[softly]: it’ll pass.

lacuna

moon knight main genre: lit fic thoughts: a crossover between moon knight & the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. inspo post here & here. still not entirely sure which direction i want to go in, but it's there!!

heart rot

jonathan crane main genre: horror-ish?? maybe. thoughts: inspired by this pin. loosely - a memory of jonathan's childhood. reader never explicitly bullied him but they were on the sidelines. jonathan never forgets. twenty years later, he returns to georgia, and reader is still there.

the variable

doctor strange | pinterest board main genre: contemporary romance thoughts: inspo post here. assistant!reader x stephen!!

the prodigal sons of pittsburgh | pinterest board

the pitt - boxing AU main genre: lit fic thoughts: intro post here. honestly a very overwhelming concept but i'm!! not giving up on it.

between the tides | pinterest board

You sucked in a breath and yelped.

“That is tight enough, Meredith!” Your fingers curled around the oak of your bedpost, a bead of sweat dampening your hairline as your handmaiden yanked at the lace of your corset.

She was one of the younger handmaids from the depths of The Sootrows, a muddied low-lying slum closest to the gates of the Kingdom of Solmere. Raised on the cobbled streets made up of soap boilers, fortune tellers and pickpockets, you were sure that Meredith had enough grease in her ears that it hindered her ability to adhere to your wishes.

When she curled the lace around her white-knuckled fists to pull once more, you swatted at her hand blindly; a smile curling on both your lips.

You turned to the wild-haired girl with a look of amusement. “You’ll cut me in half in a moment.”

“My deepest apologies, my lady.” Meredith spoke in a sardonic tone.

She could get away with it when around you. You had little time for the division between highborns and lowborns, which was a dreaded topic that your father had to cruelly remind you of when you went gallivanting in your finest silks to scour the food stalls for hearty food made out of genuine love rather than infatuation with the regality of your family.

With that, you brushed at the bodice of the dress they had sewn you shut in. The corset made of pearlescent shell, encasing you in the upmost delicate design that if you tapped your nails against it, it would make the funniest tink, tink, tink sound. You looked as if you had been hauled by the fishermen from the sea. A precious shell. On par with the aesthetics your father had bestowed upon you with his kingdom being flush against the sea and all.

That being said, if you thought about the sea, the waves, the creatures that lived amongst the blue waters, all of it moved with such fluidity.

You—on the other hand—did not.

Waddling to the floor length mirror adjacent to your bed, you inspected yourself with a fine-tooth comb approach.

“Ridiculous.” You mumbled and turned to admire the back of the dress. “I look utterly ridiculous. I’m a walking conch.”

Meredith stifled her laughter behind the back of her hand, “A beauty, my lady. Any suitor would be privileged to listen to the whispers of your sea.”

You gave her a pointed look. A reminder that despite your closeness in the confines of your living quarters, it did not warrant her to prod fun at a sore-to-touch subject that caused the greatest rift between father and his only daughter. The subject of betrothal, the intention to wed his daughter in a gallant attempt to strengthen the alliance between his kingdom and one across the Narrow Sea. Your father had given you a grace period to be a free woman, to learn and to explore without the duties of being a wife to some Lord who wouldn’t give you the time of day once wed. However, the deadline had been pushed against its seams, and you ran the danger of being titled an obsolete spinster.

The heir to the throne superfluous. A waste of coin from the working man. A trinket to drop to the depths of the seabed. You had heard it all in the echoes of the hall, tensions growing taught against your father’s ability to rein in his free spirited offspring that had little loyalty to the crown that was moulded for her head.

The king was growing weary of your feet deeply embedded in the sand. You were your mother’s daughter in all the ways that had grey hairs speckled across his beard. He’d spoken to the stars above many a night, about how if she were to still be alive, she might’ve had some insight on how to wrangle such a wildebeest of a child.

They had married for love. Not honour.

And, you had every intention in follow the footsteps in the white sand beach beneath the castle walls.

“No matter, Princess.” Meredith’s guilt-ridden tone tugged you out of your deepened thought. She met your gaze in the mirror. The all-knowing glint of mischief returning so soon to her eye. “Your knight will be here soon.”

Oh good. You thought.

Your hideous trick of fate made up of chainmail and iron plates.

Love was a peculiar thing. A concept you ran from, and it somehow managed to embed itself deep within your ribcage like a gnawing parasite eating you from the inside out. Your knight was at the centre of your visionary utopia where he wasn’t bound so valiantly to a creed of honour, and you to a seaside kingdom.

Ser Clark was title, for formalities. Just, Clark—to you—in the candlelit shadows of the endless corridors of the castle. Assigned by your father to squash your incessant need to frolic in the clouds, Clark had been given the noble job to be your babysitter.

He had been apart of an abundance of tourneys, battles and one-on-one combat to defend one’s honour. Littered with scars from head to toe and a reputation that proceeded him, Clark had thought with naivety that being the caretaker of a princess would be a mere wade in shallow waters.

Instead, you had him sucked into an angered whirlpool with a tumultuous force, that no joust or dagger pierced into the flesh of his skin could compare to the task of chasing you round the kingdom.

(He wouldn’t address the time you had managed to swipe his dagger from him.)

Four moons had passed in the abyss of the sky, and Clark had learnt the depths of your soul that no other man had scratched the surface on. To others, you were sharp-tongued, a bundle of trouble wrapped in glossy gossamer fabric and pretty hair styles. To Clark, you were a woman on the brink of something brilliant. You refused to adhere to outdated policies forced upon young women to exploit them in exchange for a man that sat upon a throne with no intention of the upkeep of a sworn promise to not stab their ally in the back. You cared deeply for those beneath you, and he had spent many of the sun basked afternoons in amongst the low-borns of Solmere, exchanging pleasantries, attending puppet shows put on by travellers, and dancing barefoot to the music in the town square.

You were creative in ways that had Clark chasing his own tail round the castle to locate your whereabouts. Intelligent and cunning whilst wearing your heart on your sleeve. Beautiful to your rotten core.

He had seen your refusal in proposals from men dripped in gold and riches beyond his own comprehension, because your love couldn’t be bought.

To love you was to see you. And, Ser Clark saw it all.

You, in all your wide-eyed wonder, craved something more than regal titles and servants that pressed kisses to your feet whilst they struggled to put food on the table for their own.

Clark supposed he could give you that. If his entire existence hadn’t been to prosper by an oath he knelt for years prior to his arrival at the doors of Solmere.

For the time being, he’d bask in your presence until his duty had been fulfilled.

Three knocks came to your door, and if you listened careful enough, behind the wood that kept you separate from your own responsibilities, you’d be able to hear the clink of chainmail as your knight beared his weight from one foot to the other. You shot Meredith a warning look that telepathically translated into: ‘Don’t meddle.’

The handmaiden gave a simple shrug and opened the heavy door to reveal Ser Clark, all heavy armour and helmet that he refused to remove from his head. (Sometimes you had caught yourself thinking about if the man slept with the thing on.)

Despite his identity concealed, you were still able to see into the window of his soul. His blue eyes; which never lied. The candlelight caught the way his eyes descended upon your figure constricted within your dress, and even in a ravenous hunger to unravel you, his gaze always returned to your face.

You breathed out a laugh. “Pray tell what you are thinking, Ser.”

If it weren’t for that godforsaken helmet, you may have seen the curl of a smirk beneath it.

“You look like a conch.” Clark stated openly to the room. There was a tight-knit friendship between the three of you, enough that he could drop his stoicism to allow space for jest and not have the words carry in whispers down the corridors.

“A pretty conch.” Meredith corrected.

You rubbed at the shell corset, “Yes, well, I’d like to think that the conches on the beaches of Solmere allowed more breath for their residents.” You shuffled toward Clark, his arm readily available for you to take for stability. You angled yourself to look at your handmaiden once slotted next to him, “Wish me luck.”

“I wish the rest of them luck.” Meredith bowed her head with a conniving smile and shut the door to your chambers with a heavy thud.

Clark began to guide you down the hallway that you knew like the back of your hand. Your hand clammy against his iron armour, the dress only allowed you to take small steps rather than long strides, meaning Clark was rendered to a dawdle rather than a clean cut walk to get you into your carriage.

You were quiet. Quieter than usual.

Distracted by the stone floor beneath your feet, Clark looked down at you; unnerved by your silence.

“Is everything well?” He asked out of curiosity. Partly as it was his job to ensure you wouldn’t become a flight risk on the short trip to the carriage. Partly because he cared for your feelings, more than you realised.

“Fine. I just hate the theatrics of it all.” You mumbled.

“It’ll be over before you even know it has started.” Clark assured you to the best of his ability. Something he had become accustomed to on the lead up to any banquet held in the extravagant hall of Solmere, where you were required to take a carriage to the other end of the kingdom in order to attend. He watched you from behind his helmet and frowned, “Plus, I’ll be there.”

“Aren’t you always?” You joked.

As you turned the corner to the courtyard where the carriage awaited, Clark lowered his tone, “Always.”

There wasn’t time to spare a glance up at him as one of your father’s squires came bounding over in a frazzle.

“Princess, we must walk with haste.” He babbled, “Our guests are on their way.”

“Yes, yes.” You waved him off as Clark guided you past him and toward the open door of the carriage. You threw your voice over your shoulder, “They can learn the act of patience on their way too.”

You were brought to a halt at the side of the carriage, the white horse in front pawing at the ground beneath his feet. You stared at the golden step that you were required to step on, and then to your knight who held out a gloved hand for support.

There was hesitation. Not due to the lack of desire to attend the banquet that your father had so graciously held to welcome visitors from across the Narrow Sea—although you weren’t partial to that notion—but more so that the fabric of your skirts limited your ability to raise your foot. At all.

The stubbornness trait was a fickle thing. Gifted with a knight, and yet, you’d rather fight the clothing clinging to your frame in order to raise yourself into the carriage.

Clark spotted the crease in your brow whilst you fidgeted on the spot.

“What’s wrong?” He asked in his usual deep tone that sent sparks to your core.

You huffed out, “I—The dress.” You gave it another attempt before deflating in defeat. You looked up to Clark and spoke, “I can’t get up.”

Behind closed doors, Ser Clark Kent may have shared a hearty laugh at your demise. The heir to the Solmere throne, defeated by mere fabric and shell. In public, Clark had duties, and that meant biting back the smile on his face and resolving your problem for you.

He bent at the knees, one hand sliding down to the bend in your legs, the other pressed against the small of your back as he lifted you with minimal effort. The edge of his helmet brushed against your chest, sending goosebumps across your skin as he lifted you into the plush seat of the carriage.

Once placed carefully into your transport, his gloved hand smoothed across your back until he stepped back into the stones of the Courtyard; hand resting upon the heavy sword he carried at all times for your protection and his own.

You stared at him openly. Lips parted by a fraction, despising the fact that the simplest of touches had set your skin alight. Chest rising and falling quicker than usual, you gripped at the velvet cushion of the seat beneath you, hating Ser Clark Kent for the way he sent you into a dizzy frenzy.

“Are you coming in?” You shot at him.

He shook his head in a smug sort of way, toying with your fluster. “I’ll be in the front, Princess. You’ll be able to see me.”

Bastard.

The door to the carriage shut and you were left alone with your thoughts of naked flesh against iron armour.

You had found—or much rather, was dragged to by Ser Clark—your place at the top table within the hall. Your family emblem draped across the balconies, where people sipped at their ail and nodded their heads to the joyful tone of music played. Sat next to your father, who took one look at you and said you looked much like a conch on the Solmere beach, you poked and prodded at the food placed in front of you as your father spoke closely with the guests from beyond the Narrow Sea.

Steamed broccoli pierced on your the end of your fork, your eyes drifted from your plate into the crowd to find your knight cosied up against the back wall. There was enough distance to presume he was scanning the surroundings for any sign of threat, but you knew Ser Clark well-enough to know that he had already done in thrice, in order to spend the rest of his time watching you.

You waved the fork in his direction and he returned it with a curt nod and point to the guest sat beside you, seemingly rather lonesome and bored.

He was a bald man, clad in his family colours of blood red. Murderous, was your first inclination to what part of history fell behind their name.

Luthor.

You stared at the knight from your peripheral in a meek attempt of an escape out of pleasantries with the uninterested male. Ser Clark met your resistance with another point.

You sighed in defeat. “Solmere has treated you well so far, my Lord?”

The man turned his narrowed gaze to you and sneered, “Supposedly.” Your lips pulled into a frown as you nodded, unsure of where to step in the game of conversation, until he began again, “It is rather hot here. I can smell the Sootrow pigs from the castle. It’s off-putting.”

Before you could whip him with the sharpness of your tongue, your father interjected to prevent a public altercation so soon into the evening. “We have made arrangements to resolve the scent that carries from the Sootrows, rest assured.”

He gave you a fatherly look of a thunderous warning and you sunk back into your seat.

The tone of the night had been set, and you had grown to dislike the man—you had soon learnt’s name was Lex—that slumped in his chair and looked down his nose at the festivities held on the floor. You weren’t fully aware of his problem, chin rested against your palm in utter boredom, the corset that Meredith had tied too tightly dug into your organs; leaving little room for food and to sit comfortably.

Ser Clark remained against the back wall, occasionally flitting his blue eyes from you to the merry dancers. He knew you would enjoy a spin round the room, silently cursing the man beside you for not seizing the opportunity by the scruff of the neck. Until, who he presumed, was his pale, scrawny father tapped his shoulder in passing and flicked a slender finger in your direction.

Clark felt his breath halt, jaw tight as the bald-headed Luthor flippantly asked for a dance. When you politely agreed, he stood without offering you his hand, leaving you in the dust of his boots as he sauntered into the crowd. Less than enthused about it all.

You shuffled down the steps awkwardly, a smile faltering on your lips when you took Lex’s hand and began to dance to the best of your ability in the tight dress.

Ser Clark looked in the opposite direction.

You looked up at Lex through your lashes. Taller than you by a margin, his chin tilted upward with his lips pulled into a thin line. “Are you well?”

“As much as I can be given the circumstances, Princess.” Lex retorted sourly, leaving you confused. He missed an apology when stepping on your toes, and eventually let his gaze drop to look at your mild confusion.

“I understand you aren’t in favour of Solmere.” You began in an attempt to mend any bad feelings, “I’ve heard your home is made of snow and cold breath.”

“Yes. But that isn’t why my mood is dampened, Princess.” Lex rolled his neck and chuckled in response to your blank expression, “Haven’t you heard? The betrothal has been agreed by the King and my father.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Hm.” Lex hummed, “Here I was, told that you were intelligent.” He stared back at the table that sat your father and his, “Solmere and Metropol are to be combined in the marriage of the princess of Solmere and the Lord of Metropol’s son.”

Your breath became ragged.

“Yes. We are to be wed before the visit is over. And, I, to be pulled from root and stem from my home to live in this squalor of a Kingdom.” Lex spoke with enough venom that you were projected backwards into another dancing body. He observed you in your pearlescent dress, attempting to find the lung capacity to breathe. Lex cleared his throat and bowed his head, “Deepest of gratitude for the dance, Princess. I assume we will have time to practice before the wedding.”

You tracked Lex’s movement with horror at his emotionless deliverance of the news, as he retired from the floor and back to the safe place of the wooden chair at the long table. Amongst this, you caught your father’s eye and his jolly grin died on his lips at the reaction on your features.

You shook your head in disbelief. He nodded.

“Fuck.” The profanity slipped from your mouth before you could catch it. The room began to shrink in size, bodies bumping into you as you stood cemented to the middle of the floor.

The attention was drawn to you, strangers of Solmere quick to request if the princess had fallen ill at the sight of her shallow breaths and fear stricken eyes. Somewhere in the hustle and bustle of the banquet, Ser Clark straightened his relaxed posture when he noticed your lack of regal composure.

Foot pushed off the stone wall, he moved the ocean of people with his hands, parting the sea to reach you. His gloved hand wrapped around the bareness of your elbow and you snatched yourself away as if you had just been scorched by the fire of the sun.

“Princess?”

“I need to—” Your eyes darted around for the exit, “—I need to leave. I need to leave, now.”

As soon as the words had left your mouth, you had shoved past the body of your knight in a desperate attempt to put enough space between yourself and the banquet that sealed your fate for you. How could your father be so cruel? You angrily questioned with your hands pressed against your chest, hot tears swelling in your waterline. His only daughter, presented like a pig for slaughter in the form of a marriage that she took no part in agreeing to.

You turned the corner in the corridor, wishing nothing but the tide of the ocean to sweep you away underneath its sea salt waves.

Ser Clark had been hot on your heels. Armour clanging as he chased you down the moonlit corridor and into the gardens concealed by hedges and sun-worshiping Zinnia flowers. Being a knight with a duty, he scanned the surroundings for potential eavesdroppers before he found you pressed against the foliage of the tall hedge; its little leaves encasing you as you put your weight into it.

“What is the meaning of this?” Clark queried sternly.

You shook your head, dropping your chin to your chest as your breath evaded you. “I can’t—”

“Can’t what?” Clark searched your face, “What did he say to you, Princess?”

Eyes squeezed shut, you bent over as best as you could, “I am to be wed—” You gasped, “—Wed to that man. That beast of a man.”

That was an astute observation made with little evidence. But, you’d stand by it.

Clark fell silent at that. Brains wracked for any possibility that you may have misheard over the loudness of drunken men and their disastrous taste in melodies to dance to. Your father was a man of intimidation, ruled the Kingdom of Solmere with an iron fist, however, he hadn’t thought that he would extend such punishment to his daughter.

The Luthor’s were known for their sadistic ways to torment people. Rumours spread of the Luthor boy who plucked wings off of butterflies and pulled a rabbit by its entrails down the beaten path. Lex Luthor was not the man fit for a betrothal with you.

Clark’s expression soured beneath his helmet.

“I need to get out.” You rasped.

Clark hesitated in his chance to console you with a gentle touch, and chose words instead. “You will need to speak with the King. Perhaps it has been a grave misunderstanding—”

“Oh, give your head a rattle within that helmet, Clark!” You seethed. “This was the plan all along. I’ve just been too busy capering with my knight to notice the series of events that had led to this moment.”

“Capering?”

You sucked in a short breath, “Yes. Capering. Acting like a child within the castle walls, whilst my own fate was being sealed by my father and his cluster of pig-headed council members down the corridor! I’m so stupid!”

“You aren’t.” Clark shook his head in disagreement. “They wouldn’t have involved your opinion where it mattered the most. The intention was to keep you in the dark, Princess.”

Suddenly, your vision began to blur with black splotches at the corner of your eyes. Ser Clark continued on his honourable tangent, defending your intelligence as your body began to sway on the spot. With all the sudden induced panic, your body had swelled against the corset, making it near impossible to catch the breath you so desperately clung to being able to inhale at full lung capacity.

You raised your hand to halt the knight in his rampant train of thought.

“Clark.” You spoke his name in a drowsy whisper, “I cannot breathe.”

His body stiffened, hands held out in front of him, unsure of how to ail whatever plagued you. Eyes dropping to your chest, your cleavage tight against the shell corset that he believed was never created with the intentions of the Princess of Solmere to breathe.

So, he did what any nobleman would do in order to save the kingdom a funeral. His gloved hands came to your waist as he whipped you around, your face pressed into the hedge with a grunt of displeasure escaping your drying lips. In an attempt to not ruin the corset, the knight used his hands to aggressively pry the stubborn lace apart.

You yelped in protest, fingers clinging to the branches in front of you as Clark loosened the corset with his brute strength. Body jostled, you felt the breath return to your lungs with each pull you had endured. Mouth agape, one hand left the branches to cling to your dignity in the form of pulling the corset upward when it had began to slip past your breasts.

Once Clark had finished, he took a step back, his eyes set on the length of the bareness of your back, skin dipping below the skirts where he could presume the rest of you remained as naked as the day you were born.

Corset clung to your chest and a few leaves nestled in your hair, you slowly turned to stare at the knight.

You looked ethereal under the light of the moon.

“Thank you.” You whispered, sheepish under his gaze. You let your eyes cast downward as you composed yourself, “I apologise for my outburst. It was improper.”

Clark found his own breath and nodded a little too vigorously. “Of course. I, uh, I will return you back to your chambers, Princess. Here—” His hands came to unlatch the royal blue cape that hung from his broad shoulders, extending it out as he wrapped it around your shoulders. “—We can say you caught a draft on the way back.”

An anxious laugh left your mouth, “A draft I hope kills me.”

“Don’t say such things.” Clark chastised, his own heart filled with unexpected sorrow as he eyed you carefully.

“Why not?” You spat sarcastically.

There was a pregnant pause, of unspoken rules forbidden by oaths and of betrothals to unify two kingdoms.

Where your knight, armour shimmering beneath the pink moon, looked to you with a heart swollen with an immense amount of desire to remain close to your being and spoke the words:

Sometimes Frank thinks he should put you on a leash.

Get one of those toddler backpack rigs with the little animal character on it and clip you in. Maybe that would preserve what remains of his peace.

Morifying for you, humiliating for him, definitely probably a terrible look in public, but at least you’d stay within a five-foot radius and he could stop living in this permanent state of low-grade vigilance you seem to provoke as casually as breathing. 

And he loves you. Deeply. Completely.

That’s the problem. Love, with you, is surveillance. It is anticipatory. It is watching for the exact point at which your glittering, social, I’m-fine performance starts to come apart at the seams while you insist it isn’t happening.

You just never seem to know when to stop. 

And tonight you are all over the pool patio with a mojito slicking one hand cold and damp, dribbling little sacrificial offerings of rum and mint over the stone, while the other hand keeps straying to the bikini strap at your hip. 

Restless. Fidgety. Smiling at everyone. Talking too loudly. 

A little drunk, a little sleepy, and, as ever, too stubborn to concede either.

The moment you glance his way, Frank tilts his chin and crooks two fingers in a come here.

A gesture that should not, by any reasonable standard, contain so much possession in it, and yet your expression changes all at once, brightening with buzzed delight as you cross toward him.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite person to be bossed around by,” you say when you reach him, voice dipped in honey. You stop beside his lounger, smiling down at him. It’s such a pretty smile. “Did you miss me terribly?”

“I usually do.” 

There’s no point in pretending otherwise.

That gets you. 

“Yeah?” You tip forward a little, closing the distance with shameless interest. “Can I get a kiss, then?”

Frank’s mouth twitches. “You can get whatever you want, sweetheart.”

He lifts a hand to your jaw and draws you down, sealing his mouth over yours in a kiss that has to be brief by sheer circumstance, though not so brief he misses the cool, fizzy ghost of lime on your lips. 

Sugary and faintly effervescent, the taste of it lingering for one extra second after he pulls back, temptation rendered in citrus. 

Frank has never been especially talented at self-control where you are concerned.

It’s why he’s not a fan of PDA. Public affection is never only that. It is a beginning. A permission slip.

One kiss and suddenly he is keenly aware of all the ones he is not having, all the ways he would rather be kissing you if the two of you were alone.

So he stops there, because he has to, and leaves your hand at your jaw instead, thumb brushing once over your cheek.

“What do you say we go find you something to eat?”

You make a face immediately, lower lip pushing out in a sulky little pout. “‘M not hungry.”

“That’s fascinating, because you look like you’re about two minutes from falling asleep standing up.”

“You make everything sound so dire.”

Frank snorts. “Pot, meet kettle.”

Then, in a flawless little proof-of-concept, you sway backward with all the structural integrity of a wilting palm tree. 

Frank moves before the thought fully forms, hands shooting out to catch the back of your thigh, fingers splaying over the soft curve just beneath your ass as he drags your forward. One quick tug and there you are, neatly slotted between his legs. 

Your hands land on his shoulders and you giggle, as if nearly toppling over into a concussion is somehow charming rather than precisely the kind of thing that keeps shaving years off his life.

He squeezes once, firm and corrective. 

“Okay, well, what do you say you keep me company for a while?”

He could tell you to sit down. You might even listen, eventually, but not without first delivering a brief theatrical monologue on authoritarianism and oppression and how cruel it is to stifle your sparkle.

So. Better not make it about obedience. Frank has learned this the hard way, or at least the repetitive way.

There are only so many reliable methods of keeping you where he can see you, and most of them depend on reframing the situation until it no longer sounds like containment.

You resent being managed. You respond beautifully to being needed. Especially by him. 

“Mm, okay,” you murmur at once, whatever resistance you had dissolving on contact. 

Before Frank can offer any further guidance, you’re already hauling yourself into his lap with spectacularly poor mechanics, all grabby hands and misfiring limbs, nudging him backward against the lounger.

And after a moment of awkward shifting and a fair amount of readjusting, you finally settle into him in a drowsy little heap, half draped across his lap and half tucked into his side. 

Frank extracts the mojito from your hand just before the remainder can go down the front of his shirt, though not before a bright cold splash hits his chest anyway.

He puts the glass aside and looks back at you.

Brushes your hair off your face. Once, twice, again, until there you are properly visible beneath it.

You blink up at him, visibly straining to keep your eyes open, lashes heavy with the effort. “You know what Parker told me earlier?”

“Hmm?”

“That you’re not supposed to compliment the moon here.”

Frank’s fingers drift through your hair again. “And why’s that?”

“Apparently,” you say, lowering your voice, “it’s bad luck. Like if you say it’s pretty, then something in your life gets ruined out of jealousy.”

Your finger wanders over his shirt, drawing something looping into the cotton, your nail a shiny petal-pink that matches the sparkle dusted over your eyes. 

He asks, “Should I be concerned you’ve already told it how pretty it is?” 

A tiny crease appears between your brows. 

“Maybe a little.” Your nail catches on his shift before drifting on again. “But it kind of makes sense, doesn’t it? Because Selene is the moon, and Helios is the sun, and they’re siblings, I think, so maybe he gets weird about it… because if everyone keeps talking about how beautiful the moon is, and nobody’s complimenting the sun, that could create resentment. Familial resentment. Which is, like, one of the oldest forces in mythology.”

Frank opens his mouth, halfway to saying that while the ancient Greeks certainly contained enough familial instability to support the theory, he strongly suspects Parker is still just screwing with you, and then he looks down. 

You are asleep. 

He huffs a laugh through his nose, quiet enough not to disturb you, and shifts his hand higher along your back, settling you more securely against him. 

This, too, is part of loving you, he thinks. The rare and fragile privilege of being where you land when the night catches up to you.

Around you, the patio goes on glowing. Voices blur. Glass clinks somewhere in the distance. Water shifts blue-black under the moonlight. 

He leans his head back against the lounger and lets himself look out at it for a second. It is a pretty moon.

If Selene is listening, she can be flattered. He’ll take the risk.

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

“..just might treat myself with steak and grape juice for dinner. what do you think?”

you sidle up to park and throw in your two cents. “sounds well deserved after the day you've reported to our little sweetheart.”

park doesn't startle. throughout his nightly visits to the nicu, you've become the most familiar face. consequently, he's collected these tidbits that, when glued together, form his picture of you. the ortho surgeon would even privately swear he'd be more concerned if you don't clock in around this time.

his smile—small, its edges worn from a schedule of surgeries that had waned more than just his energy, yet still present—pops up. he shifts his focus, reminds you, “my offer is still on the table. i cook a delectable medium rare with a side of roast potatoes.”

and you laugh, shake your head. “don't worry, i haven't forgotten. it's just been really hectic in here. all hands on deck, you know?”

yeah, he does. park knows from the exhaustion etched in the fine lines of your face, the corner your id badge poking out of your scrub pocket, the singular hair tie left on your wrist. (you usually wore at least seven of them in case a colleague needed an extra.)

park doesn't point those out. maybe some other time, when he successfully aligns a shift with yours and convinces you to let him drive you home, he'll wonder aloud where your love for working the night shift stems from.

for now, he stands to grab another the rolling stool and sits, leaving you no choice but to occupy the comfier seat. silence perches itself between the two of you; accompanied by the kind of wonder that comes from watching over the newborn cooing and shifting around her small bed.

“june's rarely been one to catch some sleep early.” you comment, fondness mellowing out your tone.

and park nips, “hm, it sounds like her favorite nurse has an influence on her.”

when you nudge him (tap for him, considering his physique), he rolls his seat back by a couple centimeters. theatrics aren't typically in park's functions, but if it elicits the giggle that falls from your lips, he might as well put on a whole show for you.

“come back here, tumbleweed. can't have you rolling into anyone else's attention.”

so he does. but as park rolls back into place, his mind remains snagged on what you said. not the nickname—you've called him plenty ‘worse’ without facing his brutal snark—but the implication. the essence of jealousy that might have been poured in the waters.

for someone who preferred a clean cut, park doesn't have a clear view of where you stand. he knows he's left the platonic state; he's come to terms with that.

meanwhile, you, in spite of your comebacks and the fleeting physical brushes, haven't said it. haven't written the words on the lines; more often than not, between them.

and park, persistent yet patient, doesn't try to lure the confession out of you. instead, he adjusts and waits; quite the feat for someone his size (emotionally, of course).

the minute it's clear mr. dozy has come to visit june, brendon knows his visiting hour is up. his storytelling, featuring your thoughts occasionally spoken aloud, had done its trick again. seems like he has to snag more tea tales from the nurses during his next shift.

he sets his hand atop of yours and quietly announces, “i'm gonna go. if i'm going to treat myself, i need to do a stopover for the grape juice.”

you nod, acknowledge his goodbye with a invisible touch of wishful thinking. park rises to his feet and presses his palm against the cover of the incubator, those ocean eyes taking in the newborn's steady heaves of her chest as she gradually lowers into sleep's cradle.

right as he sets one foot out the door, you call out to him. he turns, half worried something happened to you or one of the patients during that minute. but when he looks at you, all he can see is your hands tucked behind your back, presumably fidgeting; a habit of yours when you got nervous over something. something like..

“this saturday evening. i'd like to see if your cooking's as good as your bone mending.”

for a moment there, park thinks he misheard you. although you aren't cruel, not intentionally at least, he still waits for you to reel the bait back in.

when you don't, the surgeon breathes out something between a laugh and a sigh. he gives your answer a moment to marinate before nodding, tacking on for confirmation, “i don't care where you want me to pick you up. text me the location, okay?”

true to his word, park picks you up in front of dennis and trinity's apartment. having been a bundle of nerves for this date (oh god, you're going on a date with the man who clearly hasn't only been visitng the nicu to check on the patients), you'd run to the two people who'd been your closest confidants throughout your ptmc arc.

trinity had done stellar work on prepping you, supporting your nervous self throughout the steps. dennis had done the same.. but more on morale, because it hadn't been until ten minutes before park arrived that everything had sunken in for him.

“so.. wait.. you're going on an actual, dining at his home date with park the shark?”

“no, he's going to give gorgeous a house tour.” trinity scoffed. “of course it's a real date, huckleberry. the guy's already living a med student's dream, makes sense he's looking for someone to spend those debt-free rewards on.”

park doesn't honk for your attention; partially for consideration for others, mostly because he knows you startle at abrupt loud noises. and with that in mind, he pings your phone with a heads up that he's waiting outside.

upon exiting the building, the first thing you notice is park's hands; the firm but still careful grasp he clasps around the bouquet of lavenders and sunflower set in the middle of the blooms. he steps forward to greet you with the bouquet, the corner of his lips ticked in an endearingly awkward smile.

“so you know, i hadn't envisioned the sunflower. but when the florist noticed i was only getting you lavenders, they added that to balance out the purple.”he tells you, deliberately withholding most of the actual anecdote. “now that's in your hands, i realize they were onto something here.”

flustered by his words, you bow your head and feign focus on admiring the bouquet. and the smile on park's face widens just a little more, just visible enough for anyone who was peeping from a distance (like a third floor window).

“well, sounds like this florist has scored another regular.” you cheekily quip as payback. “not to sound greedy, but i wouldn't mind receiving more of these in the future.”

now it's park's turn to iron out the high skips in his pulse. he chooses to cope by gesturing to his car, then asks, “ready to go?”

you nod, exert effort in following while he tries his best to shorten his strides so you won't have to chase so far. and of course he opens the door for you, holds your bouquet so you can safely get on the passenger seat, then carefully perches the flora upon your lap before shutting the door.

from the apartment, trinity snags a glimpse through the window of how park treats you. dennis had been too nervous to eavesdrop, already past the realization stage but not quite ready for protective era. unlike trinity, the ortho surgeon still plucked more fear than respect from the first-year resident.

“have they left yet?” dennis asks from the safety of the sofa.

trinity shuts the curtain for a second to answer, “not yet, they're still flirting on the sidewalk.” before returning to peeping.

only when park's car pulls away from the curb and drives down the main road does trinity back away from the window and plop onto the other side of the sofa. she immediately picks up her phone, probably to text you.

“so.. what do you think?” dennis carefully pokes for her thoughts.

trinity smirks, presumably sending you something that isn't safe to read in the presence of others.

(park raises a brow when you shield your phone from him, but doesn't pry. he'd rather drive you over to his house in a whole, safe piece than audibly wonder what had you toying with the ribbon tied around the bouquet's stems.)

satisfied to see the read receipt, trinity looks up from her phone and muses, “i mean, it's still unexpected. but i can tell park's gonna make sure they'll have a good time.”

later on, right before the roommates retreat to their bedrooms for the night, trinity belatedly adds, “oh yeah, i also reminded gorgeous not to have too much fun. ‘told them we're not ready to be supportive aunt and uncle yet.”

..yeah, baby steps is best for everyone.

especially dennis.