#yearning but keep it appropriate & respectable & cordial

[yandereunsolved]

✐ᝰ Yandere Clark Kent 'Superman' ᝰ.ᐟ

Alien, farmer, reporter, superhero, and Justice League member are all titles Clark has collected over the years. They stretch from the most mundane to the ones that are given the highest respect. All of these titles pale in comparison to the one he yearns for the most: to be your husband. Every one of his positive traits seemed to disintegrate when it came to you, his accomplishments and status along with them. He was simply Clark to you, not Superman or Kal-El.

He was nothing but a love-sick maniac at your feet. His obsession threatens to break the moral code he is so devoted to. He understands that his attraction to you is something unhealthy and taboo. He is a beacon of light in the darkness of the world. Yet he'd be willing to blind the entire world with light just to be acknowledged by you. He'd cut out his own heart and present it in a gift box with a red bow if it'd please you.

You—just a human reporter who works at the Daily Planet. You who lives in a small studio apartment. You who has aspirations of doing something greater than just writing opinion pieces. You who has captured the noble hero's heart. 

You, you, you, you, you, you, you.

He can't get enough.

He doesn't get enough of you. You seem to actively avoid him. You interact with Lois so cordially; you two are close friends. He works with Lois. Why are you giving him the cold shoulder?

He knows everything about you. He knows your favorite restaurant, where you go to de-stress, your schedule, your hobbies, and your fantasies. He's spent so much time learning about you. You've learned nothing about him except for the fact that he's your dorky, sweet co-worker.

"Are you staring at them again? How long have you been staring at them? Why do you keep staring at them? Do you have a crush on them!?" Lois interrogates him with that same curiosity kindling in the back of her violet eyes.

He could demolish buildings in an instant, but he couldn't control his pale complexion from being invaded by a red hue. He had to think for a moment. His words had become lost in his mind, like they had been dispersed among the cosmos. He stuttered at first. It felt so out of character for him. He always, well, almost always, knew what to say. 

He had to be careful around her. He's lucky that he has been clever enough to keep his obsessive tendencies under wraps until Lois leaves his side.

"I just want to know why they refuse to talk to me." His words were laced with truth. Still, he was dodging her questions, as always.

Lois huffs in irritation, like he just said the most asinine thing one could ever utter.

"They obviously like you. They just think you're way out of their league."

"What?" He deadpans.

"I never give you the inside scoop about your darling little crush, but this one time I may." She teases him. "Clark, they like you. The googly eyes you two make at each other are such an obvious indication that you both are totally whipped for each other."

"You're serious?" His pupils dilate to such an extensive degree that you would have thought he was getting them checked by an optometrist. A lump forms in this throat, twice the size of his Adam's apple. "They like me?"

"They more than like you. They are interested in you, and you should totally ask them out on a date. I have to help a friend out, y'know? You two would make such a cute couple." Lois's pitch in her voice had become so much higher; even with her evident giddiness, there was an undertone of sulleness.

"Hey!" Lois calls you over. She waves her arm around and points towards Clark.

You scurry over in your flattering work outfit. It wouldn't be appropriate for him to eye you like a forbidden sweet. Still, he could feel his clothes grow tighter and his palms become sweaty. You couldn't even look him in the eyes. He wanted to gently tilt your chin up so your eyes would meet his. He'd eat a lump of kryptonite just for you to glance at him with that love-lorn expression. If only you knew, he could show; no, he has to show—

"You and him are going to go undercover in a local cafe a few blocks from here." He's snapped from his never-ending supply of thoughts about you. "It's supposedly a cover for a notorious drug cartel. Your cover story will be that you're a young couple going out on a date."  

You glance at Lois and eagerly nod. His words don't register your reply, but from Lois's grin, you obviously said something along the lines of yes. You walk off once again, your eyes sweeping across the aged carpet covering the office floor. Once out of hearing distance, Lois turns back to him.

"You're welcome. You owe me one." Lois nudges him in the side.

He could die a happy man now.

[starswornoaths]

What Yields the Need

On the cusp of war, reunions and revelation abound. Though Ala Mhigo has not yet been reclaimed, a victory of a different sort is claimed. 

Or:

that follow up to Months and Malms Ago I didn’t think was going to happen already where these dummies finally say, “I love you” lmao

Word count: 2,865

There, at the end of it all, she stood.

After over a year and a thousand malms had separated them, after all the uncertainty and the fervent prayers for the Fury to shield her, nothing more than a handful of fulms stood between Aymeric and Serella.

And he knew not how to cross them.

He knew even less if he should, given how little they had been able to speak in their time apart. He could not blame her for that; with her behind enemy lines she sent word as much as was safe, he knew, and had oft sent it folded at the front of a book she had found in her travels that she thought he might like, its pages pressed with flowers she had found on the road.

He had cherished them, every letter she sent, every gift she had managed to arrange for him, and held fast to the spark of hope that each came with that he was still within her heart. Her words were often warm but cordial—doubtless out of a fear of someone intercepting them—and his hardly spoke of his affection for much the same reason.

That did not stop his doubts from whispering that she had moved on.

Ultimately it was Serella that had crossed those fulms on her way to convene for the Alliance leaders all meeting over the war table. As ever, it was her closing the distance between them, and never the other way round, he thought somberly. Still, he could not linger in that melancholy when she smiled at him, when their eyes met for the first time in over a year. Where he had thought the year might have, more than understandably, aged her for the hell she had been put through, she looked as though the clock had wound back three; her hair was the same shoulder length it had been when he had met her, her eyes glinted in that playfully dangerous way that had first caught his attention. She was familiar and mysterious to him all over again, as if she were merely the woman of legend made flesh before him and he was beholding her for the first time anew.

Apt, given he felt about as foolish under her hooded gaze now as he did from the first.

“Ser Aymeric.” She greeted with a bow of her head—and by the Fury, he had nearly forgotten how soft and low and sweet her voice was to his heart. “Ser Lucia.” She addressed his First with another bow toward her.

He knew not what to say; her name, her title—any of her titles—her rank? In the momentary lapse of his mind catching up to him, he faintly heard Lucia address her: Storm Lieutenant Arcbane. His heart still in his throat he could do little more than incline his head in a bow and hope the smile on his face conveyed at least an onze of how much he missed her.

Standing beside Serella as the Alliance collectively discussed their next course of action in the Ala Mhigan theatre of war was nothing less than agony, knowing she was now ilms from him and yet so far out of his reach. His entire focus was pulled to Raubahn as he relayed the plan for attacking Castrum Abania because he knew that if even an onze of it strayed to the striking Paladin standing beside him he would be utterly lost to her.

Ere long, the meeting adjourned, and time seemed to slow as Serella turned to greet both him and Lucia. When she opened her mouth to speak, however, it was as though the spell was broken, the realm caught up with her, and she and her brother were suddenly being called for. Though she whipped her head toward the Scion that was shouting for her, she turned back at him and with a smile mouthed, ‘later,’ and trotted off to attend to her business.

Just as well, he thought with mild disappointment, for there was yet work to be done on their end as well. No rest for the righteous, for the wicked never sleep, after all. 

Ishgard’s encampment at the Praetoria was marked with familiar blue banners before their arrival to better distinguish them against the other Eorzean Alliance bases with their own respective banners, and it was not long before Aymeric had fallen back into the rhythm of issuing orders and handling patrols. He had nearly been able to distract himself from the knowledge that Serella was so close after so long away—nearly, but not entirely. A missive came to inform them that there would be a representative around to confirm the readiness of Ishgard’s forces, so he at least had a deadline to focus on.

“There you are,” he heard her greet. He turned just in time to see her walking up the ramp of the parapet to the tower. She grinned broadly as she neared. “Storm Lieutenant Arcbane here to confirm readiness of Ishgardian forces!” She declared as she gave them a Storm salute.

“Ah, full glad are we that ‘tis you who was sent, much as it beggars belief.” Lucia spoke, when Serella neared. “One would think they would be content to send a squire.”

“Ever the gilded errand girl, me.” The Paladin teased, even as she reached out for her sister first, gently clasping her hands and exchanging warm pleasantries and warmer smiles with Lucia, and it gladdened him to see them so happy; though more reserved with her emotions, his First had missed her as much as he had, he knew. “And I asked to check in on everyone— if I’m the one presenting for confirmation, then I don’t have to track Merlwyb down later for muster.”

They shared a laugh quieted behind hands and hidden with coughs; happy as they were to see one another again, they were still in the middle of a warzone, after all.

“By the Fury, ‘tis good to see you again!” Aymeric floundered still at what would be appropriate to say in such an instance, though he could not help the relieved, elated words that spilled forth; he had known she had survived all the encounters that had dotted her time away from Ishgard, but to actually see her for the first time since she had left had brought his suppressed and aching yearning to the fore. He must have looked ridiculous, sighing and smiling as he was. 

Serella released Lucia’s hands and turned to him. Her smile felt more pained, more forced, and for a moment he feared he was the cause.

“Would that it were under happier circumstances.” She said softly— and he was reminded that she was rather close with Krile, the captive Scion still awaiting rescue in Castrum Abania. In an instant, his smile faded: he was the Lord Commander here, not Aymeric. Not hers. Not yet. As with all things intrinsically tied to them, they would have to fight for the right to such a reprieve.

“Of course,” he said with a nod. “Lest we keep you from your task, rest assured: Ishgard stands ready.”

Her expression still clouded, she gave a nod of her own. 

“I can’t tarry long— I’ve the others to check in with, but,” after a moment of indecision, she reached out and squeezed both of his hands— he had not even realized he had offered them until he was reminded of the smoothed callouses on her fingertips and how they felt against his. “I have missed you, dear one.”

“And I you.” He said earnestly. He gave her hands a squeeze and released them. “Go, we shall have forces ready for your return.”

Though he could see she was practically ready to burst from the seams from the hundred expressions that passed her face in the span of a few seconds, she ultimately settled on her customary grim determination, and with a nod she was away once more. 

He had not realized Lucia was staring at him flatly until he chanced a glance in her direction, and he vaguely wondered how long he had watched Serella leave before that moment— but to look back again, the Paladin had left.

“Is aught amiss?” He asked hesitantly.

“...Permission to speak freely, Lord Commander?” She asked hesitantly.

“Granted.”

“In the interest of avoiding harming my sister, you had best speak with her upon her return.” Lucia closed her eyes, breathed deeply through her nose, and exhaled slowly. “For if you instead take a preference to resuming your wistful sighing and longing gazes out of any window you walk past, I will throw you out of the next one.”

“Duly noted, First Commander.” Aymeric said around an embarrassed chuckle, though after a moment’s hesitation, he asked, “...has it truly been every window?”

“Near enough, Lord Commander.” Lucia replied tiredly, already dutifully back into parade rest, awaiting orders, her point made. 

He had intended to speak with Serella the moment she had returned— and that she had returned in victory was an immense relief. Though he had only happened to spy her in passing, armor no worse for wear but coated thickly in what he could only assume was oil from the Magitek machines she had been made to destroy, she could not tarry long: already her healing magic was helping to sustain the newly rescued Krile. His wants could wait: Krile’s health was vastly more important, and there was more work yet to be done besides.

There was a sweet madness in the hours spent waiting for a chance to speak with Serella, Aymeric thought idly, pouring over the most reports of troop movement as he was. The work that had kept him occupied, while arduous and demanding was something of a blessing; the work kept him adequately occupied.

Coordinating with the other members of the Alliance under one roof—and the ability to simply walk down one of the hallways of Porta Praetoria to better communicate—was a welcome change of pace rather than hearing scattered reports through the grapevine or trying to organize a conference call through linkpearl.

Still, much as the complexity of their reports and battle stratagems was a pleasant distraction, his mind did not linger on them upon their completion, and as he had miraculously dwindled the pile down to the last page, he found himself wondering how he would occupy his time so late past sundown in the even that he could not speak with the Warrior of Light.

“More reports, still?” He smiled as he heard Serella ask in a soft voice.

Turning his head to see her approaching his side he felt the tension in his shoulders ease as she came to lean the backs of her thighs against the desk he had been working from. The sight in front of him, of the Paladin that had so thoroughly captivated him standing beside him as he worked felt warmly nostalgic. All at once, he was home again.

“This is the last, blessedly.” He answered her, signing off on the report once he had found it to his satisfaction. “A great many of them have been confirming stratagems for retaking Ala Mhigo proper— better that they are not left to chance.” Serella nodded in understanding, heels of her hands resting atop the desk.

“I’m glad you’ve a moment to breathe, then,” she said quietly. With a small smile she asked, “how have you been?”

“Better now,” he reassured her, his smile widening.

“That’s good,” she said, nodding. Though her smile was genuinely relieved she avoided letting her gaze linger on him for too long, staring out in front of her at the parapets of the Praetoria and beyond. “That’s good.” She said again but softer, as if to herself.

“Is aught amiss?” Aymeric asked her, worry gnawing at the edges of his senses as he took in her unusually tense features. “Serella?” He called to her softly again when she did not respond after a few moments.

“Sorry,” she said with an almost bashful laugh. “Sorry, it’s just,” she tucked a strand of hair behind her pointed ear. “It’s been some time since we’ve spoken in person.”

“It has,” he agreed somberly. Before he could articulate precisely how much he missed her, she continued.

“It’s been over a year.” Serella said softly. She stared down at her shoes as if to avoid looking at him. “Though…I suppose I only truly know that because I got your message.”

For one brief moment, he fumbled to recall what message she could be referring to—though they were few, they had corresponded in the time that they were apart…but there was only one message that would leave her looking so tense.

His first message. His farewell and confession in equal measure.

“Ah,” Aymeric breathed. Though he did not clench his hands in his lap he felt the passing urge to do so out of habit. “I am glad that you received it.” He admitted, his voice matching hers. “I had feared that I had recorded it incorrectly.”

Oddly, fumbling with the thrice damned screen of that tomestone had been the most strenuous part of the whole ordeal.

“Hadn’t until a few months ago, actually.” Serella said with a huff of an almost laugh. “I’m impressed— even thousands of malms away and months too late, you manage to catch me off guard.”

“Have I caused you discomfort?” He asked, acutely aware that his heart was hammering rather hard against his Adam’s apple; he had hoped his overtures would be welcome, though if things had changed— or they were never welcome from the start...

“Not at all,” Serella said quickly, though did not lift her gaze. “I only wanted to make it clear that it is not…” she frowned. “I won’t hold you to it, over a year on.” She shrugged, a hand scrubbing at the back of her neck—a telltale sign that this had been something that had been bothering her for quite some time. “I mean, it’s silly, right? To expect that you feel—“ when her voice cracked she cleared her throat. “Well. It wouldn’t be realistic of me to expect that, so if you don’t…”

The beginnings of anxiety that had constricted his throat loosened enough that he could swallow his heart at the revelation of what she was saying.

She was giving him an out.

She had been worried—and not unfairly so—that the distance would be too far to bridge, that too much time had passed, and they could never recover what they had been. It was a reasonable fear, he knew; for even as he had made that desperate, reckless recording, he had known that at any given point, she could decide that his tethers need not be hers. That he was a bird with clipped wings, and naught but he stopped her from flying. It had lingered in the back of his mind, the thought that he would reunite with her only for her to shatter his heart.

She was still fumbling for the right words to permit him a graceful exit as he stood slowly from his seat. She still did not look at him as she tried to explain that it was fine if his heart lie elsewhere because it’s been so long, and that’s okay, we promised, right? I’m used to it, it’s alright, and in her distraction, she had not realized he had stepped in front of her until his hands held her face and coaxed her into looking at him.

She broke his heart, staring at him with eyes so filled with tears that she desperately tried to hold back, but by the Fury she healed him with the way her hand came up to grip at the lapels of his coat.

If she did not need an out, then neither did he.

Slowly, deliberately, he bent to let their lips meet, slow enough to give her enough time to push him away—giving her one last out— but then she pulled him down the last ilm herself, that they might at last bridge the malms and months that had separated them.

Their kiss was unrushed, languid, a reacquaintance, an I miss you, a sigh of relief. They lingered as though they had all the time in the world. He kissed her until he felt her soften, felt her press against him, sighed at her hands stroking his face, his hair, as if she had to remap all of him with her fingertips.

He only broke away when he was certain that he had been clear in his declaration. Though to behold her again the words came without thought— for she needed to hear them again, and he needed to say them for the rest of his days.

“I love you.” He said simply—because that had never changed.

The relieved huff of laughter that escaped her sounded more like a sob but she positively beamed at him even as he set to work brushing her tears away.

“And I love you.” She said, smiling, and though they had yet to march upon Ala Mhigo, to hear it already felt like a victory in its own right, her smile against his lips a fitting reward.