What If I - Tumblr Posts
due to popular demand:
go wild yall
I can't get over the one sided love of a deity trapped in stone with a newcomer to their land.
Fields of Misteria has a dragon statue that seemes to be romanceable later on named Caldarus. They are immortal and trapped in stone because they have grown weak and their memory fuzzy.
You nurse then back into power by collecting nature essence by doing things around your farm. Cutting grass, tending crops. Cutting trees, clearing rocks etc.
I can't get over this idea of one sided longing or enamorment now. A mostly silent being who watches from afar as you wake up everyday just before the sun comes over the mountains in the distance and begin your work.
Diligently clearing land, planting and lovingly caring for your crops. The strength you built as an adventurer coming in handy with cutting down large trees and smashing large rocks with ease. The gentle way you handle your farm animals and the bonds you build with the community.
The beam of pride you have when you complete a days worth of work. Tired, sweaty, dirty---but happy and content.
They watch you get frustrated when you get tired and you're so close to being done, when your backpack gets too full too soon, watching you take breaks to restore your stamina and how you treat animals, even bugs, with kindness by shooing them away before clearing the next plot of land.
They see the gentle smile of your face as you water and weed your plants and hear you regale the silent stone with stories of your adventuring days. They see you run past into the village with gifts to give and materials to offer, help to aid those that need it.
They feel sad when you sleep in, noting how unusual it is for you to sleep in late and plead for you to take care of yourself and not push so hard. The mines are dangerous and their power is limited.
The find themselves worrying for you. Did you remember to make food? Are you eating a proper diet? Are you remembering to rest? You can be so stubborn sometimes.
They despise being so weak, they wish to speak to you more, to see your eyes light up with new information and to keep you company. To aid you in your self appointed quest of a manageable farm and happy life.
They find themselves excited for dawn, when you come out and stand in front of their statue--coffee in hand while you plan your day, knowing they can't respond but still treating them kindly, gently.
You make sure to scrub them clean when the rain comes to avoid mildew and moss growing on them. It can't be comfortable and somehow you think of it like a virus for them. They're your friend and you want them to be taken care of, since, as a statue it's not like they can clean themselves.
They think you are devoted to kindness to those around you.
And they wish to reward such devotion.
By returning it in kind.
𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀・741 / 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴・chan x gn!reader / 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲𝘀・fluff, hurt/comfort, suggestive themes so mdni / author's note・inspired by our beautiful boy's bbl texts about the nylon shoot. he is so loved. i hope he knows it ♡
𝟬𝟵:𝟬𝟵 — Chan is nervous.
He doesn’t say so out loud. He doesn’t say anything out loud, actually, simply appearing in the kitchen to pluck a slice of toast off the counter. Damp curls dripping into the towel slung around his neck, brushing against your cheek when he leaves a good morning kiss there.
But there’s a squareness in his shoulders. A muted glaze over the brown of his eyes and a tightness in the smile he gives you as he pulls away. The images linger in your vision after he disappears back down the hallway, presumably to get ready for the big day ahead.
Words. There are times when they embrace Chan like orchestral musicians awaiting their conductor’s cue, like sunflowers swiveling eastward in the halcyon morning—but there are other times when they haunt him, like the faceless sea of spectators instead of the hopeful performers, like the shadows that comprise the fathomless night rather than the rays of sun that follow.
You rise out of your seat, a quiet sigh leaving your lips. Chan needs the sun, today.
Inside your bedroom, Chan’s towel sits atop your duvet, right beside the white material of the T-shirt he slept in. The bathroom door is ajar and spilling yellow light onto the hardwood. You nudge it open further.
Free to roam after the towel’s removal, transparent waterdrops pave silvery trails down the sides of Chan’s neck, over the gentle incline of his collarbones and the naked hills of his chest. His palms are pressed flat on either side of the sink, his eyes glued to the mirror before him, his jaw set as squarely in his reflection as it is on his person.
He jumps when your reflection joins his. Parts his lips, prepares to speak. But his whole vernacular evaporates when your hands find his waist, when your breath hits the nape of his neck.
“Baby,” he breathes.
There’s a question embedded in the word. The only answer you give him is the quiet drag of your fingertips down the center of his back. He expels an involuntary shudder, and with it the muscles beneath your touch shift like fields of marigolds tousled by a kindred breeze.
You kiss the highest ridge of his spine, letting your lips linger against the smooth skin for a few moments before doing the same, just below his ear.
“What—” He pauses, swallows. “What are you doing, angel?”
When your hands return to his hips, they request something this time. He complies, lets you turn him around, his lower back meeting the marble with a soft bump.
You bring yourself close to him. Close enough to gauge his blushing cheeks and trembling breath and brown, brown eyes, crossed from trying to look at you. Close enough that you only need slightly dip your head to mould your lips to the hollow right under his jaw.
He moans, the sound melodic and low and quickly muffled by the lower lip he bites down upon. You suck lightly, careful not to leave a mark yet entirely fine with the alternative, then graze your teeth over the tender skin, pull away. You don’t go far, though, as your next destination is his Adam’s apple, which you reach not by boat or by plane but by short, wet kisses that resound in the silent bathroom, that draw from Chan’s throat another gorgeous whine.
As you progress in this fashion, traipsing across the plane of his clavicle, the valley of his pectorals, you want to tell him that he’s beautiful.
He’s beautiful when he laughs so hard that his smile turns boxy and his voice gets all squeaky. He’s beautiful when he’s trying not to cry and his eyes look like mirror pools because he’s failing. He’s beautiful in front of the cameras; he’s beautiful away from them. He’s beautiful always, your Chan, your Chris.
That is what you want to tell him.
But you don’t. Not even when his back hits the mattress moments later and he looks like your every wildest dream come to life underneath you: pupils blown so wide that they’ve swallowed his irises, lips glistening and quivering and inconceivably kissable as he sighs your name, chiseled upper body rippling when he props himself up on his elbows. Straining to look at you as you lower your mouth to his navel, undo the knot of his sweatpants with a gentle tug.
You’ll show him instead.
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© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · liked this work? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support ♡
