamingest smiles

neatest hair

first beer

first love

they’re someone’s favourite son

fastest run

funnest time

I’ll show you what I know

and I know that they were all the best people

they had to have been

because they led you here

————

#poetry #poem #spilled ink #poeticstories #love poem #poets and writers #smittenbypoetry #writeblr #original poem #original poetry #love #queer poetry #poetry tumblr

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swiftsaltsweet · 6 months ago

Text

Two Knives Chapter 5: Kyoshi- Escalation

Characters: Rangi and Kyoshi (RoK characters tbh)

Pairing: Rangshi

Rating: M

Summary:

Things have been stressful for Kyoshi. First, she sang a poem and now the whole kitchen staff thinks it’s about Rangi, and is sure that there will be gossip. Then, Yun asks her to join him for the Fifth Nation treaty signing. Now Rangi’s acting strange. It’s becoming a bit much for Kyoshi’s small corner of the world.

(Canon Divergent AU- Kelsang wasn’t the one who heard the poem?….aka What if it took longer for them to realize Kyoshi was the Avatar?)

Other Sites: AO3

A/N: The spray bottle isn’t enough, I need the horny stick and a jail for them. u_u *posts chapter and runs away embarrassed* TT0TT

_____

About two weeks passed before Kyoshi was able to talk to Yun.

It had become extremely hectic around the mansion. Hei-Ran was really on Yun when it came to his firebending training. And when she wasn’t taking up his time, Jianzhu was. They were arranging several political meetings for the upcoming months. Treaties and laws needed signing and other such important things.

Auntie Mui also had an enormous amount of tasks that Kyoshi needed to do. The list was so long every day, she almost didn’t have time to finish them all by the end of the day.

There must’ve been a lot to do, because even Rangi had to chip in. Unfortunately for Kyoshi, a lot of the tasks seemed to take Rangi to the complete opposite side of the peninsula, let alone the mansion.

But somehow, every night, Rangi would find a way to make her way back to Kyoshi. It would usually be after everyone had gone to sleep that she would show up at Kyoshi’s door.

Seeing Rangi had become the highlight of Kyoshi’s day-well…night. The only downside was they couldn’t progress their relationship as far as they wanted, due to being so dead tired every night. A combination of the overwork, and the time they spent sacrificing sleep so they could steal what tired kisses they could, would do that to you.

Today, Rangi was in another village delivering a “secret package.” She wouldn’t be back until that night, again. Kyoshi couldn’t help but sigh.

On the brightside, Yun finally had time to talk about whatever it was that was so important.

She and Yun were alone in the garden while she fed the koi. In the end, she lied about a frog squirrel eating the lost feed.

“What was it you needed to talk about, Yun?” Kyoshi asked as she scattered the feed into the pond.

“First off, Kyoshi, I would like to sincerely apologize about what happened with the Fifth Nation,” Yun looked down at his palm. It had been stained by the ink when he earthbent the container to defend himself. “I shouldn’t have put you in danger like that. You even put your life on the line to save me, and it gave me the opportunity to break free of my ice prison.”

Kyoshi put a hand on his shoulder and smiled reassuringly. “Yun, it’s really ok. Don’t beat yourself up, I’m just happy you’re alright.”

Yun grimaced. “But still…..”

“I’m just happy you’re safe. You’re important and people care about you, Yun. And not just because you’re the Avatar! You’re important,” she laughed. “Don’t worry about me.”

Yun smiled at her. “Thanks, Kyoshi. You always seem to know what to say.”

Kyoshi scratched the back of her head. “I don’t know about that.” Her mind wandered to the multiple goofs she’d made in the past month. “Is that what you needed to talk about?”

Yun’s eyes widened and looked away. He stood there silently for a moment, then he nodded to himself. He turned back to Kyoshi, drawing up his full height. He had a serious look in his eye. “Kyoshi, I-” he stopped. His eyes widened and face fell in surprise. “R-Rangi?!”

Kyoshi’s heart fluttered upon hearing Rangi’s name, and quickly followed his gaze that led behind her. When she turned around, she dropped the bag of feed to the ground in surprise as she saw Rangi running towards them. She was a mess, covered in dirt and other foliage. There was even a tiny branch sticking out of her topknot!

Rangi stopped right next to her friends, and stood at attention like she wasn’t covered in grime and sweat.

“Hey… Guys…. What’d I…. Miss?” she paused between deep gasps of air.

“Y-you’re…..back,” Yun looked at Rangi, completely surprised.

Kyoshi’s hands hovered over Rangi, the intense urge to clean threatening to overcome her. “W-what happened to you? What happened to your delivery? I thought you wouldn’t be back here until tonight!”

Rangi smiled at her, “Funny story. Turns out, the carriage that was supposed to take me back broke down. So I most likely wasn’t going to be able to come back until tomorrow night at the earliest.”

Kyoshi would’ve hated that, especially if she didn’t get word from Rangi that she'd be late. She would’ve stayed up all night worrying….. But that didn’t mean she wanted Rangi to run headfirst into…..whatever happened to her!

“So, uh, how’d you get back?” Yun let out an exasperated noise.

“I took a shortcut through, or I guess it was over, the mountain,” Rangi said matter-of-factly. As if it was the most normal thing in the world. Just a typical stroll for the firebender.

Kyoshi stopped her hovering, only because she needed her full attention to not grab the firebender by the shoulders and shake her. “You took a shortcut through the mountain?!”

Rangi gave Kyoshi a dazzling smile so bright, it’d make the sun jealous. “Of course, it was easy. I think I might make it my go-to shortcut in all honesty.”

Kyoshi was at a loss for words. Rangi sure was….something at times like this. So Kyoshui decided to just…… let the urge to clean overcome her. She started by brushing off the foliage on Rangi’s armor.

“Well you should be careful, I don’t want my bodyguard getting hurt,” Yun laughed.

“Thank you for your concern, Avatar. But you needn't worry, I’m very capable,” Rangi laughed back.

“So what was it you wanted to say again, Yun?” Kyoshi asked as she brushed off Rangi’s pant leg.

Rangi flashed her dazzling smile towards Yun. “Oh, were you two talking about something? I’m so sorry for interrupting.”

“Uh…..” Yun paused, trying to collect his thoughts, then he grinned. “I got a new pai sho board.”

Kyoshi stopped what she was doing and grimaced. “That’s the forty-fifth one! Get rid of it!”

Yun laughed. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. I plan to.”

“I seriously have no idea why people keep sending you those! You have more than enough.”

“No idea either, I guess people are just persistent.”

Kyoshi sighed, and turned her attention to Rangi’s hair. She needed to get the leaves and sticks out of it. “Was that all?”

Yun laughed. “No, I do have some-” He stopped.

Kyoshi picked a leaf off of the crown of Rangi’s head, then looked at him. Wondering why he went quiet. “Something else?”

Yun stared at Kyoshi with a wide-eyed, aghast expression. Kyoshi returned it, puzzled. Then she followed his eye’s path, and it led to where her hands were, on Rangi’s hair.

Is something wrong? I know her hair is a mess but I’m trying to fix-

Kyoshi’s heart sank and her hands stiffened, then she slowly pulled her hands away from Rangi’s head.

The hair! She thought, terrified. The hair is the most sacred part of a firebender! And….and I….. I-

She's gotten so used to touching and caressing Rangi’s hair for the past two weeks, she’d forgotten about how sacrilegious it was to touch in general, especially in public! And Kyoshi did just that, she had dishonored Rangi!

No wonder Yun was looking at her horrified, she basically just stabbed and cursed their friend all at once! No, worse!

Kyoshi was starting to spiral, but found herself being grounded by a soft hand holding her’s.

“Why’d you stop?” Rangi asked her, completely unfazed, if not a little disappointed.

“I-I-” Kyoshi stuttered.

“Rangi, it’s your hair!” Yun said exasperated.

“That it is, I’m aware.” She closed her eyes with a small smile gracing her lips. Then she bowed her head forward, offering it to Kyoshi. “I really don’t mind, Kyoshi. If anything, you're helping me.”

If…if she says she doesn’t mind then…. Kyoshi’s heart began to pound as she resumed picking the foliage out of Rangi’s hair, gently. She went on in silence for what felt like eternity. It wasn’t until she removed the final stick from Rangi’s topknot, that she felt like she could breathe again.

“There,” Rangi smoothed her hair out as she stood up. “Much better.”

Kyoshi could feel her face blazing as she turned to Yun. He still looked shocked. Rangi may have said it was fine, but judging from Yun’s reaction, Kyoshi knew they did something that would’ve been considered taboo in the Fire Nation.

Then, as if coming out of his stupor, put his hands on his hips and laughed. “Well aren’t you two close!”

Kyoshi flinched. She and Rangi had agreed on keeping quiet about their relationship, mostly to not cause unnecessary trouble for them. Though, Kyoshi couldn’t help but feel like they weren’t exactly the best at hiding it.

“Of course, we’re friends,” Rangi said with a smile, but she grabbed Kyoshi’s hand as she said it. Kyoshi’s face grew hotter at the contact, she was getting a lot of mixed messages at the moment. It was better if she just kept quiet. Let Rangi lead.

Yun laughed. “Well, we’re friends too. Does that mean I can touch your hair?”

Rangi returned the laugh, then said with a slight melody, “If you do, I’ll burn more than just your eyebrows off~!”

Kyoshi watched as her two friends talked and couldn't help but feel….that something was up. Perhaps….she should speak up.

“A-anyway, Yun, you said you had one more thing you needed to talk about?” Kyoshi interrupted.

Yun tapped his chin, in thought. “Well, I still need to work out the kinks. But I wanted to offer you something Kyoshi.”

“What is it?”

Yun grinned widely at her. “I want you to become my Official Avatar Companion!”

There was a long, stunned silence. After hearing the eighth croak of a frog squirrel nearby, Rangi was the first one to speak.

“What?” Rangi said in a dead tone.

Uh oh. Kyoshi thought. She was already envisioning a sequel to Rangi’s mood after she found out Kyoshi was going with them to the Fifth Nation.

“Of course, we’ll make sure Kyoshi is trained,” Yun put his hands up in a surrendering fashion to the firebender's oncoming wrath. “You have a real talent Kyoshi, a lot of raw power. I saw it on the iceberg. And I think learning to fight would be the best thing for you.”

Rangi was taking very audible deep breaths as she squeezed Kyoshi’s hand. Kyoshi could feel her shaking with anger. “No.”

“I think Kyoshi is the one who has to decide for herself, Rangi.”

Rangi didn’t turn to Kyoshi, she just kept glaring at Yun. Kyoshi….didn’t know what to say. Becoming an Avatar’s companion was what so many people dreamed of, but seeing Rangi’s reaction….. Right now, Kyoshi’s primary dream was just having a happy girlfriend.

“Yun, I-” Kyoshi started.

Yun put his hand up. “You don’t need to decide yet. Mull it over a bit. I really think this is the best, for all of us!” His grin grew wider. “We’ll be able to spend all our time together! You’ll be able to explore the world! And, most importantly, you’ll know how to defend yourself.”

Kyoshi felt Rangi grow stock-still.

Yun clapped his hands as he looked up at the sky. “Well, would you look at the time? I better get back to training. Kyoshi, Rangi, you should take the rest of the day off. You’ve both been working so hard.”

Kyoshi watched as Yun left them, rounded the corner, and walked out of sight. As soon as he left, she felt Rangi’s hand go limp, and Kyoshi quickly caught her as the rest of her body began to fall.

“A-are you ok?”

Rangi groaned and then grimaced. “Yes, just…. a little tired.”

Of course you ran up and down a mountain! “Let’s get you to your room,” Kyoshi said, as she held Rangi close to her, arms slung around each other’s waist. Kyoshi half carried the firebender as they walked.

___________________

Rangi sighed, “Kyoshi, I’m fine.”

Kyoshi ran the damp towel down Rangi’s cheek, trying to get what grime she could off. “Then why did you almost collapse?”

Kyoshi had decided to put off discussing Yun’s proposition for now. Taking care of Rangi was more important at the moment.

Rangi grimaced. The firebender didn’t like showing weakness. “My legs were sore from all the running,” she finally admitted. “And exhaustion just….. caught up to me.”

Kyoshi stopped the towel and looked down at Rangi. Rangi was out of her armor, dressed down to her sleeveless white tunic and shorts she wore underneath. She’d also taken her hair out of her topknot. Rangi needed a bath, but Kyoshi wanted to make sure the firebender had the energy to make it to the bath first.

Her eyes flitted down to the bandage on Rangi’s leg. It looked worse for wear, not because mountain grime had gotten to it, but because of sweat. Kyoshi grabbed the medkit from Rangi’s nightstand and knelt down by the firebender.

“Kyoshi! Really, you don’t need-” Rangi started to protest as Kyoshi unwrapped the bandage.

Kyoshi pouted and glared up at Rangi, “Just let me help you.”

After a brief battle ran through her eyes, she sighed and looked away. Kyoshi didn’t know why she was putting up such a fight, she didn’t act this difficult when she first cleaned the wound.

Kyoshi inspected the wound, it didn’t look too bad. Which was good, it meant Rangi was taking care of it when Kyoshi wasn’t looking. Maybe in another week or two it’ll be healed…..

She got to work, cleaning the wound with soapy water, and then applying the salve onto it. She wouldn’t bandage the leg for now, because it’d just get wet when Rangi went to take her bath. But at least the wound would be cleaned until then.

As she worked the ointment in, she lightly blew on it to help it dry a little faster. As she did, she heard a strange noise. Kyoshi looked up, and saw Rangi gripping her armrests tightly, her face red as she looked away.

Kyoshi blinked, fascinate. She blew on Rangi’s leg again. Rangi’s upper body flinched as she suppressed another noise. Her face turned even more red. Then she looked down and gasped.

“Y-you’re doing that on purpose, aren’t you?” she accused.

Kyoshi didn’t really know what she was doing, but she liked the reaction. She felt her eyes sparkle as she gazed up at her glowing girl, and then she smirked.

Kyoshi blew air once more.

Rangi’s hands flew to Kyoshi’s mouth. The girl lost her balance and fell forward onto Kyoshi, who caught her and held her in a tight embrace as she laughed.

“S-stop that! Don’t laugh!” Rangi shouted, nuzzling her face into Kyoshi’s shoulder as she lightly smacked Kyoshi’s collarbone. It just made Kyoshi laugh harder. “Ugh? Are you secretly an airbender or something?”

“No? Why?” Kyoshi said between giggles.

“Because you were blowing so hard the air went up my-” Rangi cut off with a grumble.

“Your shorts?” Kyoshi reached down and lightly tapped the back of Rangi’s exposed thigh. Rangi squirmed at the touch.

“Stop! I-I’m sensitive right now!” Rangi cried.

Kyoshi felt a fire ignite in her, emboldened by the firebender on top of her, as well as Rangi’s scent permeating all around Rangi’s room. Kyoshi’s grin grew wicked.

“Sensitive?” Her lips dove for the firebender’s neck, peppering it with a bunch of light kisses, and let her hands wander freely over Rangi’s body.

Rangi didn’t stand a chance. She was puddy in Kyoshi's hands. She cried and laughed and kicked her feet. She was both trying to wiggle away from Kyoshi and hold on tighter.

After a minute, Kyoshi decided to stop her assault, to let Rangi recover. Rangi collapsed completely onto Kyoshi again, exhausted, remnants of giggle still escaping her lips.

Kyoshi kissed Rangi’s forehead a few times. Then she sniffed.

“You really need a bath,” she chuckled.

“Screw you,” Rangi smiled, breathless.

“Is that a threat or a promise?” Kyoshi joked back, then the two of them grew stiff as the words started to sink in. Kyoshi’s heart began to beat strong and steady like an o-daiko drum, each beat felt like it vibrated the two of them.

Maybe Kyoshi propositioned too soon? Even if it was just a joke…. Well, in this case it was only half a joke.

Rangi, shifted her body. Her face was now facing Kyoshi. Her legs straddled one of Kyoshi’s thighs. “It can be,” she mumbled, hot breath hitting Kyoshi’s neck as she flexed her thighs.

Kyoshi looked down as the beats got louder and more steady. She saw the same steady look in Rangi’s eyes. They leaned in, both of their eyes looking at the other’s lips with heavy intent.

And then Kyoshi felt a new drumming sound encroaching on them.

Footsteps!

“S-someone’s coming!” Kyoshi whispered hurriedly.

Rangi shot up out of Kyoshi’s arms. Kyoshi went to follow, but Rangi shook her head and rolled her girlfriend under her bed instead. Both were thankful that Rangi’s raised bed was a lot bigger than Kyoshi’s.

Rangi quickly started picking up the medical supplies, and hopped around on one foot, trying to play up her injury.

The footsteps stopped, there was a knock, and before Rangi could answer, the door opened.

Kyoshi watched as familiar looking red boots and robes walked into Rangi’s room. It was Hei-Ran, her mother.

Kyoshi said a prayer, thanking all the spirits in existence that she and Rangi had stopped just in time. That she didn’t have to deal with Rangi’s mother witnessing Kyoshi ravaging her daughter on her bedroom floor.

“Mother, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Rangi asked, a little breathless. She hobbled on her foot, trying to hint at it as the reason, rather than Kyoshi having been the one to steal her breath away.

It took a moment for Hei-Ran to respond, she was possibly analyzing her daughter. “You came back…..early.”

Rangi let out a sigh of air. “Yes, I took a shortcut through the mountains.”

“The mount-” Hei-Ran began, surprised. Then she recomposed herself. “I….I see. I assume there were no issues?”

“Other than the carriage breaking down, and that I desperately need a bath? No.”

“Erm, right, I can see that. Wait, just a moment, it broke down?”

“Yes, it should be back sometime tomorrow from what they told me,” Rangi sighed. “Is there anything else you need, mother?”

Hei-Ran let out a harsh sigh herself. “Is it so wrong for a mother to check up on her daughter?”

Rangi didn’t respond, and another long silence followed.

Hei-Ran was the one who broke the silence. “Get your rest, you’ll need to return to Hongcun Village tomorrow to retrieve a few packages.”

Rangi was silent again.

“Be sure to bring Kyoshi with you, it should make the trip a little easier.” Kyoshi flinched on instinct when she heard her name, but made sure not to move any muscle further.

“H-huh?!” was all Rangi could force out.

“You heard me. She’s strong and can help carry them,” Hei-Ran said as she turned to leave. “Oh, and do you know where she is? I believe I heard Auntie Mui was looking for her. I know Yun said you two should take the rest of the day off, so I don’t believe it involves work. Just send her over when you see her next.” Then she left the room.

Kyoshi couldn’t help but feel like the older firebender knew she was hiding under the bed, despite being completely concealed. However, she chose to live on the path of ignorance, until new information was otherwise revealed. Ignorance was truly bliss as they say.

Kyoshi watched as Rangi got on her hands and knees and poked her head down so she could see Kyoshi. It was adorable.

“The coast is clear,” she said with a warm smile. She held out her hand to help pull Kyoshi out.

“I think we should probably play it safe for the rest of the night,” Kyoshi said after she got out from under the bed. “It just seems luck isn’t on our side tonight.”

It was Rangi’s turn for a mischievous grin. “Suuuure. So what should we do now?” She approached Kyoshi with that hypnotic sway she loved to do, and grabbed her by the lapel, and gave her a swift kiss. Seeming more interested in pushing their luck farther rather than playing it safe.

Kyoshi let herself melt until Rangi pulled away. “I think you should take a bath,” Kyoshi said with a smile. Rangi responded with a pout. “I need to go see Auntie Mui.”

Rangi straightened up Kyoshi’s clothes. “I think you should take a bath first, then go see Auntie Mui. I’ll take mine later.”

Kyoshi looked at her confused. Rangi smirked, placing her hands on Kyoshi’s shoulders and stood on her tiptoes as she whispered in Kyoshi’s ear. “You smell like me.”

Kyoshi’s face blazed as she looked at Rangi.

“Plus, your clothes got dirty, sorry,” Rangi didn’t sound sorry in the slightest, and Kyoshi didn’t mind surprisingly. Rangi started guiding Kyoshi’s dazed body to the door. “Now hurry up, the sooner you get washed, the sooner I can too.” And promptly pushed Kyoshi out of her bedroom door.

__________________________

“Rangi, I have a question,” Kyoshi asked, bandaging Rangi’s leg. The firebender had just finished her bath, and she snuck into Kyoshi’s room a lot earlier than she usually was able to.

“Fire away,” she said.

“Was that a firebender joke?”

“Is that the question?”

“No,” Kyoshi mumbled.

“The pun wasn’t intended. Now, what did you really want to ask me?”

Kyoshi finished tying the bandage, and drummed her fingers on the exposed flesh of Rangi’s knee, wanting to avoid the shin that was cut. Kyoshi wasn’t able to keep the blush from rising in her cheeks, suddenly embarrassed. “How do….how do you keep your legs so smooth?”

She saw Rangi tilt her head out of the corner of her eye.

“It’s just, I’ve heard people talk about Fire Nationals growing up. They mentioned how, despite your hair and topknot being super sacred, you never have hair anywhere else….. Like, uh, how men don’t have chest hair…..” She drummed her fingers on Rangi’s knee one more time. “And I noticed how smooth your legs were and…. Um….”

Kyoshi finally gathered the courage to look Rangi in the eye. Rangi looked down at Kyoshi with a small flush, and laughed.

“D-don’t laugh….”

“What? It’s funny!”

“It’s a serious question! Is there some special volcanic razor you use or….”

Rangi inhaled a few times to catch her breath. “Ok, ok. Serious answer. Firebenders don’t shave, we just firebend it off.”

Oh, well that was simple. “Is that why you felt so confident about burning Aoma’s eyebrows off that day?” Kyoshi remembered the threat like it was yesterday. She’d also made the same threat to Yun earlier that day, but Kyoshi didn’t think it was a good idea to bring his name up.

Rangi laughed again. “Yes. But not every firebender does that. It’s a preference. Though, I guess most of us do. You know, less pieces of us to catch on fire.”

Kyoshi laughed and leaned a cheek on Rangi’s knee. “So you guys like to be hairless except for your head?”

Rangi choked on her laughter, the back of her hand flew to her mouth, attempting to poorly cover up a rising blush. “Um, the head? Yes, but there’s….one other area that we don’t usually touch…..”

Kyoshi’s eyes raised in interest, this was new information to her. Something about as sacred as a Fire National’s hair? She better pay attention so she could be careful.

“I’m guessing it’s off limits to touch in public too?” Kyoshi asked innocently.

“K-Kyoshi, it’s, um, I’m pretty sure it’s off limits in public…. regardless of which Nation you’re from….” Rangi trailed off as her blush deepened. Heat felt like it was rolling off the girl which each shade she turned.

A place that had hair, but no one could easily see on a Fire National, otherwise the hairless rumor wouldn’t have been spread. But it’s also a place no one usually saw in public in the Four Nations. Did such a place like that exist?

Rangi moved one of her hands and rested it on the inside of her thigh. Kyoshi stared, wondering if it was a hint.

Kyoshi was slow to connect the dots at times, but, by the spirits, when she connected them. She connected them.

“Oh….oh!” Kyoshi exclaimed, her eyes widening in realization. “Oh it’s- Oh!”

Rangi cleared her throat, “Yes.”

“So….it’s also not-”

“I-it depends on the….. preference. Either the person’s own preference…..or their partner’s.” Rangi kept her head facing away, poorly trying to hide her blush, but she looked down to Kyoshi out of the corner of her eye. Kyoshi could see that Rangi really wanted to know her opinion.

Kyoshi stared up at her. Kyoshi didn’t really have a preference, she never even thought about having a preference before. The only thing she knew was that she wanted Rangi. All of her.

The deep heart pounding started to radiate throughout Kyoshi again, as the fire inside ignited and started to burn bright.

“I-I don’t really have a preference. I’ve never thought about it…..” Kyoshi could feel a flush spreading throughout her body like a wildfire.

“I see, well do keep me in the loop, I’d love to know,” Rangi barely made her voice audible.

The thrumming felt like it was getting stronger. Kyoshi attempted to swallow, but found she was unable to. Rangi was drying the room out with her heat. It was maddening, and it was igniting Kyoshi even more.

No, no we need to rest tonight. We need to play it safe. We already had a close call, luck’s not really on our side tonight. She tried to advise herself.

Kyoshi stood up, and looked at Rangi sitting on her bed. Rangi looked up at her with half lidded eyes, bearing the same hunger Kyoshi felt inside.

Kyoshi promptly ignored her own advice.

Kyoshi shifted her body so it was in between Rangi’s legs, then she pushed the firebender all the way down onto the bed in a fierce kiss. The temperature in the room started to rise rapidly as they both clung and clawed at each other with abandon.

Kyoshi broke the kiss and tried to form words. “Can…can I touch-” Her eyes flickered downward.

“Yes!” Rangi hissed, then slammed her lips into Kyoshi’s.

Kyoshi's hands found their way to Rangi's waist. Then her hips. Then she found Rangi's waistband and-

A knock at the door. Kyoshi stilled. No idea who it was, because the only person that it could be was underneath her at this very moment.

“Maybe if we ignore them they'll leave-ngh!” Kyoshi whispered, then muffled her cry as Rangi bit into her neck. Apparently Rangi wasn't as deterred by the new surprised guest as Kyoshi was.

Another wrap at her door. “Kyoshi? Are you awake?” Hei-Ran asked through the door.

That stopped Rangi. Kyoshi and Rangi looked at each other through panicked eyes. Then Kyoshi picked the firebender up, and threw her into the closet and shut the door.

She grabbed her night robe and ran to the door to greet Hei-Ran.

“Yes, Mistress He-Ran?” Kyoshi all but squeaked out when she flung the door open. Despite her closeness with Rangi, she was more than a stranger to Hei-Ran herself.

“Kyoshi, do you know where my daughter is?”Hei-Ran raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment on the heat that was surely billowing out of Kyoshi’s room.

“No, Mistress, I-I've been asleep! And it's the middle of the night, why do you think she'd be here?”

“I see,” Hei-Ran folded her hands in front of her. “My daughter seems to have gotten into the habit of….exploring at night lately.”

Kyoshi felt clammy beads of of sweat go down her neck. “Oh, well, no. I didn’t know that…. I haven't seen her.”

“I see, well, I’ll keep looking then. If you do happen to see her, tell her I’m looking for her.”

She turned on her heel, and slowly walked down the hall. As soon as Kyoshi saw her turn. She counted to ten, and then shut the door and ran to the closet.

“Coast is clear, you can come out,” Kyoshi said, feeling deja vu.

Rangi was curled up into a ball. She laughed nervously as she took Kyoshi's hand.

“What's so funny?”

“This isn't my first time coming out of the closet.”

Kyoshi laughed and then sighed. “I guess this means you have to leave early?”

Rangi sighed. “I suppose.”

Kyoshi pulled Rangi into a tight hug.

“Hey now, you'll see me tomorrow, you'll have the whole day with me!”

“I know.” But I want you with me now.

Eventually they let each other go, and Rangi left, and Kyoshi returned to bed. She laid awake, too wound up from the events of the day, and contemplated what was next to come.

______________

A/N: Hongcun Villageis made up for the story, I needed a place that was close but not Chin’s village (I know it’s not called Chin during Kyoshi’s timeline, it’s just easier to remember/spell TT0TT). Hongcun (宏村) DOES exist tho irl. It just means “Hong village”? I just chose it at random from a list (didn’t feel like trying to be creative like I did for Hunt jfklajf), but ironically enough, apparently it was a filming location Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon….. I say ironically because I believe CTHD is a big inspo for a lot of Rise of Kyoshi (such as the dust/mist/jet stepping techniques). So it all works out! :D

Also, gdi Rangi you lunatic! Sprinting over a mountain? I wonder how tall those mountains are? Let’s pretend they are taller than a 14er and aren’t the most foot friendly, to really sell the point home. (because you can climb Mount Quandary in like 4-7 hours, though it feels like eternity >_> -1000000/10 do not recommend climbing mountains against your will)

“We’re just gonna ignore how horny these two are getting so you can geek out over a movie, and to bitch about mountains?” Yes. Yes we are.

#kyoshi fanfic #chronicles of the avatar #rise of kyoshi #rangshi #rangi #rangi sei'naka #shadow of kyoshi #kyoshi #rise of kyoshi au #kyoshi au #rangi seinaka

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moralesmilesanhour · 1 year ago

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summary: Margo goes to a shitty poetry slam and gets more out of it than she expects. wc: 4.9k warnings: alcohol consumption, and it's like very VERY lightly implied that they had an Adult Sleepover if you get my meaning. Nothing really too suggestive in here I promise. One singular reference to a tiktok. a/n: this took me a whole ass week but I'm very proud of where my writing style is going! somewhat inspired by the film 'Love Jones'. If you enjoyed this pls feel free to leave your thoughts or your favorite line if you have one! EDIT: OH MY GOD I FORGOT TO ADD: the first poem is actually taken from the Junior novel 'Miles Morales: Suspended' by Jason Reynolds! The poem at the end is mine though lmao I'm not the best poet

Margo can’t stand poetry.

Someone gets up in front of you with a piece of paper clutched in their hands, and recites what is simultaneously the most vague and the most painfully obvious string of fragmented sentences you’ve ever heard as if they’d just touched your soul.

It’s not rapping, not preaching, but the ugly middle child standing between them. Some odd bastardization of music for people who thought they were too smart for either of the first two, but weren't brave enough to just give speeches.

Speeches, at least, are coherent, specific, and can be scrutinized.

So far, sitting in the front row of the bar that her classmate Zoe had invited her to for poetry night, no one has changed her mind.

Tonight’s performances consisted of an assembly line of men (and a couple of women) in vintage sweaters ranting about their exes to the rhythm of bongo drums, or some mildly relevant social issue that none had the lexicon to really say anything in stanzas that hasn’t already been said. She had heard nothing yet that sounded much more profound than an Instagram post.

Although, one girl had come up and recited a short poem about her late mother that Margo thought was quite sweet, and the least tortuous to sit through.

The crowd erupted in snaps again for a poet with long braided dreads and an ankh tattoo whose words she had tuned out. The host took the mic and announced the final (thank god) participant:

“Now this next one I had to practically drag over here to get him to share his beautiful poetry with us tonight. Everyone, please give a warm welcome to one of my close friends and colleagues, Miles Morales!”

A lanky young man–Margo suspects about six feet even, given the way he’s towering over the host–awkwardly shuffles over to the center of the stage, offering the crowd a tight-lipped smile.

He’s in a plain green sweater with the sleeves hastily rolled up to his elbows and a bomber jacket tied around his waist. As soon as he’s handed the microphone, it seems to dawn on him that there’s no turning back, and his body visibly tenses.

He clearly just got here, and for once Margo doesn’t know what to expect.

Squinting beneath the bright spotlight, he clears his throat and speaks into the mic.

“Um, hi.”

A few scattered ‘hi’s from the crowd.

There’s something bright and sweet in the tone of his voice that makes him sound a little boyish, and she wonders what he could possibly have under his sleeve that warranted him getting dragged up here last minute.

He takes a deep breath.

“It’s said

That nobody

Is ever more

Than ten feet

From a spider.”

Miles began the poem carefully, like he was confessing something.

“They be everywhere you and me are.”

A few members of the crowd laugh, others shudder at the thought and frown.

“And even though

We see them only

When they big enough to see, or when

They move,

Like a cursor

Across the blank white

Page of a wall…”

His voice loses some of its airiness in exchange for confidence as he recites the rest of the poem, and Margo realizes that he isn’t reading off of anything.

Either he’s improvising, or he has it entirely memorized.

“Or when we trip

The web-like wire

Of a booby trap

Or when they

Fang our flesh

We should probably

Assume most

Just be right there…”

Miles paused and looked somewhere far beyond the crowd, lifting his arm to point to the back of the room. Then he repeated:

“Right there,

Right here,”

He gestures toward the front row, where his eyes land directly on Margo. It’s not so close to the stage that she can tell for sure, but she thinks she sees a hint of a smile cross his lips.

“Looking at us,

Looking over them.”

Silence.

His arm falls limply to his side as his eyes frantically scan the audience, searching for some kind of response.

Then, someone begins to clap. Then another. Then another. WIthin moments, the entire room erupts in applause, causing a shy smile to spread across the young man’s face.

“Uh, thank you!” he says, surprised at the positive reception, before shrinking into himself again and leaving the stage the same way he came.

The host returns and takes the mic from him.

“Miles Morales, everybody!”

After the poetry slam, Margo insisted that Zoe take her to the sushi place across the street. It had a bar sitting off to the side, one with significantly less poets. The decorative lights hung directly above the shelf filled with glass bottles and shrouded them in cherry red.

Zoe takes a sip of her sherry and leans in.

“Sooo, how was it?”

“It was a’ight.”

The light-skinned girl’s lips pull into a pout. “Seriously?”

“Hey, I told you poetry wasn’t my thing,” Margo pauses, then amends, “I liked the last guy, though. Breath of fuckin’ fresh air.”

“Right? His style really caught my attention, subtle.”

“Glad you liked it.”

Zoe’s eyes widened as she glanced just beyond Margo’s shoulder.

When Margo turned towards the familiar voice and froze.

The poet in question was standing just inches away, a friendly smile gracing his features. His jacket is no longer around his waist, neatly folded over his arm like an expensive coat. He is with the excitable darker-skinned man who’d just hosted the event, and a man the shade of sandalwood standing just behind him.

They’re both wearing the same type of muted cardigan as Miles, but they’ve got actual coats.

“Y’all were in the front, right?” Miles asks the both of them, though he’s only looking at Margo.

She nods wordlessly. Zoe picks up the slack.

“M-hm, you were great up there! You’ve really never shown anyone your work ‘till tonight?”

Miles snorts at the wording of the phrase. ‘His work’.

“I wrote that poem in high school,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Wasn’t supposed to be anything serious, but my roommate…”

He gives the dark-skinned man a dirty look.

“...swiped my journal and found it. Told me I should read it out loud somewhere.”

Margo examines Miles’ face and imagines him as a baby-faced high-schooler, sitting in the back of the classroom with a protective arm around the beat-up red composition notebook he’s writing in. He stuffs it in his bag as soon as he’s done, because he has just poured his heart out onto that page, and his crush’s name is in there. Maybe there are tiny doodles of her in the margins.

“Yo,” the sandalwood-colored man claps Miles on the shoulder. “We about to hit up Tiff’s place, you coming?”

“Yeah, in a minute,” Miles nods dismissively. “I’ll catch up with y’all.”

The two other men give each other a knowing look before brushing past him.

“Alright man, catch you later then.”

Once she finally regains the ability to speak, Margo remarks, “You were the only performance I really liked, if I’m being honest.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh yeah, this one hates poetry,” Zoe places a hand on Margo’s shoulder and laughs. “Tried to change her mind by bringing her over here, but no dice.”

Miles raised an eyebrow. “What made mine so different?”

“Hm, I dunno…” Margo’s eyes float over his form before making their way back up to his face. “Your delivery, I guess.”

Safe to say, he looks amusedly unconvinced.

“My…delivery.”

She catches herself and quickly adds, “I-I mean, it also kinda felt like everyone else was trying too hard. So.”

He tilts his head at the remark.

“Are you just saying that to flatter me?”

.“I don’t flatter people. Too close to lying.”

“That sounds like half a poem already. Maybe you should go up there next week.”

She gives him a lopsided smile.

“Only if you’re there. I need something to actually look forward to.”

His tongue darts out and passes over his lips.

“What’s your name?”

“Margo.”

Miles hums, softly repeating the name before inching his way over to the counter where he leans his hip on it.

“Pretty. Can I buy you a drink, Margo?”

She doesn’t think her name is all that pretty, but he makes it sound that way.

“Knock yourself out.”

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Zoe teases as she rises from her seat. “I’m gonna go order us some sushi.”

Miles takes the stool to Margo’s left as he waits on their drinks, his long legs never needing to leave the ground to do so.

He has a funny way of sitting, hands folded neatly in front of him with his back just a few degrees off from being perfectly straight. As if you needed to look distinguished at a sushi bar.

Church boy, Margo guessed. That, or his daddy’s a military man.

It’s adorable either way.

“You in school?” she asked.

“Yup. Princeton.”

Her eyes lit up.

“Oh shit, me too! I’ve never seen you on campus, though. What’s your major?”

“Physics. You?”

“Comp Sci. Been coding since I was in middle school, so…”

Margo remembers the echoing ‘click-clack’ of her keyboard as she sat in an empty computer lab for hours on end after school because she preferred it to her parents’ house.

The bartender hands Miles two glasses of white wine, and he sets the second glass in front of Margo, his warm eyes still focused on her.

She’s intrigued by how clear they are - no trace of suspicion or calculation behind them. Just the warmth.

“So, where you from? My folks are over in Brooklyn.”

“Georgia.”

Miles’ brows jump to his hairline.

“Damn. What brought you all the way up here?”

To get as far away as possible.

“Well, it’s Princeton,” she says beneath a forced laugh.

“Yeah, but you got, like, eight different HBCUs over there. How’d Princeton win you over?”

Margo breaks eye contact to stare into her drink.

“Needed a change of pace.”

When she looks up to gauge Miles’ reaction, skepticism is written all over his face. But he doesn’t push it further.

“That’s fair. Princeton’s got a cutting-edge quantum physics program that I’m aiming for. Had to beg my parents to come here,” he grins proudly, “but here I am.”

Margo is silent for a moment.

“Can I tell you something?” she asks suddenly, beckoning Miles to lean in.

“Yeah?”

Grinning, she half-whispers, “I’m actually here on a scholarship.”

He gives her an odd look.

“Why’d you say it like that? Nothin’ wrong with getting a full ride. The opposite, actually.”

“Some people might feel otherwise. You’re like, the second person I’ve told other than my parents.”

“And why me?” Miles chuckles. “My poetry was just that good?”

“I just…Hm.”

Margo leans back and takes a contemplative sip of her wine, watching him over the rim of her glass.

Why did she just tell him that?

“I guess I just sorta felt like telling you.”

Margo cautiously sets the wine back down. She figures if she’s not careful, he’ll have her full government name and social security number by the end of the night.

“Y’know, I actually get that a lot,” Miles laughs. “One time, I had this lady I was standing in line with at Target turn around and just start telling me stories about her dead son and how much she misses him. And it’s like, I’m sorry for your loss, but we’re in Target right now and I literally do not know you.”

“Wait, people just go up to you and…tell you shit?”

“Yup. There was this other time at church, too. Just as service ends and I’m about to get up and leave, this short old dude–Dominican, I think–stops me and starts telling me about his entire life. I’m talking start to finish! Apparently I reminded him of his nephew that died in the military or something.”

“Jesus.”

A crease forms between Margo’s brows. She wishes she could say she didn’t understand the old man at church or the lady at Target, but she does. No, it’s not the poetry. It’s got nothing to do with words.

It’s the way that Miles looks at people.

Like he already knows all of your secrets, but you’re not worried because they’re safe with him, so might as well tell them. It’s a merciful sort of gaze; you get the impression that he won’t judge you. You might even tell him more after his friendly ‘boy-next-door’ voice coaxes them out of you. The thought unsettles her because she had done just that.

“You ever had a girlfriend before?” She asks, all of a sudden.

Miles shrugs, “Yeah, in tenth grade, then again freshman year. Didn’t really work out.”

“Why not?”

His brows furrow gently for just a second, as if he’s still trying to figure out the answer to that.

“I…don’t know, actually. It goes well the first few months and then…”

“It fizzles out?”

“I get ghosted. Something about how they’re ‘not ready’. Understandable, I guess, but you don’t have to ghost me, y’know?”

He awkwardly examines his fingers, then his glass.

Margo feels a bit guilty for suddenly bringing up his exes when they’d just met. Would they end up the same way? She saw herself there too, being in a relationship for six months before his weird pastor’s eyes get to be a bit too much and she takes off.

“Yikes, sorry I asked.”

“It’s no problem,” a smile starts to return to his face. “Onto better things, right?”

“Right.”

“And you?”

“Huh?”

“You ever been in a relationship before?”

Margo smiles awkwardly and messes with one of her fingernails.

“Well…not exactly.”

Miles’ eyes widen.

“Never?”

“I mean, guys offer, and then we talk for a little bit, but then…”

“They flake out on you.”

“Pretty much.”

“Damn shame,” he says with a bit of sharpness to his voice. “Not even a first date?”

“Nope, just ‘Read at 4:15’.”

“You know what I think it is?”

Just as he asks this, his knee brushes against her thigh. Margo isn’t sure if it’s an accident, but it distracts her nonetheless.

“What?”

“You’re too smart for them, I can tell. It scares ‘em.” But it doesn’t scare me, is the suggestion.

He smiles then, the kind that shows the whiteness of his teeth on every vowel. It’s wide enough that a dimple comes out of hiding on his left cheek, and she suddenly wants to tell him everything again. She takes another sip of wine.

“So! What’d I miss?”

Zoe finally returns from ordering their sushi at the front with an expectant grin. Miles still hasn’t taken his eyes off of her friend, while she is staring at him like a string of code, which, if you know Margo, is better than nothing.

“You didn’t miss much,” says Margo. “We were just talkin’ about our majors. School stuff.”

Miles checks his phone and lets out a low whistle.

“Well, it was lovely meeting y’all, but I gotta bounce. After getting dragged onstage, I get to be dragged over to a house party, too.”

Just as he rises from his seat, he stops and points at her.

“Before I go, though, d’you mind giving me your digits? I’d love to talk about, uh…computer science…over lunch.”

She snorts, “Who still says ‘digits’?” but hands him her phone anyway.

It couldn’t hurt to try.

“Sure.”

His eyes light up as if he wasn’t expecting her to say yes as he saves his number as ‘poetry slam guy’ in her phone, then hands it back.

“Cool,” Miles begins his walk towards the entrance backwards, holding eye contact for just a little longer before turning around. “G’night!”

“Goodnight!” the two women call out in unison as he leaves.

Margo looks to her left at the now-empty bar stool. The glass of wine Miles left on the counter is full, completely untouched.

It’s still on her mind as she's sitting in her single dorm room, re-writing her lecture notes on cyber security in a meticulous neat print that could almost pass for a font.

Every few minutes her pen stops because she’s distracted by the sound of clinking glass in boxes downstairs, or because she pauses to stare at the white wall in front of her that brings to mind one of the lines of Miles’ poem.

There might be a spider that I can’t see sitting ten feet away from me right this second, she muses to herself. The thought gives her an idea, and the perfect excuse to call him without seeming too desperate.

Margo unlocks her phone and scrolls through her contacts. She smiles to herself at the contact name Miles chose. Did he think she’d forget his name that easily?

His voice soon filters through the speaker.

“Hey, you didn’t throw out my number!”

“Yup, lucky you.” she replies. “I wanted to ask you a question? About your poem the other night.”

“What about it?”

“See, I was thinking about that first line. Are we really never more than ten feet away from a spider? Like, at any given moment?”

There’s a moment of silence from Miles before he asks:

“You…called me just to ask me that?”

“What? It’s a very pressing issue! There’s probably one in the corner of my room as we speak!”

“Alright, I’ll humor you,” Miles laughs. “That’s actually a myth from the 90s. Your distance from the nearest spider really depends on where you’re at, so if you’re in a spot with hella bugs, you’re more likely to see one. You’re probably fine.”

“Now wait just a minute!” Margo gasps dramatically. “So you lied to all those poor folks in there?”

“Sure did. Played ‘em all like a fiddle.”

“Terrible.”

“So, why’d you really call? You don’t sound as concerned about spiders as you say you are, if I’m being honest.”

So much for an excuse.

“Don’t nothing get past you, huh?”

This earns a burst of laughter from Miles’ end.

“You’re a worse liar than me, I wouldn’t recommend making it a habit.”

“Ugh, fine,” Margo admits, “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“You could hear my voice in real life, you know. Offer’s still on the table, and I’m free today.”

Their second conversation, and already a lunch date? But as she’s reminded of what his voice sounds like, she quickly realizes that just the voice is not enough.

Still, she tries to sound casual and makes a non-committal noise.

“Better than being cooped up in my room all day.”

“Great! Where you wanna go?”

Margo shrugs as if he can see her on the other end.

“Wherever you wanna go.”

“Ah, the ‘wherever you wanna go’ paradox,” he chuckles. “Okay, well–lemme ask you this then. Do you like eating with or without music?”

There’s a beat of silence as she considers.

“Hm…is the music good?”

“I’d never subject anyone to a place that plays shit music. Promise.”

“Music, then.”

“Cool, what time works for you?”

“How does two sound? I’ll catch you in front of the Engineering Library.”

“Bet. See you in an hour, then!”

The place Miles chose had a live band playing at the front.

A bass player, a keyboard pianist, a saxophonist, and a few background vocalists on occasion. All are propelled forward by the rapid-fire snare of the drummer. It’s jazz - the easy, conversational kind you hear in the background of 90s romantic comedies where the love interest wears nothing but dark lip liner and filled-in brows with a bit of smokey eyeshadow in the crease.

This is the look that Margo has decided to go for as she sits across from Miles at a mahogany table positioned ideally by the window.

It was all she could do other than frantically adjust the braided 'fro-hawk sitting atop her head and spin around in a mist of ‘Champagne Toast’ before bolting out the door.

She doubts he can even smell it right now through the curry and garlic.

“Figured out what you want yet?” Miles asks as he looks over his menu at Margo.

“Eh, I dunno,” she replies, running her index finger down her own menu. “I’m tryin’ not to blow half my paycheck on pasta right now.”

Miles gives her a strange look, then it clicks.

“Oh! Lunch is on me,” he laughs. “Your bank account’s safe for now.”

Her head snaps up.

“You should’ve mentioned that! I thought we were going half and half this whole time, I had my whole budget for the week planned out.”

Margo has to hold back an ugly cackle at the look of horror on Miles’ face right after she says this.

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that.”

With this new information in mind, she orders a bowl of chicken alfredo with a glass of lemonade that she sips on as the band seamlessly transitions into a cover of Solange’s ‘Cranes in the Sky’.

“So, Margo,” Miles rests his chin on his knuckles and squints his eyes comically.

“If that is your real name.”

Margo giggles, and plays along.

“It’s not, it’s my alter-ego for when I go on top-secret missions.”

“Is it short for something? Or just Margo?”

“Hm,” she puts on an affected, ‘action movie’ voice, “If I tell you, I might have to kill you.”

“It’s worse ways to die out there.”

Margo looks around her as if to make sure no one’s listening, then leans in.

“It’s short for Marguerite.”

Miles snaps his fingers.

“I knew it!”

“What? You think I look like a Marguerite? Seriously?”

“No, but you got a lil’ country twang in your voice. Ain’t no way in hell Margo wasn’t short for something.”

“Man, alright,” she laughed.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that,” he winked, “I like ‘em country.”

“Boy, don’t give me that! You look like you’d pass out at the sight of a jar of pig’s feet.”

“Hey now, I got family in South Carolina. I used to go down there and see about ten of those every summer.”

“Fine, but you were still raised a Northerner. I could hear the Brooklyn from a mile away.”

Miles removed his hand from under his chin to clutch his chest.

“Ugh, I feel like I’m caught between two worlds!”

The reference to one of the more choice lines from the poetry slam makes Margo snort and let out a loud guffaw, which she quickly muffles with the palm of her hand.

“Why would you remind me of that!”

Miles is soon infected by the fit of laughter and has to put all his strength into not doubling over at the table and drawing attention.

“This nigga said,” he wheezed, “ ‘I keep doing the Achy Breaky to Suavemente!’ “

“I thought I was the only one who thought that shit sucked,” Margo sighed as she wiped a tear from her eye. “But I didn’t wanna be mean ‘cuz I’m not like, half Puerto Rican, or anything like that.”

“Well I am, and that whole poem felt like a microaggression. And I knew that guy!” He starts gesturing wildly with his hands at the outrage, which Margo finds hilarious.

“He's like, one-eighth Boricua. His last name is fuckin’ Schwartz!” Miles scoffs, “He don’t know shit about no damn ‘Suavemente’. Bet he looked it up.”

“You should write your own poem, then. ‘Take up space’, as they say.”

“Hell no,” he said. “I left that behind in high school. The other night was an exception, remember?”

“Look, I’m not one to encourage more people to become poets, but you never know. Something might inspire you.”

Miles calms down and gives her a meaningful look.

“Maybe.”

The rest of the conversation saw Miles slyly gathering intel through bites of roasted chicken. He’d quickly learned from their meeting at the bar that his line of questioning with Margo ought to be less direct.

He even hit her with the ‘what’s your sign’ question, though Biggie would’ve advised against it (Margo was a Libra, he was a Leo). He didn’t actually care for astrology, but Margo wasted no time in proclaiming that she couldn’t stand Scorpios because they were ‘too nosy’.

Miles’ only error was asking if she’d ever dated–correction–spoken to one, and her eyes hardened with suspicion again. He quickly elected to change the subject.

“Okay, totally random question, but humor me. How do you like your eggs?”

Margo blinks twice.

“What?”

“You heard me. You can tell a lot about a person by what kinda eggs they like, true shit.”

“Alright, fine. I like ‘em fried, with the crispy edges. What that say about me?”

“I dunno, but when I find out it’ll all make sense.”

Margo laughs.

“Okay, well, how do you like your eggs?”

“Scrambled, fluffy,” A childish grin spread across Miles’ lips. “And seasoned with Adobo to make ��em all orange.”

“Never had ‘em like that before.”

“Maybe I could make some for you sometime, if you’d let me.”

“Maybe.”

She remembers his promise a month later when she wakes up to the aroma of the seasoning and hears the pop of frying oil, letting out a sigh of relief at the realization that Miles is still there.

His back is facing her when she enters the kitchen, the morning light illuminating a tattoo she had never seen before.

It’s a spider with sprawling legs that cascade all the way down the expanse of skin, the movement of his shoulder blades bringing them partially to life. She hadn’t noticed it in the dark, and he was not one to walk around in anything revealing enough for it to have ever seen daylight. It’s faded, which means he’s likely had it for years.

He’s only twenty-one, she thinks. Did he get it in high school?

Amusement creeps onto Margo’s face at the image of Miles sneaking around the house, darting in and out of the bathroom to clean it without his hawk-eyed mother or straight-edged father taking notice. Picturing this, it’s suddenly much easier to believe that their son would have to beg and plead for them to send him a measly forty-six miles away for school, even for an Ivy League.

Miles doesn’t turn around yet, but Margo catches the way he stops, tilting his head playfully and placing a hand on his hip.

“Man, I can’t believe I’mma have to eat this whole thing of scrambled eggs all by myself, with the ones I just fried! How sad.” “You’re not very funny,” Margo says with a smile, pulling out a chair from beneath the dining table.

He switches the stove off, then does a dramatic spin to face her with fake surprise on his face.

“Oh! Where’d you come from? I didn’t see you there.”

He turns back around to grab two plates–ceramic ones, not the stack of styrofoam ones–from one of the cupboards to serve the eggs in, starting with fried.

Margo watches him silently. The tiny, squint-or-you-might-miss-it gold chain around his neck catches the light as he moves, and she remembers feeling the cold metal brush across her lips.

“The fried ones, are they–”

“Crispy at the edges?” he finishes, with a smile in his voice. “Yes ma’am!”

“You could really be a detective, can’t get nothing past you.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“See?”

The two burst into laughter, and the ink on Miles’ back does also. His poem was accurate, in a way. For the past five weeks, Margo has been no more than ten feet away from a spider.

They have a brief and quiet breakfast, wherein Margo finally asks to try the scrambled eggs and is delighted by the burst of flavor added by the Adobo. They aren’t too dry or too soggy the way they tend to be in restaurants - just fluffy, as promised. She thinks it might be time to finally start taking Miles at his word as she watches his back again while he’s washing dishes.

Once he is fully dressed and about to leave, Miles stops suddenly, as if he’s forgotten something. He reaches into the left pocket of his jacket and pulls out a neatly-folded sheet of paper, nervously running his other hand through the short dreads sitting atop his head.

“Before I leave, I, uh…I took your advice and wrote a lil’ something.”

He hands it to Margo, who takes it gingerly.

“Well, good for you.”

“It’s been a while, so it’s kinda rough, but hopefully the sentiment is there.”

Miles plants a quick kiss on her cheek, and she smiles easily for once as opposed to the usual raised eyebrow.

“I’ll be sure to let you know if it is.”

Some time after he leaves, she finally sits down to read it while sipping on a cup of tea, because coffee wreaks havoc on her nerves. His handwriting is strange, overly graphic as if it’s the title card of a cartoon, but she reads it.

I know you don't like poetry

but you said you liked mine,

and the way you sip your wine

has set my pen to paper,

so I hope

you'll make another exception.

You've already claimed

half of my sketchbook

because I just can't get your eyes right.

I always make ‘em too soft,

or too round.

They don't pierce through me,