#susurration sweater

[iamthejinyouarethejin]

sleepy time

i'm obsessed with late-night cuddle fics leave me alone

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you dozed off in his arms, only a quarter of your mind aware of the video. this was your first time watching asmr with him. you never thought he'd be into it, but you learn somethin' new every day.

at first, he thought it was weird; he didn't like how the sounds and movements made him feel. a man in dim lighting tapped at a pen and asked random questions to get you to drowse away, and he was doing well for the most part. you'd both agreed that whoever could answer the most questions without falling asleep would be the little spoon for 3 nights in a row, which was big for the two of you.

"tuesday," he answered smugly. "looks like someone's getting a little tired."

you yawned and nuzzled your head further into his soft sweater, cooing at the warmth he provided. you'd forgotten all about your little bet. you were too comfortable.

"i guess i have no choice but to be the big spoon tonight," he sighed, shaking his head. "you should be glad you're cute."

you mumbled quiet susurrants to yourself, provoking a small chuckle from your lover.

"you are somethin' else," he laughed. he pulls you closer to him and allows the two of you to sink into the soft mattress.

the asmr video continues to play, easing you both to sleep.

[professorpski]

Interweave Knits, Fall 2021

Yes, the fall patterns for garments of all kinds are coming out, so it is time to figure out which summer project you need to finish NOW. Since I finished an autumnal sweater this spring, I know that such plans do not always work out on time, but we might as well try, yes? This issue offers patterns for 8 sweaters, 3 kinds of wraps including the one you see here on the cover, and 2 pairs of socks, mitts, and a hat.

Lustrous Shawl on the cover by Lana Jois is a lace stitch pattern with 4 large charts to fathom. It is a 3 out of 4 in difficulty and made with a lace-weight yarn in Katia Air Lux which is mostly viscose blended with merino wool. The raglan mockneck in pale lilac called Susurration Sweater (it means murmuring, btw) by Melissa Leapman is also a 3 out of 4, done in Plymouth Yarn DK Merino Superwash. It uses cable stitching all over and is knitted in pieces and then seamed.

The burgundy yoked Furbelow Pullover uses short rows and top-down construction along with twisted rib and is also 3 out of 4 and is by Debi Maige. The yarn is Ancient Arts Fibre Craft Revival which is a 5-way blend starting with wool and mohair. Am I the only one who looks at all that reverse stockinette after the yoke and thinks, hmmm.... why not turn it inside out, skip all those purl stitches and just knit stitch? Or is this the bad attitude of a knitter doomed to never make it to a 4 out of 4 sweater?

Lastly, I give you the detail on a wrapped sweater by Wencke Pertermann which has a lace front edge border, is worked from the bottom up and uses short rows. Gloaming Wrap Sweater is another  3 out of 4 (actually I just went through the whole issue, everything is a 3 out of 4 including the socks) and made with Green Mountain Spinnery Sylvan Spirit which is a wool Tencel blend. 

There are the usual columns, plus articles on new fibers and a technical article on knitting plaid patterns by Larissa Gibson who explains how they are done by slipped stitches, stranded knitting, intarsia, and embellishment.

You can find it online here or at your Local Yarn Store, LYS: https://www.interweave.com/article/knitting/inside-25th-anniversary-issue-interweave-knits/

[fairyoftbz]

tongue burn | k. sunwoo

☕ pairing: bf! sunwoo x fem!reader ☕ word count: 1.1k ☕ genre: fluff, suggestive end ☕ tw: swear words, brief mention of explicit content near the end. ☕ synopsis: sunwoo burns his tongue and you kiss it better. ☕ a/n: this fic was originally meant for juyeon but i realised that sunwoo fit this concept better 😉 ☕ requested: nope!

╰☆☆☆☆╮

A yawn escaping your mouth, you stretched your arms above your head while whining, a few vertebrae popping along. The relieving sensation forced a groan out of your mouth, your hand moving from under you to feel the empty spot next to you in bed. Frowning when you couldn’t feel your partner, you sat up and arose from your slumber and sat still for a couple of seconds before grabbing Sunwoo’s zip-up black hoodie and wrapped it around your shoulders.

Walking out of the bedroom, you stifled another yawn, a longer one this time, and readjusted the item of clothing around you. The sound of some pans clinking against one another and a boiling kettle drew you to the kitchen, the amazing smell of pancake awakening your taste buds. Your eyes squinted at the brightness of the sunny kitchen as you came in, a tall figure standing in front of the windows, concentrated on the stove in front of it.

You remained quiet as you leant against the doorframe with your arms crossed, watching your boyfriend tackling his task with enthusiasm. He was humming a song you recognized to be romantic and smiled, his silhouette only clad in grey sweatpants distracting you from his faint, lower voice. You bit your bottom lip as your eyes stared at his strong shoulders, the urge to kiss and feel them against your hands almost forcing you to break the silence.

Sunwoo slightly flinched when he felt your arms sneaking around his middle, smiling as your mouth trailed some feather kisses along with his shoulder blades.

“Not that I’m complaining, but it’s quite dangerous to cook shirtless, babe,” you susurrated in his ear, and he chuckled, flipping the pancakes in the pan with ease.

“Good morning to you too, Y/N,” he declared, your stomach churning at his morning voice, your hand going to the back of his head to tame his crazy bed hair. He inclined his head to the side to look at you and winked, lowering his face toward yours to press your lips together in a sweet kiss.

Your hands lingered on his back, touching his warm skin as he kept piling up some pancakes, eyes going wide at the amount of food that was already on the plate. The kettle began getting agitated and you took it away from the stove, placing it on the cork support that Sunwoo had already taken out. You poured the boiling water into two cups, adding teabags and some spoons to stir, before setting them down in front of your respective seats, announcing that the tea was served and hot. Sunwoo came a few seconds later with the pancakes, serving you two before taking three for him. He rubbed his hands together and beamed at you, proud of what he prepared.

“Smells delicious,” you stated as you planted your fork in one pancake covered in blackberry jam, munching on the food, softly dancing in your seat as it tasted amazing. Sunwoo chuckled as he practically devoured his food like a caveman, maple syrup drooling from his mouth all over his chin. You both tittered as you handed him a napkin and he thanked you with a nod, wiping the sticky fluid from his lower face.

“Chill babe, I’m not gonna steal your pancakes,” you laughed, and he shrugged, a teasing smile emerging on his face.

“We never know,” he joked after swallowing, mouth still half-full, slowly frowning as he didn’t chew enough. He lightly grimaced at it went down, his Adam apple bobbing up and down a few times. You raised your eyebrows, silently asking him if he was okay, and he cleared his throat while nodding.

“I’m okay now,” he stated, voice a bit more distinct than before. He took his cup of tea and your eyes widened as he didn’t seem to care about the steam coming off the cup.

“Careful-” you began, but Sunwoo instantly placed the cup down and grimaced.

“Ouch, shit!” he cussed, sticking his tongue out to try and cool it down as it just got burnt by the boiling water of your tea. You hissed in pain as you stared at him, watching the man grimace in front of you.

“I told you it was going to be hot, I just poured the water from the kettle!” you gently scolded him and the grimace didn’t leave his mouth, his tongue turning inside of his mouth, desperately trying to relieve the pain.

“I should have been more careful,” he said as he started eating again, slowly this time.

“Do you want milk or anything? Maybe it can soothe the pain,” you said as you stood up, but Sunwoo was quick to rise from his seat to grab your wrist.

“It’s okay Y/N, let’s finish breakfast first,” he said and you looked at him.

“You sure? You should really try and drink something cold to ease it,” your concern didn’t seem to have reached his brain as his eyes didn’t move from yours, his dark brown orbits mesmerising you, preventing you from looking away.

“Maybe you could… kiss it better? I think that could help,” he smirked as the breakfast did not seem to be his priority anymore, your lips darkened because of the blueberry jam looking more appetising to him. You rolled your eyes and chuckled, wanting to look to the side but Sunwoo’s finger rested on your chin, forcing the eye contact between you two.

“You’re so annoying,” you whispered before letting out a yelp, Sunwoo lifting you and sitting you on the kitchen counter. His hands roaming the soft skin of your hips, you wrapped your arms around his neck and looked at him.

The smirk never left his face and you got closer, pressing your mouth to his in a soft kiss, but Sunwoo decided otherwise. He placed his hand at the back of your head to deepen the kiss, mouths opening as your tongues sensually danced together. Stopping for a quick second, you just had the time to tilt your head to the side before your boyfriend pulled you in a hungrier, needier kiss. You would never get tired of how great his lips moved against yours, the sensation sending goosebumps in your entire being, mixed with some butterflies erupting from your stomach.

His hands went under your his sweater and travelled up to your back, drawing you closer to him as your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. Sunwoo groaned as you softly tugged on the hair at the back of his head for some oxygen, feeling and playing with the soft locks in between your fingers. You cupped his face and pulled away, looking at your boyfriend while smiling, struggling to keep your eyes open at the intensity of the kiss you’ve just exchanged.

“Better?” you said and he nodded, his mouth exploring the skin of your jaw.

“Hmm, I don't know yet. Let’s give up breakfast, I have something more important to take care of,” he mumbled and his breath fanned against the sensitive skin right where your ear met your jaw, pursing your lips as he proceeded to make the temperature rise in the kitchen.

[blueprint-han]

desert rose — yang jeongin.

↪ “ Because love and a red rose could never be truly hid. ”

— “ You’d have never thought that one incident would’ve enlightened you of how much in love you were with your childhood best friend, but it turns out to be more of a problem when you’re threatened with a life-ending disease with no cure whatsoever. Or so you thought. ”

pairing: jeongin x reader

genre: hanahaki au; fluff, angst with a happy ending.

⇥ warnings: hanahaki disease, mentions of blood (not very graphic but enough that it’s tagged), lots of angst, also in this world the hanahaki surgery isn’t discovered yet, because it’s a fairly recent discovery, also y/n’s dad is nowhere mentioned in this fic idk take it as you like but i imagined him to pass away when y/n was 12 for some reason :((, please do not read if you triggered by topics of death or blood or disease! These themes will be prevalent though not in super explicit detail, they are still there. If I missed a warning, let me know. <3

word count: 11.09 K

type: long one-shot.

⇥ disclaimer: this fiction does not represent the activities of the real Yang Jeongin, nor is associated with JYPE in any form. Events are pure fiction. ♡

part of: the @bystay​ skznta event, written for @stayndays​ !!

song: inspired from Desert Rose by Lolo Zouaï <3 No relation to the fic but it did inspire the ~vibes~.

↯ note: I’m gonna be honest this tired me out so much that I’m glad I finished it, it took me longer than I expected and it got longer than I expected, but nonetheless, here you go shayna! Hi!! It’s me! Your secret santa! Sorry I couldn’t send you that many asks because my uni is a bitch™, and I wish I could’ve made this better, but I guess this will have to do for now. I hope you like it, and I loved being your santa! 🥺 I hope we can interact more in the future, and this isn’t edited so pls go easy on me （＞人＜；）eiury2y4er okay happy reading! <3 love you shayna! <3 I wish I could give this more editing time :( but... i hope u still like it!  ⇥ dawn.☀️

Jeongin’s eyes are really pretty.

The first time you'd made this miniscule observation was during your summer vacation road trip when the sun shined a tad bit overly bright, and Jeongin’s umbrella had a hole in it. The exact details of how it ended up torn don’t matter, but the way Jeongin’s eyes seemed to shimmer in the harsh noon sun almost made it seem worth it.

You remember it clearly — He’d smiled brightly when his eyes met yours, eyes crinkling into tiny little half-moons before his expression turned neutral. At that moment, you were lost into the abyss that was his midnight black orbs. They seemed to hold glimmering stars in them, ones that outshone the specks of white in the night sky.

Looking back, you didn’t think of it much, opting to shake your head off it’s daze before running to where Jeongin stood, throwing a bottle of water into his backpack and laughing at some corny jokes the rest of the group cracked.

Jeongin was a friend — a good friend. In fact, you could call him your best friend, though it had never been verbalized. You couldn’t remember exactly when or how you’d gotten closer to him — it just happened, like everything important in this world did. Like how Jeongin says “It was fate, Y/N, fate” in that old-man-philosopher voice to get you to laugh (Of course it would never work, but you’d still laugh, because anything to see him give you that bright, toothy grin and that little scrunch of his nose in acknowledgement).

The memory of how it all started  is as clear as the sky, as pure as the pigment of a rose.

“Don’t stray too far away, alright? Meet me back here in two hours.” The instructor screams, and all the students chime in with a collective “Yes, ma’am!”. 

 “Good, now go collect your flowers.”

A flower-picking expedition isn’t a common event in a school field trip, at least in your school. You’re more used to the normal visits to the ice cream factory, or the butterfly park (which, to be fair, had some pretty flowers, if only you could pick them) or another affiliated school. Nevertheless, you don’t complain, because the prospect of your school giving you a chance to collect all the pretty flowers you could spot here had you on top of the clouds.

You’re allowed to go alone or in groups of two, and of course, Jeongin has you by the arm the moment your teacher had screamed “Disperse!” at the top of her lungs (P.E teachers had a thing for screaming, apparently). Ignoring the teasing glances the other boys made towards the both of you, you set sail on your path, scanning all the bushes for any wild and unique flowers you could find.

“Oh look, there’s one!” You pointed out after a good four-minute-walk, almost stumbling in your one-inch-too-tight-shoes and ignoring Jeongin’s giggle at your antics. You beckoned him over to where you were standing and he obliged, tucking his sweater paws into his pockets before walking over to where you were staring at the pretty flower.

So, flowers. They’d always fascinated you. You’d developed said fascination ever since you were six. Something about the sheer way the petals were arranged, the various ranges of coloring — vivid, gradient, muted — the beauty of something so delicate and intricate always drew you in. You found yourself examining a flower for hours, and surprisingly, you never grew tired of it. They’d helped you through a lot when you felt particularly down, too. Perfect distraction — snuggling against Jeongin’s arm and playing with the flower he’d always pick out for every visit, surrounded by calming; almost numbing silence along with the sound of his steady breathing, maybe sometimes his heartbeat too when he’d get overly affectionate. Flowers in a way, in every way, were your escape. You loved them. 

“Hmmm.” Jeongin hummed over the sounds of the leaves susurrating and rustling on the ground, the wind enveloping you like a cold, yet oddly comfortable blanket. He fixed his round glasses over his nose, quickly flipping through his encyclopedia. No one really questioned him as to why he carried it wherever he went — but just like you, he had a vivid fascination for flowers too. It was something the both of you fit like a glove on, and you were beyond grateful to meet someone who could click with you so well.

“This is wolfsbane, we can’t pick it.” He said, shaking his head. “It’s poisonous, the whole plant is.”

“Oh…” You pouted, staring at the flower once more. You took in the sight of lush, violet petals, the way they wrapped around the centre and had almost no smell.

“Hey.” He touched your hand worriedly. “You didn’t touch them, right?”

“No, I didn’t. I know better than to touch plants without knowing what they are.”

“Good.” There you could see it again. That lovely, bright smile, one more of relief this time. When you looked into his eyes, you seemed lost — you could capture every flutter of his lashes against his cheeks, count every lustrous star that was laid in his eyes. “That’s good, the poison can be absorbed easily through your skin.”

“Yeah.” You let yourself smile at him, hands dropping down to fiddle with the hem of your frock. 

“Come on, I wanna get some shots for my book. Plus some flowers.” Pulling at your hand, he led you amidst the varying degrees of green and the damp smell of grass for a good distance, before halting in front of a bush. You knew what he’s referencing to by ‘shots’. The camera that hangs around his back, ready to immortalize the memory into his SD card, or rather make a polaroid (or a painting, if he’s being artistic) and tape it to his notebook along with the pressed flower.

“Look!”

Trip a step back, and you yelp at the sudden intrusion to your pace, pouting at Jeongin before looking in the direction he had his eyes fixated on. “Roses.” You giggle, kneeling in front of the bush and hissing when you feel the damp coldness of the grassy floor seep into your knees. “They’re pretty.” 

You can barely hear the sound of students walking past you — the moment seems almost captivating — nothing heard, nothing felt except the whirring of the wind, and the fresh smell of various plants mixed together, it carries.

This part of the garden seems particularly shady and cool, and some of the roses haven’t bloomed yet. A few rosebuds, a few half-bloomed roses, and two fully bloomed, deep red roses, sitting nicely against the green foliage.

Jeongin kneels before you, and you turn to smile at him, chortling at the way his glasses are about to fall over his nose again. You ruffle his black hair gently before fixing the glasses up his nose. 

“You might wanna get a chain attached to that thing. You know those strings that go around your neck and to your glasses to hold them in place?”

Jeongin chuckles. “It’s alright. I don’t like my glasses anyways.”

“Whyyy…?” You whine, poking his arm playfully before directing your focus back on the rose. “You look so adorable with them.”

Your friend feels a smile tug at his lips, leaning in to pinch your cheeks lightly. “You’re adorable.” He says, before focusing on the rose, (thankfully) oblivious to the way your cheeks feel warm after his action.

“Here, let me pick them out and then we can press them into our journals.” Yes. The both of you have matching journals, owing to your near obsession with flowers. You oft share them with each other and get fascinated by how the other views the flower, how they delicately craft words into how the little gift of nature meant to them. It’s a heartwarming tradition — one of the main reasons you follow it till date. 

Jeongin pulls out a pair of scissors from his satchel, and albeit with a lot of force (and the adorable nose scrunch™, manages to cut off a decent amount of stem with the fully bloomed flower, carefully bringing it to his nose to smell it before doing the same to the other one. And all the while, you silently watch.

“Here, this one is more fresh.” It’s so surprising how he can just say that by looking at the flower. Then again, you know him better than anyone, so it’s not surprising at all. He looks at you with dreamy, fluttering eyes and that precious smile on his face, his hair falling perfectly on his forehead. You want to reach out and fix the stray hairs back into position, but you hold back, swallowing the lump in your throat when you look into his pretty, pretty eyes. Trying your damnedest to not get mesmerized, lost in them once again.

It doesn’t seem like a very, very special moment. And to you at that time, it wasn’t special. You simply ignored the heat that crept up your face at his silent gesture, nodding sporadically and ignoring the way you tensed up more when your fingers touched, barely.

Your heart suddenly thumped against your chest with renewed vigour, and you could tell Jeongin was close to noticing it too. 

“T-thank you, that's very sweet.” Fixing the frills of your frock, you smooth them over before looking further and deeper into the garden.

“Lend me a hand, please.”

You once again, ignore the way your heart flutters at his statement, silently extending your hand and covering up your sudden emotion with a smile. His hand feels soft, warm in your hold, fingertips slightly rough from when he used to play the violin. You like it, though.

“Here.” He places the rose carefully in your palm, making sure no thorns prick the delicate skin of your palm, and you can’t help but smile at the tiny reassurance. A nod of approval and you tuck the flower away neatly into your satchel, almost like a valuable present he’d given you, oblivious to the way Jeongin’s eyes twinkled at your action, his smile beaming.

My god, who would’ve known this flower could’ve brought you so, so much trouble?

It had started simple, almost unnoticeable. Just little glances towards Jeongin when he’d come over to watch a movie, getting lost in the way his hair looked exceptionally soft to touch, silently drifting off into space as you admired him from the backseat during class — sure, you were supposed to be focusing on the lesson and taking notes, but something about the way the rim of Jeongin’s sunglasses caught the sunlight and created a lens flare effect was breathtaking to watch.

That, combined with his beauty, his personality. It was too much, too much to handle.

You found yourself waiting to get a glimpse of him, even a tiny glance of his smile would be enough to make your day — to make your heart flutter. 

He was pretty.

You suppose it’s because being Jeongin’s best friend meant you already knew about the kind and empathetic man he was — but for the love of god, you could not stop your heart from fluttering when you heard his name, let alone looked at him and his mind-numbingly pretty smile, his dazzling eyes that always seemed to keep you off the ground.

Oh my, was this love?

You didn’t believe it. You didn’t agree, couldn’t accept that this was love. Maybe it was just your way of showing appreciation for him, for everything he’d done for you? Yes. That was probably it. 

Love wasn’t something you’d experienced — how could you jump to the conclusion? 

But you couldn’t pin the feeling you were feeling to another word — though you were desperate. The way your heart beat faster around him, the way you started noticing all the tiny details that made you fall for him even more, and for what? Just because he happened to give you a fresher, more lusciously colored rose after choosing them on his own? 

Jeongin had noticed it too — it was hard not to when you’d start fiddling with your thumbs, twirling your hair, and the way heat would rush to your face when he did as little as smile at you — you’d fallen for him — and while he was ever-the-oblivious to realise the implications of your actions, he did know that something was wrong.

“Y/N, are you alright?” Jeongin asks rather dully, seeming kind of worried about your current state. You’re resting your head against his lap, but Jeongin can feel the warmth of your cheek through the thin material of his shorts — and not the regular kind. The kind of heat one would radiate when they’d either been overly flustered. Or possibly a fever.

He rests a single palm against your cheek and your eyes flutter shut, and there it is again. The butterflies in your stomach, the fuzzies in your head, and the tingling that shot up to your fingertips. “Are you sick? Is that why you’re oddly quiet today? You haven’t said or eaten anything.”

“Ah, no, I’m alright.” You try to hide the dizziness in your voice, snuggling in his hold before fluttering your eyes close. Thankfully, Jeongin doesn’t question it. 

“Alright, we won’t talk about it if you don’t want to.” Even though you aren’t facing him right now, you can feel him smile in melancholy. 

“Hey Y/N?” 

“Yes?”

“You know I’m here for you, right?”

Oh, you knew.

Sometimes you wish you didn’t — maybe that would’ve prevented it from ending this way.

It’s such a common scenario — in movies, in books, in media. Two best friends falling in love with each other, confessing their love in the warm and intimate setting of the night sky, over gentle touches and lingering kisses. You’ve always had an attachment to those kinds of movies or books — because for you, that kind of love was special in it’s own way.

Those little ways the lead characters had of showing each other their undying love, those subtle acts were so special, so special in their own way. Those books had shown you how heartwarming, how vulnerable yet rigid, strong that relationship could be. It was such a pretty world to explore, to fantasize. You kind of felt that you and Jeongin were the protagonists of those books, those movies.

Except, you had no happy ending.

The books failed to show how painful it was to swallow, to digest the fact that you could be nothing more than friends. Sure, there had been some moments where the main leads would be sad, but it was nothing compared to this, this suffocation in your chest that slowly built up, day by day, minute by minute, second by second.

It was hard.

The first prick in your chest hadn’t been entirely painful. It was barely noticeable even. Simply a tiny jolt of pain when you bent forward to grab your books from your locker. It had only been a slight jab, like when you’d accidentally poke yourself in the rib with the edge of your hardcover diary while picking it up. Nothing too hard.

Then came the slight feeling of breathlessness. You found yourself unable to run a full round in P.E (when you could easily do so beforehand), having to stop in between to catch your breath. You figured it could’ve been your dust allergy because the P.E room wasn’t cleaned that often, so it made sense. Somewhat. Still sceptical, but nonetheless, you covered up your random outbursts of coughs with any and every excuse you could find when your parents questioned you about it.

It was hard, but you figured it was just a matter of winter passing by, and soon you’d be alright.

Would you, though? You couldn’t bring yourself to accept that there was in fact something wrong happening to you, pushing behind that feeling of paranoia every time with a smile on your face and a hold of your breath, wishing for the pain to ebb away.

Who would’ve thought that a sudden infatuation would have led to your demise?

Jeongin can hear the noises.

Those loud, dragged out wisps of air that you borderline struggle to take in and expel out, Jeongin can hear them.

He can feel your struggle. It’s not easy for him to look at you like this, curled up into a ball and ignoring the rampant burn in your chest. The movie isn’t even the main focus right now. Jeongin has something to say, and he’s had enough of watching you struggle. He’s rather here to persuade you to go to the fucking doctor, and get some sort of diagnosis instead of beating around the bush.

Strange. Jeongin feels oddly affectionate today, when usually you’re the one to initiate such gestures. All he wants to do is pull you into his arms and rock you back and forth until you fall asleep, because you seriously seem like you need it.

“Y/N,” he calls, watching you lift your head up from where it’s rested against your knees. You don’t reply, because right now, your throat seems like a barren desert and all you can seem to let out is a croak.

Jeongin sighs and rolls his eyes as if in deep thought, turning on the couch to face you before touching the tops of your cheeks with his hands — they seem overly feverous. 

“What’s going on?” He asks sternly.

“What d-do you mean?” You manage to get out, feeling your chest hurt more and more with each syllable that leaves past your lips in a croaked voice. It felt like someone was repeatedly stabbing your chest with the sharp edge of the knife, the burn in your throat and lungs getting too much to handle. You can’t even tear your focus from the fiery sensation to revel in the feeling of Jeongin’s soft palms cupping your cheeks.

“Y/N, you’ve been acting weird ever since the expedition.” Worry is laced throughout his tone, mixed in with a dash of sorrow to give rise to the most heartbreaking sound you’ve ever heard. Though you know otherwise, it almost seems as though Jeongin is disappointed in you.

“You’ve been getting more and more sick—” he raises a hand to stop you from contradicting his statement. You only look at him with mellow eyes, knowing that what he says is right. You’ve been ignoring your health for too long. 

You can’t help it, either. While you have an inkling of what might’ve happened, you’re too stubborn to accept it, let along your unrequited love for your best friend, who seems ever-the-oblivious.

“—and you can’t tell me it’s the winter allergy, love. I know you more than that to believe it.”

Shaking your head in dismay, you turn around to get up. You can’t be having this conversation right now, not with the faintest taste of blood lingering at the edge of your throat — you can’t be showing yourself like this in front of him — broken down, vulnerable, confused of your own feelings, having no idea of what you should be doing.

Your mother had pointed it out too, at this point. They suggested going to the doctor, and you outright refused. You didn’t want your suspicion to come to life. It couldn’t- it couldn’t be this way-

“Y/N!”

Jeongin grabs your hands to stop you in your position and turns you around.

And that’s a wrong move.

Your whole chest tightens, and the thorns that stab against your chest has never been more painful. You cry out loudly, only causing them to dig deeper into your skin and almost bleed. Jeongin’s eyes widen in shock at your sudden, unexpected reaction and only tightens his grasp on your hands.

Which again, is a very wrong move, because the following bouts of coughs that take over you shake you up from the core. Jeongin feels blanked out looking at how much you’re suffering right now, so much that he doesn’t feel the wet, yet light flutter on the back of his hand.

When Jeongin snaps back in from his momentary daze, he’s borderline horrified.

He’s convinced, completely certain that there’s nothing more terrifying, heartbreaking, scarring — he could go on and on — than what he just saw. He can almost feel his heart break into a million tiny shards, but he knows that it’s nowhere equivalent to the pain you’re going through.

Well, looks like your suspicion did come to life.

Because what Jeongin sees is, gah, he feels horrified. There’s blood dripping down your lip, staining the skin below garnet red. Your eyes are tinted pinkish-red too, most likely from the exertion that came along with the horrendous amount of coughs that took over you.

Red, red everywhere. Jeongin had previously thought of red as one of the most beautiful, and most interesting colors ever — a symbolism of love, nothing but the pure love he felt towards you.

But now, all he could think of was how much he was tormented by the mere sight of the color.

When his eyes, still blown wide in shock, trail down to his lap, the mere sight of what’s littered on it leaves him in tears.

Red petals, everywhere. All over the back of his hands, all over your lap, all over his lap.

Jeongin could probably spend ages, ages sobbing and whimpering about the sheer pain the sight in front of him brought. It tormented him beyond imagination. This should be a dream — Jeongin wants to wake up any second now, anywhere, in your lap, in his own bed, just anything to save his heart from seeing you this way.

Yet when you cough again, the pain in his heart tells otherwise.

“Y/N!” He chokes out a cry, and from there, he acts quick. He could cry about this later — he needs to find you some help, and now. 

You feel numb. As numb as you possibly can when you see the tears in Jeongin’s eyes, though your sight is clouded by your own tears. You’re numb to the blood dripping down your chin and pooling in your lap, you’re numb to the feeling of those bloody petals littered all over the couch. 

“We need to get you to the hospital, quick.” He gets up, wiping his eyes that are surprisingly, surprisingly overflowing with tears. You barely feel the handkerchief quickly wiping against your mouth, causing you to snap from your trance and look at him. The numbness doesn’t fade yet.

You doubt it ever will.

You’re not sure that the events after the incident go super quickly or as slow as a snail, and you’re not in any state to care about it either. Jeongin had called your mother when he drove you to the hospital — albeit over the sound of your repetitive and raucous coughs — and now your mom’s standing next to him outside, nervously prancing back and forth as he waits for the doctors to come out.

The hospital corridor is moderately lit — perfect setting for Jeongin’s mood right now. There’s no sound except for the occasional encounter when a nurse or doctor happens to walk past them. The hanahaki treatment section of the hospital isn’t the most crowded place — surprisingly enough, the doctors had immediately known what had happened to you.

Your mother can’t bring herself to thank Jeongin for dragging you to the hospital — she’s too paranoid. Your daughter coughing up blood and — Jeongin hadn’t mentioned it to her — flower petals over a movie night isn't the best news you’d want to receive when her friend calls you; so Jeongin understands why your mother is overly quiet.

He doesn’t try to reassure her either. It’s hard to do so when she’s gonna find out her daughter houses a wedding bouquet in her chest — and Jeongin isn’t that oblivious to not know what’s going on, especially standing in the hanahaki department of the clinic. His mother, not so much. All she can do is silently sob and mutter prayers repeatedly, hoping her daughter would be alright. Jeongin feels his heart break more when he sees your mom like this, and he knows he’s not gonna last at this rate, when he’s allowed to enter your room.

At this point, he can’t get past his own brain screaming a million different things at the same time, none of them coherent enough to make sense. He’s a mess right now — red eyes puffy and swollen, hair completely disheveled and half of his sweatshirt hanging out of where it was  neatly tucked in.

Two hands at his heart, and that’s when he notices the red rose petal stuck to the back of his hand, probably from when you’d coughed all over it. It’s fairly large in size — Jeongin examines it, in a slightly successful attempt at trying to distract from the feeling of anxiety that builds up inside bit by bit. It’s a deep, dark red color, exactly like the rose he’d given you that day, at the trip.

The boy sighs to himself before pulling the petal off his hand, eyes widening when the blood underneath it tints the skin it runs across. 

That’s when a lump forms in his throat, but he isn’t given time to cry, because soon enough, the sound of a door opening clicks through his ears, and Jeongin’s head snaps up.

He can see you from where he’s standing, and his whole world freezes in front of his eyes.

The flowers inside your chest had grown moderately large — that’s what the doctor said, at least. You’d been hiding your disease for two months, and it wasn’t until the end that Jeongin caught on — you’d been too stubborn to accept your fate. Maybe this was how it was supposed to end, after all. 

You couldn’t accept it then, but you did now. Did it seriously make a difference?

Jeongin had seen your scan, and what he saw would’ve truly been pretty, if not for the fact that these flowers could be the cause for your imminent death. The roses had almost fully bloomed — and the thorns were pricklier than ever. Jeongin could almost feel them stab against his skin, and he didn’t even have the disease. It was confusing — things were too confusing right now.

You couldn’t speak much, the painkillers you were on were making you drowsy and causing you to quickly fall asleep. Even if you weren’t asleep, it wouldn’t have made a difference.

Numbness ran through your veins. You couldn’t bring yourself to feel anything after what had happened.

Jeongin and your mother hadn’t spoken to you after the doctor had shown them your scan, and they preferred to not break the news to you either, figuring that you were pretty shaken up from the incident already.

The doctor said he could give you two weeks before the flowers filled your lungs completely and blocked your throat.

And Jeongin is devastated.

When the effect of your painkillers wear off and you open your eyes, you feel a soft sensation brushing against your thumb, slowly turning to look at your best friend — tears streaked all over his face, eyes ridden with dark circles and red and puffy, his voice sounded nasal as he silently cried, eyesight focused on the floor.

“J-Jeongin…?” You mumble past your oxygen mask, surprisingly not noticing it’s presence until right now,

He perks up at the painful call, lifting his head to gaze into your eyes. He looks worse than you look right now, if you’re to be honest. You doubt he’s even brushed his teeth or had breakfast. The hospital room is pretty dim just like the exterior, but the sunlight coming from the open window is enough to light up the whole room, enough to at least see your friend’s features clearly.

“You’re awake.” he says as a matter-of-fact and you nod, gently taking off the contraption placed against your nose. Jeongin flinches like he wants to stop you. But then freezes when you try to slowly get up.

Turns out that’s a wrong move, because you can soon feel the thorns of the garden you have in your lungs prick against your skin, making you gasp and shriek in agony. Jeongin jerks up and places a hand on your back, and the other across your stomach — and gently maneuvers you into an awkward but comfortable position, before lifting the top of the bed into a reclining position before laying you down onto it.

“Careful, love.”

Your chest tightens at the actions once again, yet you try not to cough like you did the last time. Surprisingly biting on your tongue works to rid the feeling of suffocation, or at least distracts from it.

“Where’s m-mom?”

“She went to pick up some of your essentials, plus a few clothes.”

“D-did she eat? Did you eat?”

Jeongin smiles at your concern. It’s something he’s found endearing about you — how you always seem to put others first, even though you’re in a worse situation. Though the habit isn’t healthy, Jeongin can’t seem to get over how thoughtful one would have to be to act that way all the time. You’re so innocent, so kind — you’re one of a kind, at least for him.

“What?” You chuckle, noticing Jeongin’s lingering stare on you.

Your friend only beams, taking your hand in his once again. “I forced her to eat something because of her medication, so you don’t have to worry. I ate along with her too, though the canteen’s food doesn’t taste that well.” 

A soft giggle leaves your lips and quickly morphs into a set of coughs, more petals fluttering all over your lap and hands. When Jeongin stands up to call a doctor, you lift a hand to stop him, gesturing for him to sit down.

It isn’t as intense as the first time, but there’s still a tiny bit of blood dripping from the corner of your mouth, which Jeongin quickly goes to wipe off with his thumb. You flinch at the warm touch, sighing to yourself before dropping your gaze to your lap.

“So…” You start. “What did the doctor say?”

“What?”

Jeongin seems visibly tense at your question, kind of like he was dreading it. Which he was. He knows enough about this to know that patients usually don’t like knowing, and in fact can be traumatised by knowing that their apparent death would be in two weeks.

Jeongin in fact has no idea how he’s so calm. He should be sobbing, trashing, looking for a way to hold you back. He shouldn’t be so calm.

He figures he’s just accepted fate. He’s relishing what could be his last moments with you.

You don’t reply, and Jeongin knows he’ll have to make something up.

“They said it’s just a regular allerg-”

“Jeongin.”

The boy freezes.

“Don’t lie to me.” Your voice is laid with so much pain, Jeongin wants to reach out and crush every problem you have into his fist. He wants all your sorrow and worry to dissolve, and right now, he just feels helpless. He feels powerless.

“How many days do I have left?” You ask, sniffling before wiping your tears away. “Just tell me already, Jeongin-”

Jeongin’s grip tightens against your hand as he whispers — “Two weeks.” 

The words are only let out as a soft mumble, as though Jeongin himself is questioning the statement the doctors put forth. Really, in two weeks? Would you really be gone? Would he seriously never see more of your smiles, your loving gaze, those times when you’d get overly shy of his compliments, those times when you’d silently smile at him from afar?

Was this the end?

“Two weeks.” You repeat. Your voice honestly sounds like a croaking frog, but you can’t bring yourself to care. 

“Hey Y/N…?” Jeongin hesitantly calls.

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?” He puts his other hand on yours. “Two questions, actually.”

“Mhm?”

“This disease you have… hana-”

“Hanahaki.”

“Yeah, that.” A hand runs against the back of his neck and he continues. “Be honest, did you know that- that you had this disease before I found out?”

“Jeongin…” You’re about to shake your head, but then you remember the deadline. The deadline by which, you’re no longer going to be here, no longer going to be able to cuddle Jeongin during movie dates, no longer be able to even look at him from afar, or close for that matter. In other words, you didn’t want to end your days with him based on a lie.

Therefore you sigh, breathing out a ‘yes’ as your shoulders droop down.

You can hear Jeongin’s shaky sigh too.

“W-why?” He clenches your hand tightly, sadness mixing in with what you can only call disappointment. “How could you be so selfish?”

It's too late to take back those words now.

“Wh-what?” You raise your eyebrows, feeling scared at his sudden question. “Jeongin, I wanted to be sure-”

Oh who are you kidding? Jeongin and you both know that you’d hidden it because you didn’t want to accept it. It’s too late to change that now.

And Jeongin seems to know that too.

“Don’t- Y/N.” His breath morphs into sharp inhales, as though he’s downright angry at your actions — you know he has every reason to be — still, it doesn’t ease the pain in your heart. Or maybe that’s just the flowers.

“Do you think this is a joke?” His sobs grow louder in fervour, and you feel yourself break at the sight. The room is so, so quiet that you can hear his faint mumbles. You can hear the cries his heart screams in agony, letting you go is painful for him. The thought, rather the sound, only makes the plant in your heart grow further.

“Y/N- did you not think of your mother? Of me? Did you not think of what would have happened if you left us? You think it’s gonna be easy on the both of us? On everyone?” His gaze stern and his voice stable, you don’t get affected by his words, but you do understand what he means — and maybe wish that you could’ve reversed your actions.

“How could you, Y/N?” He gets up from where he’s seated beside your hospital bed. “How could you think that this would be the most appropriate action?”

Jeongin knows he’s angry. Jeongin knows you’re going through a lot. But he’s too.

He’s not angry at you, not at himself, but fate. He’s mad that this is your fate, that you have to go away so soon. He’s mad that he can’t do anything to help you, in any manner.

You don’t say a word, which only causes Jeongin to sigh — disappointedly, again — and walk to where his coat is hung against the edge of his bed, picking it off and pulling it over him in a hurry. Every cell in you wants to scream at him, apologize for what you did, but your voice feels small, almost like you can’t force it out of your throat.

He goes towards the door that leads to the corridor, stopping for a second before turning to look at you.

“Are you gonna tell me, at least, who this person is?”

“W-what?” Things are too confusing right now.

“Hanahaki comes with unrequited love, Y/N. Are you gonna tell me who didn’t return your love?”

“You didn’t” You want to say. But then again, you stay quiet, not being able to handle the intensity of the moment.

Jeongin wants for two seconds, then sighs and shakes his head. “Whatever, I guess.”

And then he leaves.

In the next week, your health goes down drastically. More of petals expelled out of your lungs, more blood dripping from between your lips, more of your mother’s horrified expression as she runs away from the room while the doctors tend to your coughs. More sobs from your mother when she thinks you’re asleep, more melancholic smiles when you’re awake.

But you feel so empty.

Every piece of you feels like it’s being ripped apart. You can’t even sit up without someone’s help, of such intensity is the pain. The pain of knowing that your love would never be returned. 

The pain of knowing that you hurt the person you loved truly.

You were put on your oxygen mask 24/7, and instructed to not take it off whatsoever. Your medication stopped taking it’s usual effect, and if anyone saw you the way you were outside the current circumstances, they’d have assumed that you haven't slept for 8 days and were going to crumble into the earth any second.

“Honey?”

You gasp at the sudden intrusion to your thoughts, turning around to see your mother, sitting next to you and holding your hand with her own. You hum as a response, clearly unable to respond more than a mere mumble.

“Did you and Jeongin fight?”

A pang of guilt floods through your nerves at the mention of your friend’s name. He’d come to visit you only once in the past week. Perhaps even he couldn’t handle the fact that your death certificate was ready to be signed soon, and was trying to not be tormented by the fact. Or perhaps he was just angry.

“W-why?” You croak.

“I convinced him to come stay here while I go pick up a fresh change of clothes, but it took me quite a bit of arguing.”

You feel sad for her. She’s clearly paranoid — you can hear it in her voice, the shake lingers throughout. Yet she holds it in, trying not to let you worry about it.

You don’t answer her question. The last thing you need is for her to get mad at you too, though you doubt it. Your mom has never been the kind to yell at you for anything — provided, you’ve never given her a reason either.

“Do you think he’s mad because I didn’t tell him about the person who didn’t return m-my l-lo-ve…?” your throat goes dry towards the end and your mother quickly hands you a glass of water. You chug it down and sigh in relief, breath still short.

“Is that person him?” Your mother questions with her gentle, soothing voice one that can make you relax on the first listen. There’s no use lying to her, you figure. She knows you too well to do that, plus, like you said, you couldn’t bring yourself to end your days with her on a lie.

“Yeah…”

“Oh sweetheart,” She brushes some of your hair off your face, sitting down again before drumming her fingers against the back of your hand gently. “I don’t think he could be mad at you.”

“But he is. Didn’t y-you see? He didn’t bother to meet me as much after our argument. He’c c-clearly mad.”

“Hmmm,” Your mother ponders. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t?”

“Nope. I have known him for a while, dear. He’s been with you for more than five years. Maybe he’s having trouble taking this in? Just like…” Your mother stops after that, but you know the completion.

Just like her.

“I’m sorry, mom.”

You simply don’t get it. You should be scared. You should be sad and devastated that your end was going to come soon.  You should be thrashing around and crying and wailing in despair — you just don’t have  the energy to even bother about your end. It’s depressing, but you know there’s no way you could avoid the inevitable, or get your lover to return your love.

Love wasn’t supposed to be something forced, it had to happen naturally. And if Jeongin didn’t develop it naturally, you just had to learn to live with it. Or not.

“Don’t be, darling. Everyone deserves to love, just like how they deserve it back. I wish it could’ve ended differently.”

“It’s alright mom. He loves me too… just not on the way I love him.”

You sniffle as a single tear runs down your chin, though you and your mom aren’t given enough time to speak more when you hear a familiar voice at the door. 

“Hey Mrs. L/N.” Jeongin says, shrugging off his half snow-covered coat before hanging it onto the bedside. Did he seriously walk in the snow? All the way here?

“Hello, Jeongin dear.” Your mother stands up, picking her coat before moving to fish the car keys from her purse. “Thank you for watching over Y/N while I’m gone, darling.”

“It’s no problem, Mrs. L/N.”

“Oh, so formal.” Your mom chuckles, though in her despaired state. “Y/N, you get some sleep, it’s about midnight dear.” She leans over to kiss your forehead while Jeongin excuses himself to the washroom, and you nod. 

“Good night mom.”

“Good night, and don’t worry about him. He’ll talk to you eventually.”

Oh, how reassuring. “Mhm.” You smile, closing your eyes to drift into slumber before Jeongin returns, because the last thing you need right now is to feel sad and cry over how you’d hurt him.

By the time the sound of the door clicking resounds through the space, you’re already asleep.

 It’s way past midnight. Jeongin shouldn’t be up. 

Somehow, he still finds himself seated next to your bed, staring fondly at your calm features as you finally get the rest you’ve needed for the past few days. 

Oh, he wouldn’t be able to compare your sheer beauty to even that of the moon; even when you’re in such a fragile and vulnerable state. Your eyelashes are still and unmoving where they sit against your skin, your breath is calm and slightly wavering as you struggle to breathe slightly. 

His hand slips into your own gently, and his heart melts when you shift, tightening your grasp on his warm skin before falling into a slumber again.

Why was he mad in the first place? Jeongin feels dumb for acting so quickly on his emotions, especially when you’re in a bad place at the moment. He wants to wake you up and apologize, but he can’t, because you’re sound asleep — and that’s a good thing, since seep comes so scarcely to you these days.

Then, a single tear falls from his eyes. His thoughts traverse to the dream he had the previous night — you, cold, dead in his arms. Him, sobbing, trying to wake you up but you’re really gone. He can’t even hear your mother’s cries from behind him, because he’s devastated to know that you’ve left him. The dream had woken him up in a cold sweat — it was then he realised that he’d committed a mistake, and agreed to come visit you, because you had about 5 days left.

His thoughts then traverse to the conversation you had with your mother, while he was standing outside in the cold hospital corridor, curiously listening.

“Is that person him?” “Yeah…”

When he heard those words, countess, infinite thoughts crashed at his head; all at once. Nothing made any sense. The reality of the situation was dawning on him too quickly, and Jeongin was having a hard time processing it. 

You loved him? He was the person who didn’t return your love?

“Why didn’t you tell me, Y/N?” He mumbles in confusion — so much confusion, so much hurt — he wanted time to just stop for awhile and give him a fair chance to analyze the situation.

But, once all the initial thoughts were out of the way, only one question remained:

Was he the reason you were going to die?

Jeongin felt like a murderer — like he’d just stabbed you in cold blood. He knows it is’t like that — just like you’d said, love should come natural. So why did Jeongin feel so bad? WHy did he feel like he was the one at fault?

A fond smile crosses his lips when he remembers the book where you keep all your flowers safely. Who would have thought your fondness for flowers would morph into the reason for your demise?

Quiet, hushed in the midnight wind, Jeongin gently brings out the rose he’d picked from his satchel. It’s almost relieving to see a rose in it’s true glory, without scattered petals or blood covering the flower. A part of him grows sad that you won’t be able to gush over flowers together anymore, he won’t be able to see your smile anymore. It hurts him. It stabs his heart over and over again, and Jeongin is pained — almost like he’s being put to death slowly — he wants the pain to end, but only suffers and suffers.

The stem has already been cut and the thorns have been thrown out. Jeongin leans over to tuck the flower behind your ear, fingers brushing against the almost cold skin at the back of your ear before letting another tear slip from his eye, running down his cheek and falling on your palm.

A strange, oh-so-strange feeling creeps up on him. It’s like… a fluttering in his heart? Jeongin can’t quite place it — heck, he doesn’t try to make sense of it. There are more important things to look at, right now. He suddenly has the urge to pull you into his arms and gently murmur sweet words into your ear — seems odd for a situation like this, but oh well, feelings are feelings.

He pats your hand gently and smiles, before moving to sleep on the smaller bed in front of your own. Not allowed to go far, though, because your grip on his hands tighten almost immediately, and Jeongin tightens to look into your eyes, sparkly and slightly droopy from the intrusion of sleep.

“Y/N, go to-”

“Stay.” You mumble, feeling your voice choke as the petals threaten to spill out for what seems like the millionth time. Yet, you manage to spill out another, “Please?”

Jeongin feels like he’s about to cry. Your expression is so, so hopeful, he can’t bring himself to deny. He wouldn’t in the first place, because who was he to deny what could be his friend’s last wish?

A sob bubbles up his throat, but he swallows it down, smiling with melancholy before following your weak pull on his hand, genty climbing on your bed before slotting himself between you and the steel grill that prevented patients from falling down. He gently tucks his hand under you and pulls you close to himself, tensing up for a second when you wrap an arm around his own, gently rubbing on it before drifting off to sleep. You want to cherish this moment — this could be the last time before you could never see him again. Fuck your medication for making you so drowsy. Or not, because you were certain you would start crying, and that would certainly not end well.

The whole room falls silent for two seconds, and you fall asleep almost immediately. 

And then, Jeongin releases all his tears, and everything comes crashing down on him. He breaks apart.

The world was too cruel to you. He was cruel to you. He can’t believe that in less than a week, you’d be gone. Gone from earth. Flowers had lost all their beauty for him, the moment he saw you coughing them up on that couch during movie night.

He wanted to do anything. He wanted any small sign to show that you would stay with him. He was in so much pain, he couldn’t accept your fate. He wanted to grab your hand and pull you to himself, keep you close, he couldn’t let go, he couldn’t give you up, he couldn’t —

“I love you.” You mumble unconsciously in your sleep, and Jeongin loses it then and there. His throat feels dry as tears flow and flow and don’t cease no matter what. His body shakes like a sobbing child, but thankfully you’re knocked out from the effect of your medication. He hasn’t cried this hard in a while, guess there’s a first time for everything. The three words pierce his heart, and they suddenly hold more meaning than anything — Jeongin wants to hear those words on a loop; he feels strangely ecstatic when you say them.

And so, with a shaky voice and a sorrowful tone, Jeongin replies after pressing a kiss to your forehead — “I-I love you, t-too.”

His eyes flutter shut and he basks in your arms just one last time, holding you close to himself as he finally, finally finds himself at peace, next to you.

When your mother finds you both snuggled up and asleep together, a smile crosses her lips. A hopeful smile.

“Are you ready for your scan, Y/N?”

You feel oddly light today — one would say it’s because your body was close to shutting down completely, but your throat felt a bit, a tiny bit clearer and less barren than a fucking desert. Nevertheless, the scan does make you nervous. This would make clear how long the flowers would take to reach your throat — the doctor’s estimation was about three days, which seemed way too short for Jeongin.

Oh, how embarrassing it was when the nurses, all giggly and mushy-eyed, found you snuggled with Jeongin like a teddy bear at the early hours of the morning, waking you and Jeongin up and only cracking up more at your bewildered expressions when you find yourself tangled with each other.

Before the scan, Jeongin had held your hand softly, leaning down to press another kiss to your forehead. You’d shyly smiled, nodding before letting the nurse drag you to the scanning room.

The details of the scan itself aren’t important, it went pretty well — as decent as a scan could possibly go. You’re able to cooperate with your nurses pretty feasibly, you feel the sudden urge to get out of your wheelchair and try walking. Sure, you can still feel the choked feeling in your throat and the burn in your lungs, but somehow, it’s just a tiny bit lesser than usual. Maybe it’s because your painkillers are working more effectively. Maybe.

Jeongin’s waiting for you outside when you’re led out of the room, and he smiles when he sees you.

You don’t even remember what you’d said the previous night. All you remember was passing out while Jeongin was in the washroom, and then waking up to him cuddled up, warm and snug next to you. His features were clear and calm as the ocean on a sunny day, a small smile on his lips, as though he was dreaming about something happy. You hope he did, because that boy deserves the happiness.

“You seem energetic today.” Jeongin says, taking note of your perky demeanour, that only causes you to giggle slightly. 

Sure, you don’t remember the happenings of last night, but he does — and he’d promised himself to cherish every last second. Because in the end, it’s all he can do — for leading you to this state, for getting mad at you and wasting precious time in which he could’ve stayed with you. He’d promised to not let you live your last moment sad and desolated.

“I feel light, for some reason.” You mumble with a broken voice as Jeongin takes the wheelchair from the nurse, listening to what she has to say before bowing and nodding, leading you back to your room.

“What did she say?” You ask, fiddling with your thumbs.

“She said your scan results would come in an hour.” 

“Oh… alright.”

For some reason, you’re too joyous today, after the little surprise you got as soon as your eyes opened. You can’t seem to bother about the end— you want to live in this moment, right now.

When you come back to the room, Jeongin lifts you up bridal style, causing you to gasp before placing you down onto the bed. The nurse waiting there quickly fixes your IV and helps you sit into a comfortable position (though it’s hard when thorns keep pricking at your ribs) before bowing to the both of you, and leaving.

Your mother has once again left to go fix up the house, leaving you in the trust of your best friend. You aren’t complaining though, especially when Jeongin sits down beside your bed, taking your hand in his before playing with your nimble fingers — just like always.

He looks gorgeous today. After a lot of nagging from your mother, he’d used the hospital bathroom to wash his face and comb his hair neatly, and you’re happy about that because he looks fresher and happier than ever. You want him to be smiling and happy, even when you leave, because… did you need a reason? You just wanted him to be happy and content with his life.

The thought invokes an angsty feeling of melancholy, but you brush it away, trying to focus on Jeongin and the silence that drops on the both of you like a warm blanket. You smile softly at him, gently letting go of his hand before tucking a few strands of his hair behind his ear, almost melting when Jeongin’s eyes flutter close.

“Hey Jeongin?” You call, grabbing his hand once again and interlacing the fingers together.

“Yeah?”

“When I… leave,” You notice the twitch in his expression, but nonetheless, continue. “Will you bring me flowers every week?” 

You remember the red rose you’d found tucked behind your ear when you woke up — it had dried up a bit, but nonetheless, it was one of the prettiest objects you’d ever seen — even though there was a whole bouquet of them spewing out your mouth every two seconds.

“I will.” Jeongin sniffles. The thought of having to visit your grave every week to bring you flowers is immensely saddening, but Jeongin agrees anyways. He agrees, for you.

It’s the least he can do.

It’s funny how you say “leave”, like you’re going to your hometown for a month-long vacation and not actually like you’re going to be buried any time soon. Jeongin thinks it’s because you don’t want him to get too sad over his loss — a stupid thing to wish — Jeongin knows this loss is going to affect him in more ways than one.

“Jeongin, d-don’t cry…” You cup his cheek, gently brushing your thumb against his cheek and wiping away the tears that fall, one by one. Jeongin shakes his head, placing his palm on your hand and smiling at you.

“Can you do me another favor?”

“As many as you’d like Y/N.” He says. He’ll do anything you want — it’s your last wish after all.

“Bury me with my flower journal, please?” It may seem like a weird claim to bury oneself with a dusty old book, but Jeongin understands the significance — you want to hold onto those memories you made with him while writing it together, while picking flowers together and all those happy moments you exchanged.

Jeongin tries not to let his voice break again. “I will.”

You beam at his acceptance. Jeongin feels the slight thump of his heart against his chest, and a warm feeling envelopes him from inside. He’s suddenly overcome with an urge to press delicate kisses on your eyelids, though he tries to shoo it away, because it isn’t the main point of focus right now.

But soon your mother walks in, and it’s all small talk and deep conversations with her at the same time. You have breakfast, persuade (more like force) Jeongin to scarf down his meal and giggle about some random jokes thrown here and there, until the doctor comes in. Both Jeongin and your mother stand up, bowing and wishing good morning while you do too. Wish, not stand up. You’re basically tied to the bed at this point.

“Mrs L/N, I’d have had a word with you in private, but I think Miss Y/N needs to hear this too.” 

“What is it, doctor?”

You furrow your eyebrows in confusion and Jeongin’s grip on your hand tightens, thumb rubbing over your skin to soothe your obvious tension. The doctor slides the transparent, firm sheet off it’s envelope before letting the sunlight hit the back of it, in order to enable a clearer viewing.

“This is… the most unusual case I’ve ever seen, but —” He points to a junction on the scan. “The flowers have actually reduced in amount, and they've separated from the windpipe by a whole two inches. See?” He points at the edges of the lungs and at the windpipe, but you understand what he means. The flowers are there, no doubt, but it’s almost like — a whole stem of them just disappeared into thin air.

Of course this could’ve been because you coughed them up, but the coughed up flowers go instantly, or so you’ve heard. There’s confusion written on all of your faces right now.

“Is that why I was feeling lighter and easier to breathe today? Because the flowers withered off and gave more space for air?” You ask in your low voice, and your doctor nods.

“Seems like it. Do you have your previous scan?” Your mother hands it to him quickly after a great deal of fishing out of her purse.

He places the earlier scan behind the newer one, and suddenly, you can see what he means. It’s almost like they shrunk — you don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but nonetheless, you’re happy you can breathe a bit more.

“What does this mean, though?” Jeongin asks, bewildered at the strange news. The room is so quiet and the tension is thick enough to cut with a knife, and you can see both your mother and Jeongin waiting for the doctor’s words.

“It means that we’ll take another scan tomorrow, a deeper one. And check if the flowers are actually collecting somewhere else, or just disappearing. And if they are disappearing…” He trails off, and you giggle when Jeongin and your mother lean forward in anticipation, though curious yourself.

“She’ll be home by Christmas. Or even earlier, if the recovery speed is fast.”

“Y-You mean… I can be cured?” Your voice shakes with hope, and the doctor smiles sweetly at you, before nodding.

“Yes dear, you’ll be the first patient who’s walked out of this place cured from hanahaki.”

At that moment, it almost feels like every flower inside your chest wilts out — you feel so light, so ecstatic. You’re over the clouds at the news, and don’t even hear your mother’s cries of thankfulness before the doctor heads out.

“Y/N!” Jeongin exclaims, ignoring the fluttering feeling in his heart and the burn in his cheeks when he cups your own. “You’re gonna come home!”

You shake with soft sobs, and smile at Jeongin.

“I’m gonna come home.” Provided the scan tomorrow showed a positive result, but you don’t bother to mention that part.

And the next day, when your scan results come back, a huge smile adorns your face, and your mother is in tears. Happy tears.

The sunshine is overly bright today, leaving you squinting for sight, especially when you’re seated in a garden out in the open, book in one hand and the other one resting against the cool, moist grass. The air holds a musky forest scent, and you revel in the feeling of the shivers the cold air that cuts through skin brings.

The park is relatively empty for the morning — you’re glad it is, because it brings on a sense of calmness that you seem to like. The surroundings are just perfect — you don’t want anyone to disrupt your mood right now.

So yeah. The story ends that way. You recover, bit by bit, though it takes a whole bunch of time. There were times when you still had to cough out those petals, but you couldn’t be happier — it felt as though you were spitting out those vicious thorns that had tormented and threatened your life. The doctors had no idea how you’d managed to recover — but this was an interesting case to put into their portfolio, so they weren’t complaining.

And oh, you had Jeongin to help you through all of it, of course. 

It had taken you two weeks to be discharged from the hospital and be able to finally walk again, but when you did it — you felt like a whole new person, in a whole new world. Sure, you had to hold onto your mother or Jeongin wherever you went for the first week or so — it was almost like your legs had turned jelly.

When you returned home, Jeongin insisted that he take you to the garden every day, and when you complained that you couldn’t walk, he’d lifted you into his arms (bridal style, again) and carried you all the way there, and then given you a piggyback ride you all the way back home.

Eventually, you ended up telling him the truth — that the unrequited love that caused everything was because of how you’d fallen for him. You figured he deserved it, especially when he’d stuck with you the whole time without any hesitation and helped you whenever he could — he was truly one of the nicest, kindest people you’d ever met.

Of course, you were surprised when Jeongin only smiled and told you that he knew what you were talking about, and then proceeded to narrate how he’d overheard you in the hospital. Giggles left his lips when you gave him that meme-worthy look, making him shake his head before slinging and arm over his shoulder.

Surprisingly, that night ended just like the books — lovey-dovey confessions exchanged in the warm and intimate setting of the night sky, over shy smiles and lingering kisses. The both of you finally gave in to each other.

Huh, so maybe you were wrong about them — books — after all.

So when, your love was returned in the end, every flower in your chest had finally disappeared, and you couldn’t have been happier.

“You know when I brought you here I wanted you to help me pick flowers and not read a book?”

You laugh at the voice that comes from behind, closing the book shut before placing it on the side while Jeongin takes a seat beside you, hissing at the slight coldness of the grass. Ah, what a romantic scenario — green and colorful flowers as far as the eye could see, a book that you’ve been trying to finish but have never been able to because your boyfriend keeps interrupting you with his random outbursts of affection, and said person sitting right next to you.

“Well, you keep interrupting me all the time!” You chuckle, sliding a hand behind his shoulder before pulling him down to lie on your lap, and Jeongin complies. A sigh of content leaves his lips when he feels your fingers comb through his hair to rid them of any tangles — Jeongin feels stupid to not realise how much he loves you. It feels nice to call you his, feels nice to be able to say I love you, in all of it’s true meaning.

“What, I can’t cuddle my girlfriend now? Come on,” He takes your other hand in his, turning onto his back to look up at you before pressing his lips to the back of your hand. You feel the heat creep up your cheeks when he calls you his girlfriend, still not being able to take it in without growing immensely shy.

“You crybaby, fine. I’ll read the book later only because I love you and you give exceptionally nice cuddles.”

“Hmm, good.” He mumbles sleepily, eyes fluttering shut in calmness when he feels your fingers brush away any stray locks of hair that may get into his eyes. The reaction to your touch is so immediate these days, Jeongin thinks it’s a part of his routine now. Spend at least an hour admiring you in all of your happy, healthy glory.

Meanwhile, you’re sitting there, admiring his features in silence. His hair has grown longer now — Jeongin refuses to cut it no matter your endless verbalizations of how his original haircut looked better — and a small part of you has grown fond of this look too. His warm skin, and his sparkly eyes when he looks up at you, the bright, loving smile that he displays before getting out of your lap, kissing you on your lips to break you out of your focus.

The action only makes you more shy, and Jeongin laughs, cooing at your behavior before standing up, dusting his clothes off the dirt and extending his hand for you.

“Lend me a hand, will you?”

The line seems vaguely familiar and you’re overcome with a sense of deja vu, but nonetheless, you give him your hand, standing up before picking up your satchel and handing him his own.

“Now are you gonna pick a rose for me or do I have to do it myself again?” Jeongin raises an eyebrow and smirks, and you frown, slapping his arm before walking off to check all the flowers in their bushes.

“Hey, wait for me! Y/N!”

When he reaches you, he slides a hand into your own, interlacing the fingers before looking at you lovingly.

“I love you.” You both say at the same time, giggling at each other soon after — perhaps at how well you knew each other to time the confession so well.

So, this is how it ends. While you do think that things could’ve been handled differently, you’re glad that everything went the way it went, because in the end, you’d found him, he’d found you, you’d discovered your feelings together. You loved each other.

Because love and a red rose could never be truly hid.

but what if she had never recovered?

taglist: @inkidz​ @stayverse​ @districtninewriters​ @kpopscape​ @skzwritersclub​ + @sunoo-luvs​ @sleepylixie​ @rae-blogging​ @happiestgirlontheeastcoast @guerillrah​ @p2q3r4​ @baby-innie​ (Please send me an ask if you’d like to be added to my taglist!) *oh holy lord pls let this show up in the tags*

[danviers]

' 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘴. '

@reignthem​ asked:   “ are you… are you afraid of me? ”

“ I’m not afraid of you, ”  Alex echoed, the soft susurration of her murmur from the edge of Sam’s medbay bedside void of any sign of well meaning dishonesty.  

Reign, however, had been a different story — but even then, with a couple of bruised ribs and a shattered-and-surgically-fixed tibia to show for each fleeting moment in which their paths had crossed in battle, her fear had only been for the city, for the Legion, for Kara, because the first of the worldkillers had proven herself powerful and unsurpassable, despite the shade of honey brown in her eyes that Alex couldn’t separate from the brilliant woman lost somewhere behind their forbidding gleam.  

Where Sam was tough and compassionate,  Reign had been tenacious in her hunger for delivering the violent, ceaseless redress that she called justice;  immoveable, strong, stronger even than the girl of steel.  Worse — despite the face she wore, the body she’d dormantly inhabited for so long, she hadn’t been Sam at all.

That had scared her.

Leaning on her elbows, the starched white lab coat rucked under her wrists a stark contrast to the soft sweater underneath, Alex relented a sombre sigh. 

“ You didn’t do this, ”  she extended.  How could she, when the kryptonian lurking in her DNA  ( the kryptonian she’d come at with enough kryptonite to put even Supergirl on her knees )  had been the one in full control?   “ So I don’t want you to shoulder the blame. ”

[isk4649]

WIP Whenever, 2021/12/23

Thank you, @a11sha11fade, for tagging! This is the “I got the third booster, and I was out of my mind sick to post a WIP Wednesday” edition of WIP Whenever.

Which is fitting, because I’m still working on the modern AU series one-shot that has Cullen staying home sick.

I’d like to tag @jonogueira and @kemvee if you aren’t too busy! It is the holidays...

Tharin wore a cloth mask all day and skipped gym. Having slept in the same bed with a sick Cullen, that was probably for the best even if he did not feel under the weather.

But instead of coming straight home from work, he took two different subway lines to get to Ikebukuro. There, he picked up a surprise for Cullen. A welcome surprise, he hoped.

When Tharin entered their condominium and awkwardly unhooked the mask with his left forefinger, he heard loud, continuous wheezes. He quickly took off his dress shoes and his suit jacket before he rounded the bathroom wall to find Cullen sprawled on the sofa.

The man was asleep, though the living room light was on. He must have been awake not too long ago. And the sibilant noise was coming from Cullen’s nose, obviously congested.

Poor Cullen. The flu was ghastly enough that he had already taken three days off from work. And there was no debating whether he looked sick. Cullen’s blond hair, usually groomed with military precision, was disheveled, the lower half of his face was covered with overgrown five o’clock shadow, and he wore a stretched-out hooded sweater that could only be described as shabby. The ensemble was completed with a fleece throw that covered most of his body, a half-empty mug of what smelled like ginger tea, a tissue box, and a torn-open box of ibuprofen tablets carelessly strewn on the coffee table.

Yet Tharin still found him brilliantly lovable.

Cullen had been hypervigilant about not transmitting the pesky illness, to the extent that the man would sound an alarm if Tharin so much as tried to sit within a radius deemed too close to the man’s face. But for a moment, just for a moment, Tharin wanted to be near Cullen, watch him peacefully – well, some approximation of the adverb “peacefully” – slumber.

Tharin placed the glossy cardboard box containing the surprise on the coffee table and gently lowered himself on the floor next to the sofa. Sitting with his legs gathered, he reached out and cautiously laid his hand on Cullen’s forehead. It was clammy, but not quite hot. The fever was breaking. And the shivering had stopped.

He breathed in relief.

Cullen stirred and his eyes opened slowly. A recognition flashed, and his face broke out in a tired smile.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” susurrated Tharin, caressing Cullen’s hair. It was to no avail since it remained firmly matted.

Cullen’s nose whistled and his voice cracked as he said, “Hey, you’re home.”

[imrezbalint]

Importance of "Show, don't tell" and Big Update

I'm quite overdue for a post! I've been keeping wonderfully busy with my novel, which has now surpassed fifty thousand words. Chapters twenty-five and twenty-six are in the works currently. That puts me roughly at about the mid-point. Woohoo! I also took some some shots for my Making Professional Longboards book, so that one is inching very close to completion now.

So that's your quick update from me, but I also wanted to add some additional value to this post. For those of you who are also budding authors like myself, there's a buzz phrase that's quite important to follow: Show, don't tell. If fact, I gave up on a sci-fi novel recently because it did exactly the opposite of this mantra. It told me the story. Now I'll be nice and I won't say which novel or author, but here's an idea of what went wrong, and then I'll give you an idea of how this problem can be corrected.

The scene in this particular novel was that of a mugger cornering a woman in an alley (this too didn't help the novel; several scenes were quite cliche). To give you some context, I've come up with my own version of a mugger attacking someone, but I'm going to first "tell" you story, instead of showing it to you:

-----

The mugger walked on the sidewalk and saw the woman on the other side of the street. He crossed the road as the woman approached. She noticed him and became afraid, turning down an alley between two apartment buildings. No one was around, as it was just past midnight. The mugger started running after the woman. She started running too, but lost her footing and fell. Catching up to her quickly, the mugger stood near her."Give me your money, pretty girl," he said.The woman yelled for help several times but nobody seemed to notice.The mugger took out his folding pocket knife and opened it, pointing it toward the woman."You don't need to get hurt, but I will if I need to. Now give me your money!"

-----

I'm stopping there, because this is painful to write. Aside from all the telling in the novel, the dialogue wasn't that great either and I recall wincing at the poorly detailed fight that took place between the mugger and the vigilante that mysteriously showed up at the perfect moment. Anyway, ask yourself this: How hard did your imagination work?

Now let's take a look at how this scene should be shown, and I'm also going to drop a few pointers at the end on how this scene was setup (something else done poorly in the novel I gave up on):

-----

Only a few of the brightest stars dared pierce the dark sheet of the midnight sky, and the air had a skin crawling chill to it. A slight breeze susurrating through the early autumn leaves urged a crumpled coffee cup along the deserted street. The neighborhood was one of the poorest in the city, framed with dilapidated three to five story apartment buildings, boarded up echoes of once flourishing businesses, and sidewalks with cracks like wrinkles of old age that could tell a hundred stories of those who have walked its pitted surface.

Tonight, the sidewalks would recall the uneven footsteps of a middle-aged man that trudged along them, hobbling ever so slightly on a tender right leg. A ragged faded baseball cap with the team logo long worn off did its best to restrain long graying hairs peering out from beneath. The man’s face was torn by years of drug use and a life unkind. His hollow blue eyes sat deep, bloodshot from an overindulgence of cheap liquor, which sullied his already rotting breath. His dark jacket was as scruffy as his facial hair, unzipped and flapping gently in the breeze. A tattered sweater and faded blue jeans held up by a belt older then the man completed his ensemble, along with a soil infused pair of sneakers to which the soles barely clung.

The man’s eyes flinched up and peered out from under his cap, catching a hint of activity coming toward him on the sidewalk across the narrow two-way street. Jezebel had just finished her late night shift at the local pub and strode quickly toward her apartment about a block and a half away. Her makeup, still in good standing after a quiet night, was lit by the glow of her smart phone, her eyes scanning repeatedly across the screen and thumbs prodding away busily. The gentle wind tossed her golden locks about as they danced to her quick bobbing pace.

The girl figured she wouldn’t need her jacket tonight, but elbows packed tightly against her exposed midriff spoke of her regret, her pink sleeveless shirt and black push-up bra offering little environmental resistance. Her matching pink pantyhose, yawning with holes that deliberately exposed her smooth flawless skin, and short denim skirt didn’t fare any better in keeping her warm. Bright red t-straps that clopped on the concrete completed her look, along with a small teal baguette slung over her left shoulder.

The gruff man licked his lips and altered course to intercept the girl, mumbling softly to himself, a mischievous grin creeping across his mug. Jezebel peered up to check her path, then did a double take. She observed the man hobbling across the road. Her eyes with their long dark eyelashes bulged and twitched around, trying to find a safe location to avoid the menace headed her way. Only two choices crossed her mind as she let her arms dangle, left hand tightly clamped around her phone. She could turn around and head back the way she came, or head into an alley that cut across to another street. She bolted right.

Less than a dozen feet into the alley, a heel snapped off Jezebel’s right shoe, sending her stumbling into the dimly lit gravel alleyway. She let out a wail and her phone flew across the air, landing with a few clunks several feet away from her. The impact almost left her breathless, her pink shirt and denim skirt etched with moist sandy particulates. Jezebel winced as the gravel heartlessly gouged into the palms of her hands and thighs. She rolled over to face the aggressor, only to find him few feet away from her.

“Give me your money little girl and I won’t need to hurt ya!” spat the man in a hoarse voice.

Jezebel cried out for help, but her voice seemed get lost in the breeze.

“Well, if ya like it rough…” The man reached into his back pocket with his right hand and retrieved a folding knife. With a flick of his thumb, the shiny metal blade spun open with a satisfying click, the glow of the surrounding streetlights glimmering off its edges.

-----

Much better, if I do say so myself (and I also kid you not, the first example actually demonstrates quite closely how poorly that novel was written). Here are some key points:

The first paragraph quickly sets up the environment. Where are we? It also helps set the ambiance of the scene. Notice that I don't necessarily spell things out. I let your imagination fill in the details and sounds, like the breeze shuffling the leaves and simile of the sidewalk's poor state of being.

The second introduces our antagonist and gives us a good feel for the type of character he is. Notice I didn't say he walked with a limp. Instead, I showed you how he walks unevenly, minding his right leg.

As we continue, we get a good feel for the girl. Works in a pub, attire is a bit slinky, probably does it for tips.

I could have simply said something like, "She was cold," but that would not be terribly interesting. Instead, I showed you how she held her arms / elbows tightly against her body; she's also in a rush to get home.

The man starts to approach the girl, so we show you how he feels by licking his lips and mumbling to himself. He's probably a perv.

A whole paragraph goes into the agony of her fall. I like to use this to build a bit of suspense. C'mon! What's gonna happen to her already?

In the novel I stopped reading, the mugger took out his knife. Period. Great. Here, a little more effort goes into describing this moment that would be quite terrifying for a young lady.

Speaking of mugger, did you notice I didn't use that word? Why? Let the reader figure it out!

Now in a real novel, a lot more would go into providing a better context for this scene and would likely need a stronger point of view, but I believe you get my point (plus I'd add a bit more detail overall). Nonetheless, I hope this helps those venturing into this incredibly fun realm. Take care and I'll surely try to be more timely for my next post!

[artificialqueens]

intents wicked or charitable (trixya) 10/10 - beanierose

AN: I have been enormously lucky since joining this fandom because I’ve gotten to meet a lot of really amazing people. In particular connyhascontrol, JoanneElizabeth and mattepinkallshades. You ladies have supported me from the very beginning and I’m so grateful, thank you.

And stutter. I will never, ever be able to thank you enough for everything you do for me. Thank you for looking over this story a thousand times, talking me down from a hundred crises, and holding my hand through all of it. I couldn’t ask for a better soulmate. I love you.

(read on ao3) | (find me at katiehoughton)

[one.] [two.] [three.] [four.] [five.] [six.] [seven.] [eight.] [nine.]

a practical magic au for the spooky season. there’s a curse on any man who dares love you? love a woman, instead. | 5,281 words

The world outside is sleepy and pink-hued and Trixie wrinkles her nose, refuses to open her eyes to it just yet. There’s a weight on her chest and between her legs, one long length that’s squirming. Tiny, insistent kisses litter her jaw and neck and then teeth scrape. Trixie, stung with pleasure, sucks in a sharp breath and opens her eyes to Katya’s face hovering over her.

“I love you and good morning,” Katya says, and nudges her nose against Trixie’s. “What did you dream about?”

Trixie huffs a little noise and brings her hand up. It’s not warm in the bedroom even with the two quilts and with Katya laying on top of her. When she cups Katya’s cheek the cold of the ring makes her let out a little yelp.

She wears it on her middle finger, because Jinkx very seriously informed them both that the middle finger is associated with Saturn, and therefore represents eternity and wisdom. Trixie’s not sure she believes that, but she loves Katya’s aunts and she likes the idea of eschewing hetero tradition.

They aren’t married — they can’t get married — but Trixie wears a gold band with a tiny black tourmaline set into it, and Katya has a sigil tattooed onto her own middle finger because rings make her itchy.

“I dreamed some rotted ghoul woke me up for no good reason,” Trixie says, but she lifts her chin and Katya comes in close, kisses her softly. “Good morning. I love you, too.”

Katya has her elbows either side of Trixie’s head, but she’s letting most of her weight rest on Trixie’s chest. She likes it, will often wrap her arms around Katya on the couch and tug until she drapes herself over Trixie.

“Happy anniversary, baby,” Katya says softly. “Our first one. Our last one.”

She’s got that concerned little crease between her brows again. Trixie works her knuckle into the meat of Katya’s forehead until she laughs and snaps her teeth. For long, lazy, indulgent moments they kiss and kiss. Katya tastes like herbal tea and it makes Trixie aware of her morning mouth. She refuses the invitation of Katya’s tongue at the seam of her lips, turns her head instead so Katya will kiss her cheek.

Katya’s fingers are inside of Trixie’s sweatshirt and travelling upwards, warm and careful. Trixie arches into her and winds one arm around Katya’s neck, tosses her head back against the pillows.

“Babe, you know Dela said we don’t need to worry,” Trixie gets out. Katya has one arm hooked beneath her leg to encourage her knee up towards her chest. She feels split open, sticky and aching. “It’s- oh. It’s gonna be fine. It’s not our last anniversary. You’re being dramatic.”

“Am I dramatic, or am I right?” Katya says. She’s working on Trixie’s underwear, taps her hip with two fingers so she’ll lift up and help her get them off.

They land on the floor with an embarrassing wet thwack when Katya tosses them behind herself over her shoulder. She starts sliding down the bed then, rucking up the quilt as she goes as if she’s tugged on a loose thread and made the whole thing pucker. Trixie lets her knees fall apart and then closes them around Katya’s ears.

“Did you- oh, my God, Katya.” Trixie fists both hands in Katya’s hair and tugs so that she lifts up a little bit, grins at Trixie. Her face is shiny even in the pink light of the morning. “Is everybody fed?”

“Everyone’s fed, everyone’s fine. Let me celebrate.”

Trixie has no interest in arguing that.

Afterwards, Trixie lazes with Katya’s fingertips resting against her lips. In the last year she’s gotten more tattoos, ones she doesn’t have to hide beneath her sleeves. Trixie opens her mouth in invitation and Katya pushes two fingers inside. She has a snake on her index and Trixie touches her tongue to it.

When she bites down Katya gasps and wrenches her hand free. “Brat.”

“Are you really scared?”

Trixie has a hypothesis that Katya only monologues about the imminent end of the world because she likes when Trixie shuts her up. She reaches over Trixie to the floor for her t-shirt and pulls it back on, lets it sit crooked so the ball of her shoulder is exposed. Katya leans back against the headboard and drops her hand to the top of Trixie’s head, pets her absentmindedly like she does Dolly.

“I absolutely am,” Katya says very seriously. “Trixie, no more automation. No more computers.”

“You hate the computer.”

Trixie gets up, all the way out of bed to collect her robe from the back of the door. She knots it at her waist and turns away, heads for the hall. A moment later Katya comes thundering along after her, bare feet slapping on the hardwood. Getting down the stairs is difficult, because Katya has both arms around Trixie’s shoulders from behind and she’s chattering in her ear about the catastrophic ramifications of the new millennium. At the bottom she trips on the pile of their mingling, discarded shoes and has to catch herself against the banister.

The dog rouses herself from her blissed-out heap on the couch and pads over, butts her head against Trixie’s thigh. Trixie stoops to kiss her good morning and stroke her silky ears. When she straightens Katya is waiting for her in the doorway to the kitchen, pointing a spatula at her.

“I didn’t make you a romantic breakfast because I know you think me cooking is a criminal offense.” She circles the spatula in the air a couple of times, and when Trixie reaches her she stretches on tiptoe to tap the top of Trixie’s head with it. “But know that the intention was sure there. It’s the thought that counts, right baby?”

Trixie snorts a laugh and takes the spatula from her before she can be assaulted with it any further. She makes eggs, because it’s easy and fast and requires minimal concentration. She can allow herself to be distracted. Katya’s hands are on her the whole time she’s cooking, stealing kisses and sifting her fingers through Trixie’s hair.

She still feels a bit quivery, like her skin is charged, but they have things to do today. They have a lot to do today. It’s a cold morning but they eat on the porch, looking out at the water and listening to Cash and Guthrie bleat in the barn. Trixie has a blanket around her shoulders and Katya’s warm feet in her lap.

All summer they’ve been out here. Trixie has loved padding out in her bare feet to the grass sticky with dew and the fresh, cool air. She loves it still in the fall, these last few days where it’s been just on the right side of too cold to sit out in the mornings. Katya does yoga on her mat in the grass and then comes sweaty and gross all the way into Trixie’s lap most days.

“Remember there’s both containers for later, babe,” Trixie says. Katya mops up the last of her breakfast with a corner of toast and chews it happily, her face crinkled with pleasure. “Do you want me to run you down in the car?”

Katya flexes her biceps and does a little half-turn in her chair to let Trixie see them both. She’s goofing off, but it still makes Trixie’s mouth dry. “I can carry them. Don’t you want to see me carry them?”

Rather than admit how much she does want that, Trixie gets up from her chair and collects their plates and glasses to bring inside. Dolly stays out with Katya, even though Trixie is her best hope for scraps. A year in, some of the jealousy is abating. Trixie likes to see them, one dark head and one blonde bent together.

Once the dishes are done, she has to go and collect Katya from the backyard. It made sense to sell the farm: Katya’s house is closer to Verbena, and bigger, and has been in her family for generations. Dela officiated their rites at the end of the spring, and instead of a honeymoon they built a paddock and a coop for the chickens and moved everybody in.

Every once in a while, Trixie misses the view from the kitchen window at the farmhouse. She misses standing at the sink and looking out at Katya with a chicken balanced on her shoulder and another in her arms. But at nighttime now, she gets to sit on the little bench at the end of their garden with Katya’s arm around her shoulder and listen to the susurration of the cove and the hum of the cicadas.

“We’re gonna be late to open,” Trixie says, and fists both hands in the bottom of Katya’s sweater to haul her back against her chest.

She goes easily, willingly, turning as she does so she can loop her arms around Trixie’s neck. The morning feels crisp and shiny and golden and Katya is warm in her grip, her mouth open and teasing.

“That’s the whole point of owning our business, baby. We can be late to open. We can be so late that we’re early for tomorrow.”

“That doesn’t- mmf,” Trixie kisses back, of course, always does. She dreams sometimes still about the week she didn’t have Katya, and she’s glad for it. It means she never forgets to be grateful now. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Trixie untangles herself from Katya and starts towards the house again, hears Katya and Dolly both come bounding after her. They’ve talked some about getting another dog, now that Dolly is at home by herself so much of the day. It’s one of the conversations they have that to Trixie is planning for the future and to Katya exists entirely in the abstract.

The gold band of her ring is beginning to heat up now and Trixie worries at it with her thumb. She likes to feel it there, and she likes even more how Katya will take her hand in the evenings and stroke along her fingers while they watch a movie.

Trixie drives the two of them down into the town and parallel parks outside of Verbena. In the passenger seat, Katya is cradling two Tupperware containers in her lap. Trixie was up late into the night decorating cookies in the shapes of ghosts and pumpkins for Katya to take to the kids this morning. She kisses her goodbye at the door and heads off down the street in the direction of the elementary school.

Violet is waiting for them, leaning back against the storefront with one foot flat against the wall so her knee is bent. When they opened the cafe it had been Katya’s idea to try and poach Violet. She had jumped at the chance, with as much enthusiasm as Violet ever shows, so the arch of one brow and a muttered sure, whatever.

“Hey, sorry we’re a little late.” Trixie gets the door unlocked and holds it open for Violet to come inside as well.

“Anniversary, right? I’m surprised you like, made it in at all.” At Trixie’s raised eyebrow, Violet shrugs. “Your wife has been telling me all week how excited she is for today.”

Trixie elbows the row of switches to flip the lights on and washes her hands, starts pulling things out of the refrigerator to prep. In the mornings most of the people who work in town come in for coffee and sometimes a pastry, and Trixie’s comfortable letting Violet handle that.

It had taken until the middle of January for Trixie to get restless. She didn’t miss Los Angeles or the restaurant, but she did miss feeding people and keeping her hands busy. Turning Verbena into a cafe had been Katya’s idea, and it had taken eight months of work to get all of their permits and the renovations completed. They opened officially last month.

They’ve been open for an hour and a half when Katya comes back, empty Tupperware in hand and her cheeks pink with pleasure. On her way behind the counter she ensnares Violet in a brief, tight hug that makes her mutter under her breath. Katya comes in to the kitchen and kisses Trixie’s cheek, hoists herself up to sit on the vacant prep counter.

“Honey, those cookies. They kept asking me if I’d magicked them. Wanted to know if they had newt brains and eel eyes in them. I said no magic, you’re just that good at cooking.”

“It’s baking, not cooking. Get your ass off my counter,” Trixie says. When she looks up from the tomato she’s slicing Katya is staring at her, slack-jawed, and the arrhythmic drum of her heels against the counter has stopped. “What? What?”

Katya shakes her head and a grin spreads slow and wide across her face. “I love you.”

“Okaaay,” Trixie says slowly.

Katya hops down from the counter and takes the knife out of Trixie’s hand. She circles her arms at Trixie’s waist and leans back to see her. “That was the last thing. That’s what I manifested. The person I love will have magic too.”

“I thought you said I already showed everything you wished for.”

From the moment Katya had mentioned wishing for qualities, Trixie had been unable to ignore the itch beneath the surface of her skin. She wanted to know. Of course she wanted to know. After they had settled into their life, after Katya had stopped waking up in the middle of the night screaming and clutching at Trixie like she was unspooling in her hands, she’d gotten up the courage to ask.

Katya had fed them to her piecemeal over the course of several days, rewarding Trixie after dinner or with her legs over Trixie’s shoulders or, one time, waking her up at three in the morning just to whisper it to her.

“I thought six out of seven wasn’t bad,” Katya grins, and leans in to kiss Trixie properly. She very nearly hoists her up onto the counter, but they have only about an hour until the first lunch orders start coming in and there really isn’t time to disinfect her surfaces again. “But here you are. You really are my dream girl.”

That makes Trixie scream out a laugh, loud enough that Violet pokes her head through the serving hatch with a hand over her eyes and says “you two had better not be naked back here.”

“We’re not, we’re not,” Trixie says, circling her fingers at Katya’s wrist to tug her hand out of the back of her pants. Violet eyes them both for a long, uncomfortable moment but says nothing and disappears out to the front again.

Trixie takes a step back from Katya and presses the flat of her hand to her shoulder so she can’t close that distance again. “We had a handfasting ceremony.”

“Yep.”

“Your aunts were there.”

“Mm-hmm,” Katya grins. She steals a slice of tomato from Trixie’s cutting board and seems to remember that she hates tomatoes half a second after it’s in her mouth. Trixie watches her chew it with her face all scrunched up and she offers her a hand to spit it out into. She doesn’t, she swallows it, and a shiver of revulsion goes through her.

“You’re just now deciding I’m right for you?”

Katya threads her fingers through Trixie’s at her shoulder and lifts her hand to her mouth, kisses the heel of her palm. When she lets go, Trixie leaves her hand cradling Katya’s cheek. Katya’s eyes flutter closed and she hums a contented little noise.

“I decided you were right for me the second I saw you,” she murmurs. “But it’s nice to have it confirmed.”

“Will you tell me again?” Trixie asks. She remembers, is certain she’ll remember for as long as she lives, but she likes to hear Katya say it all the same.

Katya counts each one out on her fingers. “They will have two shadows, cheeks like roses, hearts for freckles.”

Their first night together, Katya discovered the one freckle shaped like a heart on the back of Trixie’s shoulder. She’s been obsessed with it ever since. One of her favourite ways to wake Trixie in the morning is to tug the quilt down and kiss her there, linger until Trixie opens her eyes and rolls over to kiss her properly.

“They’ll be very brave. They’ll be from a far away land.” That makes Trixie snort a laugh. Wisconsin is pretty far, but Katya makes it sound like she was off battling dragons before they met. “They can turn invisible. And they can do magic, too.”

“I still don’t think me being a recluse counts as turning invisible.” Trixie tilts her head. “You’re so specific. I just wanted somebody warm and kind.”

Katya laughs and wraps her arms around Trixie in a hug. She hides her face against the side of Trixie’s neck and rocks the two of them back and forth. The bell over the door jangles and Trixie hears Violet greet the customer, has to untangle herself from her wife.

It’s not like anybody minds. People know that they live together, that they own the cafe together. People still come up to Katya in the street to thank her. Every time it makes the tips of her ears turn pink and she clings tight to Trixie’s hand. Still, Trixie likes to try and be professional when they’re at work.

Their afternoons tend to pass quickly. Trixie stays in the kitchen, Violet out front, and Katya drifts back and forth to be useful wherever she’s needed most. They still sell a lot of her products from when Verbena was an apothecary, so from time to time she will allow herself to be completely distracted by an inquisitive customer and spend a half hour with them running through the entire itinerary. Mostly though she helps Violet make coffee and toast sandwiches in the press.

After the lunch rush is over they let Violet go home. She’s going to a party in the city tonight and it’s a couple hours’ drive even before she has to get into her costume. As always she is surly and aloof, but she lets them both hug her and she lets Katya kiss both of her cheeks as well.

“C'mere baby,” Katya says when the door is closed behind Violet.

She holds out her arms and Trixie steps into them, winds her own around Katya’s little waist. They kiss lazily for a while. Katya’s hands are in Trixie’s hair; most nights when she combs it out before bed she finds she has a matted patch at the base of her skull from Katya’s fingers.

They have to break apart when the bell over the door goes. Trixie pats at her mouth with the back of her hand, tucks her hair behind her ears. It’s Peter, dropping in as he does two or three times a week to ask if they need anything. He sent Katya a gift basket on her birthday, filled with fruits that she wrinkled her nose at but Trixie got to enjoy over the next week or so.

“I think we’re all good for right now, hon,” Katya says. She’s still got one hand in Trixie’s back pocket and she squeezes. Trixie is maybe a little more proud than she should be that she doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound.

“Cool,” Peter says. “I’ll see you tonight?”

Katya grins widely and darts a small glance at Trixie like she thinks she ought to check. “You surely will.”

For the last hour the kitchen is closed and Trixie gets to hang out behind the counter with the love of her life. They don’t both work every single day, sometimes one or the other of them will take a day off and every now and then they’ll close so they can spend the day together. Most days though, she’s here nourishing the town and watching people come in to the cafe just to say hello to Katya.

It’s quieter toward the end of the day, so Trixie gets to hear all about Katya’s morning. Once a month she goes into the elementary school to teach a nature class to the first and second graders. They are all head over heels for her. Every time they’re out they seem to bump into at least one of her kids and Katya will always crouch down in the middle of the sidewalk to be eye level with them.

She’s so patient and kind; she listens so intently. It makes Trixie’s chest hurt. Neither of them are sure if that’s ever going to be in the picture for them. At the end of June, they went into the city for Pride. Katya had been jittery for several days before, and on the morning of the parade she recited an incantation for them both invoking protection and safety. Next spring, there’s suggestion of a march on Washington for the new millennium. Katya’s not usually a planner, but she’s already talking about closing the cafe for a few days and heading across the country to be there.

Trixie sends Katya home ahead of her. She’s not all that helpful when it comes to the cleaning and organising that needs to be done at the end of the day. As it’s started to get dark she’s gotten more and more anxious, so the walk will do her some good. Trixie leaves the cafe pristine and spotless as she always does and makes the short drive back to the house.

“Babe? Do you want a quick dinner?”

Katya appears at the top of the staircase already in the tight pants and white blouse she’s had hanging on the back of the door all week. Her hair is spilling out all over her head in wild curls that look like she’s used an entire thing of hairspray.

“No. I need you to come and kiss me before I do my makeup.” She leans over the bannister to look down. “Come kiss me, Trixie. Now!”

Trixie laughs and hurries to get out of her shoes and coat. Dolly is hopping excitedly around her ankles and she follows Trixie up the stairs in a sleek, dark blur. At the top Katya grabs for Trixie and backs her up against the wall, pins her hands either side of her head. Their kiss is wet and deep and Trixie arches against Katya. She slides her knee between Trixie’s legs and Trixie ruts against her thigh. She tries to touch Katya’s hair and her fingers come away sticky, make her breathe a little noise of distress into Katya’s mouth.

She lets her hands fall down instead and splay wide at Katya’s ass. When these pants came in the mail Trixie had pestered her to try them on all day and when she had, Trixie had collapsed dramatically backwards against their pillows in a paroxysm of joy and fanned herself until Katya came to straddle her.

“You’re so fucking sexy,” she says against the side of Katya’s jaw. “It’s really not okay. You’re a teacher.”

That makes Katya scream a laugh and separate from her, shaking her fists. She disappears into the bathroom again and Trixie follows her in there to get started on her own makeup. It takes her a while, because it’s been a long time since she’s really worn any. She has to get in close to the mirror and she can see Katya from the corner of her eye giggling at her concentration face.

Katya splashed out for the good fangs, the individual ones that cap her incisors instead of the plastic strip ones they found at the party store. They have plans to use them after tonight, so Trixie insisted it made sense to get the good ones. She’s done a red and burgundy eye and her mouth is the same vivid jewel tone. Trixie keeps messing up the little crescent moon she’s trying to draw onto her forehead every time she looks at Katya.

“This is really so stupid, you know that?” Katya hoists herself up to sit on the bathroom countertop and poke Trixie with her toes. “This might be the dumbest thing we’ve ever done.”

“It’s ironic.” Trixie finishes the last of the little black dots she’s put carefully around her eyes and between her brows.

Her own clothes are hanging in the closet in the guest room. She’s borrowing robes from Dela and boots from Jinkx and topping everything off with a cheap velour hat they picked up from the party store.

Tonight, Trixie is the witch.

They’ve been planning it for a few weeks. It isn’t necessarily the kind of event that necessitates a costume, but they won’t be the only ones dressed up. Trixie feels good, powerful and sexy. She isn’t ready to examine the effect the blood dripping from Katya’s mouth is having on her.

“I’m so excited!” Katya says again. She’s told Trixie about a hundred times on their walk down to the bonfire. Trixie’s got Dolly’s leash in one hand and she’s holding tight to Katya with the other like she’s a little kid who might bolt at any moment. The dog is wearing an orange sweater with a pumpkin on it that Katya knitted for her and she wriggled with pleasure and licked both of their faces when they first put it on her.

Their clasped hands swing between them as they walk. As always, Katya is absurdly warm on Trixie’s left side. The air feels crisp and charged tonight and they can hear the noise from the town before they see anything. The moon overhead is round and enormous, peering down at them.

“Remember last year?” Katya says, and tugs on Trixie’s hand to stop her.

They’re almost at the field where the bonfire is set up, and there are a few families making their way along the sidewalk close to them, but it’s dark enough that it’s somewhat private. “I remember.”

“You came to my door in that absurdly huge pink sweater and I wanted to kiss you so bad. I wanted you so much, all the time, but that night-” Katya shakes her head. “You were so goddamn cute. And you held my hand.”

Trixie kisses her cheek, right at the corner of her mouth. They’re safe, they’re lucky, but she still doesn’t always feel okay kissing Katya out in the open. “Can’t believe you let me yell at a bunch of kids for you.”

“Uhm-” Katya starts, her voice pitched up in indignation. Trixie lifts their clasped hands to her mouth and kisses Katya’s knuckles, to apologise and to shut her up.

“Come on. They’re waiting for you.”

The bonfire is usually lit by whichever hyper-macho dad needs to wield the matches and soothe his ego, but this year they’ve asked Katya to do it. A crowd has formed all around the perimeter of the bonfire and a hush descends as Katya walks up to it. Trixie stays close by, keeping Dolly at her side with a short grip on the leash.

Katya holds both of her hands out and closes her eyes. By now, Trixie must have watched her do this hundreds of times. She always likes to make a show of lighting the fire in the hearth when they come home for the night, sometimes gesturing vaguely at it from across the room without even looking. One time she lit it from upstairs and startled Trixie, alone in the living room, so badly that she screamed out loud.

Just like last year, everyone is watching her. Trixie spots a few of the kids from Katya’s class having to be restrained by parents so they don’t charge at her. Katya’s murmuring something very softly to herself and then she gestures upwards suddenly and flames burst into life with a noise like a gunshot. The crowd erupts with cheers and scattered applause and Katya turns to find Trixie in the crowd. Her mouth is wide open with joy and it comes spilling out of her as she manoeuvres her way to Trixie’s side.

“Did you need to do all that incantation stuff?”

“Not at all,” she laughs. “Just wanted to put on a show. Come on baby, I owe you a powdered donut.”

Their progress over to the food stands is slow, because people keep stopping them to compliment their outfits or ask after the cafe or thank Katya for whatever little kindness she’s shown them lately. The air is already thick with the smell of woodsmoke and barbecue and Trixie feels woozy with pleasure, is grateful for Katya’s arm hooked through hers.

“Miss Zamo! Miss Zamo!”

A tiny voice stops them both in their tracks and they turn to see a little girl with dark hair hopping excitedly up and down on the spot. Dolly strains towards her and Trixie grips the leash a little tighter. She trusts Dolly completely; she doesn’t always trust little kids with her. Katya has crouched down to face the girl.

“Hi, Jessie. Happy Halloween, sweetie.”

“Look!” Jessie holds the tattered skirt of her dress in her hands and spreads it out away from herself, does a little curtsey. She’s wearing a crooked hat that matches Trixie’s pretty closely, and now that she’s looking properly Trixie sees that her face is green. “I’m you. I’m a witch!”

Katya laughs loudly and gives Jessie a high five. Her mother is catching up to them now, a bit out of breath, and she rests a hand at the top of her daughter’s shoulder. They chat for a little bit and Trixie wanders away. She’s content in the knowledge that Katya will come find her when she’s done.

Sure enough, two thin arms come around Trixie’s waist from behind while she’s in line at the donut stand. Katya’s lifted up on tiptoe — Trixie can feel how she lets her weight rest against her back — and she kisses the soft skin right in front of Trixie’s ear.

“Should we have a kid?” she says quietly. “No, probably not, right? Right?”

Trixie turns around to see her and accepts the whole length of her into a hug when she drops back to flat feet. Some of the ghoulish white foundation she caked on earlier is starting to come away at her jaw and around her nose and Trixie likes to see her pink skin peeking through.

“That would be super difficult for us,” Trixie says. The line is moving and she lets Katya nudge her backwards, trusts her not to crash them into anything. “I don’t know if we could do that.”

Katya tilts her head in consideration of that. At their feet, Dolly has given up waiting and lays down on the ground, rests her long head against her front paws. She makes a little braying noise of irritation and they both laugh. Katya cradles Trixie’s face in her hands. They’re so hot; later Trixie will ask Katya to warm her up and get to feel heat travelling all the way into her toes.

“I like our life,” Katya says, so sincerely that Trixie bursts into a fit of giggles she feels in the centre of her chest. “What? Don’t laugh at me.”

Trixie manages to stop laughing and leans in to kiss Katya’s cheek. “Sorry, babe. I’m not laughing at you. I like our life, too.”

The line starts moving again and Katya glances over Trixie’s shoulder, tips her head to gesture for her to step forward.

“We’re next, honey.”

[wolfhuntsmoon]

New Stucky fic! Fic under the read more.

Title: Tell Me Like It Is Link: On AO3 Square Filled: N5 - Voice Kink - 1st square!! :) Ship: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers Rating: Explicit Major Tags: Romance Hand Jobs Voice Kink Light Dom/sub Enthusiastic Consent Snark i love you but damn you're a bastard Humor Grumpy Bucky Barnes

Summary:

Turns out, romancing Captain America is pretty hard.

Word Count: 1882

Created for: @mcukinkbingo - thanks so much for all your hard work guys, this is so much fun!

Bucky glances around the room one last time. It’s as perfect as he can make it: curtains pulled, candles glowing, table laid with their best crockery and crisp, starched linen. All he can do is wait, but the heavy feeling in his gut has him prowl back and forth between the table and kitchen island, agonising over whether to alter the place settings, or to adjust the vase of roses he’s bought, or whether he should just sweep everything away into the bottom of their closet and pretend he hasn’t spent the past several hours panicking over tonight’s surprise.

The scrape of the key in the lock jolts him out of his panicked musings, and he lunges for the door. A sharp twist of the knob allows him to yank it open first, and Bucky gasps out a breathless “Hi!”

Steve’s face morphs from surprise to pleased amusement, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Hey Buck.” He steps in, crowding Bucky back against the wall, running his nose along the side of his neck. “You smell good. What’s the occasion?”

Buck flushes violently. He hadn’t thought Steve would pick up on the aftershave he’d dabbed on earlier, an afterthought at time. But now he can smell it too; clean and sharp with traces of amber darkening the scent. It smells like a guy who wants to impress, wants to luck out and end up in bed with his fella. Steve mouths over his throat, cutting off all Bucky’s higher brain functions as he does so, the bastard.

“Date night!” He grits out, voice closer to a squeak than he’d ever admit out loud. Goddamn Steve with his stupid face and warm chest, hands that feel as if they could cocoon Bucky. They make him want to forget all about the dinner in the oven.

“Date night?” Steve pulls back, confusion creasing his brow. “Since when do we have date night?” He raises a questioning eyebrow.

Bucky grins. “Can’t handle a little romance Rogers?”

“It’s been so long since I experienced any I’d forgotten you knew the meaning of the word.” Steve says, dry as the Sahara desert.

Bucky gasps, clutching at imaginary pearls and raising his other hand to his forehead as if he’s about to faint. “Steven Grant, are you accusing me of failing to woo you?”

Steve still looks stern as he speaks, but laughter draws out the broader vowels of his speech. “Is it an accusation if it’s already acknowledged to be true? Just yesterday you told me to knock off that, ‘lovey-dovey shit’!”

Bucky sniffs, spreading his arms wide, and looking through his lashes at Steve. He pouts a little, for maximum effect. “Because you were doing it wrong. Thought I’d give you a lesson.” He slides the tip of his tongue to the top of his lip, tracking the growing darkness in Steve’s eyes as they trace the route it takes.

Steve’s voice drops a whole octave when he next speaks, a bass rumble in Bucky’s ear as he leans forward to capture his mouth. “I’m listening, Buck.”

That rat bastard. Bucky can feel his well laid plans unravelling already, the liquid tones of Steve’s voice weakening Bucky’s knees. The kiss starts light, tongues tracing the bow of his lips, Steve’s nose nudging his, the hot press of his palms against Bucky’s back a brand sparking a fire in his gut. Steve deepens the kiss, and it’s all Bucky can do to stay upright. He moans, ragged. Heaving a breath in, he attacks Steve’s mouth, shoving forward to wind his arms around Steve’s neck, curling his fingers in the blond’s hair. All too soon he has to pull back and drag in badly needed air, clutching at Steve’s shoulders.

Steve’s by no means unaffected by all this, but the sly son of a bitch knows he’s got the upper hand in this game they’re playing, and knows how to keep it too. Which he proves when he drops his head to murmur against the shell of Bucky’s ear. “You look so good baby doll, in that sweater. All soft and homey. Like a little pet, waiting for me, hoping I’ll pay you some attention when I get back.” Steve’s breath is hot and damp on his skin, tickling the fine hairs there in the most maddening of ways which shouldn’t turn him on. But does anyway. Because it’s Steve.

Bucky isn’t interested in pretending to be a dog, or cat, or rabbit, or any of the other myriad animals he knows people on the internet include in their sex games. He really doesn’t give a shit.

Except when Steve’s voice, dark and sinful, breathes thoughts like smoke through him, wrapping around his mind, enveloping everything in a hazy cloud, obscuring everything Bucky thought he knew about his preferences. He whines, low in his throat, and sucks a mark on Steve’s exposed collarbone in revenge. It won’t last more than a few hours but it’s the best he can do under the circumstances, the circumstances being one Captain Smug Bastard steamrolling over every well laid plan Bucky’d concocted for tonight with the raw power of his lips and tongue and teeth.

“What’s that baby?” Steve’s voice grows rougher, a rumble rolling out the ends of his words so they slur together, and Bucky is going to have a heart attack if this doesn’t stop soon. He realises that he’s hard, and pressing against Steve, hips shifting in small, jerky motions, seeking relief.

“I-” He begins, gives up. Bites Steve’s shoulder again resentfully. No-one can shut Bucky Barnes up except this punk, and boy does the big lunk revel in it. Steve chuckles, and the viciousness of it has Bucky rolling his hips harder. “You!”

Steve grins against his skin, hands running down his back to fondle Bucky’s ass and tug him further into the cradle of Steve’s hips.

“Shh, I know baby, it’s okay.” Steve drops his tone to a velvet whisper, the rasp of the sibilants sending a shudder up Bucky’s spine and further removing his legs from his conscious control. “Let go and let me make you feel good. Romance, right?”

The brief flare of outrage Bucky feels deep, deep in his soul at this palooka’s commandeering of his carefully laid plans is eclipsed by the bass gravel now emanating from Steve’s chest. It’s like drowning in syrup, so sweet and sticky that Bucky can’t move but doesn’t want to anyway, content to stay and suffocate so long as he gets more. He chokes out Steve’s name, and some wretched cry that’s not even half a word because Steve shushes him again before he’s done. The soft susurrations tremor against his lips as Steve closes in for another kiss, gentler this time but no less devastating.

“You’re so good for me Buck, so pretty and thoughtful.” Steve breathes as he draws back, letting Bucky grind against him, eyes rolling back in pleasure from the electric contact between their groins.

“My perfect boy.” Bucky closes his eyes, Steve’s speech winding down his spine and twisting in his gut, uncompromising steel behind the honeyed waterfall of sound. He twitches his hips faster, chasing the gathering heat in his belly. “So beautiful, when you can’t hold it together anymore.” A hand unzips his jeans and tugs Bucky’s cock out into the cooler air, the shock of the temperature change making him whimper.

“That’s it, there we are, good boy-” Bucky cries out at the twin sensations of Steve’s hand around both their cocks - when had the sneaky son of a bitch managed that? - and the raw desire he can almost taste in Steve’s tone.

“Feels good, doesn’t it Buck? God, you’re so gorgeous for me like this, so good, letting me do what I want…” The careful control Steve maintains of his accent slips now, letting the Brooklyn tough peek through, and Bucky can’t get enough of it, clawing at Steve’s back as he continues stroking them both, heavy and insistent. “I swear on all the saints, Buck, you could turn the Devil himself, the way you look.” His voice is more strained now, new notes of urgency bleeding through as they writhe against each other, but every syllable winds Bucky higher. He’s beyond words now, keening high and thready in the back of his throat, bared for Steve to pepper kisses on between the streams of praise falling from his lips.

“Never want anyone to see this, never want anyone to know you’re so sweet for me, that you’re mine, my good boy, my perfect boy...” The cascade of words sweeps Bucky away, has him crashing over the edge with Steve in a blinding fit of pure pleasure, unspooling the coiled tension in his stomach that’s been lurking there since he started getting ready.

They pant together, inches away from the front door still. Steve kisses the damp patches on Bucky’s temples, grabs a tissue from the dresser and wipes them both down. Bucky groans, oversensitive and still turned on, wanting to flinch away but also pounce on Steve and tumble him to the floor for round two immediately. Only the thumb drawing featherlight circles on his cheek distracts him enough that Steve’s done, tucking him back into his jeans, expression proud and pleased and possessive all at once. It makes Bucky feel like a whole mine of diamonds, hidden and precious. No-one gets to see Steve like this except him. No-one gets to have this part of Steve, the part that looks at him like a wolf looks at a deer, starving and wanting.

Bucky draws a deep, shuddering breath; wills his legs to support his weight again. The chime of the oven timer interrupts his internal pep talk, and he wobbles from the wall to extract the casserole from the main shelf.

Steve stalks him, hunter after prey. “Smells good,” he offers.

The echo of earlier sends heat to Bucky’s cheeks. “It’s as close to your ma’s recipe as I could get,” he mutters.

Steve’s inhale is audible behind him. Hands snake around his waist and a ridiculously square jaw comes to rest on his metal shoulder. “Thank you baby,” he says, slow and serious, “you’re so good to me. So thoughtful.”

Bucky sighs, lets himself be turned to face Steve, accepts the sweet kiss the blond presses to his lips. “My good boy.” The weariness and care Steve tries to hide is in full view now, weighing down his words, but the warmth of his delivery has happiness fizzing in Bucky’s chest. Steve’s let go for once and for all now, no hiding, just as Bucky wanted.

“Come on Stevie. Pull up a chair and take a load off.” Bucky says, deftly serving them both the stew in big bowls, thick slices of wholemeal loaf perched on the side. It only take a moment for them to be seated, the pristine white of the tablecloth a perfect backdrop for the vibrant colour of the meal. Steve hums in delight with the first mouthful, and Bucky feels utter contentment then, sinking deep into the marrow of his bones.

Steven. G. Rogers might be a sly, scheming, silver tongued bastard, but he’s Bucky’s bastard.

And Bucky wouldn’t change a single damn thing about him.

[professorpski]

Interweave Knits, Fall 2022

 This issues includes 2 cardigans, one of which is the beefy, belted one on the cover called Susurrous Cardigan by Olya Mikesh in Universal Yarn Deluxe Worsted. This is a wool yarn and this cardigan uses six colors of yarn and is a 3 out of 4 for difficult.

There are 4 pullover sweaters and my favorite is the Ramulose Pullover by Nadya Stallings. It has both vertical ribs and horizontal stripes, but I think skipping the latter makes more sense unless you really like a boxy look. Then if you left the color change at the raglan shoulders and at the sides, you would be repeating the vertical lines of the ribbing and still get some color play. It is a 3 out of 4 for difficult. It is done in Green Mountain Spinnery Sylvan Spirit which is a wool and Tencel blend.  

3 hats including the color-work Peiskos Tam by Tonia Lyons which is also on the cover in the small photo on the left. This tam features 8 colors in Harrisville Designs Shetland yarns especially oranges and greens. This is a 3 out of 4 for difficulty but there is a nice big chart of the pattern included. The other interesting hat is the Sirimiri Slouchy Hat by Danieli Nii which has elongated stitches created by wrapping the yarn around the needle multiple times. It is a 3 out of 4 for difficulty. It is done in dark blue and paler blue using The Fibre Co. Road to China Light and Cirro. Both are blends so you get a real mix of fibers from alpaca, camel and cashmere to wool and silk.  

There are also 2 sock patterns, an article on The Fiber Mill in Stromsburg, NE which processes wool fiber from around the United States  and a technical article by Kyle Kunnecke on steeking, or cutting, a knitted sweater in order to finish the opening with buttonholes or a zipper, plus the usual columns on yarns and products. 

Find it at your local yarn store, LYS, or online here: https://www.interweave.com/product-category/knitting/knitting-magazines/knitting-magazines-interweave-knits/

[sakuurae]

Can I please have an angsty Johnny one using 33 and 21?? Thank You ^_^ !

prompts:“Fuck…I feel like I’ve been hit by a car.”“You can’t break my heart like this!” 

pairing: youngho & reader insertincludes: angst, alcohol mentionswc: 2.1knote: this might be on the cheesier side; nonetheless, i hope you enjoy! Sorry for the overused .gif by the way!

The third extensive week of waking up alone had passed by.

Typically your boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend now—would be cradling you to bed and wrapping his arms around you until the first morning light. Though, those typical occurrences had reached a standstill, and there appears to be no point for them to return.

The relationship you and Youngho shared was unlike any other; honestly, it was as if the pristine coming together of you and Youngho was ripped straight from an old-fashioned romance film. From the first fated encounter to the build up, and to the very end. Distance played a large element in the horribly mutual breakup, and the promise to remain friends only appeared to be getting further.

Walls were mistakingly built up between the two of you as the road to the breakup extended, and they were entirely out of your control. Pathetically, all you were able to do was watch as Youngho slipped from your hands, and, eventually, went out of your sight.

You went through a plethora of situations to get over Youngho: visiting vivacious clubs, sticking yourself in dense bars, or even taking a day out with a few friends. But all made you feel lonely. It was a feeling that was inescapable. Then again, what were you able to say? When a two year relationship fades away all someone can do is regret and blame.

When none of the above worked out, you locked yourself in your apartment and shut off your phone for a good while to focus on yourself, and the alcohol. With every glass you poured of potent, the solitude appeared to wash away—which was what you ached for the most. Despite your mind being lost in its twist, the jumbled puzzle pieces of thoughts, your heart was not. The feeling of longing stuck in your chest until you passed out on your bed, tears staining your pillows.

And last night was one of those nights.

You woke the following morning with a killer headache; once again, alone. Coming to think of it, it was the first time in a while you did not stay awake at night thinking of your ex-boyfriend and everything that went wrong. You groggily turned your head to the window and watched the scintillas of light seep past the folded blinds. It was a refreshing sight to see, and waking up, for once, did not feel as lonesome as it always did.

Well, aside the horrid headache accompanying you.

You pressed a hand to your head and let out a sigh. “Fuck… I feel like Ive been hit by a car.”

Lackadaisically, you raised yourself from your bed and began to trudge into the kitchen, slowly pouring yourself a glass of water. As you drank the refreshment, you eyed the environment outside. It was hard to tell what time it was, but judging from the sun and the heat at its peak it seemed to be a good early afternoon. You wondered how long you slept last night, pondered what you dreamt about, and finished your glass of water.

All was going well for your placid morning. There were no external disturbances, no outside distractions, and no intruding thoughts of Youngho that prodded at your mind. After three extensive weeks, everything was about to unfold in your life for the better.

Forcing a smile on your face, you took a deep breath. Though, as you were forcing the unfoldment in your life, everything appeared to wither down to square one once you heard a series of knocks on your door.

Curious, you began to walk to the entrance. You were not expecting any visitors, and you had not ordered any packages lately—so who could be at your door? Maybe it was one of your friends that attempted to reach you last night, but couldn’t, for your phone was turned off and chucked elsewhere in your apartment.

Humming, you swung open the door to greet your friend, “You know, you should have told me when we hanged out earlier that you were going to stop by—”

But it was not your friend. It took a while for your brain to register who was standing before you; a familiar face, of course, but a distasteful one.

“Youngho,” you spat out.

The entire situation’s weight that began to lift off your shoulders had piled down again, dragging your being to the ditch. Everything was supposed to uplift by now, but with one glance at your ex-boyfriend it took a turn for the worse.

“Why are you here?” you asked him.

Youngho swallowed his breath, nervous to speak. His hair was neatly styled the same as it always was, lips quirked into his signature smile, but there was a sea of purple that rested under his eyes—indicating many nights of restlessness, quite similar to your own.

Youngho needed a few seconds to comprehend the fact that he was at your door again; he took in your disheveled appearance, one that he always used to wake up to. Voidness filled his stomach from the memory and he sighed.

Wondering what he was doing back at your apartment, your thoughts walked down the path of optimism. Was he going to ask to get back together? If so, what would you do? To hastily agree would be an impulsive choice, but you were unable to imagine any other choice. With hopeful aspirations, you held your breath until he spoke.

“I’m here to get some of my old stuff,” he told you.

Your face went into a stern frown.

Youngho continued, scratching the back of his neck. “I tried to call and text you but it went straight to voicemail, and I was ignored.”

“Sorry,” you uttered. “My phone was off.”

“Oh.” Quietude had lapsed between you and Youngho, a stiff moment of thick air creating discomfort for both parties. “May I come inside?” he added.

You tilted your head at him, confused. “Why? What did you leave behind? I can get it for you if you wait here.”

“(y/n),” he breathed. “Can I just come inside for a while?”

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you stepped out of the way, allowing him to saunter into your apartment. Youngho’s head turned in every direction as he perused the interior. “Still the same as always,” he thought aloud, voice susurrous.

“We only broke up three weeks ago,” you reminded him with a forced smile. The sadness in your eyes spoke more than the words that left your lips, the emptiness that swirled in your two orbs utterly heartbreaking to Youngho.

Those words hit him like a freight train, the impact more haughty than he imagined. Youngho came back to your apartment thinking he was fine, ready to see you again and retrieve his belongings, but he was clearly mistaken.

“What did you leave behind?” you asked him, a hand pressing to your forehead.

Youngho startled, worried. “Are you okay? Do you have a headache?” he asked you. He took a step closer but you shied him away, repelling him like he was a virus.

“I’m fine, I just have a stupid hangover,” you informed him bitterly, poison lacing your tone. “What did you leave here?” you asked again.

Youngho frowned. “Just a few of my sweaters. Those were pretty expensive, so I’d, um, like them back.”

“Yeah, give me a moment.”

You left the room to enter your sleeping quarter; Youngho took a seat on the sofa, his hand feeling its softness. Thousands of memories soared back to his mind from the simple action: countless movie nights, cuddle sessions when you cried your eyes out from stress due to university, and many more. But there Youngho was, sitting alone as he remained unsure of what to do, puzzled to why he was recalling such unwanted memories.

For a second Youngho wondered why he broke up with you. And for a split moment he regretted it. With a heavy breath he stared down at his twiddling thumbs, calming his heart before he made any further impulsive choices. Though, Youngho knew that once he left the apartment with the last of his belongings everything would be nothing more than a memory.

And for some reason, that thought of that was repulsive.

You returned after ten minutes with a bag of his clothes in hand, sweating a little bit from rummaging through dirty laundry and your closet. “Youngho, everything’s in here,” you guided him.

Youngho rose from his seat and thanked you, walking over to your struggling being with haste. He extended an arm out to you, grabbing onto the handles of the bag, and made contact with your skin. It was sheer contact—light like a feather was brushing against it—and there were sparks of electricity emitting from the simplicity. You retracted your hand, bringing it to your side.

Youngho’s eyes fluttered, gaze casting downwards as he held the bag to his side. Amid, you released a heavy breath.

“Are you sick?” questioned Youngho.

“I’m fine,” you told him. “I already said I have a stupid hangover.”

Youngho pouted. “Why? Why would you be drinking on a Monday night? Is everything okay?”

“Don’t worry,” you mumbled, walking to the door. Your arm reached for the handle to swing it open for him to exit, but he stopped you by placing his hand around your wrist. “What do you want Youngho?” you spat out angrily.

“I’m just worried about you,” he said, eyebrows furrowing together.

“Why are you worried? We’re not dating anymore,” you sighed.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t worry, I just—hey, you’re sweating. You seem out of breath… are you sure you’re—”

“Yes! I am!” you shot out, tossing your hands in the air in defeat. “You know, Youngho, knowing that you’re worried about me doesn’t make things easier for me to move on.”

Youngho needed a few moments to assess your words, they swam in his ears without direction for a long while before his reaction was able to form. Honestly, he felt his heart shatter at your words. As true as they were, he felt as if you were entirely against him—and for some reason he did not want that. God, did he feel foolish. He felt foolish for returning to your apartment, reminiscing the old, and for being so weakly affected by your words that were practically bullets to his being.

Youngho dropped the bag of his belongings to the ground and turned his head away from yours. “Sorry,” he uttered. “I guess I haven’t completely moved on myself.”

“You’re kidding me,” you said in between gritted teeth. “Youngho, you shouldn’t have returned.”

“I—”

“I’ve been avoiding every bit of you for the past three weeks to move on, and just when I finally think I was getting somewhere you show up at the foot of my apartment, asking for your stuff back! Do you know how low that makes me feel? At first I thought you came here to talk—to discuss the possibility of a second chance, but you’re here to just get some of the things that you gave me.” Your feelings in words finally spill from your lips like a never ending waterfall, afflicting its weight heavily against Youngho the longer you rambled.

“Am I really that easy to you?” you asked him.

Youngho’s eyes widened; he took a step back. “N-no! You know that’s not true. (y/n), look, I was just worrying before I… Nevermind, I’m sorry…”

Your hand wrapped around the knob of the door, swinging it open for Youngho to leave. “You can’t break my heart like this, not again. I think you need to go.”

Tears that began to pool at your eyes started to stream down your cheeks, a signal of how weak your heart truly was for your ex-boyfriend. Youngho raised a hand to comfort you, aching to wipe the tears he had caused, the sadness he had stirred within you, but instead he reached for the bag and stared lifelessly at you—his previous love.

The one he treasured with everything, and the original cause of his happiness was tearing up because of him. Feeling useless, clumsy like a reckless child, he apologized in a hushed tone and started to walk out your door. He considered hesitating, thanking you for everything, but the door was already slammed behind his back. The sound echoed throughout the hall of the apartment and appeared to be perpetual for the time being.

Youngho remained rooted at your front door, water welling at his eyes as he blew the final fuse. That was it; you were gone.

And there truly was no point of return in the relationship.

The following morning Youngho woke up alone in his bed again, and never had he feeling of solitude ever waved over his being to an extensive degree.

[megabadbunny]

I was tagged by the multitalented @lvslie . Thanks, doll! <3

if i were a month, i’d be: May

if i were a day of the week, i’d be: Friday

if i were a planet, i’d be: Maybe one of the Keplers...?

if i were a sea animal, i’d be: MERMAID BITCHESSSS

if i were a god/goddess, i’d be: Bastet

if i were a piece of furniture, i’d be: A slightly overstuffed squishy-comfy chaise longue draped with ridiculously soft fuzzy blankets

if i were a gemstone, i’d be: Rose quartz

if i were a flower, i’d be: Some big-ass ruffly peonies :D

if i were a kind of weather, i’d be: A delicious crisp blue-skied fall morning, cool enough for sweaters and pink noses and warm cider and crunchy leaves, warm enough to enjoy your time outside; alternatively, the first day you go outside and realize that the sun has returned, it’s no longer fucking winter, your misery is done for at least the next six months

if i were a color, i’d be: tiffany-blue or soft blush pink

if i were an emotion, i’d be: I’d like to think I’d be that gorgeous feeling you get when waking and stretching after a lazy Saturday midafternoon catnap, but realistically, I’m probably that feeling of tummy-roiling anticipation you get when you’re about to interact with people on-purpose, lololol 

if i were a fruit, i’d be: wild red raspberries

if i were a sound, i’d be: something soft and white-noisey; could be as romantic as the ocean lapping at the shore, could be as everyday as the susurrous of crickets and toads blanketing the sound of a purring lawnmower in the hazy middle distance

if i were an element, i’d be: probably water? if you’re talking the traditional four elements. maybe air?

if i were a place, i’d be: the lush green sideyard of my childhood home, being lounged upon by one of my childhood kitties

if i were a mythological creature, i’d be: someone with a cat-daemon. that counts, right...?

if i were a taste, i’d be: those perfect-tasting caramel apple lollipops (they cut up your mouth something awful but they’re just the ideal balance of tart and sweet)

if i were a scent, i’d be: something a little fruity-sweet, but mostly clean and unobtrusive, you only notice it if you’re looking for it

if i were an object, i’d be: a drawing-pen

if i were a body part, i’d be: the left hand

if i were a song, i’d be: falling away with you (muse)

if i were a pair of shoes, i’d be: floral chucks. probably beglittered floral chucks. something comfy and semi-practical but also ridiculously and wonderfully girly.

and now for my next trick, imma taaaaaaag @goingtothetardis @gingergallifreyan @zoebelle9 @travelingrose @wordsintimeandspace and anyone else who’s interested! :3

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[emrysoul]

Whale Watch by Dean Young

Sometimes you may feel alone and crushed by what you cannot accomplish but the thought of failure is a fuzz we cannot rid oursevles of anymore than the clouds can their moisture. Why would they want to anyway? It is their identity and purpose above the radish and radicchio fields. Just because a thing can never be finished doesn’t mean it can’t be done. The most vibrant forms are emergent forms. In winter, walk across a frozen lake and listen to it boom and you will know something of what I mean. It may be necessary to go to Mexico. Do not steal tombstones but if you do, do not return them as it is sentimental and the sentimental is a larval feeling that bloats and bloats but never pupates. Learn what you can of the coyote and shark. Do not encourage small children to play the trombone as the shortness of their arms may prove quite frustrating, imprinting a lifelong aversion to music although in rare cases a sense of unreachability may inspire operas of delicate auras. If you hook, try to slice. I have no the time to fully address Spinoza but put Spinoza on your list. Do not eat algae. When someone across the table has a grain of rice affixed to his nostril, instead of shouting, Hey, you got rice hanging off your face! thereby perturbing the mood as he speaks of his mother one day in the basement, brush your nose as he watches and hidden receptors in the brain will cause him to brush his own nose ergo freeing the stupid-looking-making rice. There is so much to say and shut up about. As regards the ever-present advice-dispensing susurration of the dead, ignore it; they think everyone’s going to die. I have seen books with pink slips marking vital passages but this I do not recommend as it makes the book appear foolish like a dog in a sweater. Do not confuse size with scale: the cathedral may be very small, the eyelash monumental. Know yourself to be made mostly of water with a trace of aluminum, a metal commonly used in fuselages. For flying, hollow bones are best or no bones at all as in the honeybee. Do not kill yourself. Do not put the hammer in the crystal carafe except as a performance piece. When you are ready to marry, you will know but if you don’t, don’t worry. The bullfrog never marries, ditto the space shuttle yet each is able to deliver its payload: i.e. baby bullfrogs and satellites, respectively. When young, fall in and out of love like a window that is open and only about a foot off the ground. Occasionally land in lilacs or roses if you must but remember, the roses have been landed in many times. If you do not surprise yourself, you won’t surprise anyone else.

When the yo-yo “sleeps”, give a little tug and it will return unless it has “slept too long. Haiku should not be stored with sestinas just as one should never randomly mix the liquids and powders beneath the kitchen sink. Sand is both the problem and the solution for the beach. To impress his teacher, Pan-Shan lopped off his own hand, but to the western mind, this seems rather extreme. Neatly typed, on-time themes strongly spelled are generally enough. Some suggest concentrating on one thing for a whole life but narrowing down seems less alluring than opening up except in the case of the blue pencil with which to make lines on one side of the triangle so it appears to speed through the firmament. Still, someone should read everything Galsworthy wrote. Everyone knows it’s a race but no one’s sure of the finish line. You may want to fall to your knees and beg for forgiveness without knowing precisely for what. You may have a hole in your heart. You may solve the equation but behind it lurks another equation. You may never get what you want and feel like you’re already a ghost and a failed ghost at that, unable to walk through walls. There will be a purple hat. Ice cream. You may almost ruin the wedding. You may try to hang yourself but be saved by a kid come home early from school or you may be that kid who’ll always remember his mother that day in the basement, how she seemed to know he’d done something wrong before he even knew and already forgave him, the way she hugged him and cried. Nothing escapes damage for long, not the mountain or the sky. You may be unable to say why a certain song makes you cry until it joins the other songs, even the one that’s always going on and is never heard, the one that sings us into being. On the phone, the doctor may tell you to come in. It may rain for three days straight. Already you’ve been forgiven, given permission. Each week, cryptograms come with the funny papers. You’re not alone. You may see a whale.

[sigritandtheelves]

My Life Is in the Falling Leaf (Part 2 of 4)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Rating: NC-17 (eventually)

Timeline: Season 8 through “This is Not Happening;” canon divergent

Tags: MSR, AU, angst, fluffy stuff, eventual smut

Summary: What difference would five minutes have made?

Notes: This slice is short--more coming very soon.

I’ll be posting this in bite-sized pieces here, and then the completed work on AO3. It’s almost finished!

Tagging @today-in-fic

_+_

She clung to him as he was piled on the stretcher and maneuvered into the ambulance. His body was healing before her eyes, the scars and wounds disappearing into the ether and confusing the hell out of the paramedics. He held her palm against his lips and kissed it. She would not let her fingers leave his body, nor her eyes his face. He read the torment she had suffered, there in her eyes, but had not yet remembered his own. He could answer no questions yet about what had been done to him.

“How long?” His voice was a low susurration that trembled her insides. He fingered the longish strands of her hair, trying to guess by its growth. Her face, too, seemed rounder.

“Three months,” she said. His eyes fell into a wince. “But you’re here,” she said. “You’re alive.” A quick squeeze of his shoulder and his eyes relaxed.

The rest of the long ride to the hospital was quiet.

_+_

Two days later, he was deemed plane-worthy, but in need of counseling. He’d met with Skinner, Doggett, Reyes in the hospital and told them all the same: that he remembered nothing but darkness and agony, faceless forms and screaming Scully’s name when he had anything like a voice to scream with. Doggett threw his arms up in defeat, at a loss for anything like a rational explanation. But the fact that there were more than ten FBI witnesses meant that even Kersh couldn’t ignore what all the reports would say. The small hospital in Helena had done all they could do for Mulder, so he was summarily dismissed.

Scully had, out of sheer and desperate hope, packed his badge and clothes in her carry-on. He stood before her now, himself utterly, in jeans and a v-neck sweater, accessorized by a smirk and a side of smartass.

“Hey, G-woman. You ready to go?”

She nodded, handed him a bag to carry, and they left his hospital room together.

He had of course noticed the altered shape of her body, but had not deduced its cause. Stress eating maybe, he thought, and not his place to say anything. Her fullness stirred something primal and unconscious inside him, though, driving his hand to the small of her back, the curve of her cheek, even more so than usual. Before they’d left his room, he’d pulled her flush against him and kissed her soundly until her face was pinked with want. She was holding the secret against her heart, waiting for him to be ready—for herself to be ready. If he managed to get her naked before she worked up the courage to tell him, he would know for sure, she thought. It wouldn’t take much. She was frantically hot with relief and reunion, not to mention second-trimester pregnancy hormones. She’d wanted to strip him naked and push him back onto his hospital bed after one kiss, near-death experiences or no.

On the plane he quizzed her on the events of the past months; some she knew, some she didn’t. Cases (yes), sports (no), and pop culture (not really) were on the top of his list. She’d heard the new X-Men movie was good and suggested they could rent it. He cared less about political gossip and Bureau rumors, but she filled him in on what she could. It was small talk, but it seemed to help him refocus. She skipped some of the dodgier recent case details: that slug thing, for one.

“You’re really feeling okay?” she asked, performing her standard hair-stroking cum medical-probing.

He pulled her hand from his hair and kissed it. “I feel good, Scully. Really.”

She thought he seemed himself, but worried that a too-quickly-healed body might belie a deeper trauma. She watched for signs and meanwhile enjoyed the familiar clasp of his fingers, entwined with hers and resting between their seats.

-----

End Part 2. 

More en route soon!